Falling Harder (7 page)

Seven

Nadia

Creepy Fucking Paul

Though Paul’s
strange behavior still tugs at the edges of my mind, I decide not to mention
anything to Trace and the others. Once Conway and Garrick finally roll
themselves out of bed, we all ship off for another day of school.

A wave of calm
passes through me every time we pull away from the Daniels’ home and head
toward our shabby high school. It may be far from perfect, educationally
speaking, but it still feels like more of a safe haven than the house does. And
since it’s Friday, I need to soak up all that goodness to get me through the
weekend.

All day, I
notice people looking at me differently. It’s laughable, really, the difference
that a little lip gloss and a shirt that actually fits can make. This is fun,
experimenting with all things feminine. And I have to admit, the attention
feels sort of nice.

Boys and girls
alike let their eyes linger on me, all of a sudden. But I don’t feel my ego
inflating or anything. It’s sort of like a science experiment of my very own.
As a foster kid, I don’t have many advantages to draw from. But if the way I
look can be a means of influencing people one way or another...who knows. It
could prove useful, someday.

When the final
school bell rings, hundreds of kids leap up and charge for the exit, but not
me. I’ve decided to go out on a limb at this school and actually try to make
friends. One of my more ambitious teachers oversees a mock trial club, and
recently invited me to join. I’ve never known much about law and order, but it
seems like a good way to meet people.

As I’m making my
way toward the club meeting, I feel a tentative hand rest on my shoulder. I
whip around, ready to tell off whoever feels entitled to a feel, but I’m
relieved to see that it’s just Trace. He, Garrick, and Conway have been waiting
for me by the school’s front doors.

“You scared me!”
I tell him.

“Oh. Sorry,” he
says, “We were gonna get out of here. I’m swinging by my dealer’s place on the
way home so we’ll have some supplies for the weekend. Are you coming?”

“Can’t,” I tell
him, “I’ve got a mock trial meeting.”

“What the hell
does that mean?” he asks. “You do something wrong?”

“No. It’s a
club,” I explain, swallowing a smile.

“Screw that,” he
says, “I’ve seen enough real trials to last me a lifetime.”

I want
desperately to quiz him about what he’s seen, but this hardly seems the time.
“I’ll be done in a couple hours,” I tell him, “Would you mind coming back to
pick me up?”

“No problem,” he
says.

“Great,” I
smile, “See you—”

“Hey,” he cuts
me off before I can turn away, “I was thinking. After I come pick you
up...maybe we could do something? Like...together?”

I feel my blood
pick up the pace through my veins. “What kind of something?” I ask.

“I dunno,” Trace
mumbles, squirming visibly, “Like...get some food? Or, uh, see a movie or
something?”

“Are
you...asking me on a date?” I say slowly.

“Would you...be
down?” he returns, “I mean, if I was?”

“Yeah,” I tell
him, “I’d like to go on a date with you, Trace.”

“Really?” he
says, looking like a little boy on Christmas. His hardened eyes lighten up for
the briefest of moments, and I feel my heart break a tiny bit on his behalf. I
wonder if he’s ever even asked a girl on a proper date before?

“Figure out
something for us to do,” I tell him, “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Cool. Uh.
Great,” he says, “Catch you...later.”

He turns to go,
punching Garrick happily in the arm along the way. I wrap my arms around my
waist, shaking my head in wonder. After a month of crushing hopelessly on
Trace, he’s finally returning the volley.

“It’s about damn
time,” I mutter, and head off to my meeting.

Even though my
head is preoccupied with thoughts of Trace, I can’t believe how much I love
mock trial. Every case that we discuss is like a puzzle. Someone is either
guilty or innocent, neither both, and it’s our job to make that call. I can’t
imagine what it feels like to really be in the thick of the legal process. It
must be a high like nothing else.

Hopefully, I’ll
never be on the wrong side of the whole affair, but having a hand in locking up
criminals might not be a bad thing to devote one’s life to.

The meeting
flies by, and I’m released back into the world. I hurry down to the front of
the school, breathless and giddy at the prospect of my date. Part of me wishes
I could have gone home and changed, but that's a bit ridiculous isn’t it? Trace
lives with me, already. He knows what I look like when I’m tired, without
makeup, grumpy. I’ve never really been in a relationship with a guy before, but
even I can tell that this is a bit of an unconventional way to do things.

Trace is waiting
on the hood of his car when I slip out of the school’s front doors. In a plain
black tee-shirt and perfectly fitted blue jeans, he’s the epitome of effortless
cool. He runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair as I approach, his green
eyes gleaming brightly in the gathering dusk.

I wonder if he
can possibly be as nervous as I am. For my part, I’ve never even been on a date
in my life. There’s just never really been an opportunity. But I don’t feel
vulnerable in Trace’s hands—if anything, I feel far more safe.

“Hello again,” I
grin, stepping up to the car.

“Fancy meeting
you here,” he replies, hopping off the hood. Trace takes a step toward me,
closing the space between us. For a mad moment, I think that he’s going to
embrace me—press me up against the car and kiss me. But instead, he reaches
around and opens the passenger side door.

“After you,” he
says with a smile. I fight to quiet my hammering heart and sink into the car.
It’s one of the only times I’ve gotten to ride shotgun, and certainly the first
time Trace has taken this whole “gentleman” thing for a spin. I know he thinks
it’s dashing, but really it’s more adorable than anything else. Not that I’d
ever say so to his face.

“So,” I say, as
Trace starts the car, “Where are we off to? The movies? The mall?”

“Nah,” he says,
“I sort of forgot, but you actually need money for those things.”

“Ah. Right,” I say,
“So...where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he
tells me, and pulls out of the high school parking lot.

As we cruise
along, Trace produces something from the glove compartment. I glance his way
and feel my insides seize up. He’s got a joint clenched between his lips and is
searching around for a lighter. My pulse starts to quicken as he lights up the
smoke, sucking in a big lung full. I can feel panic pulling at the corners of
my mind as Trace offers the joint to me.

“I don’t think
so,” I tell him quietly.

“Really?” he
says, “You sure?”

“Is that safe?”
I ask, “Getting high behind the wheel?”

“Totally,” he
insists, filling his lungs again. “It’s not like being drunk, you know. Your
concentration actually gets better. Ask anyone.”

“I don’t
know...”

“Trust me,
Nadia,” Trace says, his face softening with every pull of the joint, “I
wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”

“My parents were
killed in a car crash,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper.

That cuts
through his burgeoning high. “Oh...” he breathes, “Oh, shit.”

“They think that
the driver who hit them was drunk,” I press on, “Not that they ever caught the
asshole. I’m sure it’s punishment enough for him, though. Living with that.”

“I get it,”
Trace says, “I’m sorry.”

I stare at him
as he stubs out the joint. “I don’t understand how you can put all that into
your body,” I say, knowing that I sound judgmental. “I mean, after your
parents—”

“What about my
parents?” he demands, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“Shit...” I
mutter, “That...That was too far. I didn’t mean to bring them into it.”

“But you did,”
he says, “So, say what you want to say.”

“It just doesn’t
make sense to me,” I admit, “If they fucked up their lives with drugs and
booze, why are you following in their footsteps, Trace? Don’t you want a different
ending for yourself?”

“Like what?” he
asks, uninhibited under the influence, “Go to college? Become a doctor? Start a
family?”

“Sure,” I say,
“Why not?”

Trace laughs
bitterly. “Where you go in life depends on where you come from,” he says, “And
I happen to come from a couple of low life pieces of shit. There’s only one way
my life ends up, Nadia. I’m just helping things along.”

“You can’t
really believe that,” I say softly.

“Oh, but I do,”
he says, “Shit, I’m halfway there already, you know? My fate was sealed before
I was even born. I’m just playing my part. Accepting my lot in life like a good
little boy.”

“So we’re all
just fucked, then?” I ask, alarmed by the turn our conversation has taken.

“Not you,” he
tells me, “You’re different. You could get out, if you wanted. I know it.”

“You're damned
right,” I say, “The second I turn eighteen, I’m done. I think I’ll go to law
school. Be an attorney, or something.”

“You must dig
all that mock trial stuff pretty well, huh?”

“I do,” I tell
him, “It makes sense to me. It’s clear cut.”

“What...justice?”

“Sure.”

“That...is
hilarious.”

“What?”

Trace drives on
in silence for a while, refusing to address my confusion. He guides the car
through darkened streets, streets that he knows like the back of his strong hand.
Finally, we begin to slow. I peer out the passenger side window and watch as we
make our way into a small neighborhood park. It’s overgrown with weeds, strewn
with abandoned car parts and toys alike. Trace pulls up beside a small pond,
dimly lit by a lone street light. He steps out of the car and fetches something
from the backseat. I pull myself out of the car to see what he’s doing.

I watch as he
approaches the pond and snaps out a worn quilt on the grass. He smoothes down
the blanket and sets a backpack on top of it. Looking up at me in the near
darkness, he pats the ground beside him.

“Come on,” he
says. I can tell from his voice that the high has mostly faded, “Don’t make me
have this picnic on my own.”

“You...packed us
a picnic?” I ask incredulously.

“Sure,” he says,
“I’m not a barbarian, you know.”

I lower myself
onto the blanket as he pumps the contents of his backpack out onto the ground.
A little laugh escapes my throat as I see the goodies he’s brought along for
us. Fruit by the Foot, Hostess Cupcakes, Doritos, and Mountain Dew comprise our
feast. But despite the quality of the feast, the gesture is incredibly
sweet...no pun intended.

We dig into the
snack food, sitting in silence as our tense conversation hangs over our heads.
Finally, as I swig down a bite of Twinkie with some rich strawberry milk, I
work up the nerve to speak.

“I really do
believe that you’ve got a shot,” I tell him.

“I know you do,”
he says, casting aside his stick of beef jerky, “That’s what makes it so hard
to talk to you.”

“What do you
mean?”

“I know myself,
Nadia,” Trace tells me, “I’m not a good guy. Never have been. You talk about
law and justice in the abstract because you’ve never been in the trenches, but
I have. I’ve broken the law, I’ve been to court. The only reason I’m not still
in juvie is because of a technicality.”

“You...you were
in juvie?” I ask softly.

“For a year,” he
tells me, “Drug stuff. You know.”

“How...how are
you so OK, then?” I ask him, “After that? I’d be a wreck.”

“You’d never be
there in the first place,” he says, “You’re a good person, Nadia. A pure
person. I can tell just by talking to you.”

“I’m no better
than you,” I insist, “If you could just believe in yourself half as much as you
believe in me...Maybe I can help you, Trace.”

“Help me?”

“You know...tutor
you and stuff? Bring you to my clubs, keep you from drinking every single
night?”

He falls silent,
and I’m afraid that I’ve offended him again. But when Trace lifts his eyes to
mine, they’re full of something I’ve never seen there before: gratitude.

“What the hell
do you see in me, Nadia?” he asks, “I’m serious. There’s nothing in me that’s
good enough for someone like you.”

“I think that I
get to be the judge of that,” I tell him. My voice rides low in my throat, and
I realize for the first time how alone we are, out here by the pond. I take a
deep breath and, inch by inch, move closer to where he’s sitting.

“I’m no good,
Nadia,” Trace says, his eyes intent on my face as our bodies come together,
almost of their own accord, “But...I know I could be good to you. I know—”