The Fall Read Free Page B

were good days, good times. Moments when, you know, she was happy.
    (Or seemed to be, or faked it good.)
    When I think about what it took for her to step off that water tower, the physical act of stepping out and stepping into emptiness, into the airy sky?
    When I think of that, really picture it in my mind, then yeah, she must have meant it. To her, it was truth.
    The moment before she fell, at least, she believed.
    I’ll say this:
    Morgan had guts.
    I still wonder though. What did she think when she was falling midair, legs kicking, arms pinwheeling? Rag-dolling through the universe? Was there a scream of remorse? Or did she go down like a sack, a silent fall followed by a muffled thud?
    These are the things I think about when I’m alone and I turn out the lights. Lately I’ve been falling asleep with my headphones on, the music paving over my thoughts.

 
    ACCIDENT
    I didn’t do it,
    not me …
    She was sick,
    anybody could see …
    To take things so
    seriously.

 
    THE TOWER GETS TAGGED
    A new rumor ran wild through school today. Morgan’s shrine had been vandalized over the weekend. Objects that had been left—balloons, photographs, lousy stuffed teddy bears—were destroyed, sympathy cards scattered everywhere. I heard it was a real mess. Somebody spray-painted on the side of the water tower, “BITCH DESERVED IT!”
    No one could believe it. I mean, what the hell? More tears, more crying. Everyone acted shocked and horrified and outraged. And I guess we were, some of us.
    I’m pretty sure I know who did it.
    Athena doesn’t even pretend to be upset. “We weren’t friends, everybody knows that,” I heard her say.
    Hate is an amazing thing. Some days it feels like hate makes the world go round. Other days, hate takes a day off—and stupidity steps in.
    My stomach is empty; my brain’s spitting exhaust. I feel like I’m on a boat in choppy waters, watching my guts heave over the railing. Food for the sharks.

 
    ALONE, TOGETHER
    The second time I was alone with Morgan it was a couple of weeks past Pumpkin Fest. We were in the open grounds in the far back behind school, which happened to occupy a midpoint between both our houses. I had taken my chocolate lab, Max, and was blasting tennis balls into the stratosphere. Almost eight years old, Max still loved nothing better than chasing after those fuzzy green balls and bringing them back to me. Labs are hardwired that way: retrieve and please, retrieve and please. I wouldn’t call Max an intellectual.
    I actually enjoyed it, hitting those balls as far as I could and watching Max run and run. With Max and me, there was never any drama. No BS. Whack, I sent another ball flying, and Max bounded after it. The ball soared far and bounced high. Max leaped and snagged it on the first hop. I wish I had a mad vertical like that.
    Even an athlete like Max gets tired after a while. I checked my phone while Max sniffed and selected a few trees to water.
    Bark-bark-bark-bark, bark! Bark-bark, barky-BARKY bark-bark !
    A miniature white mop-like thing charged at me like a high-pitched, furry lunatic.
    â€œSorry, sorry, sorry!” a voice called out.
    I looked and it was her, walking in my direction. Morgan collared the dog, still apologizing. “Sorry, Larry barks at everybody. I keep hoping he’ll get over it, but…” There was no point finishing the sentence. She let it die there in the grass.
    â€œLarry?” I asked.
    â€œYeah, why?” There was toughness in her voice. Defenses dialed all the way up.
    â€œNothing,” I said. “I like it.”
    Her expression softened.
    Max came over to check out the yappy dog. “Max, meet Larry,” I said, getting the introductions out of the way.
    Morgan scratched Max around the neck and head. Max leaned against her legs gratefully, surrendering to the affection. The little mop-freak dog kept jealously barkBARKbarking