How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (19 page)

As we try to get settled, some of the kids seated in the row in front of us turn and stare. I recognize some of the kids from my class at school, among them the guy who hassled Sam in the lobby that one day. They stare at me and Pax, and I don't like the way it feels. I turn back to him and ignore them, finding his hand with mine.

“Just a sec,” he says, drawing his hand back so he can shrug out of his zip-up gray hoodie. He has only a T-shirt on underneath, and although it's freezing in the auditorium, I notice that he's sweating.

Before I can ask him a second time if he's truly feeling okay, the first act takes the stage—a guy on a keyboard accompanying two girls singing an old, classic rock duet. They kick off a string of god-awful garage bands, solo acts, and contemporary dance performances. There's even one brave soul who embarrasses herself something dreadful doing some type of Irish dance in full green-and-white regalia.

I thought I was excited for the show, but in the end it leaves me disappointed, antsy, and frustrated as I listen to the whooping applause, like these people are really fantastic.

I should be up there
, my ego badgers me.
I have something to offer.

Sometimes stifling the urge takes a hell of a lot of effort, but I can't seem to allow it to flourish right now, either.

Then, two acts after the intermission, as I'm about to write off the talent of New Jersey students entirely, Sam takes the stage. She's opted not to use any of the cheesy fake-coffee-shop backdrops or colorful lighting some of the other acts included in their performances, and it's just her, her guitar, and the sound system. She stands by herself in the middle of the stage, directly under the spotlight.

My face breaks out in a wide smile at the sight of her. Her hair is loose and amazingly long. She's wearing this crazy getup—a tight T-shirt that reads
HATERS GONNA HATE
, a short cream-colored lace skirt, and black motorcycle boots. Somehow she pulls it off, and she looks totally badass.

And I wish I could see the look on that haughty Jamie Lee's face when Sam starts playing and singing, only I can't seem to pull my eyes off my friend. She breaks into Taylor Swift's “Mean” with complete confidence and swagger. Her voice is clear and strong, and she looks right into the crowd as she plays.

Sam owns it. She's powerful and stunning under the thick white beam of light. And then during the bridge of the song, as she's singing about prevailing over the lowlife losers out there and making a successful future for herself, Sam turns toward my side of the auditorium. She must know where her tormentors are sitting, and she looks right at them as she finishes the song.

I think if more people had the guts to look the cool kids in the face like that, they wouldn't feel so bold about trashing others.

I think if Taylor had ever really looked me and my friends in the face like that, we wouldn't have felt so sure about posting her pictures, either.

I glance over at Pax to gauge his response to Sam's performance, but my smile fades when I notice him wincing in pain, his hand at his side. My alarm flares. I
knew
he didn't look good. “What's wrong?”

“I'm all right.” He struggles to take one deep breath, then another. “It'll pass.”

“Should we go?”

He shakes his head. “It'll pass.” He turns his face back toward the stage and sits up straight, making it pretty clear he wants me to stop asking. “Sam was awesome, right?”

When the show wraps, we wait for her in the lobby. I see her emerge from backstage, but she doesn't make her way over to us right away, because she's stopped by a group of guys I don't recognize, probably from a school other than ours. They chat for a few minutes, and then Sam tosses her hair over her shoulder with authority and accepts an iPhone from one guy's outstretched hand and appears to be entering her phone number.

I'm not surprised, and I bite my lip to hide my smile. The kids at ACA may have dismissed Sam, but she was a legit rock star on the stage tonight, and I'm sure lots of guys noticed. Good for her.

She waves good-bye to the guys and turns around, and when she spots us, she runs right to me, squeals once, and throws her arms around my neck. “That was so awesome!” she gushes.

Because I understand the adrenaline high she's currently on, I know she's talking about her performance and not just giving some cute guy her number. Another twinge of envy flickers in my heart.

“You owned it, Sam,” I tell her. “That was probably one of the best performances I've ever seen live.” I grin. “I think you're headed straight for
American Idol
. Or
The Voice
.”

She giggles. “You like my shirt?”

“It's awesome. I want one.”

Then I turn toward Pax and put my hand on his forearm. “So Sam … this is Pax. Pax, Sam.”

I didn't prep Sam about Pax's chair. The only thing I told her was that the guy I was sorta-kinda with was coming with me tonight. Surprise registers on her face, but she recovers in less than a second and passes my test. She looks him right in the eye and waves. “Hey, Pax. Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Happy to.” He nods. “Your performance was sick. I'm genuinely impressed.”

“Have you ever heard Nikki sing? She belonged up there, too.”

“I have, and I'm totally with you on that, Sam. She also would have put the rest of the people up there tonight to shame.”

Feeling like an outsider observing the conversation, I keep an eye on Pax. He's saying Pax's words and smiling Pax's smile, but I'm still convinced there's something off. His normal energy level is missing, and every time he speaks, he sounds like he's biting back pain.

“I'm starving,” Sam proclaims. “I couldn't eat beforehand because I was afraid I would throw up. I passed a Taco Bell on my way here—I think it's only, like, five minutes away.” She smiles brightly at Pax. “I love me some fourth meal.”

Pax laughs, once, but turns and looks up at me. “Why don't you guys just go ahead? Celebrate Sam's night,” he suggests.

“No, come, too!” she insists.

“Actually…” Finally Pax cracks, and it becomes obvious he was toughing out the show but really doesn't have much left tonight. “I had a long day, and I'm really not feeling well.” His look is one of desperation. “Is it cool if I head home?”

“I'll come with you,” I say at once.

“No, go with Sam. I'm just going to go home, try to drink a gallon of water, and go to sleep. Won't be any fun for you. Go with Sam.”

I can tell it's what he really wants, so eventually I lean down and brush my lips across his. “Please call me later,” I beg him. “Let me know if you're okay.”

“Will do,” he promises. “Bye, Sam. Congrats again.”

Then he's out of there as quickly as his wheels will carry him, and I end up feeling guilty, wondering if he actually wanted to skip out on the whole night.

I'm staring after him, but Sam interrupts my thoughts, linking her arm through mine and watching Pax leave. “Um, he's hot. And you two are probably the cutest freakin' thing ever.”

Smiling halfheartedly, I thank her. My mood just can't seem to bounce back, though. “C'mon. Let's go get something to eat. My treat.”

We drive together to Taco Bell. Sam fills me in on the guy she met, we rehash her performance a few times, and we crack up as we imagine the looks on stupid Jamie Lee's and Mike's faces. It's a fun end to the night, but part of me left with Pax, and my mind is hung up on worrying about him.

*   *   *

Pax breaks his promise. He doesn't call me that night. I stay up late, watching my phone and worrying, but eventually I fall asleep on top of my covers. When I wake up the next morning, I'm horrified anew that not a single missed call or text message has registered on my phone. I try him two times between nine and ten o'clock, but all I get is his voice mail.

Worried and frustrated and starting to get a little bit scared, I shower quickly and head downstairs. My mom's in the living room with Emma, who's practicing piano, the two of them seated side by side on the bench. Remembering her promise that she wouldn't interfere with my relationship with Pax and trying to be respectful of the whole loss-of-car-privileges thing, I ask if she'll drive me over to Pax's house for a few minutes.

She looks up, and her brows draw together as she assesses my face. “What's wrong?”

“I think he's really sick,” I say, twisting my hands together. “I just … I just really want to check on him. He's not answering his phone and … I know I can't take my car, but…”

My mom looks at me, then down at Emma, and then back up at me. She purses her lips for a few seconds, then leans forward to flip Emma's sheet music. “You can take your car,” she says begrudgingly.

“Thank you.” My words fly out in a rush, and then I'm off and running, heart pounding.

On my way there, I remind myself that it's probably not a big deal and that the situation didn't seem dire last night. In an effort to lessen my worries, I veer off course and stop at the grocery store, satisfied when I find a six-pack of blackcherry Jell-O in the refrigerated section, happy to have something I can take to maybe justify my driving to his house.

When I get there, I grab the plastic grocery bag, walk up the front steps, and knock softly on the door.

Mrs. Paxton opens it. An easy smile blooms when she sees me, and her mood seems pleasant and relaxed. My heart rate instantly slows. He must be okay.

So why didn't he call me and tell me that?

“Hi, Mrs. Paxton.” I hold up my grocery-bag offering. “Pax didn't seem to be feeling very well last night. I just wanted to drop off something for him.” I try a smile. “I know that black-cherry Jell-O is his favorite.”

Her smile widens. “That's supersweet of you, Nikki.” Then she pauses, and I can tell she's hesitating. “He's pretty wiped out, and to be honest, I don't even know if he's awake yet. Let me go check on him.” She steps to the side and ushers me in. “Come in, come in.”

I wait in the living room as she disappears down the hall. I'm left feeling uncomfortable and unsure, holding my bag of Jell-O.

Less than a minute later, she quietly closes Pax's door and tiptoes back down the hall. She points toward the kitchen and gestures with her head for me to join her.

Once we're in the kitchen, she shrugs apologetically. “I'm sorry, sweetie. He's still asleep. Been asleep for almost twelve hours at this point. He crashed last night as soon as he got back. But I didn't have the heart to wake him.”

“That's okay,” I assure her. “It sounds like he needs the rest. He didn't look good last night.”

Mrs. Paxton puts her hands on her hips and inhales a slow breath. “He's a sick pup,” she says. “Sometimes he doesn't make the best decisions about taking care of himself.”

My pulse picks up again. “What's wrong with him? Is he okay?”

“He will be.” She nods and raises an eyebrow. “But he shouldn't have gone to his game yesterday, and he probably should have stayed at home last night, too.” She shakes her head. “Matty's pretty good about accepting his day-to-day limitations, but sometimes he's too stubborn for his own good. Like, when something flares up that gets in the way of what he wants to do.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” She gives me a knowing smile. “I highly doubt that he let on that anything was wrong, until it became glaringly obvious.”

“Yeah, that's kind of how it was,” I acknowledge. I feel the worry pinch my face. “Is he okay? Is it anything serious?”

“It started out as just a UTI a couple of days ago—pretty common,” she tells me. Then she laughs. “I hope he won't mind my saying that. I know Matty's pretty frank about the stuff he deals with.” The laughter fades, and she sighs. “If he'd taken it easy, rested, just kept his feet up and got lots of liquid, the infection would have cleared up quickly. But he didn't do that, and I think he's showing some symptoms of hyperreflexia now.”

“Hyper … what?”

“His response to an infection is a little wonky because his body's signals can't get past the point of his injury to reach his brain and have it process what's going on. So his blood pressure spikes, and his temperature is all over the place, and his heartbeat's probably a little out of sync, too. We've dealt with it before, and as long as the infection clears up, the other symptoms will go away, but I'm sure he doesn't feel too well.”

The image of him wincing beside me in the auditorium keeps flashing through my mind, and I feel so guilty I think I'm going to cry.

Mrs. Paxton reads my face and puts a hand on my arm. “Don't feel bad, Nikki. You didn't know,” she reminds me. “Matty is as stubborn as a mule. It's how he got so far so fast after the accident, but sometimes that attitude gets in his way, too.”

I manage a nod but still feel a lump in my throat.

“His doctor's been hounding him to get an MRI to take a look at his shoulder, to make sure it's not a rotator cuff tear, that it's just something that will heal on its own. He's being stubborn about that, too.”

“Wouldn't he rather make sure? Before it gets any worse?”

“Matty would rather do anything than get another MRI,” she tells me. “The tight space, being out of his chair and having no control over being able to move…” She pauses, and her features cloud with worry and pain. “It makes him have flashbacks to the accident. MRIs are really traumatic for him, and he has to have them regularly as it is. The idea of another one … He's fighting it pretty hard.”

“I wish I could help,” I say a few seconds later.

She shrugs. “I'm keeping my fingers crossed he comes around. Stops fighting this one, for his own good.” Mrs. Paxton glances at my bag again and brightens. “It was very kind of you to come over. And to bring the Jell-O.” She smiles gently. “I was just about to have some coffee. You want to join me? So you don't have to turn right around and drive home?”