How to Keep Rolling After a Fall

  Sam giggles.

  It surprises me, and I giggle, too, happy the tension has been broken, at least for a second.

  She keeps looking at me and eventually offers a small smile. “Listen,” she starts. “You pissed me off.” She sighs and puffs her cheeks up. “I think the reason you pissed me off so much is because I actually liked you and thought we could be friends. It sucked hearing what you told me and having to think you were like everyone else around school.” Tapping her fork against the table, she says, “But here’s the thingy.… I was thinking about it, and the truth of the matter is that there might just be a tiny bit of hypocrisy on my part. I hate that people dismissed me because of one thing I did.” Now she rolls her eyes. “It’s kinda hard for me to make that argument if I’m going to turn around and do the same thing to you. Even if I think what you did is totally heinous.”

  Her sharp, green-gray eyes lock onto mine like a laser, and she narrows them as she studies me. “Are you sorry?”

  “Every day,” I answer quickly.

  “Have you ever apologized? I mean, to her?”

  “Not really … no,” I stumble. “I don’t think I’m really allowed to have contact with her.”

  Sam considers for a minute and then sits up straight. “I’m still a little pissed, but I’m going to try to be a bigger person. Just don’t be stupid again.”

  “I don’t plan on it!”

  Finally, she smiles. “Then let’s be friends again. At least for a probationary period.”

  I think she’s being sort of a pain in the ass, but it’s more than most people are willing to offer me. “Deal. Friends.”

  She tosses her hair over her shoulder and scans the dining area. “Okay, so let’s get serious about this.”

  Before we can get any further in the selection process, the bartender brings our sodas to the table. “Hey there, ladies,” he says with a totally hot Australian accent. “Lori’s tied up in the kitchen, so I thought I’d drop your drinks meanwhile.”

  He looks to be in his early twenties, with spiky hair and blue eyes. Really nice forearms. I look at his name tag. “Thanks, Ben.”

  He smiles at both of us, a completely devastating, rakish smile. “Anytime. Enjoy your meal.”

  We both watch him leave. He’s wearing perfectly fitting jeans, and the back of him might be even better than the front of him.

  “Hel-lo.” Sam opens her eyes wide. “I think I’m ready to get real serious about this. Him, right?”

  “Obviously.”

  “So what’s he doing right now?” I ask her, taking a sip of my Sprite and hunching over my notebook.

  “Pouring drinks.” Then a moment later, she adds, “Delivering drinks.” Then after that, “Thinking about coming back over and flirting with the two cute girls sitting at the table by the window.”

  “Ha!” I watch him moving deftly between the bar tables, dropping off drinks as he goes. “What do you think his story is? Clearly, he’s not from here. How the hell did he end up in New Jersey?”

  Sam purses her lips and considers. “His mother is American, and his father is from Australia,” she decides.

  “And he’s their illegitimate love child,” I add.

  “He was raised by his dad, an Australian sheep farmer.”

  I crack up. “A sheep farmer?”

  “Yes, sheep are a huge industry in Australia,” she huffs. “And his father met his mother when he came to America for a sheep-farming convention.”

  “So Ben came to America on a search for his long-lost mother.” I have a serious case of the giggles now.

  “Who was an internationally known supermodel. She slept with the sheep farmer because she was seduced by the accent. But a woman like her could never actually acknowledge a sheep farmer. So she sent poor baby Ben down unda’ and tried to forget all about it.”

  “But he came back, and once he got here, he repeated his father’s mistake and fell in love. With a girl who convinced him to vacation at the Jersey Shore.”

  “Once there, he developed this life-consuming saltwater-taffy addiction,” Sam declares. “The girl … She disappeared into the night, but he refuses to leave, because he’s convinced that one day she’ll come back.”

  “And because he needs to be close to the saltwater-taffy shops,” I conclude.

  “He pours drinks to support the habit. It’s a terrible thing, really. Needs rehab.”

  Ben passes by our table again, and we’re both forced to hide our faces to keep from laughing directly in the poor taffy-addicted, illegitimate love child’s face.

  “Too bad we’re such lunatics,” Sam says. “He’s so hot.”

  “He’s probably too old for us to be looking at, anyway.” I sigh.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Sam asks.

  Again I’m picturing myself back on Pax’s couch, and the answer to her question is very clear. “No.” I frown. “I thought … maybe for a minute there, but … he just wants to be friends.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re sure about that.”

  I consider this and sit up straight. “I’m not. I think he’s sending me mixed signals. I don’t know.… I really like him. So I guess being friends is better than not being anything.”

  “Doesn’t that hurt, though?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think I’d want to be friends with Derek. It’s too hard to pretend I never felt anything more than that.”

  I haven’t really thought about what it’s going to be like the next time I see Pax. As I sit there and really consider it, I have to admit that it’s probably going to hurt. “Maybe easier said than done…” I muse.

  “Well … you know you have another friend, if you need one,” she tells me. “This is fun. I’m glad I decided not to be a hypocrite.”

  I smile back at her. “Me too.”

  Chapter 9

  Standing on my balcony and leaning forward, I can hear the distant din of the marching band and intermittent announcements over the stadium loudspeakers. My house is less than a mile away from the school, and by six o’clock, a crowd has already gathered. I stare down at the empty streets. Everyone is at homecoming.

  It’s easy enough to mentally insert myself into the scene. At this moment, my friends are surely gathered in the girls’ locker room, primping in preparation for the halftime show. They are wearing new dresses and shoes that will inevitably sink into the turf. A heady mix of hairspray and perfume and the scent of rose bouquets is practically intoxicating, and they’re drunk with excitement. That, or smuggled Bacardi. I would be there, hyper and giggly, wearing the BCBG dress I got for a steal but never had the chance to wear. I’d be smushed right in the center of it all, fielding compliments, crushed by spontaneous hugs.

  Instead, I tremble from the chill and hug myself. It’s way too cold to be out here without a jacket. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself. I turn away and go back inside.

  The sliding glass door makes a sucking sound when it closes, leaving me feeling as if I’m locked inside a vacuum. My parents have gone somewhere with Emma—surely, not homecoming—and the house is eerily quiet. Dropping onto my bed, I acknowledge the feelings I’m trying to fight. I’m sad, I think. I frown into space for a minute. No. I’m lonely.

  It’s a sensation that Pax used to drive away. Now he makes the feeling worse than ever. Because nothing makes you feel lonelier than someone being with you … but not.

  Almost two weeks have passed since he insisted he just wanted to be friends. And during the times we’ve hung out since then, he hasn’t gone back on his word. The sad frustration of acceptance is starting to settle in the pit of my stomach. I can no longer convince myself he’s playing hard to get.

  I swipe my thumb over my phone and see a text from Sam on the screen. Then I set the phone facedown on my bed. I don’t really think I want company tonight.

  The persistent beeping of a car horn interrupts my pity party, and instantly I’m annoyed. The alumni turn rowdy and childish on homecoming weekend. I g
rit my teeth and wait for the noise to pass, but it is unrelenting. And it sounds as if the car is right outside.

  I stomp back across my room and yank the door open, ready to yell at the partyers to take it down a notch. My feet stop in their tracks when I see an orange Honda Element pulled up in front of my house.

  The driver’s-side window lowers, and Pax’s head pops out. “Took you long enough,” he calls. He’s wearing sunglasses and a self-satisfied smirk. “Get down here already.”

  Despite my sour mood, suddenly I’m laughing, refueled with new energy as I fly down the stairs and out the front door. I approach his car and lean on the window frame, peering inside. “What the heck are you doing?”

  “Correction. What are we doing?” He pauses for a beat. “We’re going out.”

  “I thought you had a game tonight.”

  “I do. But when I was downtown today, I saw all the streamers and nonsense being set up, and I remembered what today is.” Pax slowly removes his Ray-Bans and regards me seriously. “This is more important.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nikki, what were you doing right before I pulled up? Were you sitting by yourself in some dark room, picturing what you were missing?”

  I glance away. “No.”

  “You hesitated.” He raises an eyebrow. “You were, weren’t you? So get in. I’m rescuing you from yourself.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s really not all that dramatic. This is unnecessary.”

  “This is completely necessary,” he counters. He studies me, taking in my loose T-shirt and paint-stained yoga pants. “Go get changed.”

  “Into what?”

  He grins. “Into something better than whatever you would’ve worn to homecoming.”

  I shake my head as I turn and walk back toward the house, but I’m grinning all the same.

  I haven’t had reason to get dressed up lately, and I get a small thrill as I pull a favorite dress from my closet. It’s navy-blue lace, with a short, flouncy skirt and a crochet-style hem. I twist my curls into a messy updo and apply makeup quickly. I hesitate as I stare at my dark pink pumps, which are probably a little over the top. Screw it. I slide my feet into them and dash back downstairs.

  When I open the car door and climb inside, I half expect a smart comment from Pax, something about my ridiculous shoes or how long it took me to get changed. But instead he says, “You look amazing.” His eyes are wistful when he tells me, “Really makes me wish I could stand up for you.”

  My heart protests the compliment. Stop saying things like that.

  “Thanks,” I say instead. “You look nice, too. Nice shirt.”

  He pushes at the sleeves of the rumpled dress shirt he’s paired with khakis. “Real men wear pink,” he informs me with a wink. He shifts some of the custom levers with authority, and the car pulls away from the curb.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  I stop asking questions and settle into the seatback. At no point does it cross my mind that a night on the town with a would-be kidnapper—albeit a handsome and charming one—should probably be brought to my parents’ attention.

  We drive for about an hour. The Garden State Parkway turns into the Atlantic City Expressway, and after that, I’m seeing signs for Philadelphia and the sweeping cables of the Walt Whitman Bridge. We cross it and, a few minutes later, end up in a lot off Chestnut Street.

  Pax lets me pull his chair out of the back of the car, and then we take off onto the crowded sidewalks of downtown Philly. Clearly, it’s a pain in the ass for him to maneuver along the narrow, uneven sidewalks, and the people aren’t the friendliest, but Pax remains as patient as ever. And it’s not like I’m getting anywhere much faster.

  “Seriously, Nikki, I think it’s easier for me to get around,” he calls over his shoulder as he passes me. “Those shoes are ridiculous.”

  “Number one, you told me to dress up,” I point out. “Number two, you didn’t mention crumbling sidewalks and a four-block walk.” Then I stumble over my own feet as I realize my slip. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “That was wrong.”

  “What?”

  “You know. Complaining. About having to … walk.”

  Pax just laughs. “Aren’t we past that? In those shoes? You’re more handicapped than I am.” He slows down as we approach a plain door that appears to open into a hole in the wall. “I made a reservation. Do you like sushi?”

  “No.”

  He rolls his eyes up at me and smiles. “Have you ever had sushi?”

  “No.”

  Pax opens the door and ushers me inside with a sweep of his hand. “Morimoto’s is the best sushi. And I’ll start you off easy.”

  Inside, the small space is much more than a hole in the wall. I’m instantly transported under the sea by the illusion created through the panoramic wave pattern crafted into the walls and the soft, changing pastels cast upon them. We’re seated at a table where there’s room for Pax’s chair, and as I glance toward the small, intimate tables for two built into the wall, I feel a twinge of frustration that tables like that would always be off-limits.

  It’s easy enough to forget, though. Pax forbids me from looking at the menu and reading the list of ingredients. Instead, he orders the chef’s choice sampler for us and then adds, “I’ll let you get one boring ol’ California roll, which is really just a cooked piece of crab wrapped in rice. Otherwise, you really need to try this.”

  There’s something sexy and natural about the way he takes charge of ordering for us, although it’s one more thing that leaves me confused about the status of our relationship. I don’t point out that a guy would typically let a “friend” order for herself, and instead I focus on his handiwork with the chopsticks.

  “Check out this amazing skill,” he says as he deftly aligns the thin wooden sticks, selects a piece of sashimi, and pops it into his mouth.

  “Quite impressive.” I smile. I’m not going to make an idiot of myself. I stick with my fork.

  “Not for nothin’, but if my injury had been four vertebrae higher? Chopsticks would have been out of the question. Anything with my hands would have been. So ya know, sometimes I just have to take a minute to appreciate that.” With the sticks, he points to one sushi roll, and then another. “These are the two best on the sampler. I insist you try at least one of them. If you want a ride home, anyway.” Grinning wickedly, he says, “Choose wisely, and you get giant clam. Choose less wisely, you’re eating eel.”

  “Eel?” I squeal so loudly some people actually turn around.

  “Choose wisely,” he repeats.

  I select the less slimy-looking option of the two, take a deep breath, and pop it into my mouth. I chew. I wait for it to process. “Which one?” I ask.

  “The clam. What do you think?”

  I wait another minute. “Maybe it’s surprisingly amazing.”

  The smile blooms on his face. “Riiiight?”

  He encourages me to try a few more rolls, some of which I agree to eat. The idea of sashimi I can’t stomach at all. And in between, we look through the front window of the restaurant, watching the crowds. There are the artsy-looking people, the theater crowd on its way to Friday-night shows, and then scores of people that don’t fit into any category.

  “So different from home,” I comment. “At home, everyone fits into one of, like, four categories. And you can always tell which just from looking.”

  Pax tilts his head and narrows his eyes as he studies me. “When did this lust for city life first develop?”

  It’s an easy question, and I have an immediate answer. “When I was seven.”

  “Seven?”

  I nod and spear a relatively safe spicy salmon roll with my fork and dip it in the soy sauce. “My parents took me and my sister on a holiday bus trip up to New York City. We made the usual stops—FAO Schwarz and the Rockefeller Center tree. But instead of taking us to the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, with the Rocket
tes and the dancing elves, my parents took us to Broadway.” I roll my eyes. “My mom was always big on culture.

  “They took us to see Les Mis.” I set down my fork and stare into the distance. “At first I thought it was totally boring, and I obviously had no idea what was going on. Actually, I think I still don’t understand the plot. Then the little girl playing Cosette, the orphan girl, came out onstage and sang ‘Castle on a Cloud.’ I remember sitting straight up in my chair and thinking, I could do that.”

  To me, it seemed as natural as breathing. There was nothing scary about the idea of being up on a stage in front of thousands of people. I was incredibly jealous of that little girl.

  “At intermission, right away I asked my dad, ‘When do I get to live in the city and sing on the stage like her?’ My dad sort of laughed and told me, ‘When you’re eighteen.’” I try to smile like it’s funny, even though it’s not. “Once I get something in my head…”

  Pax is quiet for once. He just keeps looking at me as though he’s trying to get something to add up that just won’t compute.

  “Anyway.” I laugh the memory away. “I wouldn’t shut up about it. I tied my dad’s old T-shirts around my head to look like rags and walked around all day holding the broom and singing that song. Finally, my parents gave in and drove me to Philly to audition for Les Mis at the Kimmel Center the following holiday season.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “No. I scored a spot in the chorus and was Cosette’s understudy. I threw a hissy fit and said I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

  Pax groans in frustration. “Stupid move.”

  “I know.” I split an edamame pod with my teeth and pop the soybeans into my mouth. “Cosette number one got chicken pox one week before the show. It could have been my big break.”

  Pax starts laughing so hard I’m worried he’s going to choke on a piece of raw fish. He takes a big gulp of water, and when he’s finished, he looks at me again. All the laughter has drained from his eyes. He’s looking at me the same way he did when he pulled my hat off. Looking at me the same way that made me foolish enough to try to kiss him.

  I stare down at the white bowl of soybeans so I don’t get fooled again.