Let Me: Let Me Fall Part 1

Let Me Fall.

By Lily Foster.

I wasn't a fool.

I knew what was being said about me, if the wary side glances and stifled giggles were anything to go on. But I could hear them now and, dear Lord, it made the words cut so much deeper.

"Aubrey, I feel so bad for you."

"Talk about losing the housing lottery," another chimed in.

My roommate let out a weary sigh for sympathy and then practically whimpered, "I'm, like, afraid to go to sleep at night. It's so eerie. She's like a character right out of The Walking Dead."

I could just imagine Aubrey in that moment, wide-eyed, drawing everyone in around the campfire-like she was gearing up to spook them with the really gruesome part of the ghost story. I could hear her d.a.m.n gum snapping from the other side of the door, and could easily conjure up a visual of her mouth moving lazily, chewing in her very own irritating way, like a dumb effing billy goat.

"I don't think she's washed her hair more than two times since we've been here."

"Gross!" both of her minions shrieked in unison before they all broke out in a cruel fit of laughter.

"I don't want to be mean," she insisted. Oh come on, Aubrey, sure you do. "But Carolyn is just so...odd. This isn't what I signed up for."

I pulled a few long, stringy, brown strands in front of my face and examined them, running them between my fingers. I'd been away at school for nearly five weeks now. Washed my hair twice? No, I could definitely recall three, possibly four was.h.i.+ngs.

I crossed the room and stood before the full-length mirror, looking at this girl for the first time in G.o.d knows how long. Who are you? I took in the gaunt, hollow cheeks, the wan complexion, the cracked, chapped lips and the shapeless clothes that hung off my too-thin frame.

This was what you wanted, dummy...you wanted to get as far away from there as possible, remember? I do remember a burning need to escape. It drove me to follow through on my plan, even though I knew I wasn't on the most stable ground, mental health-wise. But now, standing in my room alone, listening to all of them talk about me as if I was some sort of freak? It made me miss home desperately I missed my mother and father. I missed the way they took care of me, surrounded me in a coc.o.o.n of safety, love and care. I missed my little brother, Tommy, although at some point during the past six months he'd gone from idolizing his older sister to looking at me with a queasy sense of both fear and embarra.s.sment.

I looked around this room. My side was barren, prison-cell chic, while Aubrey's side looked as if some bubble gum, suns.h.i.+ne, sparkle and happiness-inspired apparatus had crop-dusted over her belongings. Aside from the black satin comforter, which I can only a.s.sume was meant to communicate to her male suitors that she had a dark and naughty side, most everything was pink-hot, nauseating pink. She dressed pretty well but her interior decorating instincts were for s.h.i.+t.

The wall above her bed had a ma.s.sive collage of photos, each one picked to highlight how beautiful, popular and perfect she was. Since I didn't spend much time outside of the room after cla.s.ses, I often found myself studying the pictures. Handsome boys with athletic builds draped their arms around Aubrey, gazing at her, wanting her. A group of girlfriends, dressed in cheerleading uniforms, hamming it up for the camera. There was a prom picture too. A boy who looked like he was straight out of central casting for drop-dead gorgeous homecoming king-type was dressed in a fitted tux, his eyes fixed on the ample cleavage spilling out of Aubrey's hot pink bodice. Believe it or not, Aubrey, you and I probably would have been besties in high school. The thought tasted bitter and it stung, like bile rising up my throat.

Really, Aubrey was as much of an anomaly around here as I was. I mean, this was a seriously compet.i.tive school-one of the hardest to gain admittance into on the East Coast. There weren't many head cheerleader-Barbie types like her around. Most of the students here were sophisticated, albeit bookish types. You had your hipsters, your artsy kids, intelligent jocks and loners also. I guess I fit into that last segment of the campus population. But I'll be honest, even among that group I was more seriously messed up than anyone else I observed from my perch, overlooking the quaint courtyard from my second story window.

We couldn't have been more mismatched as roommates even if someone was intentionally trying to pair freshmen up to ensure certain misery. I was now awkward, quiet and easily rattled. Aubrey, in contrast, was socially outgoing, bubbly-a natural and skilled networker. While I had not managed so much as a "h.e.l.lo" to one other human in the past five weeks, Aubrey had secured herself an entire circle of BFFs and she'd had no less than three romantic encounters.

I was already in bed by the time she'd come back to the room, giggling and buzzing with these boys because, no, I hadn't made it to one party. I therefore had the pleasure of listening to Aubrey and her paramours b.u.mp, grind and moan. It was excruciating. Not because I was a prude or anything, but because it made it even more obvious to me that I was, in fact, an absolute weirdo.

One of those nights I overheard a semi-thoughtful boy whisper to Aubrey, "Yeah? You wanna do it with your roommate right there?"

Tipsy Aubrey giggled, shucking off her jeans. "Who cares? It's like I don't even have a roommate."

Exactly.

I wasn't even here.

I didn't exist.

I remember the screaming-it went on and on, ragged and rage-filled. A welcome silence followed by the relentless pounding of fists against a door. Sparkling bits and pieces-the shards of gla.s.s refracting light in a really beautiful way. I remember red, so much red. Red splattered and smeared across every square inch of that d.a.m.n photo collage.

I didn't remember the sirens or the police restraining me.

I didn't remember what I had done.

They filled me in on all that later.

Two years ago...

They'd all been talking s.h.i.+t before I even showed up for the first day of try-outs. No one walked onto varsity as a junior. They'd all paid their dues freshman and soph.o.m.ore years. They'd all earned their positions...whatever. I was walking on and they all knew it.

I was seventeen, a full year older than most of the other juniors, thanks to being held back in the second grade. I was already well over six feet tall and I was not lanky or scrawny by any means. I'd been shaving since eighth grade and by now, was easily mistaken for being nineteen or twenty.

The decision to come to Westerly High was not mine. Apparently, my specialized private school tuition cost the state upwards of sixty-thousand a year. During my last annual review, the school district administrators, much like a prison parole board, deemed I was now fit to re-enter society. Academically and socially, I was considered rehabilitated.

I was furious...scared really. I didn't want to go back to a place where I knew every day would be a struggle. My teachers rea.s.sured me that I was ready. I was doubtful.

The one and only incentive I had for returning was football.

First morning of practice and the August sun is beating down on me as soon as I leave the air conditioned coc.o.o.n of my truck. My '97 Chevy is old and rusty but there's enough freon in its AC to freeze a side of beef. I let myself delay cranking open the cab's worn, rusted door for five full minutes. I figured a pep talk of the no fear... yield to no one...strike hard variety was in order.

"If he's as good as they say he is, then sorry, but fair's fair."

Tall and slim, with a haircut right out of some prepster store catalogue, I'd pegged him as the quarterback. A beefy, angry looking kid-pegged him as a linebacker-challenged him sarcastically, "Loyalty counts for nothing, right Spence?"

"We're here to win games," Spence answered leisurely, lacing up his cleats, "not to give out prizes for f.u.c.king loyalty."

They caught site of me standing there, promptly clammed up and went back to the business of suiting up. I was trying not to feel awkward but I was standing there with all my gear and had no idea where to settle in. For all my bravado, arriving somewhere you're clearly not wanted sucks, even on the best of days.

I looked towards Spence, figuring he was a potential ally, but when he locked eyes with me and then looked away without so much as a head nod, I figured I was on my own. That's all right. I don't need any of these pansy a.s.s b.i.t.c.hes for friends.

I'd read last year's roster on line one night when I was looking for some information on the coaching staff. All but a few of the players had douchebag first names: Spencer, Emory, Parker, Chase, Landon...what the f.u.c.k? Your typical wealthy, stuck-up p.r.i.c.ks. I always had a take-no-prisoners att.i.tude on the field but now I'd be out for blood.

I turned towards a deserted section of the locker room, figuring I could find an unoccupied locker to stash my gear. "Hey," I heard someone say behind me.

This one was close to my height, leaner build, friendly face-not that I was looking for friends at this point. I tried my best to affect an I don't give a s.h.i.+t att.i.tude. "Hey."

"Do you have a lock?" When I shook my head, he handed me one. "Take this, it's an extra. I wouldn't leave my s.h.i.+t unattended. You're not the most popular guy at the moment."

"I can see that."

"I'm Will Clarke," he said, extending his hand. "You're Jeremy, right? I remember you from Driscoll Elementary."

"Yeah," I said, shaking his hand, "Jeremy Rivers."

"You left in what, fifth or sixth grade? Did you move away or something?"

I heard some a.s.shole cough into his hand as he mumbled loudly, "Juvie."

That elicited a few laughs and sneers. So that's where all these f.u.c.ktards thought I'd gone? Made sense, I guess. I did leave Driscoll on a pretty low note.

"See you out there," Will said with a sympathetic look as he backed away.

The air felt muggy and thick. The sun blazed without any breeze to take the edge off. I was always in top condition and I'd been running sprints and doing stair drills at a punis.h.i.+ng pace all summer long, but today was rough. Not nearly as tough for me as it was for some of the others, who had obviously been spending the summer hanging out poolside and sucking down booze from their daddies' liquor cabinets.

As we filed back into the locker room, I could feel a few of the guys actively hating on me. The negative vibe was hanging in the air. One kid I'd consistently burned during sprints and receiving drills purposely pushed into me, nearly knocking me off balance as he made his way past me down the narrow locker room aisle. This s.h.i.+t was not starting today. I reached out and grabbed the collar of his jersey, jerking him back slightly. "I wouldn't do that again," I said evenly, leveling him with a menacing look.

In truth, I was scared s.h.i.+tless, fairly certain that forty guys were about to jump me and start beating the s.h.i.+t outta me at that very moment. But I knew better than to show fear.

"Do what again?" he challenged.

I turned my attention back to the locker, attempting to appear bored. "You heard what I said. I don't think I need to repeat it."

I wasn't looking to start anything but I wasn't backing down either. I knew I had to watch it here. I had a past in this school district; one misstep and I'd be out. But I wasn't a p.u.s.s.y. Anyone who messed with me had better be ready to back it up.

Spencer Davies' interest was piqued now. "Aw, throwing a tantrum, Baker? You just got smoked, plain and simple. Deal with it."

"f.u.c.k you, Spence," Baker shot back.

"You're the one getting f.u.c.ked, Baker. Just f.u.c.ked yourself right outta your starting position." With that, Baker slammed his locker loudly and went for the showers.

"It must be nice," another moron chimed in, "strolling right in and pa.s.sing by seniors who've sweated on that field for years, earning their way onto this team."

"Holy s.h.i.+t, Chase, you sound like a f.u.c.king drama queen," Will said, exasperated.

"It's Chase's time of the month," another guy added. A few of the guys laughed then, easing the mood in the locker room.

The first two weeks were the same: I'd outperform my compet.i.tion at practice, shrug off the hatred and ignore the snide remarks. No one actually ever stepped up to me. I had a reputation earned long ago. When you punch a teacher out, people tend to remember. So they taunted from afar, never fearless enough to challenge me directly. My therapist would have been proud if she'd witnessed how I was putting my anger management techniques into practice every minute of every f.u.c.king day I was around these guys.

They weren't all bad. Will Clarke, Drew Oliver and Mike Hanson weren't exactly my new best buddies that fall but they didn't support the few guys that were campaigning to make my time at Westerly High unpleasant. These guys respected my ability and despite my bad reputation, gave me the benefit of a fresh start.

Just the same, I gravitated towards the rougher element. My friends were the pot smokers, the cla.s.s cutters, behavior problems and occasionally, the petty thieves. Keep in mind this was one of the most affluent suburbs in the country, so behavior problems were fairly mild in comparison to say...anywhere else in the world. For the most part, these kids were do-gooders. You had your occasional over-privileged, unsupervised kid looking to get back at mommy and daddy by developing an alcohol or meth problem, but overall it was pretty tame.

I felt more comfortable on the periphery, on the fringes. Always had. In this town, I was an outsider from day one and I knew it.

"How did it go today?"

"It went, Dad."

It took some effort to calm the scowl, but I managed a genuine smile as I slid the salmon from the saute pan onto our plates.

"Another gourmet meal. What have we got here?" my father asked, taking his seat at the table.

"Panko crusted salmon over quinoa with pancetta and balsamic glazed brussel sprouts."

"Thank G.o.d I was blessed with a six-foot-three teenaged boy who enjoys watching the cooking channel."

"Like I have a choice," I replied, rolling my eyes. "Your repertoire is limited to grilled cheese sandwiches."

He laughed warmly. "Yup. Your mother, though," he said reverently, "you take after her. That woman could cook. Every night I'd drive home from work looking forward to tasting what she'd whipped up. I loved the smell...bread baking or onions frying...just that home-cooking I'd get a whiff of when I walked through the door. She truly enjoyed cooking, just like you."

I nodded and then we ate in comfortable silence. As we cleared the table together and loaded the dishwasher, I told my dad about the days' drills, what I thought I did well and where I thought I could improve.

"What are your teammates like?"

"Not my teammates yet, Dad." I let out a breath. "I don't suppose I'd be too enamored with me if I was one of them. I'm bigger than most of them and I'm faster. They see me as a threat." Then I let all of my pent up aggravation and fear come out. "And I'd rather eat gla.s.s than be in that school anyway, you know? All those stuck-up a.s.sholes...and the work," I added, shaking my head. "You know it's gonna be too hard for me."

My father was quiet for a moment. He understood my fear-he'd lived with it, still struggled with it himself. "I don't imagine any of this will be easy on you, but I do think it's all going to work out just fine, Jeremy. I feel it in my heart."

My father was good like that, supportive, and he always made me feel like he was right in there, taking the blows and fighting alongside me.

Us against the world.

It was just me and my dad in the small brick house that sat at the edge of this ma.s.sive property. The house was larger than the one we left, even though these were technically servants' quarters. It was quiet here. In those first few years, sometimes it was too quiet.

My grandparents lived in a modest house closer to town, right off Main Street. It was better having them around. My mother's parents were doting grandparents and they did their best to help out. They'd had my mom late in life though, their only child, so they were pretty old by the time I came along. My Grandpa could throw the ball around the yard with me and he let me tinker as he hobbied in the garage, but I didn't have any sort of structure really. There were many nights back then when my dad didn't bother with the whole bath, brush teeth and bedtime story routine that my mother had established. And put it this way, after she was gone, no one was sitting at the dining room table in the evenings helping little Jeremy with his homework-homework that he simply could not do.

I can still picture my mother sitting with me, tirelessly flipping through flashcards. Each letter of the alphabet, she'd train me to name them and then to pair a sound with each one. It took repet.i.tion, day in and day out, for me to master this basic skill. My mother always smiled patiently and paired the painful task with cookies, hot chocolate, kisses and hugs.

She got sick when I was in first grade so the tutoring sessions went by the wayside. When I entered second grade in this new school district, I think the phone calls and meetings with Dad started right away. The appeals to have me tested: I couldn't read at all, maybe I needed gla.s.ses, maybe I was intellectually impaired. I overheard it at the time but didn't know what they were talking about, other than the fact that I couldn't read. Of that, I was already painfully aware.

In this school, not only were the other kids in my second grade cla.s.s reading, they were reading full-on chapter books with many, many pages and no pictures. How could anyone enjoy a book without pictures? But these kids were the offspring of doctors, high-profile trial attorneys...astrophysicists for f.u.c.k's sake. Their DNA gave them reading superpowers, while I was lacking in every academic skill area. Even math, which came easily to me, was now giving me trouble because I couldn't make heads or tails of the word problems.

My father was in no state to even think about getting me help at the time. Getting through a day's work, remembering to shower, to shave, remembering to eat-those were now priorities. He was grief-stricken. So I repeated second grade and struggled my way through third, fourth and fifth, growing more frustrated and angrier year by year.

The last day of August, our last practice before Coach was announcing the starting line-up-that's when I saw her. She was the reason I'd been "asked" to leave school all those years ago.

We had to walk through the gym on the way to the locker rooms. Every other day it was empty, as football practice started a few weeks before school started up. Today though, the girls' volleyball team was having tryouts. When did volleyball uniforms get so hot? I took in the shorts that barely covered their a.s.s cheeks and the tight, formfitting tank tops. The guys started hooting and hollering as they took in the scene, the girls preening, laughing or looking annoyed in response.

Back in the locker room, Chase, one guy I had come to truly dislike, called out, "I know who I'll be whacking off to tonight...Samantha Cavanaugh. That girl has the sweetest t.i.ts I've ever seen."

"You mean, the sweetest t.i.ts you've never seen, don't you?" Will asked.

"Only a matter of time, young Will," answered Chase, stupid smug grin on his face. I pretty much always had the urge to slap that kid.

"I'd take Carolyn Harris over her any day. She's a lot nicer and those legs...I can envision those long, beautiful legs wrapped tight around me," Mike said, making a crude gesture with his hips.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up. Carolyn is mine."

"Take it easy, Drew," Mike said.

Drew's face changed from menacing to light in the span of a second. "I'm f.u.c.king with you, Mike, but she is going to be mine. I've been waiting to ask her out for a year."

I raised my eyebrows as I looked to Will. Once I heard her name, I was listening with rapt attention to everything that was said. Will explained, "Carolyn's parents won't let her date until her sixteenth birthday, or at least that's what she tells Drew to make him back off."

"October twenty-ninth, baby," Drew said absently, tossing a football into the air repeatedly.