Before I Fall

“Listen, it’s not like I got her a friendship bracelet or something.”



“Since when do you even talk to Anna Cartullo?”



I sigh. I can tell she’s not going to give up on this. “I talked to her for the first time a couple days ago, all right?” Lindsay’s still staring like the world is melting away before her eyes. I know the feeling. “She’s actually pretty nice. I mean, I think you might like her if—”



Lindsay makes a high-pitched squealing noise and claps her hands over her ears again like the very words are torture. She keeps on shrieking like this while I sigh and check my watch, waiting for her to finish her performance.



Eventually she calms down, her squealing dying away to a gurgling noise in the back of her throat. She squints at me. I can’t help but giggle. She looks like a total freak.



“Are you done?” I ask.



“Are you back?” She peels one hand off her ear tentatively, experimenting.



“Is who back?”



“Samantha Emily Kingston. My best friend. My heterosexual life partner.” She leans forward and raps once on my forehead with her knuckles. “Instead of this weird lobotomized boyfriend-dumping Anna Cartullo–liking pod who’s impersonating her.”



I roll my eyes. “You don’t know everything about me, you know.”



“I apparently don’t know anything about you.” Lindsay crosses her arms. I tug on the sleeve of her jacket, and she trudges forward reluctantly. I can tell she’s actually upset. I put my arms around her and squeeze. She’s so much shorter than I am that I have to take mini-shuffling steps so our paces are matched up, but I let her set the rhythm.



“You know what my favorite flavor of yogurt is,” I say, hoping to appease her.



Lindsay heaves a sigh. “Double chocolate,” she grumbles, but she’s not pushing me off of her, which is a good sign. “With crushed peanut butter cups and Cap’n Crunch cereal.”



“And I know you know what size I’m going to get.”



We’re at the door to The Country’s Best Yogurt now, and I can already smell the deliciously sweet chemical-y aroma wafting out to us. It’s like the smell of the bread baking at Subway. You know it’s not the way nature or God intended it to smell, but something about it is addictive.



Lindsay looks at me from the corner of her eye as I pull my arms off her. Her expression is so mournful it’s funny, and I choke down another laugh.



“Better be careful, Miss Jumbo Queen,” she says, tossing her hair. “All that artificial yumminess is going straight to your hips.”



But her mouth is crooked up into a smile, and I know she’s forgiven me.



FRIENDSHIP, A STORY



If I had to pick the top three things I love about each of my friends, here’s what they would be.



ALLY:



Spent all of sophomore year collecting miniature porcelain cows and reading obscure facts about them online after one of them—a real one, I mean—wrapped its tongue around her wrist while she was on vacation in Vermont.



Cooks without recipes, and is totally going to have her own cooking show someday, and has promised we can all come on and be guests.



Sticks her tongue out all the way when she yawns, like a cat.



ELODY:



Has perfect pitch and the clearest, richest voice you can imagine, like maple syrup pouring over warm pancakes, but doesn’t ever show off and only sings on her own when she’s in the shower.



Once went a whole school year wearing at least one green item of clothing every single day.



Snorts when she laughs, which always makes me laugh.



LINDSAY:



Will always dance, even when nobody else is, even when there’s no music—in the cafeteria, in the bathroom, in the mall food court.



Toilet papered Todd Horton’s house every single day for a week after he told everyone that Elody was a bad kisser.



Once broke into a full-on sprint while we were cutting across the park, pumping her arms and legs and zooming across the fields in her jeans and Chinese Laundry boots. I started running too but couldn’t catch up to her before we were both doubled over, huffing out the cold autumn air, my lungs feeling like they were going to explode, and when I laughed and said, “You win,” she gave me the strangest look over her shoulder, not mean, just like she couldn’t believe I was there, then straightened up and said, “I wasn’t racing you.”



I think I understand that now.



I’m thinking about all these things at Ally’s house, feeling like I haven’t said them enough, or at all, feeling like we’ve spent too much time making fun of one another or bullshitting about things that don’t matter or wishing things and people were different—better, more interesting, cuter, older. But it’s hard to find a way to say it now, so instead I just laugh along while Lindsay and Elody shimmy around the kitchen and Ally frantically tries to salvage something edible from two-day-old Italian pesto and some old packaged crackers. And when Lindsay throws her arms around my shoulders and then Ally’s, and then Elody scoots around to Ally’s other side, and Lindsay says, “I love you bitches to death. You know that, right?” and Elody yells, “Group hug!” I just barrel in there and put my arms around them and squeeze until Elody breaks away, laughing, and says, “If I laugh any harder I’m going to throw up.”



THE SECRET



“I just don’t get it.” Lindsay’s pouting in the front seat, halfway down Kent’s driveway, where the line of cars ends. “How do you expect us to get home?”



I sigh and explain it for the thousandth time. “I’ll get us a ride, okay?”



“Why don’t you just come in with us now?” Ally whines from the backseat, also for the thousandth time. “Just leave the damn car.”



“And let you drive home, Ms. Absolut World?” I twist around and stare pointedly at the vodka bottle she’s holding. She takes this as a cue to toss back another gulp.



“I’ll drive us home,” Lindsay insists. “Have you ever seen me drunk?”



“It doesn’t matter.” I roll my eyes. “You can’t even drive sober.”



Elody snorts and Lindsay wags a finger at her. “Watch out or you’ll be walking to school from now on,” she says.



“Come on, we’re missing the party.” Ally finger-combs her hair, ducking so she can check herself out in the rearview mirror.



“Give me fifteen minutes, tops,” I say. “I’ll be back before you even make it to the keg.”



“How will you get back here?” Lindsay’s still eyeing me suspiciously, but she opens the door.



“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I hooked up a ride earlier.”



“I still don’t see why you can’t just drive us home later.” Lindsay’s grumbling, still unhappy about the arrangements, but she climbs out, and Ally and Elody follow. I don’t bother answering. I’ve already explained, and explained again, that I may be ducking out of the party early. I know all of them assume it’s because Rob will be there and I’m afraid I’ll freak or something, and I don’t correct them.



I’m planning to drop the car in Lindsay’s driveway, but after I pull out onto Route 9, I find that, without meaning to, I steer toward home. I’m feeling calm, blank, like all of the darkness outside has somehow seeped in and turned everything off inside me. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. It’s kind of like being in a pool and kicking up onto your back until you find the perfect balance where you can float without thinking about it.



Most of the lights are off at my house. Izzy’s gone to sleep several hours ago. There’s a faint blue light glowing in the den. My father must be watching TV. Upstairs a bright square of light marks the bathroom. Through the shades I can see a figure moving around, and I imagine my mom dotting Clinique moisturizer on her face, squinting without her contacts, the tattered arm of her bathrobe fluttering, a bird wing. As usual they’ve left the porch light on for me, so that when I come home I won’t have to fumble in my bag for my keys. They’ll be making plans for tomorrow, maybe wondering what to do for breakfast or whether to wake me up before noon, and for a moment grief for everything I am losing—have lost already, lost days ago in a split second of skidding and tearing where my life ripped away from its axis—overwhelms me, and I put my head down on the steering wheel and wait for the feeling to pass. It does. The pain ebbs away. My muscles relax, and once again I’m struck by the rightness of things.



As I’m driving back to Lindsay’s, I think about something I learned years ago in science class, that even when birds have been separated from their flock they will still migrate instinctively. They know where to go without ever having been shown the way. Everyone was talking about how amazing that was, but now it doesn’t seem so strange. That’s how I feel right now: as though I am in the air, all alone, but somehow I know exactly what to do.



A few miles before Lindsay’s driveway, I pull out my phone and punch in Kent’s number. It occurs to me that he may have thought I was kidding earlier today. Maybe he won’t pick up when he doesn’t recognize the phone number, or maybe he’ll be so busy trying to keep people from puking on his parents’ Oriental carpets he won’t hear it. I count the rings, getting more and more nervous. One, two, three.



On the fourth ring there’s the sound of fumbling. Then Kent’s voice, warm and reassuring: “Hunky Heroes, rescuing distressed women, captive princesses, and girls without wheels since 1684. How can I help you?”



“How did you know it was me?” I say.



There’s a surge in the music and the swelling of voices. Then I hear Kent cup his hand over the phone and yell, “Out!” A door shuts and the background noise is suddenly muffled.



“Who else would it be?” he says, his voice sarcastic.



“Everyone else is here.” He readjusts something and his voice becomes louder. He must be pressing right up to the phone. The thought of his lips is distracting. “So what’s up?”



“I hope your car’s not blocked in,” I say. “Because I’m in desperate need of a ride.”



On the way back to Kent’s, we’re mostly quiet. He doesn’t ask me why I was standing in the middle of Lindsay’s driveway, and he doesn’t press the issue of why I’ve chosen him to be my ride. I’m grateful for that, and happy just to sit in silence next to him, watching the rain and the dark brushstrokes of the trees against the sky. As we turn into his driveway, which by this point is almost completely packed with cars, I’m trying to decide exactly what the rain dancing in the headlights looks like. Not glitter, exactly.



Kent puts the car in park but leaves the engine on. “I still haven’t forgotten that you promised me a secret, by the way.” He turns to look at me. “Don’t think you’re getting off so easy.”



“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I unbuckle my seat belt and inch closer to him, still watching the rain out of the corner of my eye. Like dust, kind of, but only if dust were made of solid white light.