How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (11 page)

 

Chapter 8

Ms. Mitchell, our theater teacher, stands in front of the stage. She reaches forward and hands a stack of papers to a student sitting in the first row, who sends the papers down the row. “I think you'll all be really happy to hear that we're going to start moving away from just lecture and note-taking and get going with the performance portion of this class.”

I take one of the papers and hand the pile off to Sam, who's sitting next to me. We've sat together every class since we officially met. We've also started meeting up for lunch on the stage on days when we have theater class afterward.

“Before we tackle any improv or monologues,” Ms. Mitchell continues, “we need to start with the basics. Lesson one: Acting is behavior, nothing more. The more adept you become at reading a person's behavior, the more keenly you can react to it.”

Even though I've been trying to block the image from my mind, suddenly I'm back to picturing myself on Pax's couch, closing my eyes and leaning in for the kiss. I wince, remembering his rejection. Clearly, I need some practice in reading behavior. I totally misread
that
one.

“This first activity is a partner assignment,” Ms. Mitchell says.

Sam looks over at me, and I'm grateful she's there. A couple of weeks ago, the prospect of a partner assignment would've been groan-inducing.

“This is an out-of-school assignment, but you don't necessarily need to go far. Even if you walk across the street to Wawa after school, that should do. Make sure you stick with your partner. Make good choices and be safe.”

I'm kind of intrigued now and look down at the paper as she reads from it.

“This assignment requires you and your partner to observe a stranger for at least fifteen minutes. Describe, in writing, his or her behavior. Are they sitting, standing, or walking? Who are they? What are they doing? Reading a book, waiting for someone, having a conversation? How are they feeling?” She looks up and grins. “Be discreet. If you get caught playing detective, it ruins the exercise. Afterward—and here's the fun part—I want you and your partner to create a character based on the person you've observed. Round out your observations. What's his backstory? How did she end up where you found her?”

Ms. Mitchell squints at the clock in the rear of the auditorium. “There's ten minutes left in class. Use the time to partner up and develop a plan. Maybe generate a few other possible questions to ask yourself about the person you're observing.”

Our classmates start talking at once, and Sam turns to me. “We're going to partner up, right?”

“I was hoping so.”

“Since I haven't really joined anything here, I'm free most days after school.” She looks down and fiddles with the wire binding of her notebook. “Or um … we could do it Friday night or something.” She glances back up and grimaces. “Yeah, it's official, I have no life anymore.”

I shrug. “We could definitely hang out on Friday night.”

Sam's shoulders relax. “Thanks for being so cool.”

Guilt flares in my gut. I feel like an impostor.

I guess it's because I actually like her, and I don't really enjoy feeling that I'm lying to her in some way. Even if the truth costs me the opportunity for friendship.

“Hey, Sam…” I take a deep breath, feeling really nervous. “You know how I said I ended up at ACA because of my parents, too?”

She nods.

“It's not … that's not … the whole story. If you were from around here, you would've heard it anyway, so…” I look at her face, pleading with my eyes. “Let me tell the whole story before you think anything about it. How it happened, how everyone else tells the story—that's not exactly how it all went down.… There's more to it than that.”

Her eyes are wide. “Just spit it out already.”

I stare down at my lap, twisting my hands. “Me and some friends of mine from my old school. We got in trouble because we posted pictures of a girl to Facebook. The photos were taken when she was drunk at a party at my house. It was … really traumatic for her. The pictures were posted from my Facebook account. And I got expelled.”

There is a moment of silence, and when I look up, I see that old flat, blank expression on Sam's face. But not for long.

She is pissed. “Are you kidding me?”

I don't know what to say. “No.”

She bristles visibly, like a cat with its hair standing on end. “You're just like them. You might be
worse
.”

“I told you, there's more to the story. It didn't really happen just like that.”

But she doesn't want to hear it. No one ever does. Only Pax.

“I just
love
how people like you end up making the rest of us feel like we're the losers somehow,” she rants. “I like myself. Always have. But I've been turned into this reject by people like you, people who are actually the weak, insecure ones.” Sam stares me down and throws the accusation in my face. “For whatever reason, the only way you can feel good about yourselves is by making other people feel bad about themselves. The smaller they are, the bigger you can be.” She shakes her head. “And you're so oblivious, you don't even get that. But you know what? I do.”

Her words cut. They hit a mark in the way others' insults have not.

She stands abruptly, grabbing her coat and her bag, not bothering to zip it. Its contents spill out. “Forget this.”

Then Sam storms out of the auditorium.

*   *   *

Despite her dramatic departure, on Friday night at six thirty, I end up sitting at a table for two at TGI Fridays restaurant in the mall. Sam approached me in the morning and gruffly acknowledged, “We still have an assignment.” During a terse conversation, we worked out the details, deciding we needed to meet at a place where people actually sit and stay awhile.

Sam's late, and I'm wondering if she's going to show.

In the meantime, I can't stop thinking about what she said to me in the auditorium, describing “people like you” as the weak, insecure ones. I keep trying to remember why I used to feel good about myself, recall the things that made me feel happy when I looked in the mirror. I felt pretty, and I liked when people reminded me of that. I had friends, and I liked the security of having them around. I never felt alone. Had I ever learned to feel comfortable alone, comfortable with myself, confident in who I was when I wasn't defined by my association with a group?

Even my choice of hobbies has me thinking. I liked scoring the lead onstage. And more than anything, I relished the applause, the audible reassurance from a crowd that I was
good
. Had my love of the applause trumped the actual joy I felt just being onstage? Was it all about the applause?

When all those things—which seem rather superficial now—were stripped away, did I have any self-confidence underneath?

I certainly don't have any now. But back then … Would I have liked myself without them? Based on what?

Before I can even begin formulating any answers, Sam comes up to the table and plops unceremoniously into the chair across from me.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she answers without smiling. A moment of uncomfortable silence passes before she asks, “Are you gonna order food?”

“Sure.” It's a good enough out, and I quickly open the menu, grateful that it's nearly two feet tall and I can hide behind it.

A few minutes later, our server approaches. Sam orders a Coke and chicken tenders; I ask for a Sprite and a Cobb salad. Then we're silent again.

I don't really have much of an appetite, and my muscles are tense. This is
not
a fun Friday night. “We should probably find someone to start observing.” I open the small notebook I have placed at the inside of the table. I point to a woman who's eating at a nearby table—or attempting to eat, at any rate. She's with three children, the oldest of whom can't be more than five. The mom has what looks like strained carrots on her shoulder, and the middle child just upended her burger basket onto the floor. “What about her?”

“Pass,” Sam answers. “Her backstory seems
miserable
. Where on earth is their dad?”

She nods her head in the direction of an older couple sitting across the aisle. “What about them?” she asks, trying not to move her lips.

I study them for a minute. They are both dressed head to toe in beige and wear the same white Nike low-tops. They are not speaking and stare absentmindedly into space as they eat their meals. “No. Definite pass. No story there.” I adopt a monotone expression and let my eyes glaze over. “‘We've been doing this every Friday night for the past twenty-two years. We are here tonight simply because we've been doing this every Friday night for the past twenty-two years.'”

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.”