Dare to Fall by Estelle Maskame
We gather up our trash, then head outside to the parking lot where Will’s bright red Jeep Renegade is waiting for us. He had it detailed this morning, so the glossy paintwork shines underneath the streetlights, and Holden is scowling as we stroll across the lot toward it. Will’s parents are pretty rich, whereas Holden’s are in debt. They sold his car last fall, so now he’s forced to rely on Will the same way I am. Mom does let me borrow her car sometimes, but it’s not the same.
I call shotgun and quickly clamber into the passenger seat and slam the door shut behind me before Holden can fight me over it. His scowl deepens, so I stick my tongue out to him as Will slides into the driver’s seat. I automatically reach for the climate control and turn up the heat. Now that it’s September, the nights are slowly beginning to grow colder as fall rolls in. Holden clambers into the back seat, but he is over six foot, so even in this huge car he still has to slump down a little. I always find it hilarious the way his head touches the roof.
There’s not much to do in Windsor on a Sunday at this time. Most places are closed, most people are at home. The nights are darker, colder. There’s school in the morning. Work to go to. We go for a drive anyway, a quick circle around the town, along the stores and fast food joints on Main Street and all the way out to the open fields at Windsor’s outskirts, before Will asks if it’s okay if he takes us home.
He drops me off first, just before 11PM, and I tell them both that I’ll see them in the morning when Will picks us up for school. They don’t drive off as soon as I’ve got out of the car, but instead wait until I’ve pushed open my front door and given them my usual wave, then they head off until I can’t hear the sound of Holden’s music anymore.
Instead, I hear the sound of my parents. Dad’s voice, mostly. They’re arguing in that gentle, soft sort of way that they do when they aren’t mad, but concerned, rather. A quiet disagreement, something that is all too familiar in this house.
I kick off my flats by the door and lock up, then pad my way down the hall carpet and into the living room, where the NFL highlights from tonight are rolling across the TV at a lowered volume. Mom’s sitting bolt upright on the edge of the couch, her eyes sunken and tired, her thin lips pressed firmly together. She’s in a tracksuit, hair clipped back, makeup washed off—nothing new for this time on a Sunday. Dad’s standing opposite her, on the far side of the room. The coffee table between them bears an empty wine glass, a smear of lipstick on its rim. I remember Mom pouring a glass of Chardonnay before I left earlier, fresh out of a new bottle. She promised it would be her first and last for today. But she always says that, and Dad has the empty bottle in hand to prove it.
“Oh. MacKenzie,” he says, exhaling. As though I haven’t already noticed the bottle, he moves his hand behind his back, hiding it. He frowns. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I give him a closed smile, but I don’t say anything, because I’m more focused on Mom. I take my height from my dad, but I take everything else from her. We have the same deep brown eyes. The same high, hollowed cheekbones, the same strong jawbone. “I’m going to bed, Mom,” I tell her softly as I kneel down on the floor by her side, looking at her with a gentle expression. She’s not drunk. No, not after one bottle, that’s not enough now, but the ugly grimace on her face is one that only appears after a couple of glasses. “Maybe you should too?” I suggest, reaching for her hand.
Mom stares at the floor, motionless for a moment, before she lifts her heavy eyelids up to Dad, looking at him as though this is his fault, as though it was him who opened the bottle in the first place. Then she relaxes, heaves a sigh, and nods as her brown eyes meet mine.
I reach for her hand and stand up, pulling her with me, our fingers interlocked. Her hands are warm, some of her nails are broken. She doesn’t care enough these days to fix them. Dad watches me with gratitude on his face, but his eyes tell a different story. They are apologetic, almost guilty. I wave him away with my free hand and lead Mom out of the living room and down the hall, into their bedroom. When I flick on the light, I grit my teeth when I see the mess that greets me. There’s a pile of fresh laundry that has been carelessly tipped onto the floor and left there, the bed still unmade from this morning, drapes closed as though they haven’t been opened all day. Usually, I consider it a good day if this room sees sunlight.
Mom sits down on the edge of the bed, but the watery smile of reassurance she gives me does little to appease my irritation. “I’ve only had a few glasses,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Your dad is overreacting.”
I don’t think he is, and I don’t think it was only a few glasses either. But I don’t tell her this, only grab loose clothes from the floor, fold them back up and put them away. Atop the dresser—next to the framed photograph of Dad and me so many years ago, back when he still had hair and I had no front teeth—is another wine glass. Empty, on its side, abandoned from yesterday.
I draw my lower lip between my teeth and tilt my head down, slowly pushing the drawer closed. Mom’s back on her feet now as she shuffles around their small room behind me, so I pick up the glass and turn around to look at her, hiding it behind my back. Masking the disappointment that tugs in my chest, I force a smile onto my face. “I’m super tired, so I’ll talk to you in the morning,” I tell her. “Will’s picking me up at seven thirty.”
Mom doesn’t say anything else, but she does frown when she notices I’ve stolen the wine glass from her dresser. Her lips twitch and her eyes narrow slightly, yet she goes on to pretend that she hasn’t noticed that it’s gone. Instead, she slowly fluffs up her pillows, and I back out of the room, pulling the door shut with me, leaving her alone.
I stand in the hall and hold the wine glass up to examine it. My grip tightens so firmly around the glass that for a split second I think it may just shatter into pieces, but Dad interrupts me before I get the chance to squeeze any harder.
He’s leaning against the frame of the living room door, his features ridden with guilt as he says, “I can take that.” He straightens up and steps toward me, placing his hand over mine as he pulls the glass free from my rigid grip. The other glass, the one from the living room, is already in his other.
Dad’s too young to be bald, and he’s also too young to have so many wrinkles. But he is bald and he does have that many wrinkles, and I hate that saddened look in his eyes that appears every time there’s another glass to wash because it makes him look even older still. He moves past me, making his way down the hall and into the dark kitchen, and I stand there, waiting, listening for the sound of the faucet.
As the water runs, as Dad scrubs Mom’s lipstick from that wine glass, I find myself looking at the hall table. There’s a framed photograph of Mom and Dad on their wedding day, and there’s one of me on my first day of kindergarten with horrendous pink scrunchies in my hair, and then there’s the frame in the middle—the one that’s a light pink and never gathers dust because Mom cleans it at least twice every day. Inside the frame there are five pink letters, cursive and delicate. Those five letters are all we have left of her, as simple as her name, our only memory because we weren’t given the time to create any others.
Baby Grace, who we never got to meet, but who we will never forget.
Danielle Hunter may think I don’t care about them, her and Jaden, but I do care, probably more than most people do, but the truth is, I’m scared to be around them. I’m scared because I know the impact losing someone can have; I know just how badly grief can affect someone; I know how much it changes people.
I know, because I’ve watched it change us too.
2
Whoever thought scheduling a Physics class for first period on a Monday is clearly sadistic. I enjoy Physics, I do, but not at 8AM, and although we’re only into the fourth week of the semester, I already regret opting to take honors. Phrases like “static equilibrium” should not be used this early, when half the class is too tired to function.
I’m hunched over my desk, my head resting on my homework
I open my eyes but don’t lift my head. At the desk next to me, Kailee Tucker has one hand in her lap, texting, the other hand taking notes, though I don’t think she’s even writing anything legible. Just beyond her, Will is chewing on the end of his pen, his head cocked to one side as he listens intently to Mr. Acker ramble on about the application of Newton’s laws of motion once again. My lips curve into a small smile of their own accord as I watch the way his eyebrows gently pinch together with confusion every time Mr. Acker uses a term that’s new. It feels like my stare has been boring into him for at least ten minutes before he finally notices.
“What the hell?” he mouths, pointing to the screen at the front of the room. I shrug back at him, because for the past thirty minutes I haven’t exactly been listening. He sets his pen down as though he’s giving up too, and he flicks his hair out of his eyes for what must be the hundredth time already this morning.
I remember back in freshman year, no one believed Will was just my friend, the same way they didn’t believe Holden was either. I had to be dating one of them, people would argue. Will was cute in that messy-haired, always-grinning, good-sense-of-humor sort of way, while Holden was tall and athletic in the intimidating, brooding, hot sort of way. Two polar opposites, which surely must have meant that one of them was my type. Only no, they were my best friends, and the thought of seeing them as anything other than that was hilarious to me. Also, Will subtly announced over lunch one day back in sophomore year that he sort of batted for the other team, so that was that, and the possibility of us ever dating was finally ruled out for good.
Right then, the bell rings out across campus, jolting the class to life. I hadn’t even realized that first period was almost over. There’s the collective sound of chairs scuffing the carpet as everyone scrambles to gather up their books and make a swift departure.
“I’m pretty sure I slept through the first half of that,” I tell Will once we’re outside of Mr. Acker’s class and heading to our lockers, skillfully maneuvering our way through the masses, dodging the new, wide-eyed freshmen.
When we reach my locker Holden is already leaning against it, empty-handed, with nothing but a pen behind his ear. He’s one of those guys who likes to act as though he couldn’t care less about school, like it’s lame to be caught carrying a textbook, but in fact, he cares a lot more about passing his classes than he’s willing to admit. He actually wants people to think the only thing he cares about is football, and I’ll never know why.
“How was Physics?” He grins, stepping away from my locker to allow me to enter my combination. As I throw my textbook inside, I fire him a sideways look. Holden knows we hate having Physics first period, which is why neither Will nor I even bother to answer him.
I grab my Spanish book and slam my locker shut again. “I’ve got an off period last thing,” I tell them, “so I’m just gonna head home after third period.”
“And I have practice,” Holden adds, looking at Will, because what we’re really stating is that we don’t need him to wait up for us after school to give us a ride.
Will opens his mouth wide in mock surprise. “Hold up. You mean I can actually go straight home tonight without being chauffeur to you guys? What did I do to deserve such luxury?”
We stop quickly at Will’s locker so that he can grab his Biology textbook before the three of us split up to head for our next classes. I only have to suffer through an hour and a half of Spanish until I get to see them again at lunch, but as I make my way to class on my own, applying lip balm on the way, I suddenly dread the thought of walking into the room. Holden and Will may not share this class with me, but someone else does.
When I arrive outside Miss Hernandez’s room, I slip into the class after Caleb from the football team, hiding behind his huge mass as I quickly scour the room. To my relief, Danielle Hunter hasn’t arrived yet. I’m still a little wary after our exchange last night, so I end up sitting at a desk in the back corner, head down, staring obsessively at a random page in my textbook.
The bell rings a few moments later and I glance up, startled. Just as the shrill ends, in she walks, hugging her Spanish book to her chest. Her bangs are covering her eyes and I wonder if she can even see through them, but as the class quickly settles down, she weaves through the desks to take a seat at hers over in the opposite back corner. I’m staring at her without realizing, right until the second her blue eyes flicker up to look straight back at me.
I look away instantly and I almost knock my water bottle off my desk, but I catch it just in time. Miss Hernandez gets up from her desk to welcome us and ask how our weekend was in Spanish, but I’m staring at the back of Caleb’s head, too distracted to listen to anything else she says after that. I can feel the throbbing of my pulse just below my jaw as I try my hardest to ignore Danielle’s eyes on me, but it is impossible. It’s too awkward and her stare is boring into me. I can feel it.
I hate that I am terrified of the Hunters. Usually, I’m not so weak. Over the years, I’ve faced up to a lot of people in this school, from the guys in freshman year who used to taunt me about my height, to the teachers who’ve graded my tests wrong and were adamant they didn’t, to the girls I’ve found myself in arguments with. But when it comes to Danielle and Jaden Hunter, I just can’t do it. I can’t face them. They are the epitome of my biggest weakness; they are the embodiment of grief.
For the rest of class, I can’t focus. I’m pretty good at Spanish and I enjoy Miss Hernandez’s class usually, but everything she says today goes straight over my head because all I can think about is Danielle. At first, I linger on the idea of trying to talk to her after class, but I don’t think there’s anything I can say that’ll smooth out the tension I’m feeling between us after last night, so I drop that idea and instead spend the rest of class wondering if she’s told Jaden that we spoke. I haven’t yet figured out if I hope she didn’t or if I wish she did.
When the bell rings out again to signify the end of second period, I’m the first to stand, shoving everything into my bag as fast as I can and pushing past Caleb, my eye on the door, my heart pounding. I have English Lit after lunch, and then I’m homebound after that, so I should be in the clear.
And I’m almost there, almost out of the classroom door, so close that I can smell the sweat in the hallways, when someone gently barges past me from behind, nudging me forward a step. I stop to identify the culprit, and I don’t know why I’m surprised to discover that it’s Dani. She walks past me into the hallway before she comes to a halt, glancing over her shoulder, only a few feet between us.
Her expression is empty as she looks back at me, her arms folded across the textbook that’s against her chest. Her lips twitch as though she is going to say something. She doesn’t. Instead, she turns away and joins the lunch flow, disappearing into the mass of bodies. She really is mad at me. I can see it in her blue eyes, an anger that’s deep-rooted and blazing. I try to remind myself that she’s mad at a lot of things these days, not just me, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. It makes me feel worse, actually, knowing that she’s so disconnected from everything, so furious at the world, and that I haven’t been there for her the way I should have.
A year ago, we curled each other’s hair and tested out eye makeup on one another up in her room, and we sat side by side in Spanish last year rather than at opposite corners of the room. We were friends. Not anymore.
As I head to the cafeteria to meet Holden and Will, I decide en route that I’m going to do whatever I can at all costs to avoid Danielle not only for the rest of the day, but for the rest of the week.
Fourth period has already begun by the time I make my casual stroll to my locker, so the hallways are empty, silent, the only sound the faint echo of teachers’ voices. I open my locker and stuff half its contents inside my bag, dreading the amount of homework I still have due this week. There’s a small mirror on the back of my locker door, so I quickly pull a hairbrush through my hair before my walk home, but as I glance in the mirror one final time I catch sight of someone approaching.
And I really wish I hadn’t looked, because it’s him.
Hands in his pockets, bag slung over one shoulder, he makes his way down the hallway toward me. I immediately recognize his blond hair, shaved short at the sides but left heavier on the top. His shoulders are broad and his chest is firm. He is a linebacker on the football team, after all. I used to love running my fingers through his thick hair; I used to love how secure I felt whenever he pulled me to him. I’m starting to forget how it felt.
I pass him often in these hallways, though it’s usually while we’re both buried amongst everyone else battling their way to class, and I like that it feels more distant that way. I can always just look at the ground, keep my head down, and walk a little faster until he is out of sight.
But right now with no one else around, with nothing but silence consuming us, there’s no distance, no students to hide behind, and my body feels tense as I struggle to look away. He wets his lips just as one side curves up to create his signature crooked smile, and then his eyes flicker to meet mine directly in my mirror. They’re as blue as his sister’s, if not brighter. He slows down, almost as though for a split second he considers stopping to say something. But he doesn’t. His steps quicken again and he keeps on walking, looking away from me.