A Step Toward Falling Page 18

  “What about some girls?” I ask.

  “It turns out they’ve got a cheerleading competition the same weekend as the performance. They want to, but they can’t.”

  These days it seems like I see Lucas less often with his girlfriend, Debbie. A month ago she was perched beside him every day at lunch. I haven’t seen that recently, but I also haven’t heard anything about a breakup. She looks perfectly happy. Every time I see her in the cafeteria, she’s always in the middle of laughing at something. She has that poker-straight blond hair that’s great for flicking when you laugh hard, which she always does.

  “They’re all going to a cheerleading competition? Aren’t there a few staying behind?”

  “There are a few. A couple girls said they might audition. It just won’t be a huge crowd.”

  “We kind of need a huge crowd, Lucas. That’s the point of auditions. You need to get a lot of people so you pick out the best ones.”

  He leans back on his crutches like he’s through talking about it. “I’m trying, okay?”

  I know he is and I shouldn’t blame him, but I’m getting more nervous.

  There’s also this: since our one conversation in the hall when she walked away from me, I haven’t talked to Belinda at all. Every time I’ve seen her, she’s had other people around and I’ve gotten too nervous.

  The day of auditions, I corner Lucas in the cafeteria beside the dish room. “Tell me you’ve got at least four guys coming this afternoon.” I know I sound curt, but our conversations at school are usually this way. I assume neither one of us wants to be seen talking to the other, so we’re always to the point.

  “I don’t know if I have four. I might.”

  “How many do you have coming for sure?”

  He keeps walking but doesn’t answer.

  “Just tell me, Lucas.”

  “We’ll see when we get there, right?” I wish he didn’t sound so casual. “What happened with your friends? What did they say?”

  I look away. “They’re busy right now. Everyone’s got these heavy course loads. . . .”

  “Plus they don’t want to do it, right?”

  I take a deep breath. “Plus they don’t want to do it.”

  We’re standing with each other longer than we usually do at school.

  Finally he says, “Let’s see what happens this afternoon. Maybe we’ll be surprised.”

  BELINDA

  THE LONGER THE GAME went on, the more nervous I got about my box. I still wanted to give it to Ron but I wasn’t sure how. There was a fence and a track and a row of cheerleaders between the audience and the football team. People couldn’t walk over and talk to one of the players. Then I saw one of the coaches running under the bleachers. I asked the boy next to me where he was going and he said, “The locker room.”

  I waited to see if the team went there, too, after they were done playing, and they did! That’s when I made my plan. A locker room for football players was like a dressing room for actors. That meant I could wait for him outside the way people waited for me when I starred in plays. Sometimes they brought me flowers or little kids asked me to sign their programs. I was always polite. I always stopped and talked to anyone who was waiting for me.

  Ron will do that, I thought. I know he will.

  I said, “That was a great game” to the boy beside me and he said, “It’s not over. It’s only half time.”

  I didn’t know what that meant but everyone was moving like they were going home so I picked up my box and went down to the bottom of the bleachers. I found a gate that led to the tunnel. It had a latch but it wasn’t locked so I opened the gate and walked through it.

  I had only done something like that once before, when Nan and Mom and I went to see a singer named Jimmy Martin who Mom used to love when she was a little girl. After the concert, I pretended to accidentally open a gate and walk through to where he was standing so Mom could run after me and shake his hand. It was funny and we all laughed about that for a long time. Sometimes it’s okay to walk through gates no one else is using.

  Sometimes it means you can shake someone’s hand and talk to them for a second.

  This time, though, it wasn’t the same. The tunnel beyond the gate was really dark. For a while I couldn’t see at all. Then my eyes got used to it and I saw that a lot of people don’t throw their trash in cans. There were cups and hot dog wrappers and places where it looked like people had spilled a whole box of popcorn.

  I started to feel a little bit scared because the sound of people’s footsteps was louder under here than up above. It sounded like elephants were stampeding over my head. I also couldn’t tell where the football team had gone. Everything just looked dark and dirty. Then a fence rolled across the tunnel door behind me and clanged shut.

  “I’m in here!” I said but no one answered.

  That’s when I heard something at the other end of the bleachers. It sounded like a laugh. I was so relieved I ran toward it and then there wasn’t anyone there. Just the sound of footsteps and the band still playing songs.

  I went toward a light at the end of the tunnel. When I got to it and stepped into the light, I heard a voice nearby.

  “There you are,” it said. “I couldn’t see you before.”

  I hugged my shoe box to my chest. I didn’t say anything.

  “How’d you get down here? You look a little lost.”

  I couldn’t see the person talking. I could only see a cigarette going up and down.

  I heard a door open and the sound of boys cheering, “GO COUGARS!” I was relieved at first. I thought, It’s okay. It must be the team coming out. When they get here, I’ll be okay. Then I saw a uniform. Not Ron’s number which is 47. It was number 89.

  “MOVE!” he screamed. I looked around to see who he was yelling at. I couldn’t tell. “YOU!” he screamed. “MOVE NOW! BEFORE THEY COME OUT!”

  Whoever he was yelling at wouldn’t move because he kept yelling until the team came up behind him, a big huge pack of them, running right toward me.

  I looked for number 47 so I would know which one was Ron. I knew he probably wouldn’t have time to answer my questions because they were running like it was a race to get back to the field. Which meant the only thing I could do was hold out my box so he’d take it and open it later. Maybe out on the field or after the game. He’d look at what was inside and understand what I was saying. That I thought about him a lot. That if he wanted to get married someday I’d be happy to do that. Hopefully he’d know that I would also understand if he didn’t want to get married.

  They were running so fast, though, I had a hard time keeping track of Ron.

  I held out my box when he got closer. My hands were shaking. I didn’t want to drop it or break anything inside. Then I saw 47 again and I saw his hand. I held it out farther and I thought he was reaching for it.

  But he wasn’t.

  He pushed it back at me. Hard. It went into my chest. I fell down and couldn’t breathe. I heard him yell over me. “EVERY TIME I TURN AROUND YOU’RE FUCKING RIGHT THERE! I CAN’T STAND IT! I CAN’T FUCKING TAKE IT! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  I lay on the ground trying to breathe but I couldn’t.

  I heard the rest of the team running. I was in their way, so I covered my head and ears. I got kicked a few times. Someone stepped on my hair which hurt more than the kicking did. Someone said, “What the fuck is this?” I didn’t know if he was talking about me. After that, I don’t remember much.

  I opened my eyes once and feet were still going by. Someone stepped on a cup and Coke sprayed all over me so I closed my eyes again.

  When they were gone, I sat up. My skirt was wet with Coke and my top was dirty. One sleeve of my shirt was torn. I looked around and saw that Ron’s box of presents had fallen on the ground and everything had spilled out. His letter-bead necklace, his tissue-paper flowers, and mosaic coaster. The coaster was broken.

  I couldn’t stand up, so I crawled over to the broken box and started picking thi
ngs up. I didn’t know what else to do.

  I was dirty and wet. There was popcorn in my hair.

  I had my answer now. Anthony was right. Ron didn’t love me.

  I knew because he kicked me and spit on me and told me to stay a swear word away from him. That was enough. I didn’t start to cry until I saw the pieces of the broken coaster. That was the present that came out the best and now I didn’t have it anymore because it was broken. I thought: This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

  And then I heard a voice and I remembered I wasn’t alone.

  “Do you need some help?” the voice said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EMILY

  IT’S 3:05 AND NO one is here.

  Auditions are happening in the small theater beside the music room where the choir practices after school. Through the wall, I can hear a boy and girl singing a duet with a piano. It sounds like a love song, but they stop so much it’s hard to tell. The auditions don’t officially start until 3:15, so I spread out the scenes I’ve xeroxed and the sign-up sheet for people to write their name and contact info. On it, there’s room for thirty people to sign up.

  There are voices outside in the hallway, but when I look, no one is out there waiting to come in.

  By 3:14, I start to panic. Even Lucas hasn’t shown up.

  I walk out into the hallway to see if he’s on his way. Maybe he’s bringing a group of his friends in from the parking lot, I think. Then I check the main door that leads out to the parking lot. No one’s there. I run quickly to the hallway where his locker is.

  Empty.

  Now it’s 3:19 and I’m not sure what I’m doing except avoiding the room where no one has shown up. Finally, I head back and open the door as quietly as I can. One person is seated in the last row. Lucas.

  He doesn’t even turn around to see if it’s me.

  “No one, huh?” he says.

  “Not yet,” I say, but we both know. The school is empty. Busses left twenty minutes ago. No one is coming.

  “What happened to your friends?” I say softly. I know I shouldn’t blame him, but I do.

  “They’re not my friends,” he snaps. “I told you that.”

  “But you asked them, right?” I don’t know why I can’t let this go. I picture his lunch table with thirty people. Isn’t this the point of popularity—so you can get people to do things?

  “No, I didn’t ask most of them. I couldn’t.”

  “What do you mean—you couldn’t?”

  “I couldn’t . . . ask these guys to be around Belinda. It wouldn’t have been right.”

  “Why not? What are you talking about?”

  For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. Through the wall, we can hear a piano playing while two voices argue about a progression.

  For a while now I’ve wondered if there’s more to Lucas’s story than he told the disciplinary committee, the way there was more to my story than I could bear to tell anyone. That I knew Belinda once. That the first day of high school I screamed at her and told her never to hug me. That I can still remember her face, how happy she was to see me, and how I hardened myself to ensure that she didn’t mistake us for friends. But what could Lucas have to feel guilty about?

  As gently as I can manage, I ask, “Did you know Belinda from before?”

  “I knew of her. None of us knew her except for Ron and a few guys who went to this Best Buddies dance last spring.” He takes a deep breath and turns around, as if he wants to be sure no one is coming in who might hear what he’s saying. “Everyone on the team is supposed to do community service every year. Ron and Wayne hadn’t done any, so Coach made them go. It pissed the rest of us off because they were getting away with doing this one event and the rest of us have to do twenty hours, but that’s how it is. They always get away with things like that.”

  The music next door has started up again louder. I move over to where Lucas is sitting. His voice has gotten so soft and it’s hard to hear.

  “Except this time it turned out to be a joke on him. Ron thought he was getting it over with, doing this one hour, but then he met this girl who wouldn’t stop following him around. She thought they were going out now because he asked her to dance once. She kept inviting him over to her house in front of other people, which really pissed him off. Finally he complained to Coach about it right before the Mansfield game.”

  There’s a noise outside in the hallway that makes Lucas stop and spin around in his seat. I can tell that he’ll be in trouble with his crowd if they find out he’s telling me this story. Still, he keeps going: “That game should have been a breeze. We were favored to win by fourteen points but that whole first half, we couldn’t get our act together. We weren’t connecting; we hadn’t even made it on the scoreboard. We were down by seven at half time. In the locker room, everyone was ripshit and blaming each other, which we’re never supposed to do. Then someone looked out the window and saw Belinda standing outside the locker room holding a box. It was like in that moment, she brought the whole team together again. Suddenly, everyone was saying this was our whole problem this year. People expected too much from us. We were supposed to win games and be fucking Boy Scouts, too. Then it just got worse. They said it was her fault we were losing. They made all these threats about what they were going to do to her when they got out there. They were going to rip her a new one for bothering Ron in the middle of a game. They were going to show a few people what happens when you ask too much of football players.”

  He stops for a second and shakes his head—as if he’s remembering worse threats he doesn’t want to tell me. Then he takes a deep breath and starts again. “This is the worst part: I didn’t say anything. I could have. A few other guys were trying to say, ‘Ignore her, man,’ but they were getting drowned out by this tidal wave of trash talk. That’s when I realized what assholes these guys are. They’re given all this power and they’re so insecure they’re gonna beat up this poor girl because we’re playing shitty?”

  I’m sitting next to Lucas. Our legs are so close our jeans have touched. I want him to know it’s okay he’s telling me this story, so I do the boldest thing I’ve ever done with a boy: I reach over and take his hand. I squeeze it so he understands that I’m his friend and it’ll be okay. If he’s surprised by the move, I’m even more surprised by what happens next: he cups my hand in both of his and lifts it to his mouth. He kisses it and presses my palm to his cheek.

  It’s a million things at once and it makes my insides twist. Is it a kiss if it happens on your hand, which is—well, an arm’s length away from your mouth?

  It feels like it.

  We sit for a minute with my hand against his cheek. His eyes are closed, as if he wants to stay in this moment forever. I wouldn’t mind doing that, but I have to ask, “What happened after you left the locker room?”

  He opens his eyes. There’s enough light to see there are tears in them. I can also see that he doesn’t want to tell me the rest. But eventually he does. He tried to warn her. He ran out ahead of the rest and told her to run. Then Coach called him back to berate him for breaking huddle early. As the rest of the team headed out, Coach gave him a lecture with a finger stabbing his chest plate. “You keep your mind on the game. You think about your plays and about your teammates. You don’t worry about other people. There’s a million fucking sad stories out there, you don’t think about any of them. You stay right here in this game.”

  That’s when Lucas ran out and saw one thing he expected—Belinda’s box and its contents spilled everywhere—and something else he didn’t: Mitchell Breski trapping Belinda against a fence.

  “My brain froze,” he says softly.

  It’s a feeling I remember too well. He’s still holding my hand, only now our fingers are laced and his thumb is rubbing the cuticle around my thumb. “I thought Coach was watching me. I thought this was a test to see what I’d do, if I’d stop and get distracted. Like that makes any sense, but that’s what I thought. I jogged p
ast a guy trying to rape a poor girl and the only thing I let myself think was, At least it isn’t one of my teammates doing it.”

  I understand what he’s saying. I know the logic of panic makes no sense.

  Now that he’s told me all this, I want to be honest myself. This will probably be my last chance since after today our play won’t happen and we won’t be friends anymore. Not the way we have been. I want to tell him I’ve been cruel to her once myself. Before I can, though, the door opens behind us.

  My heart does a somersault. We drop hands and turn around to see two figures standing there.

  One is Belinda. “Are these the auditions?” she calls.

  Lucas stands up. This morning I was so nervous about who might show up that I had Lucas tell Belinda not to come. “Tell her we already know her acting and we know we want to use her,” I said so her feelings wouldn’t get hurt.

  Now, as if to explain herself, she announces loudly, “I brought someone who wants to audition. This is Anthony.”

  She points to the thin boy with thick glasses standing beside her. I don’t think I’ve seen him before, which means he’s probably an underclassman, one who travels the hallways with his head down, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He still has braces. And pimples. He looks like he hasn’t started shaving yet.

  Lucas waves to Anthony. “The thing is, we’re trying to decide what to do here. We haven’t had as many people show up as we hoped.”

  Try: we haven’t had anyone show up. He’s trying to carry this off, but we have to tell her the truth.

  “It looks like we can’t do the play, Belinda,” I say. This is the first time I’ve talked to her since that awful time in the hallway. “We don’t have any actors. They’re all busy doing Guys and Dolls.” I gesture toward the room next door with the piano. “We wanted to do it. We really did, Belinda, but all the theater people are busy.”