Before I Fall (11 page)

“He should get a shot to prevent herpes,” Lindsay says, snickering, but so quietly I only hear because I’m standing right next to her. “It’s probably too late, though.”

“I don’t know,” I say to Bridget. “I cut.”

I’m staring at Alex, watching his reaction. I’m not sure whether he noticed Lindsay and me standing outside of Hunan Kitchen today, peering inside. It doesn’t seem like it.

He and Anna had been huddled over some grayish meat congealing in a plastic bowl, just like I’d expected them to be. Lindsay had wanted to go in and mess with them, but I’d threatened to puke on her new Steve Madden boots if we even caught a whiff of the nasty meat-and-onion smell inside.

By the time we left The Country’s Best Yogurt, they were gone, and we only saw them again briefly at the Smokers’ Lounge. They were leaving just as Lindsay was lighting up. Alex gave Anna a quick kiss on the cheek, and we saw them walk off in two different directions: Alex toward the cafeteria, Anna toward the arts building.

They were long gone by the time Lindsay and I passed the Nic Nazi on her daily patrol. They weren’t busted today.

And Bridget doesn’t know where he
really
was during seventh.

All of a sudden things start clicking into place—all the fears I’ve been holding back—one right after another like dominoes
falling. I can’t deny it anymore. Sarah Grundel got the parking space because we were late. That’s why she’s still in the semifinals. Anna and Alex didn’t have a fight because I convinced Lindsay to keep walking. That’s why they weren’t caught out at the Smokers’ Lounge, and that’s why Bridget is hanging off Alex instead of crying in a bathroom.

This isn’t a dream. And it’s not déjà vu.

It’s really happening. It’s happening
again
.

It feels like my whole body goes to ice in that second. Bridget’s babbling about having never cut a class, and Lindsay’s nodding and looking bored, and Alex is drinking his beer, and then I really can’t breathe—fear is clamping down on me like a vise, and I feel like I might shatter into a million pieces right then and there. I want to sit down and put my head between my knees, but I’m worried that if I move, or close my eyes, or do anything, I’ll just start to unravel—head coming away from neck coming away from shoulder—all of me floating away into nothing.

The head bone disconnected from the neck bone, the neck bone disconnected from the backbone…

I feel arms wrap around me from behind and Rob’s mouth is on my neck. But even he can’t warm me up. I’m shivering uncontrollably.

“Sexy Sammy,” he singsongs, turning me around to him. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

“Rob.” I’m surprised I can still speak, surprised I can still think. “I really need to talk to you.”

“What’s up, babe?” His eyes are bleary and red. Maybe it’s because I’m terrified, but certain things seem sharper to me than they ever have, clearer. I notice for the first time that the crescent-shaped scar under his nose makes him look kind of like a bull.

“We can’t do it here. We need to…we need to go somewhere. A room or something. Somewhere private.”

He grins and leans into me, breathing alcohol on my face while he tries to kiss me. “I get it. It’s
that
kind of conversation.”

“I’m serious, Rob. I’m feeling—” I shake my head. “I’m not feeling right.”

“You’re never feeling right.” He pulls away, frowning at me. “There’s always something, you know?”

“What are you talking about?”

He sways a little bit on his feet and imitates.
“I’m tired tonight. My parents are upstairs. Your parents will hear.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been waiting months for this, Sam.”

The tears are coming. My head throbs with the effort of keeping them back. “This has nothing to do with that. I swear, I—”

“Then what
does
it have to do with?” He crosses his arms.

“I just really need you right now.” I barely get the words out. I’m surprised he even hears me.

He sighs and rubs his forehead. “All right, all right. I’m sorry.” He puts one hand on the top of my head.

I nod. Tears start coming and he wipes two of them away with his thumb.

“Let’s talk, okay? We’ll go somewhere quiet.” He rattles his empty beer cup at me. “But can I at least get a topper first?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, even though I want to beg him to stay with me, to put his arms around me and never let go.

“You’re the best,” he says, ducking down to kiss my cheek. “No crying—we’re at a party, remember? It’s supposed to be fun.” He starts backing away and holds up his hand, fingers extended. “Five minutes.”

I press myself against the wall and wait. I don’t know what else to do. People are going past me, and I keep my hair down and in my face so no one will be able to tell the tears are still coming. The party is loud, but somehow it seems remote. Words are distorted and music sounds the way it does at a carnival, like all the notes are off balance and just colliding with one another.

Five minutes pass, then seven. Ten minutes pass, and I tell myself I’ll wait five more minutes and then go look for him, even though the idea of moving seems impossible. After twelve minutes I text,
Where r u?
but then remember that yesterday he told me he’d set his phone down somewhere.

Yesterday. Today.

And this time, when I imagine myself lying somewhere, I’m not sleeping. This time I imagine myself stretched out on a cold stone slab, skin as white as milk, lips blue, and hands folded across my chest like they’ve been placed there….

I take a deep breath and force myself to focus on other
things. I count the Christmas lights framing the
E.T.
movie poster over a couch, and then I count the bright red glowing cigarette butts weaving around through the half darkness like fireflies. I’m not a math geek or anything, but I’ve always liked numbers. I like how you can just keep stacking them up, one on top of the other, until they fill any space, any moment. I told my friends this one day, and Lindsay said I was going to be the kind of old woman who memorizes phone books and keeps flattened cereal boxes and newspapers piled from floor to ceiling in her house, looking for messages from space in the bar codes.

But a few months later I was sleeping over, and she confessed that sometimes when she’s upset about something she recites this Catholic bedtime prayer she memorized when she was little, even though she’s half Jewish and doesn’t even believe in God anyway.

She’d seen it embroidered on a pillow in her piano teacher’s house, and we laughed about how lame embroidered pillows were. But until I fell asleep that night I couldn’t get the prayer out of my head. That one line kept replaying over and over in my mind:
If I should die before I wake.

I’m just about to force myself away from the wall when I
hear Rob’s name. Two sophomores have stumbled into the room, giggling, and I strain to hear what they’re saying.

“…his second in two hours.”

“No, Matt Kessler did the first one.”

“They both did.”

“Did you see how Aaron Stern is, like, holding him above the keg?
Completely
upside down.”

“That’s what a keg stand
is
, duh.”

“Rob Cokran is
so
hot.”

“Shhh. Oh my God.”

One of the girls elbows the other one when she notices me. Her face goes white. She’s probably terrified: she’s been talking about my boyfriend (misdemeanor), but, more specifically, she’s been talking about how hot he is (felony). If Lindsay were here, she would freak out, call the girls whores, and get them booted from the party. If she were here she would expect
me
to freak out. Lindsay thinks that underclassmen—specifically sophomore girls—need to be put in their place. Otherwise they’ll overrun the universe like cockroaches, protected from nuclear attack by an armor of Tiffany jewelry and shiny lip-gloss shells.

I don’t have the energy to give these girls attitude, though, and I’m glad Lindsay’s not with me so she can’t give me crap about it. I should have known Rob wouldn’t come back. I think about today, when he told me to trust him, when he said that he’d never let me down. I should have told him he was full of it.

I need to get out. I need to be away from the smoke and the music. I need a place to think. I’m still freezing, and I’m sure I look awful, though I don’t feel like I’m going to cry anymore. We once watched this health video about the symptoms of shock, and I’m pretty much the poster child for all of them. Difficulty breathing. Cold, clammy hands. Dizziness. Knowing this makes me feel even worse.

Which just goes to show you should never pay attention in health class.

The line for both bathrooms is four deep and all of the rooms are packed. It’s eleven o’clock and everyone who has planned on showing is here. A couple of people say my name, and Tara Flute gets in my face and says, “Oh my God. I love your earrings. Did you get them at—”

“Not now.” I cut her off and keep going, desperate to find somewhere dark and quiet. To my left is a closed door, the one with all of the bumper stickers plastered to it. I grip the doorknob and shake it. It doesn’t open, of course.

“That’s the VIP room.”

I turn around and Kent is standing behind me, smiling.

“You’ve got to be on the list.” He leans against the wall. “Or slip the bouncer a twenty. Whichever.”

“I—I was looking for the bathroom.”

Kent tilts his head toward the other side of the hall, where Ronica Masters, obviously drunk, is hammering on a door with her fist.

“Come on, Kristen!” she’s yelling. “I really have to pee.”

Kent turns back to me and raises his eyebrows.

“My bad,” I say, and try to push past him.

“Are you okay?” Kent doesn’t exactly touch me, but he holds his hand up like he’s thinking about it. “You look—”

“I’m fine.” The last thing in the world I need right now is pity from Kent McFuller, and I shove back into the hallway.

I’ve just decided to go outside and call Lindsay from the porch—I’ll tell her I need to leave ASAP, I
have
to leave—when Elody barrels into the hall, throwing her arms around me.

“Where the hell have you been?” she screeches, kissing me. She’s sweating, and I think of Izzy climbing into my bed and putting her arms around me, tugging on my necklace. I should never have gotten out of bed today.

“Let me guess, let me guess.” Elody leaves her arms around me and starts bumping her hips like we’re grinding on a dance floor. She rolls her eyes to the ceiling and starts moaning, “Oh, Rob, oh, Rob. Yeah. Just like that.”

“You’re a pervert.” I push her off me. “You’re worse than Otto.”

She laughs and grabs my hand, starts dragging me toward the back room. “Come on. Everyone’s in here.”

“I have to go,” I say. The music back here is louder and I’m yelling. “I don’t feel good.”

“What?”

“I don’t feel good!”

She points to her ear like,
I can’t hear you
. I’m not sure if it’s true or not. Her palms are wet and I try to pull away, but at that second Lindsay and Ally spot me, and they start squealing, jumping all over me.

“I was looking for you for ages,” Lindsay says, waving her cigarette.

“In Patrick’s mouth, maybe.” Ally snorts.

“She was with Rob.” Elody points at me, swaying on her feet. “Look at her. She
looks
guilty.”

“Hussy!” Lindsay screeches. Ally pipes in with, “Trollop!” and Elody yells out, “Harlot!” This is an old joke of ours: Lindsay decided
slut
was too boring last year.

“I’m going home,” I say. “You don’t have to drive me. I’ll figure it out.”

Lindsay must think I’m kidding. “Go home? We only got here, like, an hour ago.” She leans forward and whispers, “Besides, I thought you and Rob were going to…
you know
.” As though she didn’t just scream out in front of everybody that I already had.

“I changed my mind.” I do my best to sound like I don’t care, and the effort it takes is exhausting. I’m angry at Lindsay without knowing why—for not ditching the party with me, I guess. I’m angry at Elody for dragging me back here and at Ally for always being so clueless. I’m angry at Rob for not caring how upset I am, and I’m angry at Kent
for
caring. I’m angry at everyone and everything, and in that second I fantasize about the
cigarette Lindsay’s waving catching on the curtains, about fire racing over the room and consuming everyone. Then, immediately, I feel guilty. The last thing I need is to morph into one of those people who’s always wearing black and doodling guns and bombs on her notebook.

Lindsay’s gaping at me like she can see what I’m thinking. Then I realize she’s looking over my shoulder. Elody turns pink. Ally’s mouth starts opening and closing like a fish’s. There’s a dip in the noise of the party, like someone has just hit pause on a soundtrack.

Juliet Sykes. I know it will be her before I turn around, but I’m still surprised when I see her, still struck with that same sense of wonder.

She’s pretty.

Today when I saw her drifting through the cafeteria she looked like she always did, hair hanging in her face, baggy clothing, shrunken into herself like she could be anyone, anywhere, a phantom or a shadow.

But now she’s standing straight and her hair is pulled back and her eyes are glittering.

She walks across the room toward us. My mouth goes dry. I want to say no, but she’s standing in front of Lindsay before I can get the word out. I see her mouth moving, but what she says takes a second to understand, like I’m hearing it from underwater.

“You’re a bitch.”

Everyone is whispering, staring at our little huddle: me, Lindsay, Elody, Ally, and Juliet Sykes. I feel my cheeks burning. The sound of voices begins to swell.

“What did you say?” Lindsay is gritting her teeth.