Falling From the Sky

Falling From The Sky

by Nikki Godwin

Copyright © 2014 Nikki Godwin.

All rights reserved.

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No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First edition February 21, 2014.

Dedication

For the ones who are brave enough to admit when they’re broken

CHAPTER ONE

This is how it always starts. My lungs shut down, and I can’t breathe. My eyes glaze over like syrup on pancakes. My eardrums hit their mute button. The world freezes.

At least until the plane is gone.

My crazy grief counselor said I should pray about things. Pray about my dad and the other victims. Pray for the families who lost loved ones. Pray for Mom and Jordan. Pray for myself. I’m not big on prayer, but I did it anyway because I needed to do something to stay sane.

So now I pray for airplanes, like it’ll really make a difference, but I don’t know what the hell to pray for exactly. A safe flight? No turbulence? A landing on the runway? Lame. How about a pilot who doesn’t fuck up and nosedive into a rainforest and burst into flames? If anything, I pray that they don’t end up like this – like me.

Maybe I should’ve prayed for all of that before Flight 722 met its fate. Then maybe they wouldn’t have crashed into that rainforest. Maybe they wouldn’t have burst into flames and burned to death. Maybe the airlines would’ve realized the pilot was ultimately going to be responsible for killing the others onboard and replace him. And then, maybe my dad would still be here. I’d still have someone to practice free throws with me, and I’d still have someone to come to my games, and I’d still...

“McCoy!” Terrence shouts. He pushes me toward the sidewalk. “I swear, one of these days there’s gonna be a headline that reads ‘Ridge McCoy hit by car while praying for airplane.’”

I don’t even bother with an apology. Terrence has known me long enough to know that it just happens. I don’t mean to freeze in parking lots. I just do.

“You know the guys at camp will think you’re a bit off if you do that in front of them,” he warns me.

He told me the same thing this morning when I got to Dunson Hills Sports Camp. He met me in the parking lot and got into my car before we even signed in. Terrence plays basketball for the school a town over from me back home. I’m just glad to have a familiar face around this summer. He knows about my dad’s death and my airplane prayers and my fizzling relationship with Samantha. Fizzling is an understatement. We’re as charred as used firewood.

“You know, we’re only here because
you
needed new shoes,” Terrence reminds me.

I don’t need a reminder, though. These faded Nikes are about to be out of service for good. I’ve damn near run the soles off of them. I haven’t had the heart to ditch them since they were the last ones Dad watched me play in, but they won’t make it through the summer.

We push through the double doors and enter the food court. Terrence walks over to the mall map and locates the sporting goods store where his cousin works.

“I’m headed to see Demetrice, so holler if you need me,” he says.

I nod. “I think I can handle buying shoes on my own.”

Terrence laughs. “You might need some style advice.”

He disappears into a crowd of people, leaving me alone with the mall map. I give it a quick once-over. I hate lingering around like I don’t know where in the hell I’m going. It can’t be that hard to find a shoe store, so I veer off in the opposite direction from Terrence. He may have style, but I don’t want any witnesses around in case I have a meltdown over replacing my Nikes.

I find a shoe store wedged in between an airbrush shop and one of those stores that sells eighty-dollar jeans and plays techno music. The limited shoe display has nothing blue or silver on white. I’m not much for these neon colors.

The music isn’t much better in here. This stupid pop song bleeds into the techno bass next door, and the only lyric I hear is the one asking me what I would do if I were falling from the sky. This is probably my dad’s way of telling me from the other side to run from this store because not only do their shoes suck, but their music screams “plane crash!” in the most effed up way. I push past the Adidas display in the entranceway and escape before the salesman chases me out of the store begging me to give the new yellow-on-black Nikes a second look. Maybe the mall’s other hemisphere will have better results.

A faded white marble fountain sits in the center of the mall. Water rushes over the three tiers. Two small kids toss coins in and beg their mom to let them ride the carousel as I approach the fountain. I fish through my wallet for any loose change. I find a penny and weave it between my fingers, trying to think of a wish. I don’t really believe in wishing on pennies or shooting stars or 11:11, but right now, I need a wish. Or some good luck. Or just shoes. So that’s what I wish for – to find new shoes. I draw my arm back, and in my best jump shot form, toss the penny toward the highest tier.

“Hey Jump Shot! You look lost!” a voice calls out to me.

The guy who works the carousel stares at me with a goofy smile.

“You look bored,” I holler back.

Maybe that wasn’t the smartest move on my part. He climbs over the side of the booth and walks in my direction. He’s shorter than me, probably five-foot-seven, and he’s a lot thinner. If he wants a fight, I can take him. I stiffen my shoulders and watch him as he comes closer.

“I am bored, but you’re still lost,” he says. “Summer camp?”

I nod and relax my shoulders. “How’d you know?”

“No one else would shoot a penny into the fountain like that,” he says.

Now I feel like an idiot. Not only am I drawing unnecessary attention to myself by practicing my skills next to spinning horses, but I’m standing here like a lost tourist in front of some Native American guy who needs a haircut worse than I do, still wearing the broken-down Nikes I came to replace.

He pulls a coin from his own pocket – carousel coin maybe? – and stares at it before drawing his arm back and throwing it into the fountain. For a second, I wonder what he wished for.

“Where’s the best shoe store around here?” I get straight to my point, hoping he can answer and let me be on my way before his horses stop spinning.

He points behind me. “Down there. Past the candy stand. It’s called Finish Line. They always have the best stock,” he says.

“Thanks.” I turn my back to him and circle the fountain, heading toward Finish Line.

I pull into a parking spot in front of the Dunson Hills Sports Camp sign-in office. Terrence and I go inside to officially sign our souls over for the summer. It’s just like any other sports season – signing a form saying you agree to the rules and understand the consequences of your actions followed by peeing in a cup to prove you’re not a stoner or meth head. At least I don’t have to deal with the lectures about keeping my grades up during summer camp.

“Damn,” Terrence says once we’re outside. “They take shit for real around here.”

Half of the guys on my ball team back home wouldn’t pass the preliminaries here. It’s a miracle we win any games at all. Terrence’s team always beats us, but he knows I got dealt a bad card when it comes to teammates. And my girlfriend. And my dad. Hell, my life is a losing card game.

“See ya back at the room,” Terrence calls out from his car.

I glance down at my new Nikes before I get into my own car. Carousel Guy was right. It didn’t take long to find blue-on-white with a silver Nike swish. I told the salesman I’d prefer to wear them out, and I avoided eye contact with him as he stuffed my ragged shoes into the box in their place. This is where Dad would talk about how new shoes are a start to a new season and a new chapter in my life, but he’s not here to say it, and I’m not as poetic as he was. I glance back at the Finish Line bag in my back floorboard. Letting those shoes go feels like Dad’s plane just crashed all over again. Those damn shoes are going in the trunk when I get to the room. I’m not letting them haunt me all summer.

Driving behind Terrence through the campgrounds, I feel like we’re in sports prison. The buildings are long, narrow, and white. They remind me more of army barracks than dorms. I expected something a little nicer since they gave us these fancy electronic room keys. We park outside of Building C and roam the hallway until we find room eleven.

Terrence and I lucked up that we knew each other prior to camp so we could request each other as a roommate. If we have a third roommate, I hope he’s as laid back as Terrence.

I drop my bags at the end of one of the beds. A single poster of Michael Jordan hangs on the boring white wall. Great – my dad’s favorite player. My little brother is named after freaking Michael Jordan. I want to rip him down from the wall. The fluorescent lights make me feel like I’m in an interrogation room. Maybe this summer camp thing is more like a summer prison after all. I send Mom and Samantha the required “I made it here safely” text while Terrence unpacks his things.

I shut the door to room eleven and stretch out on the bed. This mattress sucks, and it’s going to be a long, sleepless summer with it. Fortunately for Terrence, he has somewhere else to go. He can crash at his cousin’s house all summer and show up for practices. The staff will never know the difference.

“Damn,” Terrence mumbles. “This ain’t gonna cut it all summer.”

“You’re reading my mind,” I say, tossing on the bed in hopes that I can break this mattress in before the end of camp.

“I hate to say it, McCoy, but I may be bailing on you,” he says. “I’m too tall to sleep on this thing, and I’m too young to have a bad back just yet.”

I don’t even blame him when he repacks his stuff to head to Demetrice’s house. He jots down his cousin’s cell number in case I need it and says he’ll check in with me before practice tomorrow. Then he’s gone.

But I’ll be here with a stone mattress and a Michael Jordan poster. The words
“Don’t be afraid to fly”
are printed in bold white letters under him. Sorry, MJ, but I’m not flying. Flying results in falling, and I’ll be damned if I fall from the sky. This summer, I’m staying planted on solid ground.

Hours later, the mattress still sucks. Guys down the hallway blast rap music, and someone says something about Corona and the river. I don’t think they realize I’m even in here. The interrogation room vibe still lingers. I flip over on the bed and bury my face into the pillow to avoid the fluorescent torture. It’s only six o’clock. And I’m starving.

I force myself to get up and head to the Dunson Hills cafeteria, but the food is equally as awful as the food in my school’s cafeteria back home. I could force feed myself dried out chicken and attempt to blend with the baseball players, but I’m not that desperate. The barbeque place in the food court was calling out to me earlier at the mall. I’ll be damned if I’m that guy who sits around camp all summer.

Going to the mall alone isn’t much better, though. I find a corner table near the arcade. I really hate eating alone, especially in public. People stare at me anyway, but I’d rather them stare because I’m doing something out of the norm, like praying for airplanes, than have them think I have to eat alone because I have no friends. At least that’s what I think about people when I see them eating alone.

“What’s up, Jump Shot?” Carousel Guy sits down across from me.

Does he fucking live here? I didn’t want to be the lone loser at camp, but I really don’t want to deal with this guy. He must be desperate for friends. I probably look as desperate as he feels.

“That’s not my name,” I say, tucking my barbeque into the corner of my mouth to speak.

“I figured that much,” he says. “You never bothered to tell me your name.”

“Ridge. McCoy,” I say.

He nods. “I’m Micah. Youngblood.”

I was expecting something cooler. Like Blackfeather. Or Wolfcry. Something more Native American than Youngblood.

“Cool,” I say. “So what’s there to do around here?”

“There’s the river, skinny dipping, beer. That’s what most of you guys do anyway, right?” he says.

“Most of us.” But I’m not most of us. I’d rather slay zombies on Xbox or shoot hoops or drive off a cliff and put myself out of my misery.

He blabs on about how nothing ever happens in Bear Creek, except for the time some rock band’s bus broke down in the mall’s parking lot, and they had to stay here for a week. Then he says something about a festival that comes every summer and new movie releases.