Here's To Falling
By Christine Zolendz
Here's To Falling
Copyright © 2015 by Christine Zolendz
Cover Design by Christine Zolendz
Stock Photography purchased through 123rf.com and Shutterstock.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Dedication
For my real J.
I miss you every day.
This story was
Inspired
By
True Events
Author’s Note
It took me over twenty years to get this story out. Little by little, over the years I wrote, trying to get everything down. My readers will probably be able to tell the difference between the things I wrote long ago and things I wrote more recently. Honestly, this is probably the first story I really ever wrote. Trust me when I say it was very hard to do. It’s inspired by events that I have lived through. You’ll know the events when you read them. I weaved fiction through the story to make it a story. Just realize I’m giving you a piece of me on these pages.
I hope my words are strong enough.
Prologue
It was the edge of forever ago.
I could see my young self. Fingertips curled tightly around a worn-out paperback book. White-knuckled and clenching it with the intensity of the words, I was devouring it, burning through the pages like I was a blazing inferno. The off-white pages were wrinkled and dog-eared; the smell of them, like any true die-hard-reader would admit, was heaven. HeaVEN! In my nine-year-old mind, Judy Blume was the most talented writer ever created, and Blubber was the most brilliant collection of words giving life to my imagination between the covers of a book. The book was a classic. Joey, my best friend in the whole entire universe, sat next to me, flipping through my latest sketchbook and sighing loudly and, let’s face it, way too dramatically. He knew my reading rules though - thou shalt not bother me until I finish the chapter. He had felt the wrath of my book upside his head one too many times already—he knew better than to chance fate—again.
Lying back against the dark grey pillows of my bed (because pink was for silly girls), Joey tossed my drawings aside, grabbed one of my Barbie dolls, and swung it around by its platinum blonde hair. It was a newer one that my father’s secretary gave me. She thinks I’m like five or something. My dad never bothered to tell her that I hated Barbie dolls or any sort of baby doll. I hadn’t yet chopped all of Barbie’s stupid hair off or gave it permanent marker tattoos. As she launched through the air, she made a small whizzing sound and smacked up against the wall. Poor Barbie fell onto my rug; her head completely decapitated from her body, and bounced against my feet. I wanted to laugh, because it was funny. But, I wanted to read more. I had to bite my lip. Rules are rules. Chapters need finishing.
“Whoops,” Joey giggled.
I reluctantly lifted my eyes off the last sentence of the chapter and narrowed them at him. Oh, his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were going down! It was definitely going to be a microwave-his-Ninja Turtles kind of Friday afternoon.
“Charlotte!” my mom’s voice hoarsely called through my bedroom door. Her wild, dark-haired head poked in, her rumpled clothes not hiding her daylong nap on the couch. “Looks like someone bought the house next door. There’s a moving truck outside, and it looks like they have a kid,” she said through a yawn.
Joey jumped off my bed and ran out of my room, “It better be a boy,”
What? No way, Jose!
Are you there, God? It’s me Charlotte… Please, pleeeeeaaasssee, let it be a girl. Not one of those girly-girls, like the ONLY other girls on my street, the Jenson sisters (I’m still a little angry with you about them). Rebecca and Rachel Jenson wore pretty, pink, frilly dresses to school every day with shiny patent leather shoes. Shiny, like I-could-see-my-face-in-them shiny! They looked like porcelain dolls that came to life, zombie-Chucky-dolls, and they scared the stuffing out of me with their glossy, red lipstick lips and their sparkly glitter that always got in my eyes, even when I was ten feet away from them. Have you ever had glitter in your eye? It hurts! I think it’s a form of torture from the olden days. No, God. I need a nice, normal, quiet, smart girl, who loves to read and is not afraid to play with smelly boys (like Joey: best friend extraordinaire), just like me. Amen.
My mother, with her red and glassy eyes, leaned her small frame against my door and pulled out a cigarette from the pack she kept in her shirt pocket. It stuck to her lip as she lit it and she laughed, inhaling deeply. She gave me a wink as I walked past her.
Joey and I quietly watched from my front porch as four huge men carried a large, brown couch into the new neighbor’s house. A woman, a lot younger than my mother, sat almost motionless in a wheelchair that slowly buzzed itself up the sidewalk and up the neighbor’s front walkway. Slightly moving a small lever on the armrest, the woman controlled the chair with one of her stark white, delicate hands. As she rolled by us, a small, tight smile passed her lips, but was gone instantly. Her body looked strange, kind of scary strange, because her legs looked really tiny compared to the rest of her. I shivered. And before you say anything, I know that’s not nice, but I had never seen anything like that before, so it just…it just scared me a little. And remember, I was only nine and quite impressionable. I still slept with a nightlight, but uh, don’t tell anybody that, okay?
Behind her, bouncing a basketball, was a tall kid with shaggy, dark brown hair that whipped up wildly with a passing breeze. His face was focused intently on the ground as he bounced the ball against the back of the woman’s wheelchair, catching it with both hands each time it flew back at him. That bothered me, because isn’t that a mean thing to do to someone in a wheelchair? The ball bounced against the chair and onto the cobbled stones of the walkway three more times before Joey whispered, a bit too loudly, next to me, “Uh-oh.”
The kid’s head snapped up instantly, locking his eyes directly on mine. My body flinched back. This kid had the meanest look on his face, but that wasn’t the part that made my belly feel sick. It was the strange color of his eyes. I had never seen such a color. Eyes that shade of blue couldn’t be real. I never knew such a light shade of blue like that even existed until his eyes stared down mine.
I think he’s an alien.
My mind immediately went all Star Wars, and for a minute, I, Princess Leia, was going to befriend this alien being so he could teach me how to use the force. Not the dark side, though. I was gonna be a Jedi!
Then, the kid stuck his middle finger up at me and walked into his house.
He did!
He just stuck his alien middle finger right at me and walked away. I gasped out loud. I didn’t even know what that gesture meant, but I knew it was really bad, because I’ve seen my dad do it while he drives and curses at people who cut him off. Oh God, it meant he wanted to kill me, didn’t it?
Oh. My. God. The alien-kid hated me. And he stuck his middle finger at me! It was the worst thing in the world to ever happen to me. I really, really, really mean it. It was the worst thing
ever. My eyes burned with tears.
Sweat broke out all over my forehead as I stomped back into my house and into my bedroom. Joey was right behind me, closing my bedroom door and running to my window. “That kid is trouble,” he whispered, peeking through my curtains.
Opening and closing my hands into fists, I paced in front of my bed. “That was just so rude! What? Why? And, I don’t get what that finger thing means!” I stammered, sliding in front of my window and nudging Joey out of the way.
“It means he hates you and wants to poke you in the eye really hard with his finger. Duh,” he said, nervously raking his hands through his dark hair.
From my bedroom window, which faced the alien-kid’s stupid house, I could see right where the stupid mean space-jerk was standing. He was in a room full of boxes, standing on one of them, taping up a poster. I hope he falls. I hope he falls and breaks his dumb stupid mean finger, so he never gives it to me again!
Squinting my eyes, I tried to make out what was on the poster. Some stupid group of superheroes. That’s when I realized: that’s his bedroom! That mean stupid finger giving alien-kid was going to be in a bedroom right across a small alleyway from my bedroom. Oh, snapdragons! This is the worst day ever. WORST DAY EVER in the history of ME!
Joey stepped in between my curtains and me, flipping them wide open, which, of course, made the stupid alien-kid notice we were at my window STARING at him. He narrowed his eyes at us and started quickly opening a box, looking for something. I wanted to duck down and hide before he zapped me with his laser eyes and toasted me into a crispy pile of ash on the floor, but Joey was in my way, peeking his own head up from where he was hiding on the floor.
“This morning, when I went with my mom to the store, I saw that kid taking candy and sticking it in his pocket without paying for it,” Joey said, pointing to the stupid mean alien-boy who was now writing something on a large piece of white paper. “He’s a criminal,” Joey whispered. “And he lives right next to you! What are you gonna do?”
I didn’t dare take my eyes off the mean kid as I answered Joey, “I’m definitely not playing with him. I hope he’s not in our class this year. Do you think he’s the same age as us? You don’t think he’ll be in Freddie Krueger’s class with us, do you?”
Before Joey could answer, we watched as the mean alien taped a drawing of a horrible skull and crossbones to his window. Above the skull were the words, “YOU MESS WITH ME,” and below the crossbones were the words, “YOU DIE!”
“Holy Cheese-whiz, he’s gonna kill us,” Joey yelped. “I bet there are lots of dead kids’ bodies in those boxes. We should call the cops!” His big brown eyes looked to me for my brilliant wisdom and guidance.
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared down the mean boy with his horrible drawing of a skull and his stupid threat. He wasn't even cool enough to be an alien with that dumb drawing; he was just a stupid boy. Stomping over to my stack of sketchpads, I lifted up my largest one and thumbed through the pages until I found exactly what I needed. Grabbing a thick black marker from my Fantastical Cup O’ Markers, I wrote the mean kid a little note back. And then I taped my own picture of a skull and crossbones to my window with the words: THAT’S NOT SCARY BUT THIS ONE IS!!!! YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!!! Thief.
Oh, did I tell you I could draw? Like, really well. My skull looked like an actual skull; it even had blood dripping out of its empty eye sockets. And there was an eyeball rolling away in the background. The mean boy looked shocked at my AWEsome drawing. Then he looked back at me. And that’s when I gave him my middle finger and shoved the curtains back over the window.
“That was so badbutt! I bet you could beat him up if you had to!” Joey said, jumping on my bed.
I climbed up on my bed next to my best friend in the entire universe and started bouncing with him. “Well, I hope I never have to see him again, because I just might have to beat him up if he bothers us!” Secretly, I hoped I didn’t. There were two boys in our class that were always mean to Joey, Slate Marshall and Drake Fischer. I fought with Slate and Drake all the time, so they wouldn’t bother Joey. But I had never had to beat one of them up, so I didn’t think I really knew if I could. I hope I never have to find out, which made me kind of sad that the mean kid wasn’t an alien. I could really use the force or some cool Jedi mind tricks when people teased Joey.
We bounced on my bed for about an hour. Yeah, you definitely can’t ever get tired of bouncing on a bed, can you? No way. Never. The government should make it an Olympic sport; Joey and I would probably win all the medals for it. We stopped only because it was five o’clock, and we were hungry.
My mom was back to sleep on the couch with a completely burned down cigarette still between her fingers. There was a long line of ash that dangled from its tip—just about to fall. Joey and I stood over her, laughing to each other. I poked her in the belly. “Mom, when’s dinner?” I asked, loudly.
Blinking her eyes open, it took her a minute to focus on me. “Oh, sweetie, sorry. What time is it?” she yawned, flicking her cigarette into the ashtray that she kept on the floor.
“It’s 5:06. And my stomach is rumbling,” I said, watching the cloud of ash puff up from the ashtray.
Joey made growly rumbling noises beside me. He was hungry too.
She let out a long sigh and scratched at her scalp full of curls. “I don’t feel like cooking; I’m not feeling too well today. There’s ice cream in the freezer.” She lowered her voice and smiled, “It’ll be our secret, okay? Ice cream sundaes for dinner with all the fixings. You know where everything is Charlotte. Just make sure to clean up any mess, so your father doesn’t see. He’ll probably be working late again tonight.” Then, she rolled over and tucked her arms under her head, falling back to sleep almost immediately.
Ice cream sundaes for dinner. Like I was going to complain about that! My mom rocked!
High-fiving each other, Joey and I ran for the kitchen and pulled out everything we needed for the best dinner ever. All my thoughts of the mean stupid boy fell away with the excitement of secret ice cream sundaes, and my worst day ever quickly turned into my best day ever.
Five whopping scoops of vanilla ice cream landed in each of our bowls and were immediately covered with sweet, sugary, caramel syrup. Joey poured extra nuts over mine while I threw extra cherries on top of his. Rainbow sprinkles for me, chocolate for him, and some in both of our mouths.
Cleaning up quickly, we grabbed handfuls of napkins and ran out the back door and into my yard.
In the right-hand corner of my backyard, right next to the stupid mean boy’s back yard, stood the tallest tree on my block. And up in the branches of the tallest tree on my block, was the biggest and best tree house to have ever been built by human hands. And it was all mine.
Joey and I climbed in and ate our delicious dinner, both getting brain freezes, and howling and laughing in the pain. It was okay. I’d rather have a brain freeze than be a brain fart like the stupid mean boy next door.
We spent the rest of the night there, like we usually did, looking for dragons and hiding from zombies and monsters, like Slate and Drake, and of course, Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th (the best movie in the universe).
∞
The memory was so real and vivid; I felt like I could just reach out and touch us. I could still feel the cool breeze that blew through the tree house windows, still smell the watermelon lip-gloss that I smeared daringly across my face, and still taste the blueberry Hubba Bubba bubblegum that Joey and I both chewed after finishing our sundaes. Cue in a cheesy 1999 ballad, something along the lines of Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls, and the memory came to life.
Tears sting my eyes and my breath turns into a hard, thick knot in my throat. We were the best of friends, like Charlotte and Wilbur, Pooh and Piglet, Calvin and Hobbes, or any other amazing literary friendships I could have come up with when I was nine.
I wish there was a device implanted in our brains to record memories, so we could play them back and w
atch them whenever we wanted, like old home movies. Because sometimes, I think the things we remember pale in comparison to what was real, and I would love to see the real images instead of just the thin, pallid ghosts of them.
It’s so funny to me as an adult, the things that I remember, or the strange things that spark a memory. A memory that had been buried deep under a lifetime of days that followed and left behind can suddenly spring to life on a whim. Once, I tried to write all the memories of my childhood down in a journal, but all I accomplished was to ruin them, making them cold and unfeeling.
Lifeless.
Sometimes, the memories attack me like a fever, and all I want to do is hide my mind from them, hide my heart; protect what’s left of it.
I’ve heard some people say that what you remember is not the whole truth; it’s our thoughts of what we wanted things to be remembered as. They believe that we change our memories, that we just fabricate them into pasts that we can live with. Do I believe that?
No. I believe I remember everything, every little detail.
My memories are true. They may be just from my point of view, but I could never embellish my recollections to make them more or less than what they were. My memories have a heavy, tangible weight to them. I’ve felt their burden for so long; they have become almost bearable to carry. They don’t pull me under any longer.
Not to say that they don’t still hurt
Or give me joy…
They have just become what’s made me stronger
They are what have made me…
Me.
Damn, I went all poetic on you, didn’t I?
Chapter 1
Charlotte
Bren stood on the corner trying to hail a cab, once again too drunk to drive or even remember where he'd put his keys. The only thing he cared about was getting back to his place in time for his nightly never-ending party. "You're coming over, right?"