How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (4 page)

“No, I drive.” He pantomimes using some kind of lever system and smirks up at me. “My car's pimped out like you wouldn't believe.”

He seems confident enough about it, but I don't want to watch the awkward little dance I imagine must be part of his actually getting behind the wheel. “Okay. So you want to just meet me there?”

“Sure. Thirty-Fourth and Dune. There's a ramp.”

We leave the building, and I take my time driving through town, loving the opportunity to drive on streets besides those that make up the route between home and work. The breeze is cool off the water, and I suck in big, greedy breaths, feeling for the first time in forever that I can actually breathe.

Even though I take the scenic route, I arrive a while before Pax does, and I begin to question whether he's going to show. Ten minutes later, headlights sweep across the boardwalk railing, and he pulls into a spot beside me. He drives an orange Honda Element, which I notice has side doors that open at the same time and provide Pax extra room to maneuver out of the car. I wait until he gets out, averting my eyes, and then join him. “Took you long enough.”

“I'm a very careful driver now. Can't apologize for that, though.”

Then he changes the subject, scanning the horizon and nodding with satisfaction. “The beach is so much better after Labor Day. When all the shoobies are gone,” he says, referring to the hordes of annoying Jersey Shore tourists. “You ready?”

I nod and follow him down the ramp to the beach. He brakes and stares down at the sand for a long minute. I notice there's a folded woven blanket beside him in his chair.

I realize I'm nibbling on my nails, hating all the uncertainties that crop up, the questions I don't know how to ask. I get the sense Pax wants to get out of his chair, but I have no idea if he can, or will, or is waiting on me for something. “Can I … help you … or…?”

He closes his eyes, and a small smile plays on his lips. “No, I got this. Just mentally prepping myself.”

Pax tosses the blanket onto the sand. Then, very slowly, he leans forward until his closed fist hits the sand. He shifts more and more of his weight onto his one hand, his biceps and triceps flexed and shaking with exertion. He keeps shifting, and I fight the urge to look away, thinking he is less than a second away from face-planting in the sand. Which will be mortifying for both of us. But just as I think he's about to lose control of the maneuver, somehow he slides off of the chair and lands, albeit ungracefully, on the sand. He pumps his fist three times in mock triumph.

I exhale and settle down beside him, wrapping my arms around my knees, noticing in the moonlight the fine sheen of sweat on his face and shoulders. “That was pretty impressive,” I observe quietly. “You're strong.”

“It's more of a mental necessity than a physical one,” he explains. “It was one of the first really important lessons I learned about being in the chair. Feeling like you're stuck in the chair, feeling like you're entirely reliant on other people … Then it's the fear that keeps you from living your life, more than the disability. A fear of going anywhere, a fear of falling out and ending up like a bug stuck on its back with no way up. Seemed like just about the scariest thing imaginable.”

Pax sifts sand through his fingers. “So I kept at it until I was confident enough that I could get myself in and out. So that fear would be gone. And it couldn't rule my life anymore. Then being in the chair wasn't nearly as unbearable.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does. It's not a pride thing or anything, and I have no problem taking help when I need it. But mentally, I just needed to know that I don't
always
need it.”

I stare at his strong profile. “You have, like, an amazing attitude.”

“Wasn't always like that,” he says, pushing his hair off his forehead and then reclining back onto his elbows. I mirror his action.

“Losing things … sucks.” He buries his chin in his chest. “Sucks big-time. I lost more than my legs, obviously. The full ride to Cal for water polo that was only a year away. The second half of high school. Couple of years of my life. It's all relative, though. Loss … It's all relative. And no one took it away, no one but me.” He closes his eyes, and I notice his Adam's apple press against his throat. “Night of state championships. I had four buddies in the car, and we were all hyped up. They were hopping over the seats and messing with the radio. Can't blame them for acting crazy when I'm the one who let them. It was on me to focus on the road, but I didn't. And I'm the one who hit the other car. Luckily, the woman … the twins inside … I didn't do to them what I did to myself. Or worse.”

His admission is sort of chilling. It's all too easy to remember similar weekend car rides with my old friends. Pax is the thing no one believes will ever really happen. And here he sits.

After giving himself a minute, he opens his eyes. “So life doesn't look the way I thought it would.” He smiles wanly. “Instead of dominating in the pool and picking up surfer chicks in Cali, I'm still at home. Working as an emergency dispatcher, because maybe I can actually do something useful without being able to move. It's still a decent life, and ultimately, I know I'm lucky. I try to remember that. Some days it's easy. Some days … not so much. I still have mornings when I wake up, look at myself in the mirror, and find myself asking, ‘Who the hell are you, dude?'” He shakes his head. “Life changed overnight.”

A particularly cold breeze comes in off the water, and I tremble. Remembering how it felt to stare at the stranger in the mirror, I find myself speaking up. “Yeah, I know a thing or two about that.” I grimace. “The way that guy acted at the center—there's a pretty good reason for it.”

“You don't have to tell me.”

His response is sure and immediate and surprises me. A lot of people seem to have a sick curiosity for stories like mine.

“Really?”

“Really. I'm a firm believer in new beginnings. Looking back all the time … It really starts to hurt your neck.” He shrugs carelessly “If you don't want to be defined by your past, you shouldn't have to be.”

I tear my gaze away from his face and stare out into the dark water. Pax is offering me a gift. He is offering me the one thing I can't seem to find anywhere else.

But in the end, I shake my head. I'm scarred from what happened with Jeremiah. I tried to reinvent my life with him, and it blew up in my face. No point in getting to know someone if they're just going to end up hating me later. “It's cool of you to be like that. But really, you might as well know.”

Before I get really used to the idea of having you around.

“If you want to tell me, for you, go ahead. Just don't feel like you have to for me.”

“You told me the ugly truth, didn't you?” I ask. “There was this party. At my house.” Might as well just go ahead and tear off the Band-Aid before I let the temptation to bury the story get the better of me. Shaking my head, I say, “There was a time when the very fact that I had a party at my house would've put me in a catastrophic amount of trouble if I got caught, but after the fact … the party itself ended up being a small detail.”

The bright red rectangular stains from the bottoms of the Mad Dog bottles on the white kitchen counters … the lingering scent of smoke in the basement … the puke caked on the toilet seat
in my parents' private bathroom
 … Any of it would've caused a major grounding. But these infractions were glossed over entirely.

“This girl from my grade … Taylor.” My throat closes around her name. “She got really drunk. Hooked up with a bunch of different people during the night. At some point, my friend Lauren opened the door to my bedroom and saw Taylor in there with two guys at the same time. My other friend Carlee—she grabbed her camera. They took pictures.”

They were gross, the pictures. All of them partially undressed, doing God knows what between my brand-new chevron-print PBteen sheets. They were shocking.

“My best friends all slept over at my house that night. The next morning, someone got a really brilliant idea.” My forehead falls into my hands. The post was time-stamped 10:23. We couldn't blame it on still being drunk.

My limbs are shaking, and it has nothing to do with the chill. I feel sick to my stomach, as I always do when I get to this part. “My house, my laptop, my Facebook account, already logged into. When the pictures were posted, they were posted from my account.”

I glance over at Pax, who is still listening intently. In what I consider an act of supreme compassion, he peels my hands off my forehead. They feel like ice inside his palms, and he draws them within the sleeves of his hoodie. I let him hold them.

He is being too nice, and my stomach turns. “I haven't told you the worst part yet,” I whisper.

We're sort of lying on our sides, facing each other, and I really wish there weren't a worst part.

“The pictures didn't last long, obviously. Facebook admin yanked them within about twenty minutes. But what was done was done. People made screen caps; everyone had seen them. Including Taylor.” I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory.

“Afterward … Taylor … She posted something in response.” I really think I might throw up. “She posted that we'd ruined her life.” My heart thunders against my rib cage. “She said she was going to kill herself.”

Pax stiffens and pushes himself up onto an elbow. “What'd she do?”

“She took some pills.”

I'm not sure how serious the attempt was. I'd heard it amounted to a dozen Tylenol or something. People saw the post and called her parents, and she had her stomach pumped within an hour's time. The damage she caused to herself didn't have lasting effects, thank
God
.

But other consequences of our actions … were irreversible.

“People were able to take care of her in time, and she was okay.” The firmly lodged knife of guilt reannounces its presence in my gut as I consider the other possible outcome. I look him in the eye, pleading. “The whole thing just got entirely out of control. We never, ever in a million years thought something like that would happen.”

At the time, it had seemed like a joke. I can't remember it feeling that way now, but at the time, it hadn't been a matter of life and death.

“I believe you,” he says quietly.

“I got expelled,” I say succinctly. “In New Jersey, it's up to the individual school districts how they're going to respond. But based on the Anti-Bullying Bill of Rights Act, it didn't matter that all this happened off school grounds. The school still had the right to take action under its bullying policy.”

Which the administrators did, very quickly. To set an example.

I was one of the leaders of my class. There was a battle cry for everyone to stop letting the popular kids get away with this kind of thing.

“So you guys all got kicked out of school?” he asks, voice incredulous.

“Nope.” I taste acid in my mouth. “Just me. My house, my laptop, my Facebook account,” I repeat. “I was the only person whose association they could prove beyond hearsay.”

“And your friends didn't speak up? That's effed up!”

I grind my teeth, fighting against the tears in the corners of my eyes. He's right—it is effed up; it's
so
effed up—but would I have been any better? Would I have willingly stepped forward if I were the one who had taken the picture, if I were the one who had proposed the idea in the first place? If I could pin the blame somewhere else, and keep my position as captain of the squad, and keep my place in the spotlight, and keep my
life
, would I have stood up for my friend?

I picture their individual faces—Carlee, Lauren, Kaitlyn, Haley—captured a million times next to mine in snapshots, the oldest dating back to third grade.

I would have found a way, I think. I wouldn't have turned my back and let any of them go down alone, the way they did to me.

I bat angrily at my eyes. “It's not even worth thinking about anymore,” I lie. “So everyone hates me now. I'm the Mean Girl poster child. The whole town hates me.” My voice quavers. “My parents hate me. They're so disappointed,” I whisper. “My mom's a principal, and her reputation took a huge hit … because a party happened at her house and her daughter was involved in this. When, obviously, she knew nothing about it. And my dad … He was on the chamber of commerce with Taylor's dad. They even used to golf together. I embarrassed everyone so badly.

“Then that guy at the center. Turns out he was Taylor's brother. He went to a private high school, and I had no idea she even
had
a brother. And because I was a minor when it happened, my picture wasn't in the paper or anything, so he didn't have a face to go with the name.”

I look at Pax. His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? That guy was her brother?”

I nod.

He actually manages a small smile. “Wow. Whoops.”

I study the sand. “Yeah. Whoops.”

Then I look back at Pax because I can't believe he's laughing it off. Actually, I kind of can't believe he's still here. “That's all you've got for me? Whoops?”

Just like that, his expression turns serious. “I'm not in a position to throw stones. And I don't get the sense that you're a cruel person, Nikki Baylor.”

I crumble at his words. I start crying. “I don't think I am, either,” I choke out. “I never—” But I can't even finish, because my sobs are drowning out my words.

“Whoa. Hey.” With effort, he pushes himself forward and wraps an arm around my shoulders. He draws me a little bit closer. “Stop. Shh. Stop.”

Pax's lips end up near my temple as he tries to comfort me, and his hair tickles my forehead. “You've got a fresh start here,” he promises me. He holds me until I stop quaking, until I manage to fight back the latest onslaught of tears over the monster I've been turned into. His lips are soft and comforting against my skin as he whispers, and his arms feel strong as he holds me up. “Fresh starts, okay? Maybe you're not ready to take it, but at least know one's here.”