How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (2 page)

“No, thank God, I finished rehab over a year ago.” He flicks at the spokes of one wheel, and his voice falls off a bit. “Car accident two years ago. And this is as good as it gets. Three surgeries, seven months of rehab … and this is as good as it gets.”

Pax looks back at me, and the sun lightens his eyes. “But hey, it's all good. I'm here by choice now. Rugby team practice. And you want to hear a dirty little secret?”

I'm smiling again. “Sure.”

He hoists a nylon sports bag onto his lap, unzips it, and lifts the top. “I'm addicted to cafeteria Jell-O.”

I stare inside the bag, where he must have about a dozen plastic containers squirreled away: lemon-lime, orange, and the coveted black cherry.

“How'd you get your hands on those?” I ask, pointing at the dark red goo. “I've only worked here a few weeks, and I've already seen some wheelchair wars break out over the last container of black cherry.”

“I'm not gonna lie. I flirt with Peggy.”

Now I laugh for real, throwing my head back, imagining Pax kicking game to the perpetually cranky eighty-year-old cafeteria manager.

“Hey, there's no shame in my game. I love this stuff. And Peggy's actually pretty sweet.”

“I don't believe it!”

I'm still laughing and smiling, and Pax nods in the direction of the automatic doors. “Looks like maybe you're ready,” he says quietly. “Sometimes you've just got to face the worst head-on. Get it over with.”

I nod and then stand and, with Pax at my side, make my way back toward the rehab center's side entrance. I notice his nickname, PAX, on the back of the black zip-up hoodie he's wearing. There's a number beneath his name, and I guess the sweatshirt's from wheelchair rugby. The regional team uses the rehab center gym for practices.

As I pass coworkers and patients, I tell myself that they've already forgotten the scene, that most of them have much more pressing concerns than silly cafeteria drama. Hopefully, this hasn't become one more place where I draw stares.

I make my way toward the clock-in computer, then my heart starts pounding with adrenaline when I notice Jeremiah moving in the opposite direction, barreling toward the exit with his bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes are still flashing, although he refuses to let them meet mine.

“He's leaving?” I ask the shift manager, surprised. Jeremiah always seemed to take his work at the center seriously, and I can't believe he's bailing on a shift just because of me.

“More than leaving,” she answers. “He up and quit.” She sighs. “Sure left me in a bad spot for the weekend.”

I stare at the ground, feeling guilty, amazed at the residual impact of my very existence. He hates me enough to
quit
? Exactly how loathsome am I?

I hear a low whistle beside me and see that Pax has kept his promise. He's still with me. “You really did a number on him. But he's gone now, so … at least you don't have to worry about him anymore, right?”

If only it were that easy.

“Yeah, I'll be okay,” I lie.

Pax slaps his palm against mine. “Well, I'm gonna take off, then. Hope your night only gets better from here, Nikki.” He flashes me a final smile. “Gonna go home and eat me some black-cherry Jell-O.”

“Don't get too crazy now.” I hold his gaze a moment longer. “And thank you.”

He nods, spins away from me with practiced ease, and moves smoothly toward the door. I watch him until I can't see him anymore, wishing he wasn't leaving.

In no time at all, Jeremiah made me an island again. But Pax kept me from suddenly sinking. It felt all right with him. At my side, having my back.

 

Chapter 2

Four days later, on Tuesday morning, I stand in front of my full-length cheval mirror, eyes closed. I imagine my day, the way it's supposed to be.

It is the first day of my senior year of high school. I've been looking forward to this day as long as I can remember.

I'm driving, so I leave early enough to pick up Lauren, Kaitlyn, Carlee, and Haley. The cover's still off my Jeep, and Wired 104 is blaring. There is just enough room for my crew. Five seat belts, five best friends.

Five best friends. The idea pains me and I wince, but I press on, the way a person sometimes keeps pressing on a bruise.

We have a similar style, and we're dressed in new outfits from PacSun or Hollister if we decided to be coolly casual, or from H&M or Express if we decided on trendy and dressy. And even if we hadn't dressed alike, even without the matching charm bracelets, it still would've been obvious to everyone that we were a group. You could always tell just by looking.

I park in the school lot and we bound out of the Jeep, truly excited to be there because school's a feel-good place for us. As we walk across the lot and into the crowded main lobby, we pretend not to notice all the noticing. The younger girls stop talking and stare at us like we're movie stars, and the more confident guys from our class call out compliments or saunter over to talk as we pass.

We're all pretty in our own way, and we're used to attention from guys. On long, hot summer nights on the boardwalk, we have our pick. We boost our ages a couple of years and talk to college guys. Even though Lauren is the stunner of the group, I can hold my own, with my delicate features, dimples, and long lashes that curl up at the ends.

I walk into school, loving my life, loving myself. It doesn't matter that my grades are on the low side of average—no one besides my parents would really care if they were higher. I am a cheerleader in the fall and play lacrosse in the spring. And when it's cold out, I can focus on my true passion. I take to the stage, routinely earning the coveted solo performances in show choir, a group I've single-handedly made cool. Onstage and off, I'm a star.

I smile and wave, wave and smile. I'm Nikki Baylor, and I'm on top of the world.

A horn beeps in the distance, obliterating my daydream, and my eyes fly open.

I take in the baggy polo shirt and the knee-length, already faded-looking kilt. I run my hand over my hair, which is pulled back in a boring low ponytail. Because who cares?

Staring and staring, I try to recognize this girl, but I can't. I'm uncomfortable in her clothes and in her skin. She's not particularly attractive, either. Guilt and shame are ugly-feeling things.

“And now it makes me sick to look at your face.”

Suddenly, Jeremiah's hateful voice is back inside my head. It makes my stomach cramp with worry.

I flip the mirror with one strong push, and my image tumbles round and round until I'm half-dizzy and can't see it anymore.

I drag my feet to the driveway, where I run into my mother. She's a bit breathless, having left the ignition running to come find me.

“I need to leave, Nikki. Ten minutes ago. If I'm dropping you off, we really need to be on the road by seven ten.”

I can't help glancing longingly at the Jeep. “You could just let me take my own car, like I always did.…”

She doesn't indulge me, not even for a second. “You know the rules. Car for work, that's all.”

I look at my mom, whose expression is blank. She's not going to waver. She's a middle school principal in a neighboring school district, and she's a rules person. Even though we share the same curly hair, hers is professionally straightened and cut in a no-nonsense bob. She wears a suit and pumps even though it's still really hot. Her stance is firm and authoritative.

She's not going to waver.

I mouth
I'm sorry
in the direction of my beloved Jeep, but my mom's not amused. With a sigh, I ask, “Should I say good-bye to Daddy first?”

She slides behind the wheel. “Daddy already left.”

My throat closes with pain. I shouldn't be surprised he didn't even say good-bye. Even though I can't remember a single first day of school when my father didn't go to his office late so he could see me off, waving from the front yard until I was out of sight. Often, he took my picture.

Now he's one more person who doesn't seem to want to look at me.

With a loud bang, the storm door flies open, and a small figure comes tearing outside.

“Wait!”

My little sister, Emma, slams into me and wraps her arms around my hips. She's thirteen now, still pitifully short, and I easily rest my chin on the top of her head. My parents have worked really hard to protect her from all the craziness, and as a result she knows little about what happened and loves me as fiercely as ever.

When she hugs me, I have to struggle to keep my chin from wobbling.

As soon as I trust myself to speak, I urge her on. “Your bus is going to be here soon, Em. You better get to steppin'.”

“But I'm gonna miss you.” She hugs me again and then looks up at me. “I can't believe we have to miss
The Young and the Restless
today.” It was our guilty pleasure of the summer, when I was hiding out and she was jumping at the opportunity to be included in my world, regardless of how small it had become. “Did you DVR it?”

“It's all set. We'll watch after school.”

“Okay, cool. I think Gabriel's going to come back from the dead today!” She walks away from me, legs stiff, arms out in front of her, making a groaning sound, like a zombie. I smile for the first time all morning.

“Emma, your sister and I need to go.”

My mom's voice is much gentler with my sister, even when she's scolding her. Mom climbs back out of the car and smiles hugely at Emma. “Have an awesome first day of eighth grade. And give your mama a hug.” My mom holds Emma for a long time.

I look away, thinking about the price I pay a million times a day. It doesn't matter that the court case was thrown out. I am punished by the minute.

My mom's all business when we get on our way, keeping her eyes on the road as she reviews a checklist with me of all the things I could possibly need. She doesn't look my way again until we pull up in front of the school. She puts the car in park and purses her lips as she studies the crowd of the kilt-clad making its way up the crumbling stone steps.

Then my mother turns and looks at me. I see the slightest trace of something her eyes have been entirely devoid of in recent months—compassion.

“Have a good first day, you hear me?” She gently nudges my chin with her thumb. “Chin up, Nicole Jane.”

Before she can stop herself, she gives me a hug, the same kind she gave my sister. My mom isn't really comfortable with weakness, hers or anybody else's, and the trace has vanished from her eyes when she pulls away a few seconds later.

Yet, like a toddler on the first day of preschool, I find it nearly impossible to pry myself from my mother's side. I have visions of my three-year-old self cowering at her knee, blanket in one hand, her skirt clutched in the other, refusing to walk through the door.

I'm on my own now, though. I can't hold on, and she wouldn't let me, anyway.

I force myself out of the car and fight the temptation to glance back. Before me looms Atlantic Christian Academy, complete with faded stained-glass windows and a huge cross on top. The hulking stone building feels sterile and intimidating. Even though my family used to attend the church it's affiliated with, the school is unfamiliar and bizarre to me.

Probably largely because of my family's association with the church, or maybe because of the school's desperation for tuition dollars, Atlantic Christian Academy said yes to me. There were plenty of schools that did not. I'm supposed to be really grateful to be here.
I'm not
, I think as I trudge up the steps.

I want to be at Ocean Isle Senior High. I want to be back where I belong.

When I walk through the door, I find myself in some twisted nightmare version of my first-day fantasy from my bedroom. Heads turn and conversations stop midsentence, and the attention feels anything but warm and fuzzy. From the corner of my eye, I can see that no one cracks a smile. I detect a few people shaking their heads in disgust. As I glance around, trying to get my bearings, not a single person smiles or says hello.

So the news of my enrollment—and the story associated with my name—has reached them. They know who I am.

Remembering my mom's parting words, I actually lift my chin as I search out my homeroom. The room is still dark. I hurry inside, slamming the door behind me in my haste, and collapse into a desk in the back row. I put my head down and close my eyes, attempting to block out reality.

*   *   *

It's not really shocking that my day goes from bad to worse.

Mrs. Donoghue, my kindergarten Sunday school teacher who, at age 117 or something like that, is still responsible for educating young minds, actually stops me in the hallway to chastise me. Her wrinkled mouth forms a hard line, and her once-sparkling blue eyes are frozen still. “I was extremely disappointed to hear about you, young lady.”

People turn to stare, and several snicker.

Then during social studies, our teacher provides a riveting review of the student honor code. After addressing the awful, strict dress code and the matter of cheating, her tone grows even more serious. “Last point we have to cover, and this page you need to sign off on … our anti-bullying policy.”

The classroom is silent, and I stop breathing. I feel the warmth in my cheeks, and I hyperfocus on the backs of my hands, wishing I could disappear inside the network of blood vessels just below my skin.

“I think we've got a pretty great group of kids within these walls,” she continues, “and I know you all know how to respect one another. But it's policy for me to read this aloud, so here goes.…
Before we can learn, before we can have healthy relationships with one another, we need a safe and civil environment. The purpose of ACA's anti-bullying policy is to prevent and respond to acts of bullying, intimidation, and violence. An act of bullying, either by an individual student or by a group of students, is expressly prohibited. This policy applies not only to students who directly engage in bullying but also to students who, by their indirect behavior, condone or support another student's unkind and malicious acts.
”