How to Keep Rolling After a Fall

  He waits, as promised, and Ms. Jeanne must do what he says. “I’ll let them take it from here, then. It’s going to be okay, Ms. Jeanne,” Pax says a final time. “Take care of yourself.”

  Pax disconnects the call. He tugs his headset off and pushes his hair back out of his face before putting the device back on his head. Then he turns to look at me and finds me staring. His eyes widen in slight surprise. “What?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t…”

  I stand and walk toward him. I throw my arms around his shoulders, and I squeeze him tight. I look him in the eye for a long minute, and then I kiss him again. It’s nothing like the way I just kissed him a few minutes ago.

  It’s nothing like any other kiss I’ve had.

  Before, I’ve been driven to kiss guys because it was fun flirting with them, because they were hot, or funny, or confident, or (D) all of the above. But I know for a fact that my heart has never so directly driven me to kiss someone, in a way that had nothing to do with me. And everything to do with them. The feeling that overtakes me is scary in how powerful it is.

  The fear of losing something valuable.

  “What was that for?” Pax whispers.

  I have a hard time meeting his eyes directly, meeting this realization head-on. “You’re just pretty freakin’ awesome is all.”

  He shrugs, but I think I see a hint of color in his cheeks.

  April comes back into the room, toting her sixty-four-ounce soda, and I stand and smooth my shirt. “I’d better take off.”

  Pax kisses me a final time, without shame. “Thanks again for dinner. For visiting. Made my night.”

  I smile, feeling strangely shy, and squeeze his hand. “Tomorrow night still good for you?”

  “Yeah, I’ll just meet you there if that’s okay. I have a long day tomorrow, and I know I’m going to be tired going into it. That way I won’t worry about rushing. I’ll try to rest after my game.”

  “You could always take it down a notch on the court.”

  “Never.”

  I smile ruefully. “All right, killer. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Night, Nik.”

  “Oh, and hey.” On my way toward the door, I turn around to toss something in his direction—the Jell-O cup I smuggled out of the cafeteria before leaving the center. “There was only orange, but better than nothing?”

  “Dessert, excellent. You’re a lifesaver.” Pax holds the cup in the air and winks.

  I shake my head as I walk out of the center, into the chilly evening. He’s the lifesaver of the two of us. He just seems really suited for rescuing people.

  * * *

  I relax when I pull into my driveway and a glance at the clock confirms I’ve made it home within a fairly acceptable window, given the time my shift ended. The house is quiet when I enter. My mom sits in the overstuffed armchair in the living room, television off, reading on her Kindle. A candle burns on the coffee table, giving off the scent of something warm and fall-like and pumpkiny.

  It all makes me wish I felt a bit more at home in my house these days.

  She greets me without looking up. “Hi, Nicole.”

  “Hi.” I hang my coat in the front closet “Where is everybody?”

  My parents never miss Shark Tank or Blue Bloods—they’re pretty devoted to their Friday-night lineup.

  “Your father has that convention up in New York this weekend.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I linger by the stairwell, expecting a short exchange.

  “He decided to take the train up tonight so he wouldn’t have to rush in the morning.” She glances at her watch. “I gave in and agreed to pick Emma and her friends up from the movies at ten, so I have a couple of hours to kill.”

  “No Shark Tank tonight?”

  A small smile lifts her lips. “Dad made me promise to DVR it.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I put my hand on the banister, and her eyes drift back to the screen. Sneaking another glance at her, I remember what Pax said to me a little while ago: “You feel guilty because you know there’s a reason to feel guilty.”

  I don’t think I’d change my mind—I’m pretty sure I’d still go over to Pax’s house if I had a do-over of Wednesday night. But I don’t feel good about it. Two days after the fact, I still feel crappy about my choice.

  It would have sucked—the car ride would have been so awkward and hard—but still. She wasn’t going to fight me on Pax. She made an effort; all in all, she was making an effort, and I blew it off.

  I draw in a breath. “Hey … um … Mom?”

  Her eyes fly up from the screen, like she’s surprised to still find me standing there.

  Shifting my book bag back and forth on my shoulders, I feel a plastic DVD case inside the bag poke against my spine. “So for my theater class, we have this assignment this weekend. We’re supposed to watch a film version of a play and be prepared to talk about the translation. Like, what works and what doesn’t. What parts of the play couldn’t be included in the film. What elements the filmmaker added. If we think it was better or worse than the original.”

  My mom is still looking at me, and I realize I’m rambling.

  “I was just gonna watch it tonight on my laptop, since I figured you guys would be watching your shows. But, um … since no one else is here tonight … if you’d want to watch, too…”

  I swallow hard and look away, wondering what I’m so nervous about.

  I don’t want her to say yes.

  I don’t want her to say no.

  Her expression doesn’t give anything away. “Which play?”

  “What?”

  “Which play did you pick?”

  “Oh, um, Cabaret.”

  I twist my bag around and pull out the DVD, mostly to have something to do with my hands.

  “Sure.” She powers off her Kindle without another thought. “I saw the play in college, but never the movie version. I know it made Liza Minnelli famous, though. I wouldn’t mind watching.”

  Glancing at her watch, she stands up. “Go ahead and get started without me. Your father should be off the train by now, and I’d like to make sure he got to the hotel okay. And I’m going to have to leave to get your sister by nine forty-five. I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna go change really quick first.”

  My mom nods and takes off for the kitchen, and I dash up the stairs, feeling weightless from relief. I feel something close to anticipation as I change into my most comfortable PINK pajamas and fuzzy socks. Returning to the living room, I put the DVD into the player, curl up in one corner of the wraparound couch, and grab the blanket off the back. Set to watch a movie with my mom, warm and cozy on the couch, with the candle burning before me, it almost feels like old times. It’s not like our interactions are easy or anything, but tonight I can almost remember what life at home used to feel like. I hit Play and lie down on a throw pillow.

  And then twenty minutes pass. I completely miss the beginning of the movie.

  With each minute, what starts as a small seed of disappointment blossoms into something bigger. My mom and dad don’t really do lengthy phone calls. Clearly, she’s not in a hurry to get back.

  I felt bad about Wednesday night and wanted her to know, despite how hard it was, that maybe I was interested in trying, too. But now that we’re both in the same place at the same time, I’m wondering if her invitation was anything more than lip service, if she was actually hoping I wouldn’t take her up on the offer. If she really wants things to get better between us … where is she?

  A moment later, she pushes back through the French doors from the kitchen, ushering in the scent of fresh baked goods. Brown sugar. Melted chocolate.

  My mom shrugs as she sets the tray bearing two cups of milk and a plate of a dozen chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table. “Why bother watching without cookies?”

  She doesn’t look to me for a reaction and settles into the armchair. I offer a quiet thank-you and grab two
cookies.

  My mom nods in acknowledgment and focuses her attention on the screen. “What’d I miss?”

  I pop a cookie into my mouth before responding. Maybe her demeanor is still a little chilly, but at least her cookies are as warm as I remember.

  Chapter 13

  Apparently, the regional Arts and Music Showcase for nonpublic schools is held the first weekend in October. I’d never heard of it back at O.I.H.S., and I’m surprised about the hype surrounding the showcase at Atlantic Christian. But from snippets of conversation I hear in the lobby and my classes, I start to understand why everyone’s so excited about a school-sponsored event—basically, it’s an opportunity for the girls to ditch the boring uniforms and wear something original, paired with the chance to meet guys from other schools.

  Sam’s all signed up to perform and is, in her words, “mad stoked.” During one of our auditorium lunch dates, she berated me until I broke down and sang something. It was a mistake—for a full week, she kept trying to persuade me to perform at the showcase, too. And I’m not up for it. Anonymous karaoke aided by a sake bomb was one thing; this is a whole other.

  I’m more than happy to support her, though, and I’m kind of excited for the show, too. But as I stand alone in the crowded lobby of an area private school, lost in the sea of people trolling around and examining the art projects included in the showcase, I’m really glad Pax is coming to join me. Glancing at my phone and realizing the show’s going to start in ten minutes, I hope he’s going to get here in time.

  The lobby has all but emptied when he finally rolls through the doors. He smiles when he spots me, but it seems forced, like it pains him in some way. When he gets close enough, I see why, and my eyes widen. There’s a huge purple bruise spanning his cheekbone to his jaw.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Rough game this morning. Other guy looks worse, though. Sorry I’m late.”

  I study him some more, noticing that he looks pale. His hands are kind of shaking, too. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m all right. I’m not feeling that hot, but I probably overdid it this morning, and I was tired to begin with. I think I’m dehydrated, too.” He picks up the plastic water thermos tucked beside him in his chair and takes a long swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he says, “No worries—I’ll be all right. We should probably go in, though, huh?”

  A voice from inside the auditorium welcomes the crowd over the loudspeaker, and I nod, moving to open the double doors for Pax so that he can enter. It’s tricky navigating the darkened aisles of the crowded room, and even trickier trying to find an open seat at the end of a row so I can sit beside Pax in his chair. Everyone seems pretty clueless about what we’re trying to accomplish, and it takes several tries before someone finally looks our way and offers to scoot down a few seats to make room for us.

  As we try to get settled, some of the kids seated in the row in front of us turn and stare. I recognize some of the kids from my class at school, among them the guy who hassled Sam in the lobby that one day. They stare at me and Pax, and I don’t like the way it feels. I turn back to him and ignore them, finding his hand with mine.

  “Just a sec,” he says, drawing his hand back so he can shrug out of his zip-up gray hoodie. He has only a T-shirt on underneath, and although it’s freezing in the auditorium, I notice that he’s sweating.

  Before I can ask him a second time if he’s truly feeling okay, the first act takes the stage—a guy on a keyboard accompanying two girls singing an old, classic rock duet. They kick off a string of god-awful garage bands, solo acts, and contemporary dance performances. There’s even one brave soul who embarrasses herself something dreadful doing some type of Irish dance in full green-and-white regalia.

  I thought I was excited for the show, but in the end it leaves me disappointed, antsy, and frustrated as I listen to the whooping applause, like these people are really fantastic.

  I should be up there, my ego badgers me. I have something to offer.

  Sometimes stifling the urge takes a hell of a lot of effort, but I can’t seem to allow it to flourish right now, either.

  Then, two acts after the intermission, as I’m about to write off the talent of New Jersey students entirely, Sam takes the stage. She’s opted not to use any of the cheesy fake-coffee-shop backdrops or colorful lighting some of the other acts included in their performances, and it’s just her, her guitar, and the sound system. She stands by herself in the middle of the stage, directly under the spotlight.

  My face breaks out in a wide smile at the sight of her. Her hair is loose and amazingly long. She’s wearing this crazy getup—a tight T-shirt that reads HATERS GONNA HATE, a short cream-colored lace skirt, and black motorcycle boots. Somehow she pulls it off, and she looks totally badass.

  And I wish I could see the look on that haughty Jamie Lee’s face when Sam starts playing and singing, only I can’t seem to pull my eyes off my friend. She breaks into Taylor Swift’s “Mean” with complete confidence and swagger. Her voice is clear and strong, and she looks right into the crowd as she plays.

  Sam owns it. She’s powerful and stunning under the thick white beam of light. And then during the bridge of the song, as she’s singing about prevailing over the lowlife losers out there and making a successful future for herself, Sam turns toward my side of the auditorium. She must know where her tormentors are sitting, and she looks right at them as she finishes the song.

  I think if more people had the guts to look the cool kids in the face like that, they wouldn’t feel so bold about trashing others.

  I think if Taylor had ever really looked me and my friends in the face like that, we wouldn’t have felt so sure about posting her pictures, either.

  I glance over at Pax to gauge his response to Sam’s performance, but my smile fades when I notice him wincing in pain, his hand at his side. My alarm flares. I knew he didn’t look good. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m all right.” He struggles to take one deep breath, then another. “It’ll pass.”

  “Should we go?”

  He shakes his head. “It’ll pass.” He turns his face back toward the stage and sits up straight, making it pretty clear he wants me to stop asking. “Sam was awesome, right?”

  When the show wraps, we wait for her in the lobby. I see her emerge from backstage, but she doesn’t make her way over to us right away, because she’s stopped by a group of guys I don’t recognize, probably from a school other than ours. They chat for a few minutes, and then Sam tosses her hair over her shoulder with authority and accepts an iPhone from one guy’s outstretched hand and appears to be entering her phone number.

  I’m not surprised, and I bite my lip to hide my smile. The kids at ACA may have dismissed Sam, but she was a legit rock star on the stage tonight, and I’m sure lots of guys noticed. Good for her.

  She waves good-bye to the guys and turns around, and when she spots us, she runs right to me, squeals once, and throws her arms around my neck. “That was so awesome!” she gushes.

  Because I understand the adrenaline high she’s currently on, I know she’s talking about her performance and not just giving some cute guy her number. Another twinge of envy flickers in my heart.

  “You owned it, Sam,” I tell her. “That was probably one of the best performances I’ve ever seen live.” I grin. “I think you’re headed straight for American Idol. Or The Voice.”

  She giggles. “You like my shirt?”

  “It’s awesome. I want one.”

  Then I turn toward Pax and put my hand on his forearm. “So Sam … this is Pax. Pax, Sam.”

  I didn’t prep Sam about Pax’s chair. The only thing I told her was that the guy I was sorta-kinda with was coming with me tonight. Surprise registers on her face, but she recovers in less than a second and passes my test. She looks him right in the eye and waves. “Hey, Pax. Thanks for coming tonight.”

  “Happy to.” He nods. “Your performance was sick. I’m genuinely
impressed.”

  “Have you ever heard Nikki sing? She belonged up there, too.”

  “I have, and I’m totally with you on that, Sam. She also would have put the rest of the people up there tonight to shame.”

  Feeling like an outsider observing the conversation, I keep an eye on Pax. He’s saying Pax’s words and smiling Pax’s smile, but I’m still convinced there’s something off. His normal energy level is missing, and every time he speaks, he sounds like he’s biting back pain.

  “I’m starving,” Sam proclaims. “I couldn’t eat beforehand because I was afraid I would throw up. I passed a Taco Bell on my way here—I think it’s only, like, five minutes away.” She smiles brightly at Pax. “I love me some fourth meal.”

  Pax laughs, once, but turns and looks up at me. “Why don’t you guys just go ahead? Celebrate Sam’s night,” he suggests.

  “No, come, too!” she insists.

  “Actually…” Finally Pax cracks, and it becomes obvious he was toughing out the show but really doesn’t have much left tonight. “I had a long day, and I’m really not feeling well.” His look is one of desperation. “Is it cool if I head home?”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say at once.

  “No, go with Sam. I’m just going to go home, try to drink a gallon of water, and go to sleep. Won’t be any fun for you. Go with Sam.”

  I can tell it’s what he really wants, so eventually I lean down and brush my lips across his. “Please call me later,” I beg him. “Let me know if you’re okay.”

  “Will do,” he promises. “Bye, Sam. Congrats again.”

  Then he’s out of there as quickly as his wheels will carry him, and I end up feeling guilty, wondering if he actually wanted to skip out on the whole night.

  I’m staring after him, but Sam interrupts my thoughts, linking her arm through mine and watching Pax leave. “Um, he’s hot. And you two are probably the cutest freakin’ thing ever.”

  Smiling halfheartedly, I thank her. My mood just can’t seem to bounce back, though. “C’mon. Let’s go get something to eat. My treat.”