Page 20 of Break Your Fall

Tears sting my eyes. The word has a different meaning now. He was the only hope I had of keeping one of my best friends, and now, how am I supposed to not see and feel his—…feelings?

Ask Julian,I think bitterly. Julian knew about my feelings for him for years.

Last night, after Tommy told me his, I realized some piece of me knew, too. I’ve felt his feelings, felt his—say it—love beneath his friendship. I just never thought … Icouldn’tthink. . .

I slump down into my pillows and count the painted stars on my ceiling.

How can someone like Tommy love someone like me? Tommy’s a golden boy in Bellsby who belongs with a girl-next-door type, not me. I’m Valerie Stokes’s daughter. I’m not the girl you fall in love with. I’m the girl you want to sleep with before you find the one to take home to the family.

This can’t happen again.

I can’t lose another friend.

I burrow into my covers.This isn’t like you.

No, it’s likeyou.

Which is both assuring and tragic. What my mom failed to find out during her morning harassment is that I’ve lost everything. And I’m stuck in this town with no father to turn to and a fickle, bordering on alcoholic mother. I’m destined to lose. I’m destined to start over, with no idea where the road leads. No plans. Nothing and no one to trust.

I have to live in the moment, because the moment is all I have. My body and mind still tingle with the impulse to forget and erase, to find something to grip. Ican’tdo this alone. I can’t stand on my own, not through this. And I shouldn’t have to.

So, what do you do when you love who you are but who you are doesn’t work?

It works for me.

I break out in a panicky sweat as I fling off the covers and get out of bed, adjusting my nightshirt that’s ridden up my stomach back down over my panties.

This doesn’t have to change anything.

Like it never happened.

So, there’s no need to stay in bed all day and stare at my ceiling. There’s nothing more to think about. I just need to get busy.Busy busy busy.

I start by getting busy with a shower.

I dress quickly—a white dress with red roses—and blow dry my hair, brush my teeth, while avoiding the mirror, then trudge to the kitchen, realizing with a groan that I’m still lacking Fruity Pebbles.

“Breakfast?” Mom chimes from her place at the table behind an opened take-out box from A Flying Grit. A second opened box rests in the space across from her showing a cream cheese lathered bagel, scrambled eggs with green pepper bits, and three sausages. The box in front of her shows one-half of a bagel, one sausage, and half-eaten eggs. She got me the wrong order and she didn’t even wait for me.

“Sit. Eat.”

“This isn’t my favorite,” I comment with a face. I know the food will still taste good, because it’s Sammy’s cooking, but this isherfavorite, and I’ve earned every complaint I give my mother, so I feel like making a fuss about it. My favorite is also Tommy’s favorite—blueberry pancakes with extra whipped cream, though I sometimes swap the blueberry for the chocolate ones.

Feed me.

The memory knocks—telling. Tommy’s nerves and the hint of wanting in his stare push their way through my senses the moment I asked him to feed me a bite of his food that morning at Julian’s.

That morning Camille butted back into our lives.

The thought of Julian and Camille being Julian and Camille now straightens me up, and unfortunately, I don’t miss my mother’s words as she says, “It’s the thought that counts.” They’re careless, a gibe at past arguments, at the times I accused while pleading for her to think about me. She tosses in a pointed stare, then repeats, “Sit. Eat.”

I sit, but I poke at what she wants me to eat. I don’t want to give in to the simple satisfaction of eating a meal with my mom when I know better.

Valerie had nothing better to do this morning.

“Shouldn’t you be filing papers and answering phones right now?”

She swallows a mouthful of eggs. “Shouldn’t you be serving ice cream right now?”

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