Read Online The Year We Fell Down by Sarina Bowen - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarina Bowen
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about rushing a singing group. Tap night was a kind of medieval self-torture, whereby the world notified you, within the span of an hour, just how desirable you were.
Who needed that? It was better to receive rejection in bite-sized slivers. I got regular doses every day — in the look on Hartley’s face at the idea of sitting in a wheelchair, or the Big Smiles I got from people who didn’t know what to say. I watched Dana’s crumbling bravado and asked myself, why buy problems when they’re giving them away for free?
Just as I began to wonder whether Dana could take any more, there was another pounding of feet outside, and every muscle in my roommate’s body tensed. There was a knock on the outside door. And then Bridger leapt up, running out of our room to let them in.
A gaggle of girls in purple T-shirts ran into our room, linked arms and began to sing the school fight song in four-part harmony. Dana’s face lit up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.
“Dana, would you like to be the newest member of Something Special?” the pitch asked when the song ended.
“YES!” Dana shrieked.
The guys clapped, and I put my arms around Dana. She was actually shaking with joy.
Suddenly, the evening’s lessons tilted in a way that hurt my heart. Dana’s big risk had paid off. She’d found her tribe. The big bunch of purple-shirted girls hugging her now was not insubstantial. I smiled a face-cracking smile, and was so happy for her.
At the same time, it cost me.
Chapter Seven: Your Poster Boy
— Corey
By the time the leaves finished turning yellow and red, midterms were almost over. I’d aced my Spanish test, and limped through calculus. Economics was my favorite class now, since Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays always found me seated in the gimp section with Hartley. And after class it was off to our lunch in Commons.
The only dark spot in every week was Physical Therapy.
“How are we doing on the stairs these days?” Pat asked, as she always did.
“Fine. Slow.” For some reason, P.T. turned me into someone who spoke only in monosyllables.
“Let’s practice,” she said.
“Yes, let’s,” I deadpanned.
Pat led me out into a stairwell that I’d never seen before. “Okay, have at it,” she said. “Let’s see your technique.”
One at a time, I placed my crutches onto the first step, and then hopped my feet up to meet them. Then I did it all again. And again. But when I was seven steps up, I turned to look at Pat.
That was a mistake.
I could see exactly how easy it would be to trip, and fall down those seven concrete steps. I had a vision of my body bouncing over their edges. Falling backwards . It was the very thing that terrified me.
I was suddenly stranded there, in the middle of the flight of stairs. I was afraid to keep going up, and I couldn’t turn around to go back down.
Then Pat stood behind me. “I’m spotting you,” she said, her hand on my shoulder blade. “Just a few more.”
Sweating, I sucked it up. After each step she touched my back, so I’d know she was still there. When I made it to the landing, we stopped.
Pat tapped her chin, making thoughtful faces while I panted. “I know that you were taught to use two crutches,” she said. “But I think you might do better with one, plus the railing.” She guided me over to the handrail, and took my right crutch away.
The second span of steps was easier, because I had a death grip on the banister.
“We’ll take the elevator back down,” Pat announced when I’d made it to the top. She gave me back my crutch, and pressed the button.
Grim and perspiring, I followed her back into the therapy room. She had me sit down on the mat and remove my braces. “You know, Corey…”
I hated when people began a sentence that way. It almost always led to nagging.
“…The more we can get you walking, the better you’ll feel. You haven’t plateaued yet. I know walking feels ungainly to you, but there are some great
Who needed that? It was better to receive rejection in bite-sized slivers. I got regular doses every day — in the look on Hartley’s face at the idea of sitting in a wheelchair, or the Big Smiles I got from people who didn’t know what to say. I watched Dana’s crumbling bravado and asked myself, why buy problems when they’re giving them away for free?
Just as I began to wonder whether Dana could take any more, there was another pounding of feet outside, and every muscle in my roommate’s body tensed. There was a knock on the outside door. And then Bridger leapt up, running out of our room to let them in.
A gaggle of girls in purple T-shirts ran into our room, linked arms and began to sing the school fight song in four-part harmony. Dana’s face lit up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.
“Dana, would you like to be the newest member of Something Special?” the pitch asked when the song ended.
“YES!” Dana shrieked.
The guys clapped, and I put my arms around Dana. She was actually shaking with joy.
Suddenly, the evening’s lessons tilted in a way that hurt my heart. Dana’s big risk had paid off. She’d found her tribe. The big bunch of purple-shirted girls hugging her now was not insubstantial. I smiled a face-cracking smile, and was so happy for her.
At the same time, it cost me.
Chapter Seven: Your Poster Boy
— Corey
By the time the leaves finished turning yellow and red, midterms were almost over. I’d aced my Spanish test, and limped through calculus. Economics was my favorite class now, since Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays always found me seated in the gimp section with Hartley. And after class it was off to our lunch in Commons.
The only dark spot in every week was Physical Therapy.
“How are we doing on the stairs these days?” Pat asked, as she always did.
“Fine. Slow.” For some reason, P.T. turned me into someone who spoke only in monosyllables.
“Let’s practice,” she said.
“Yes, let’s,” I deadpanned.
Pat led me out into a stairwell that I’d never seen before. “Okay, have at it,” she said. “Let’s see your technique.”
One at a time, I placed my crutches onto the first step, and then hopped my feet up to meet them. Then I did it all again. And again. But when I was seven steps up, I turned to look at Pat.
That was a mistake.
I could see exactly how easy it would be to trip, and fall down those seven concrete steps. I had a vision of my body bouncing over their edges. Falling backwards . It was the very thing that terrified me.
I was suddenly stranded there, in the middle of the flight of stairs. I was afraid to keep going up, and I couldn’t turn around to go back down.
Then Pat stood behind me. “I’m spotting you,” she said, her hand on my shoulder blade. “Just a few more.”
Sweating, I sucked it up. After each step she touched my back, so I’d know she was still there. When I made it to the landing, we stopped.
Pat tapped her chin, making thoughtful faces while I panted. “I know that you were taught to use two crutches,” she said. “But I think you might do better with one, plus the railing.” She guided me over to the handrail, and took my right crutch away.
The second span of steps was easier, because I had a death grip on the banister.
“We’ll take the elevator back down,” Pat announced when I’d made it to the top. She gave me back my crutch, and pressed the button.
Grim and perspiring, I followed her back into the therapy room. She had me sit down on the mat and remove my braces. “You know, Corey…”
I hated when people began a sentence that way. It almost always led to nagging.
“…The more we can get you walking, the better you’ll feel. You haven’t plateaued yet. I know walking feels ungainly to you, but there are some great
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