How to Keep Rolling After a Fall

  “What?” my mom asks, sounding amazed.

  “Let her go.”

  He opens the door and joins Emma in the backyard, without further debate or conversation. His shoulders are hunched as he leaves.

  I understand his permission is not a gift. He just doesn’t want to deal with any of this—he doesn’t want to deal with me—and tonight it is easier to concede.

  My throat tightens, and the victory of being granted permission is hollow and unfulfilling.

  My mom stares after him for a minute before turning back to me. “It goes without saying that you should have asked before making plans. Are you asking to meet up with someone from your new school?”

  “No. It’s someone I met at the center.”

  “She works there, too?”

  “No, um … he actually was a patient.”

  “He?”

  I don’t know why the person being a “he” is causing her to look even more disturbed about the whole matter. It was girls I got into trouble with, after all.

  But I’m desperate to end the interrogation, so I try to offer all the pertinent details as quickly as possible. “Yes, he. His name is Pax. He was in a car accident, and he’s in a wheelchair now.”

  My mom’s face changes at once, which is sort of messed up. Like Pax’s wheelchair status somehow makes him a harmless companion. It dehumanizes him in some way that strikes me as unfair and wrong.

  “If your father is going to sign off on this … be home by ten o’clock,” she says begrudgingly. “And still no car. You can meet up within walking distance.”

  It’s going to be a ten-block walk now. And my old curfew was eleven thirty, but I don’t protest.

  “Thank you,” I respond stiffly.

  I retreat slowly from the kitchen before she can rethink her permission. When my feet hit the living room floor, I break into a run, getting out of there as fast as I can.

  * * *

  Even though I hustle, I’m still late to meet him. But the second I lay eyes on Pax, I decide it was all worth it—the tense exchange with my parents, the mile-and-a-half schlep to meet him at the boardwalk.

  He sees me coming and rolls to meet me. He’s wearing a bright green T-shirt with a picture of a sushi roll and chopsticks, the words THIS IS HOW I ROLL below it.

  It cracks me up. “I like your shirt.”

  “Hey, thanks.” Pax smiles in return. “My sense of humor, unlike my spinal cord, is fully intact.” He tilts his head and studies me, hazel eyes sparkling from the light of the setting sun. “You look pretty tonight. You’ve sort of got this … glow.”

  “Well, it’s probably sweat, to be honest.” I lift my shirt and fan my stomach. “Car privileges have not been reinstated, so I had to walk. I’m starving, too.”

  Pax spins around and angles his chair in the direction of the shops. “So let’s go eat. Are you a Joe’s kind of girl or a Marco’s kind of girl?” he asks, referencing the long-standing pizza rivals on the Ocean Isle boardwalk.

  I give him a look like he’s crazy. “Is it even a question? Marco’s, obviously.”

  He nods, and we set off. “Good. If you were a Joe’s girl, we probably couldn’t hang out anymore.”

  When we arrive at the pizza shop, several members of the staff greet Pax boisterously. The kid making the pizzas tosses several balls of dough into the air in quick succession, and Pax skillfully catches them in his mouth like a dolphin catching a fish. Even though it’s officially the off-season at the shore, the popular pizza joint is still crowded, and several diners applaud his antics. He puts a hand on his stomach and bows at the waist.

  Pax selects a table in the back where he can position his wheelchair at the end without being in the way. “I used to work here back in the day,” he explains. “I love this place. And Marco. Hell, I’d still work here if I could. But yeah … my hands are good, all things considered, but I don’t think I have the quickness and dexterity to be tossing dough over my head and spinning it in the air the way I used to.” He glances at the menu on the wall. “What kind of pie do you like?”

  “Mushrooms and peppers.”

  “Ugh, you’re such a girl.” He winks at me before calling to the guy behind the counter that we’d like one pie, half mushrooms and peppers, half pepperoni and sausage.

  “And you’re such a guy,” I retort.

  “I need the protein, need to keep my strength up.” Pax taps my hand with the back of his thumb. “What’s your excuse for all the veggies? Is it, like, girl math, where somehow you think getting veggies on top of pizza cancels out the fact that you’re eating pizza?”

  I giggle because maybe it’s a little bit true. “Something like that.” When I used to come to Marco’s with my friends, everyone always ordered veggie. “You’re gonna be really horrified when the pizza arrives and I start blotting at the grease with a napkin.”

  “The grease is the best part! So you end up with a piece of pizza with no flavor and bits of soggy napkin stuck to it.” He smirks and reaches past me to swipe the napkin dispenser, which he tucks away in the seat of his chair. “Now, that’s just a waste.”

  “At least I don’t take the cheese off altogether. My friends—well, my former friends—Lauren and Kaitlin … they used to remove the cheese with the precision of a surgeon or something.”

  “Why?”

  “They knew exactly how many calories it saved.”

  “So you and your friends … really cared that much about being skinny and looking good?”

  There’s a funny look on his face as he asks.

  “I guess so.” I shrug. “Don’t know if we were any worse than any other girls, but…”

  “How’d your morning with them turn out?” he asks.

  I wait until our server drops off two cups of birch beer, and I swirl my straw through the crushed ice. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yup. Definitely that bad.” The morning’s counseling session had been the worst by far. “How ’bout you? How was work?”

  “It was okay. Quiet day, which is always a good thing.”

  “What do you do there again? You actually answer 9-1-1 calls?”

  He nods as our server returns and drops off our pizza. Pax puts a slice of the veggie pizza as well as a slice of his pepperoni-and-sausage on my plate. “Here you go, Nicole—live a little. I’m gonna make a wager that you actually like pepperoni and sausage more than mushrooms and peppers.”

  I don’t protest, because he’s right. I take a bite, without blotting, and the indulgence tastes like heaven.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “yeah, I actually take the calls. I’m never there by myself so there are always people to assist, but I know the drill pretty well by now.”

  I imagine being at the receiving end of those calls, actually picking up the phone and hearing the caller screaming because someone is bleeding badly, or choking, or unconscious. I shudder at the thought. “That sounds like a huge responsibility.”

  When I look up, Pax’s face is serious for once. “It is, but…” He swallows hard. “You have no idea of the power that’s in the hands of the person at that end of the line. When I was in the accident, the shock and the fear alone almost killed me. Two of my friends were unconscious, and the other two were panicking. Luckily, my phone was in still in my lap and I could make the call, and the voice on the other end was the only thing I had to hang on to, to keep me from going under completely.” He shrugs. “I’ll never be able to physically save someone’s life. But the mental part counts, too, right? And if I can save someone from that kind of panic … I guess I’ll take it.”

  I don’t really know what to say to something so profound.

  He’s quiet for a minute, too, but then a small, rueful smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it all somber in here. Smile,” he says.

  “Why?” I look around. “Is someone taking our picture or something?”

  “No, just smile. It’s a sc
ientific fact that smiling releases endorphins. Making yourself smile first can actually get rid of negative feelings before they go away on their own.”

  “Are you making that up?”

  He shakes his head matter-of-factly. “Nope. It’s the honest-to-God truth. I’ve read a lot of articles about biofeedback, and it’s true—smiling can put you back in a good mood. It’s not necessarily the other way around.”

  “What’s biofeedback?”

  “It’s when you train your brain to respond to sensations in your body in a certain way. The medical term for ‘mind over matter,’ I guess.”

  “You’re really smart,” I say. I feel out of my comfort zone, what with Pax and his job philosophy and scientific-journal knowledge.

  “Trust me, I’m not. I just have more reading time than I used to.” Then he says, “Hey, you want to do the rides after dinner? That’s always good for a smile, too.” There is sauce smudged at the corner of his lip, and he looks like a little boy, asking to go to Buccaneers’ Landing. Maybe not so intimidating after all.

  “I mean, it’s only right,” he says once we’re at Adventure Pier and he’s navigating through the loud, flashing amusements. “This is the last weekend the park is open. It’s officially fall.”

  I’m following his lead and not pointing out the obvious. Besides wanting to take advantage of the park still being open, it’s really not right that we’re here. It’s impossible to ignore all the pictures of wheelchairs with big red Xs across them next to every ride, right next to symbols of pregnant women with big red Xs and symbols of people with back pain and big red Xs.

  So we play the water-gun race game and shoot basketballs against the timer, which he’s really good at, and throw darts at balloons.

  He wins me a cheesy framed Justin Bieber poster that he makes me swear I’ll hang over my bed. It’s faded from months in the sun—I guess no one wants Justin anymore. “I know you’d rather have a picture of me from my water polo days, but you’ll have to settle,” he quips.

  It feels like he’s flirting again, and I wonder if Pax really meant what he said, about just wanting to be friends. I wonder how I feel about that idea. And even though I know maybe I shouldn’t, I can’t help but picture it, what Pax must’ve looked like in the pool, in nothing but one of those low-rise Speedos the Olympic swimmers wear. My cheeks heat up, and I turn my face to hide my blush.

  When we’ve run out of game tokens, Pax asks me, “So what’s your favorite ride?”

  I answer immediately. “The pirate ship.”

  He rolls over to the ticket kiosk and returns a minute later, tearing off four tickets and handing them to me. “Do it up.”

  “No.” I shake my head. I bite my lip and get sort of twitchy. “It just doesn’t seem right,” I finally say.

  “Nicole.” Pax braces his arms on his chair and looks at me sternly. “If we’re gonna hang out, there are going to be some things you can do that I can’t. It is what it is. My world’s limited in some ways, yeah, but there’s no sense in trying to equalize it by giving up things you like.” He pushes the tickets toward me again. “Ride the ride.”

  “Fine.” I give him my poster to hold and accept the tickets. “But you have to hold Justin for me.”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yeah, that’s probably going to take the cake for the biggest indignity I’ve suffered. Catheter changed by strangers? Pssh. Nothin’ on this.”

  O-kay. So maybe he’s not flirting with me after all, bladder control not being the sexiest of topics.

  I head toward the giant ship because going along with the idea is better than thinking about Pax’s lingering medical issues and needs. It’s also better than acknowledging that maybe I prefer the moments when it feels like he’s flirting.

  And ten seconds into the ride, I’m glad he forced the issue. I haven’t done the rides all summer because of my imprisonment, and there is an intrinsic delight in being hoisted high into the air and having my stomach go crashing to the ground at the exact second when I hang in the balance before the boat swings in the opposite direction. I try to bite back my squeals, and sometimes fail. I love every minute of it.

  The smile is nearly splitting Pax’s face when I return. “It was fun watching you.” He nods toward the giant Ferris wheel with the gondolas. “Want to do that one? Use the rest of the tickets?”

  “That’s okay. Let’s just do another game or something.”

  “Nah, come on. The Ferris wheel. I can ride, too.”

  At first I’m surprised, but after we ascend the ramp, I realize this ride does work for Pax. The doors are wide, and he can wheel right onto our little car from the ramp. Once his wheelchair is braked, he’s as secure as I am.

  Our ascent to the top is slow, and it is several minutes before we’re overlooking all of Ocean Isle: the now-deserted beaches, the length of boardwalk, and the lights of the other beach towns—Atlantic City and Margate and Stone Harbor—in the distance. The ocean is as quiet and calm as the town, an entirely different scene than it was months earlier. Ocean Isle during the off-season sometimes has the feel of a ghost town.

  “It’s kinda funny,” I comment. “Every year it’s the same thing. During the summer, when the town is overrun with tourists, and it’s impossible to get a parking spot near the beach, and the line for Decker’s Doughnuts is a mile long, I think I can’t wait for Labor Day. Then everyone leaves, and I hate how empty and lifeless the town feels. Staying here when no one else does. Always makes me feel like I missed the boat or something.”

  “Has your family always lived here?”

  “Yep. My great-grandfather, he was one of the original owners of Bingo’s,” I tell him, referring to the chain of five-and-dime stores that eventually sprang up throughout the beach towns.

  “Get out of here. You really are an Ocean Isle girl, then. The old-money kind. Member of a founding family and what not.”

  “It gets worse.” I smile at him. “I was Little Miss Tan Line. In 2004 and 2005.”

  Pax’s head falls back, and he laughs mightily. “Stop it. Stoooop it.”

  “No joke.”

  “Was it rigged? Because your great-grandfather was a local big shot?”

  “No! I happen to get really impressive tan lines.”

  Pax swallows hard and turns to stare toward the water, but I think I notice a touch of color in his cheeks.

  I shake my head quickly and frown. “Nothin’ to see anymore, though. I didn’t get to go to the beach all summer.”

  Our car passes by the loading dock. The ride operator is playing with his phone and appears to be allowing us an extended ride. We swoop skyward again.

  “How ’bout you? Did you always live around here?”

  “Yeah, over in Breakwater.” He flashes my favorite smirk again. “On the po’ side of the bridge.”

  He’s referencing the first town across the causeway, composed of strip malls and narrow streets of mostly cottage-style homes. It’s true there’s a body of water between our towns, but kids from Ocean Isle and Breakwater still mix occasionally.

  “The towns are more alike than different,” I say. “We both get really fun summers and really boring winters.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s why we got into so much trouble.” He chuckles, spreading his arms along the top of our car. “My friends—actually all the kids at school—were pretty big partyers. Good thing we had sports to keep us out of trouble at least part of the time.”

  “Guys party.” I roll my eyes. “Girls create drama when they’re bored. Girls can stir it up even when there isn’t an excuse for any in the first place.”

  Maybe if we lived in a normal sort of town, none of it would have ever happened.

  “You planning to get out of here someday?” Pax asks me.

  My stomach drops, and it has nothing to do with our being hoisted high up in the air again. “I used to think so.” Now I don’t like thinking about it at all. “You?” I ask instead.

  “I got my GED whe
n I was in recovery. At the time, I had no idea whether returning to school was going to be a possibility, and it just seemed like the easiest thing to do.” He shrugs. “Guess I’ll think about college at some point again. I just need some time to recalibrate. Think about what I’d really want to do there if it’s not going to be water polo.” Pax stares into the distance, out at the dark, flat Atlantic Ocean. He blows a breath through his lips. “Man, I miss the water sometimes.” He looks at me, almost apologetic, and tries to muster a smile. “Sometimes I just need to admit it out loud.”

  Sometimes I really miss standing in front of the crowd in my cheerleading uniform on Friday nights.

  Sometimes I really miss the stage and the applause.

  Sometimes I really miss all of it.

  I don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, I think about reaching for his hand, which is only inches from mine now. So he doesn’t feel bad about having an “I miss it” moment. So he knows he’s not alone in having them.

  But our car has reached the loading dock and is slowing to a stop. Reluctantly, I pull my hand back and gather my purse and poster as Pax wheels out of the car.

  It’s dark when we leave Buccaneers’ Landing, and when I glance up at the clock with the animated fairy-tale characters on the park’s outside wall, I realize I need to head back if I don’t want to blow my new curfew. Which I don’t. I want to believe that nights like tonight will be an ongoing possibility. The breeze is light and the air is cool and refreshing, and I want to feel this way again.

  Just before we cross from the wide, brightly lit portion of the boardwalk that houses the shops, restaurants, and arcades over to the narrower, rickety portion that leads all the way up to Thirty-Fourth Street, Pax gestures toward the last shop in the row. “Some frozen custard for the road? My treat.”

  I glance to the right and my heart lurches. Kohr Bros. “No, thanks,” I say hurriedly, and keep walking, not wanting a painful memory to kill my good mood.

  “Come onnn,” he cajoles. “Don’t tell me you don’t want some. It’s low-cal and low-fat. You girls dig that, right?”