We All Fall Down by Natalie D. Richards
Terrific. I push the book across the table and stand. The boy appears across from me, so I swear and startle, knocking my chair over backward.
“Didn’t find what you’re looking for?” he asks.
I pick up the chair, glowering. “Okay, are you actually a librarian? Because librarians don’t creep. They aren’t usually twelve years old either.”
“Fifteen,” he says, nonplussed. “And no. My grandfather is the librarian, but he’s in the back working on fall book orders.”
“It’s July.”
“Exactly.”
I take a breath and push in my chair. “Thanks for the help with the books.”
“It doesn’t seem like they were helpful. The books, you know?”
This kid is super weird. He doesn’t move enough. Or sometimes at all. He’s got an almost plastic stiffness to his features when he’s not speaking.
“You don’t read very often, do you?” he asks.
I laugh. “What gave it away?”
“You’ve been mouthing the words since you started,” he says. Then he leans forward, looking at my mouth. “Also, your hands are shaking and you’re really fidgety. Are you on meth?”
“Are you shitting me?” A woman two tables down looks up, alarmed, so I school my voice to a whisper. “No, I’m not on meth. I’m—”
Actually, what I’m on is methylamphetamine, which is definitely in the meth family but also prescribed and completely different, and I don’t need to go into any of this with a fifteen-year-old stranger.
“Forget it,” I say. “I appreciate you trying.”
“I’ve seen you on the bridge, you know. You work up there, right?”
I pause, my mouth half open. Have I seen a kid walking back and forth? I spot a hooded sweatshirt on the back of his chair, pricking a vague memory of someone small trekking across toward the Village.
“I like the Greek place next to Anita’s,” he says to explain.
“That place is awful,” I say, but it’s not the point. “But yeah, I work on the bridge.”
“Then you’re here to get information about the hauntings, right? That’s why you were so freaked out when you got here. You saw something.”
“Excuse me?”
“You won’t find it in these books, but I know someone.” He’s very still again, motionless and narrow and suddenly looking much smarter than his ripped T-shirt would indicate.
A cough and a thump come from the office across from the desk, and the boy tenses. “Come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk.”
He’s gone before I can ask, and I don’t really have room to argue. He’s right. I’m shit at research, so I’m going to need all the help I can get.
Paige
I think I’ll be good at college. It’s a lot of independent work. Research papers and organization of thoughts and ideas. The science and math courses will challenge me with all their hard rules and specific answers. But I’m good at that. Melanie is even better than me. She’s brilliant at the hazy-rule, vague-answer things too. Sometimes I think it would be easier to hate her.
I didn’t see it at first. I blame it on the way she missed so much class the first week and seemed obsessed with her phone. Pretty as she is, I assumed her conversation was all shallow—about boyfriends or trips to the mall. Doesn’t say good things about me, but that’s where I went.
Turns out, she was finishing up another summer program before this started. And the phone? Clubs, special interest projects, and culture exploration groups—stuff I’ve never even heard of. I have no idea how she does it all.
I’m in the top 10 percent in my school. I’ve always been one of the smart kids. But here, I’m nothing special. And next to Melanie? It’s hard to know what I am at all.
“You’re staring,” she singsongs, looking up from her row of tap-water samples. Already done with half of the video addition to our project, she’s here helping me with my piece.
“I’m marveling at your time-management skills,” I say.
“You should be marveling at the fact that thirty-year-old technology is still managing to keep this water clean.”
I nod and check another testing strip. Another normal range. Funny that we never think about water. We turn on the faucet and watch it fill our pots and pans and bathtubs. We don’t stop to consider what’s hidden inside.
Some of the testing makes perfect sense. Microscopes will reveal tiny wriggling things. Impurities will settle in gray clumps at the bottom of spinning test tubes. But colors on a strip changing? Chemical reactions that show us what a microscope can’t? That part feels like magic.
“Are you going to fill me in on the guy?” She doesn’t look up, but pushes another slide under her microscope.
“I’m sorry?”
“The one who came to see you,” she says, glancing up with a quick wink. “Cute smile and incredible arms.”
I feel myself grimace. “Yeah?”
She laughs. “Yeah? You took off in the middle of the night! I was hoping you’d have some scandal to dish. Seemed like there was a history.”
My heart double beats. I dip another test strip, watching the colors change. Invisible chemicals creeping up the waterline. Pure or tainted?
“I…had to use the restroom last night,” I say. “The pizza didn’t settle well.”
“Oh. I guess I figured you were out with him.” She frowns. “Paige, you’d tell me if you were sleepwalking, right?”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Why would you think that?”
Melanie goes uncharacteristically quiet, leaning in to study her microscope. Jotting down a few notes. Finally, she sighs. “Your mom mentioned it.”
“In your conference about my mental health?” I wince, wishing I’d watched my tone.
“She’s just worried about you. She cares.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe she’s too worried? Overprotective?”
“It might,” Melanie says. “If you’d ever talked to me about any of this.”
“About what?”
“About life, or your parents, or the things you’re dealing with. Or even about that guy.”
“Theo. My former best friend. Which I’m sure my mom already told you.”
Melanie’s shoulders straighten, her mouth tightening. “No, she didn’t.”
I sigh, part regret, part relief. “I’m sorry. Mom is… It’s hard. I don’t like her having my friends check in on me.”
“I swear it wasn’t like that. She told me you were anxious, and that you had a history of sleepwalking. That’s it.”
I don’t think Melanie is telling the truth, and I’m not sure why. I’m good at knowing when something’s off, even if I can’t put my finger on what it is. Maybe that’s magic too. Maybe there’s a little magic in lots of things. Laboratories. Lies. Lost earrings that wind up stuck in my dad’s shoe.
I don’t look at her when I speak. “I know they want the best for me. But they hover.”
“Because they care about you.” Her tone makes me wary. Whatever they said, they convinced her. But she hasn’t mentioned Theo, so from what I can tell, they gave me that bit of dignity. So, what did they say? Did they want to know about my social life? Did they ask her to keep an eye on me? I have a sudden mental image of her counting my pills while I’m sleeping. I hold back a shudder.
This is paranoid and absurd. My parents are overprotective. They aren’t stalkers.
“I know they care about me,” I say evenly. “But they’re having a hard time letting go.”
“Ohh.” She draws out the word, her eyes going wide like she’s talking to a kid. “That totally makes sense.”
I want to ask her what my parents want from her. What they talked about. To keep an eye on me? To report back? None of it can be good, and asking too many questions will make me look pa
“I think it’s hard for them when I do well without them. They want me to succeed, but they don’t want to let me go.”
“Sometimes parents can be like that. But it comes from a good place.”
I force a stiff nod. I have the sticky-palmed feel of being asked to stay behind after class. Or like I’m sitting in a guidance counselor’s office, letting her awkwardly discuss one of the issues in the brochures decorating her office walls. Well, if Melanie wants to armchair psychoanalyze, I can play that game.
“I worry about how they’ll cope when I move out. Her whole life revolves around me, which is sweet but a little concerning. Sometimes I feel like graduation is going to be more about how they’ll cope than how I will. My mom has her own struggles with anxiety. I get it honestly.”
“Oh,” Melanie says, looking genuinely surprised.
I smile brightly, pleased that she’s taken the bait. “But she’s doing great. I just want her to continue to take care of herself, and not to get too caught up in taking care of me.”
Melanie blinks, as if she’s not sure what to do with that new information. I’m not surprised when she flips her ponytail and grins, sliding back into friend mode. “And what about Theo? Were you really just friends?”
Alarms flare in my mind. I shouldn’t have said his name. Shouldn’t have talked about him at all. What if she says something to my parents when they pick me up?
“No, I was sick. Like I said. Took a walk to try to settle my stomach.” My next grin is a calculated move. “You’re so caught up on Theo, but he’s not the only cute guy around.”
She mock-gasps. “Are you hiding a crush from me? Who is it? Is it Noah? Keaton. Oh my God, it’s Keaton, isn’t it?”
I’m not sure I’ve spoken directly to Keaton since this program started, but I smirk. “Let’s say I’m keeping my options open.”
“I’ll get it out of you sooner or later.”
I turn back to my test strips, hiding my shaking hands. I dip another, and the little pale spots turn green, then blue, then red. You wouldn’t know what’s in this water at first glance. Maybe that’s how I have to be around Melanie now. Perfectly transparent, so that no one will question my insides at all.
Theo
The next morning, I move fast and keep my headphones blaring. There’s something about the sky I don’t like, something about the heat that’s suffocating even before the sun pushes a bit of light into all this darkness.
One song pounds through my speakers as I haul myself up, my arms brown and wiry thanks to all the breakfasts I’ve skipped. Dinners too. The meds keep me moving quickly, focused on moving lights from one bolt to the next. And then the next.
The song switches and I freeze, one foot wedged in the hole where two beams join, another braced against a beam. It’s the song Paige loves and the one I hate.
And I do not have this song on my phone.
Images and sensations slam into me machine-gun fast. Headlights from that white Chevy. Paige’s hand grazing my stomach. The smack of my fist colliding with her face.
It kicks the breath out of me.
I rip my headphones free. My legs tense, feet gripping the beam through my sneakers. I perch there, breathing hard. Tinny remnants of a song I’ve never owned dribble out of my earphones.
Maybe it’s time for you to go.
I tap in my code. Press Record.
No more words now. It’s still as hell. Creepy quiet. A girl with a backpack slung over one shoulder moves across the bridge below me. She’s got shiny hair and clean sneakers and probably a bright future to match. A future that’s nothing like mine.
You ruined a girl like that.
I stop recording. How much of this is really happening, and how much am I imagining? Because the only paranormal manifestation I’m encountering is my supernatural talent for destroying everything I touch.
I force myself to keep working. Keep my hands busy and my mind moving. I finish the lights on the first truss of the day, marking the halfway point. By then, the sun’s come up enough to see. Denny has made reinforcements to the handrail at the start of the ramp. Looks like we’ve both had a productive morning, but where the hell is he? Coffee run, maybe?
A clattering at the far end of the bridge startles me. A group of guys are tearing across the bridge, moving from the Village into Portsville proper. They’re shoving into each other, sucking down energy drinks, and swearing often enough for me to peg them at thirteen, maybe fourteen years old.
I switch my safety harness down to the next truss while they walk beneath me, a parade of heavy footsteps and voices.
“Check it! That poor dick’s up there stringing lights!”
“That’s a shit job, man.”
“I’m not busting my balls like that. You seen those big buildings in Columbus? That’s where I’ll be working.”
“You’re full of shit, Aiden!”
“Shut up, you dick.”
The boys howl and jostle, and I hear the clang of a body slamming into the railing. I grip the beam tighter and look down. They’re fine, all laughing and shoving, but my head feels foggy and thick. I’ve been up here too long.
I watch my feet, carefully finding every toehold and double-checking it. My head and stomach are a washer on spin cycle. My ears catch bits and pieces of their conversation.
Don’t let him ruin this for us.
Look I know you’re friends, but he’s a total screwup.
A wreck!
It’s not three boys, and it’s not three voices. It’s all Chase, all from that night. Always that damn night.
My throat tightens. I plant my toe on the nub of a bolt and hook my arm around the nearest crossbeam. Then I pull out my phone, stabbing the record button with my thumb.
The boys are almost directly beneath me. I hear them, but I also hear something else, like two radio stations cutting in and out, their songs overlapping.
What are you planning, man? Gonna drag her up there?
Go to hell, Theo.
You coming with me?
I go cold all over as that night replays, my voice and Chase’s voice coming out of kids I’ve never seen before.
I check my phone, still recording, the steady red counter ticking up, up, up. My hand is shaking, but I hold the phone, pointing the tiny in-phone mic right at them.
Don’t do this.
You need to back off.
Do I look like the type to back off?
I don’t know if I sit down on the crossbeam so much as my legs give out, but that’s where I end up, panting hard and my vision going gray. The boys jostle and bump their way off the other side of the bridge. I stop the recording and check my files. It’s there. Fifty-one seconds.
I move fast now, sneakers slipping on the bolts as I descend. I hit the walkway with a thud that rattles the planks and move into the shadow of the frame, away from the foot traffic. I hit Play, still catching my breath.
There’s a brief rustling, and then a shot of beams and blue sky. Chase’s voice is crisp and clear when it comes. Mine is slurred and drunk. I sound like someone wrecking everything. I sound like me.
The back of my neck goes hot, and the recording stops. The bridge sits empty and quiet, not a single jogger, not one filthy bird cooing in its nest.
I’m alone, with nothing but my own shame and the smell of lilacs gone to rot.
Paige
I review the results three times, but it’s not going to change. There’s arsenic in the water. Most of our samples are fine. We found a trace of lead near the picnic tables, but Reagan and Matt found the same levels near the old plastic factory south of town, and it’s all well within the acceptable range.
But arsenic?
That’s not supposed to be here. Not at these levels. Of course, I don’t have a definitive result. Six samples were fine
“It’s an outlier,” Melanie says with a shrug. “An aberration.” She’s been using that word a lot this week. She’s also used contravene and aggrandize. Maybe this is the way people talk at private school?
I roll my stool back from the lab table and look around the room. Keaton and Noah are gone. The two Laurens—who paired up immediately based on their shared name and nearly matching OSU sweatshirts—are in the corner, but I don’t know them well. I turn to Melanie.
“Do you think the results are wrong?”
She shrugs. “Like I said: aberration.”
I frown. “Still, it’s a significant amount of arsenic. I think we should check with Dr. Lutmer to see how to handle it.”
Her mouth goes a little tight. “Can you not?”
I give her a look, and she rolls closer in her chair. “Look, I’m all for robust data.”
“Robust?” I chuckle. “Are you studying SAT words in your spare time?”
“Yep, started last week. And I’m trying to keep up with my French club and prepare for a calculus intensive that starts the day after I get home.” She slouches a little. “I know this is important to you. I just don’t want to wind up with more work than we can handle.”
More than she can handle is what she means. I don’t have French club or calculus whatever, so I have time. Plus, this isn’t college résumé padding for me. This is all I really have.
Which is why I stand up and give her an apologetic smile. “I’ll do the retesting. Promise.”
Melanie is agreeable enough about it, back to formatting her tables before I even walk away.
Dr. Lutmer’s office is attached to the lab. He’s big on independence, so other than an after-lunch lecture and weekly partner check-ins, we’re on our own. A big change from the four classes a day and mandatory field trips for the first half of the program.
The door to his office is open. I knock, and he looks up. Gray hair fringes the shiny dome of his skull, and his eyes are small and pale behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He’d be the perfect picture of a seasoned professor, if not for his plaid flannel shirt and jeans.