Feel Me Fall Page 14

  The buzzing grew more distant until it quieted completely and the plane flew out of view.

  It seemed like a mirage; we’d seen it, and now the sky sat empty, a hellacious joke.

  Here’s hope, folks. Oops! My mistake!

  We waited. The plane had to turn around sometime. We waited even though we saw Derek picking leeches from his legs. Even though we knew they were probably attaching to our skin, and the longer we waited, the more there would be. We waited, not wanting to move from that highway of air. If there had been one plane, wouldn’t there be another?

  We waited, letting our bladders empty, waited while we grew hungry again, waited while our skin pruned until by clear evidence the plane would never turn back.

  Chapter 19

  I walked into Johannes’ classroom after the last bell of the day and closed the door behind me. Around the room, there was a ring of photos in black and white, all writers from Papa Hemingway, Joyce Carol Oates, Carl Sandburg, Gwendolyn Brooks, to Emily Dickinson. I could picture myself up there with them, a club of wordsmiths, not the most attractive of people, but as my mother might say, I would fit right in.

  Johannes sat behind a desk, working on his computer. Seeing me, a smile spilled over his face and he said, “Em, what are you doing here?”

  “Figured I’d come and see my favorite teacher.”

  Johannes rolled back in his chair and stood up. “You excited about the trip?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  He sensed I was holding something back. “What?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Uh oh,” he said. “Spill.”

  “I know you’re Mr. I’ve Been Everywhere, but I’ve never flown before. I’ve never left Southern California.” I felt immature and inexperienced.

  “There’s no reason to. You’re less than three hours away from everything. The beach, mountains, desert.”

  “It’s not the travel. It’s the plane. It freaks me out. It’s, like, an aluminum death tube.”

  He laughed. “Planes freak me out, too. But when I hit turbulence, I like to think of what William Shakespeare would think, flying above the clouds, traveling faster than he could imagine. And then I consider myself lucky to endure a few bumps. But I’ll try to keep the image of aluminum out of my head.” He added, “I’m honored that I’ll be with you for your maiden flight. In fact, there’s a ritual for first-timers.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is, too.” He playfully bopped my nose. “You get to make a wish. Like fallen eyelashes. When you’re in the air, you make a wish. And it comes true because you’re closer to heaven.”

  “You made it up.”

  “Google it.” He swiveled and offered his laptop.

  I knew it was a lie, but a cute one. “Have you made a wish?”

  “Of course.” He didn’t elaborate.

  “Well, what was it?”

  “Can’t tell you. Then the wish wouldn’t come true.”

  “I guess,” I said jokingly, “I wasn’t your wish.”

  “No, I meant it’s bad luck to talk about. Like birthday wishes.”

  “But not completely made-up traditions like first-time fliers?”

  Johannes smiled. “Are we having our first fight?”

  “Are we?” I teased.

  He shrugged, the “fight” over. “That was easy.” He walked across the room and opened the door. “You best get going, closed doors get people whispering.”

  “Why? Someone on your schedule?” I peeked into his notebook and saw the name. “Molly Higgins?” I picked up the work she’d turned in for class. A poem:

  I see faces

  and the race

  to make

  me a disgrace

  Outcast, outside

  oversized, ostracized

  What side is fairness

  What side is mercy

  What side is love

  Tell me

  So I know where to stand

  “You gave her an A. You only gave me a B+.”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that. Besides, it’s not about technique. It’s the honesty in what she wrote. That’s what gives it its power.”

  “Mine had power.” I heard the whine in my voice and hated it.

  “But it wasn’t real. It was…reaching for the truth. Molly bled on the page and it shows.”

  I placed the poem back on his desk. There was a knock. It was Molly.

  “Mr. DeKoning? We had a four o’clock?”

  “We did. Ms. Duran was just leaving.”

  I walked past, sensing disappointment and sadness on Molly’s face, which I thought was odd.

  “Thanks for your help, Mr. D.,” I said, purposely shortening his name, laying claim to him. “See you later.” And I would. At his apartment.

  Or so I thought.

  Later, he cancelled; too many papers to grade. So he said.

  In the hospital, a man who is not a doctor or a nurse enters my room. He wears a tailored suit, some kind of textured shoes that clack on the floor, and he has too bright teeth that contrast with his too tan face. I’d seen Hollywood types walking through the hallways of Riverdale, their progeny in tow as they toured the academy. This was my first experience up close. I wonder if he’d walked into the wrong room.

  “Emily Duran, Alan White. But please call me Alan.” Before I knew it, his hand appears and I’m shaking it.

  “No one told me I had a visitor.”

  “Quite a trip you had, isn’t it?” His voice is like velvet. “You mind?” He motions toward a chair. I nod and he sits down.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I could give you my title, but really, I’m someone who can help you. You’re at a very precarious place right now.”

  “I am?” I wonder if my mother set this up.

  “An enviable one. Let me cut to the chase. Emily, may I call you that? A lot of outlets are chasing you, trying to get you on their talk shows, score interviews. But here’s the thing. It’s all about them. Their ratings. Their bragging rights. Someone needs to look out for you.”

  “Why me?” I’m just Emily Duran.

  “They want your story.”

  I have an irrational fear that he is going to scoop up my laptop and run off with it.

  “Some of these outlets are willing to pay, and pay handsomely. Without the right representation, you may not get your worth. What your experience is worth. What the lives of your friends are worth.”

  I’m about to speak, but he wags a finger.

  “You may think this is all about an interview. That’s where you’re wrong. One interview leads to a book deal. That book deal leads to movie rights. We’re talking college, paid for. A car, paid for. Money in your pocket. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, you can set up a charity in the names of your friends. What I’m talking about are choices. Choices for your future.”

  Hearing him speak about my experience as something to market is…strange. “I’m not ready for this.”

  “I understand.” He reaches into his suit. “Here’s my card.” He gets up. “I’ll be honest with you, Emily. I’m not one of those people who think things happen for a reason. I’ve seen too much unfairness. Senselessness. Greed. The world is a hard place. But I’m a big believer in the lemons-to-lemonade theory. You’ve been through something I can’t imagine. You can take this horrible thing and turn it into something positive. I think you’re owed that. It’s the only way life makes sense.” He holds his gaze for a moment and then leaves.

  I look at the card. It’s from a famous Hollywood talent agency.

  I knew I was a story: a story to my school and to the airline. I never considered any wider interest. I never considered people would want to listen to what I had to say. I think of the first time I was ever in a limousine. It was for my grandfather’s funeral. I admit I loved being in a sleek, black car behind tinted windows as the eyes of strangers rested on my mother and I, wondering who was inside.

  That’s how I feel now.<
br />
  Wanted and interesting.

  But for all the wrong reasons.

  On the shore, we picked off leeches. Only a few days ago I would’ve been freaking out over these slimy things, little black ribbons swaying from my legs, and yet I was calm and numb. Too calm, too numb. Moving through the motions, picking them off, my hands glided across the stubble growing on my legs. How fast we devolve, I thought.

  Before today, we’d had hope. We could think of home as a real thing, a certainty. Being in the jungle was just what Nico had said: an adventure, an interruption. No longer. A shift had occurred, and our spirits were buried under a blanket of despair.

  It reminded me of the time I tried my mother’s Ativan. I had opened my mother’s orange-hued medicinal bottle and popped two of the small pills. I thought I’d feel high, slightly giggly, something to erase my insecurity, how I didn’t fit in, might never fit in. Sure enough, life’s edges were sanded smooth, and I saw the drug’s appeal with its I-could-care-less effect until my thinking grew muddy, my energy sagged, and all I wanted was sleep.

  That’s all I wanted now: to sleep, give up and fade away.

  Someone whispered, “It’s over.” It was Viv.

  Of all of us, Molly had a reason to keep going—her unborn baby. She, too, sat amongst us, inert. She looked at us and said, “I used to wear small shoes when I was younger.”

  We looked at her, curious about this weird non sequitur.

  “I kept thinking,” Molly continued, “if I wore these tiny shoes, my body would stop growing. I would stop getting fat. I would become normal. I wore them all through elementary school and my feet hurt.” She gazed at us, trying to make something clear. “I wasn’t mean. I was in pain.”

  Silence descended on us.

  Molly added, “I just wanted someone to know. In case…something happened. I never wanted to be Mean Molly. I wanted to be something else.”

  After sharing her secret and to make her feel less alone, I said, “I’m jealous of you all. Your money.”

  Derek sat next to me and he got the drift. He said, “I’m a virgin.”

  Nico looked at me and I realized my mistake in talking at all.

  Anxiety filled my body. I tried to telepathically say no, no, no.

  He said, “I don’t have any regrets.”

  And just like that, I was relieved. Thank God for small favors.

  Viv said, “I fought with my mom before I left for the airport. I don’t remember my last words, but they weren’t nice. They weren’t I love you. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about. Something about me having to call her every night.” She reached into her empty pocket and let out a mournful laugh. “I’m so stupid. That’s where I usually keep my cellphone.” She held back her tears. “I wanted to leave her a message. To tell her…I’m sorry.”

  I reached out and touched her leg. “You’ll tell her yourself when you get back. When we get back.”

  “What if I don’t? What if none of us do?”

  “One of us will,” I said. “And we’ll tell her.”

  Molly said, “Can someone tell my parents, too?”

  I said, “I think that goes for everybody, right?” Everyone silently nodded.

  Molly said, “Can we promise that whoever makes it out…they won’t let people forget?”

  Another nod from the group. We were quiet a long time, our pact confirming our fears as we wrestled with our memories—things done and things not; regrets; an endless litany of coulda-woulda-shouldas.

  This might be the last place I’d ever see. It was too sad to comprehend.

  Some feelings can only be described as a lack of feeling. That’s how we were. Our souls were punctured and deflating.

  Viv laughed to mask her tears, her sorrow hiding her anger. “This can’t be…I had things I was going to do.”

  Nico cocked his head. “What things, Viv? Tell us, what grand things were you going to do?”

  Viv looked at him as if he’d slapped her. “Why are you being so mean?”

  “I never heard what you were going to accomplish. I only heard about shopping, video games, or what dumb show was on Bravo. So tell us. Why does the world care about Vivian Liu?”

  “The world cares because I was in it. I was a good person. I worked hard. I deserved it.”

  “I think if the jungle has taught us anything,” Nico scoffed, “it’s that nature doesn’t give a shit.”

  “The world isn’t the jungle.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  Viv’s upper lip started to tremble. “You’re my boyfriend. You’re supposed to be nice to me. To be my hero.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  Oh God, no.

  “No, I don’t. You’ve been acting weird ever since the crash—”

  “Considering the circumstances, I’ve been acting fairly normal. And what I can’t take anymore is your poor-me attitude.” He took a mocking tone. “’I had things I was going to do.’ Didn’t we all? Or is this just an episode of The Viv Show where everything works out at the end? I don’t think Ryan was ever the dead weight here. It was you.”

  Derek placed his hand near his face, taking in the show with not-so-hidden glee.

  The words crushed Viv and she grew quiet. “Do you love me?”

  I could see the word on Nico’s lips, his tongue pressing against the top of his mouth, and I knew what he would say. I couldn’t let him. “He does, Viv. He does.”

  Nico squinted, taking my challenge. “What would it take for you not to love me, Viv?”

  “I’d always love you.”

  I couldn’t stop it, there was nothing to do. I watched, paralyzed, my own guilt eating me from within.

  “No matter what?” Nico said.

  “Nico, why are you doing this?” I said.

  “Because if we’re going to die, I want to say how I feel. Because I can’t stand the hypocrisy.” Nico turned to me. “You, acting like you’re Viv’s best friend.”

  Viv caught my eyes. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Nothing. He’s just being a dick.”

  My heart raced and I had to urge to run. To be anywhere but here.

  Nico said, “Because I slept with Emily.”

  The air went quiet or maybe that was my imagination. I didn’t hear anything except my breath. Across from me, Derek was clapping, his mouth open in a gaping laugh. Molly smirked, taking pleasure that the world had meted out punishment for everyone. Nico got up and stretched, as if the truth had set him free, and I felt Viv’s eyes on me. I didn’t dare look up.

  Chapter 20

  I remember asking Johannes as I lay next to him in bed, “Why do you write?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is it like gardening? Something you do? Otherwise, why do it? It’s not like anyone reads it.” His eyes fell, and I realized I’d hurt him. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I think you’re talented. It’s why I’m here. ‘Cause it’s not your good looks.”

  He smiled at my joke. “I wish I knew. Certainly not for the money. Sometimes it’s a blessing. Sometimes, a curse.” He considered. “I think it’s a way to make sense of the senseless. To reorder chaos. Real answer?”

  I nodded.

  “To bed hot chicks.”

  I smacked him in the arm. “Writers don’t have groupies.”

  “Says who?” He nodded towards me.

  “I am not a groupie.”

  “Keep telling yourself that and it might come true.”

  As I write this sitting in my hospital room, tapping on a keyboard, I think of what he said. Not about me being a writer groupie, that’s absurd. But if you keep telling yourself something, by pure repetition words might manifest into reality. Things could come true. That could happen, right?

  The day of the trip, I packed my bags, grabbed my passport and arranged a ride with Viv. I waited until my mom had left for work, which made carrying my bags out the door much less risky. The last thing I
did was scribble a note to my mother: I went to South America. Don’t be mad. I’ll be back in ten days.

  I thought of all her notes I’d read over the years. Or worse, when there were no notes at all.

  Was I a terrible daughter? Or a renaissance woman who would not be stopped?

  At the airport, I counted down the minutes until we boarded. At any time, I expected a public announcement to ring through the airport: “Ms. Emily Duran, please report to security. Ms. Emily Duran, please report to security.” In doing so, I would find my mother seething. And though she wasn’t the grounding type (ignoring me was her pleasure), she could send me to one of those military-style boarding schools for my senior year.

  Even as I handed the airline representative my boarding pass, I expected him to stop and pull me off to the side. Walking through the tunnel-like passage to the plane was no better: I felt beads of sweat forming on my brow.

  Only when I sat on the plane next to an exit row over the wing did I relax about one thing and grow anxious about another. I had made my escape and now I was trapped in a metal tube that would fly thousands of feet in the air in a contraption made by humans. I made mistakes daily. I imagined the hundreds of people responsible for the plane’s creation and maintenance, the intricate wiring and design and how one mistake could cascade, bringing this bucket of bolts crashing to the ground.

  They were not comforting thoughts.

  At that moment, I was actually jealous of the six seniors who had smuggled alcohol into prom. They’d been caught by the reeking scent on their breath, helped in no part by one of their dates who puked up what looked like awful modern art. As seniors, the school couldn’t stop them from graduating, so their only recourse was to ban them from taking the end-of-year trip. Six empty seats dotted the aircraft. (The flight would later take on mythical status as the number of students who “almost took the trip” soared.)