How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (6 page)

After a shocked second, I turn and walk away from her, not even bothering to justify her pitiful explanation with a response. I walk the block six times until the hour has passed and I know my mom will be showing up in the parking lot.

I decide I'm not going back, no matter what.

A single thought is on repeat in my brain as I pace:
But I wouldn't have been in the boat by myself. If you were actually my friend, we would've held hands while going under.

 

Chapter 5

Nothing makes you feel sad and alone like sitting in a room with people who used to feel like sisters but have become strangers. On Saturday afternoon, I decide I don't want to spend the rest of my weekend feeling sad and alone.

“I'm around tomorrow if you want some company.”

With each passing minute, Pax's offer sounds more and more appealing. But when I pick up my phone to call him, there's one problem—he never gave me his number.

I think for a minute and then open my laptop. The Harborview Nursing and Rehabilitation Center website is one of the few that is not blocked by the new, intense Internet-monitoring software my parents installed. Following the various links, I find my way to the home page of the wheelchair rugby team and then the contact info tab. Luckily, because Pax is a captain, his e-mail address is provided.

After logging into Gmail, I send a quick message.
Hey, it's Nikki. Any chance you check your e-mail on a Saturday afternoon?

I leave the screen open and start putting my laundry away. Before I even finish, there's a new message in my in-box.

Sure do. I'm at work today, but I'm on lunch break. What's up?

I stare at his message for a few minutes, then type a reply.
I was thinking that some company sounds pretty good.

I'm thinking so, too. I'm done at 4. Wanna grab some pizza later?

Then
P.S.—This would be a lot easier if I had your phone number.

And a minute after that,
P.P.S.—Yes I am smooth like that.

I put my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter, thinking that this feels like flirting and I don't mind so much, and I send him my phone number.

Pax texts me.
Thanks. Does 6 work? Meet at the boards again?

Feeling smiley, I fire off my reply:
Sounds good. CU then.

But a lump of dread settles in my stomach and distracts me as I try to get ready for my … whatever … with Pax. I have no idea what's going to happen when I walk downstairs. To be honest, I have no idea if hanging out with Pax tonight is even a possibility.

I take the time to style my hair and put on makeup, then pull on a black V-neck top, skinny jeans, and the first pair of flip-flops I find sticking out from under my bed. At five thirty, when I can't delay any longer, I head downstairs and into the kitchen.

Emma's sitting on a stool and playing on her iPad, my dad's pouring iced tea, and my mom's getting a bag of shredded cheese out of the refrigerator.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” she says. “Eggplant parm.”

Emma glances at my mom, then turns to me and quickly sticks her index finger down her throat.

“I saw that,” my mom calls over her shoulder.

“
How?
” Emma asks.

“I have eyes
everywhere
.”

She sounds kind of jovial, and that makes it even harder to speak up.

Taking a deep breath, I spit out, “Um … I was actually going to meet up with a friend for dinner.”

Emma's finger pauses in space above the iPad. My dad sets down the pitcher. The spatula in my mom's hand falls to the counter. No one speaks.

“Not, um,… any of the girls,” I clarify quickly.
As if.

An entire age passes before anyone says anything. My mom continues to stare down at the frying pan, and a faint burning smell starts to fill the kitchen.

“We haven't really discussed your social privileges.” Her voice is low, and she still doesn't look at me.

I try to keep from tensing up. I've already lost most Internet privileges. I've lost driving privileges. And I've been grounded all summer. But there has to be an end to this. I mean, I can't just be grounded indefinitely.

“Am I really not allowed to have friends again?” As hard as I try to fight it, a trace of emotion cracks my voice. “Forever?”

“Emma, go pick me six basil leaves.”

“But—”

“Emma, now.”

My sister sighs and scampers from the kitchen, all too familiar with the routine.

When she's gone, I smooth my hair and attempt to keep my composure. “I'm not trying to be smart. I just … I'm really asking the question. Are these punishments going to be in place forever? As long as I'm still living here?”

Finally my mother turns and looks at me, twisting the dish towel into a tight knot. “I don't believe your father and I have made a decision on that.” Her mouth is flat, and she raises an eyebrow. “Assigning a specific time period … It's as if it's been decided the price has been paid. And I continue to struggle with the idea of assigning a price to what happened.”

I feel the stirrings of frustration and indignation in my belly, and I do everything in my power to keep them from showing on my face. “I'm not asking for everything back. I'm just ask—”

“I don't believe your father and I have made a decision on that,” she repeats loudly, interrupting me.

“Let her go.”

My father's voice is barely discernible, but still it makes me jump. He hasn't involved himself much in these conversations. He turns around, and almost as if by accident, his eyes meet mine. A dull pain throbs in my chest. Because there is nothing, no person lost, no privilege lost, that makes me feel sadder than the look in my father's eyes these days.

“What?” my mom asks, sounding amazed.

“Let her go.”

He opens the door and joins Emma in the backyard, without further debate or conversation. His shoulders are hunched as he leaves.

I understand his permission is not a gift. He just doesn't want to deal with any of this—he doesn't want to deal with
me
—and tonight it is easier to concede.

My throat tightens, and the victory of being granted permission is hollow and unfulfilling.

My mom stares after him for a minute before turning back to me. “It goes without saying that you should have asked before making plans. Are you asking to meet up with someone from your new school?”

“No. It's someone I met at the center.”

“She works there, too?”

“No, um … he actually was a patient.”

“He?”

I don't know why the person being a “he” is causing her to look even more disturbed about the whole matter. It was girls I got into trouble with, after all.

But I'm desperate to end the interrogation, so I try to offer all the pertinent details as quickly as possible. “Yes, he. His name is Pax. He was in a car accident, and he's in a wheelchair now.”

My mom's face changes at once, which is sort of messed up. Like Pax's wheelchair status somehow makes him a harmless companion. It dehumanizes him in some way that strikes me as unfair and wrong.

“If your father is going to sign off on this … be home by ten o'clock,” she says begrudgingly. “And still no car. You can meet up within walking distance.”

It's going to be a ten-block walk now. And my old curfew was eleven thirty, but I don't protest.

“Thank you,” I respond stiffly.

I retreat slowly from the kitchen before she can rethink her permission. When my feet hit the living room floor, I break into a run, getting out of there as fast as I can.

*   *   *

Even though I hustle, I'm still late to meet him. But the second I lay eyes on Pax, I decide it was all worth it—the tense exchange with my parents, the mile-and-a-half schlep to meet him at the boardwalk.

He sees me coming and rolls to meet me. He's wearing a bright green T-shirt with a picture of a sushi roll and chopsticks, the words
THIS IS HOW I ROLL
below it.

It cracks me up. “I like your shirt.”

“Hey, thanks.” Pax smiles in return. “My sense of humor, unlike my spinal cord, is fully intact.” He tilts his head and studies me, hazel eyes sparkling from the light of the setting sun. “You look pretty tonight. You've sort of got this … glow.”

“Well, it's probably sweat, to be honest.” I lift my shirt and fan my stomach. “Car privileges have not been reinstated, so I had to walk. I'm starving, too.”

Pax spins around and angles his chair in the direction of the shops. “So let's go eat. Are you a Joe's kind of girl or a Marco's kind of girl?” he asks, referencing the long-standing pizza rivals on the Ocean Isle boardwalk.

I give him a look like he's crazy. “Is it even a question? Marco's, obviously.”

He nods, and we set off. “Good. If you were a Joe's girl, we probably couldn't hang out anymore.”

When we arrive at the pizza shop, several members of the staff greet Pax boisterously. The kid making the pizzas tosses several balls of dough into the air in quick succession, and Pax skillfully catches them in his mouth like a dolphin catching a fish. Even though it's officially the off-season at the shore, the popular pizza joint is still crowded, and several diners applaud his antics. He puts a hand on his stomach and bows at the waist.

Pax selects a table in the back where he can position his wheelchair at the end without being in the way. “I used to work here back in the day,” he explains. “I love this place. And Marco. Hell, I'd still work here if I could. But yeah … my hands are good, all things considered, but I don't think I have the quickness and dexterity to be tossing dough over my head and spinning it in the air the way I used to.” He glances at the menu on the wall. “What kind of pie do you like?”

“Mushrooms and peppers.”

“Ugh, you're such a
girl
.” He winks at me before calling to the guy behind the counter that we'd like one pie, half mushrooms and peppers, half pepperoni and sausage.

“And you're such a
guy
,” I retort.

“I need the protein, need to keep my strength up.” Pax taps my hand with the back of his thumb. “What's your excuse for all the veggies? Is it, like, girl math, where somehow you think getting veggies on top of pizza cancels out the fact that you're eating pizza?”

I giggle because maybe it's a little bit true. “Something like that.” When I used to come to Marco's with my friends, everyone always ordered veggie. “You're gonna be really horrified when the pizza arrives and I start blotting at the grease with a napkin.”

“The grease is the best part! So you end up with a piece of pizza with no flavor and bits of soggy napkin stuck to it.” He smirks and reaches past me to swipe the napkin dispenser, which he tucks away in the seat of his chair. “Now, that's just a waste.”

“At least I don't take the cheese off altogether. My friends—well, my former friends—Lauren and Kaitlin … they used to remove the cheese with the precision of a surgeon or something.”

“Why?”

“They knew exactly how many calories it saved.”

“So you and your friends … really cared
that
much about being skinny and looking good?”

There's a funny look on his face as he asks.

“I guess so.” I shrug. “Don't know if we were any worse than any other girls, but…”

“How'd your morning with them turn out?” he asks.

I wait until our server drops off two cups of birch beer, and I swirl my straw through the crushed ice. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yup. Definitely that bad.” The morning's counseling session had been the worst by far. “How 'bout you? How was work?”

“It was okay. Quiet day, which is always a good thing.”

“What do you do there again? You actually answer 9-1-1 calls?”

He nods as our server returns and drops off our pizza. Pax puts a slice of the veggie pizza as well as a slice of his pepperoni-and-sausage on my plate. “Here you go, Nicole—live a little. I'm gonna make a wager that you actually like pepperoni and sausage more than mushrooms and peppers.”

I don't protest, because he's right. I take a bite, without blotting, and the indulgence tastes like heaven.

“Anyway,” he continues, “yeah, I actually take the calls. I'm never there by myself so there are always people to assist, but I know the drill pretty well by now.”

I imagine being at the receiving end of those calls, actually picking up the phone and hearing the caller screaming because someone is bleeding badly, or choking, or unconscious. I shudder at the thought. “That sounds like a huge responsibility.”

When I look up, Pax's face is serious for once. “It is, but…” He swallows hard. “You have no idea of the power that's in the hands of the person at that end of the line. When I was in the accident, the shock and the fear alone almost killed me. Two of my friends were unconscious, and the other two were panicking. Luckily, my phone was in still in my lap and I could make the call, and the voice on the other end was the only thing I had to hang on to, to keep me from going under completely.” He shrugs. “I'll never be able to physically save someone's life. But the mental part counts, too, right? And if I can save someone from that kind of panic … I guess I'll take it.”

I don't really know what to say to something so profound.

He's quiet for a minute, too, but then a small, rueful smile tugs at his lips. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it all somber in here. Smile,” he says.

“Why?” I look around. “Is someone taking our picture or something?”