Falling

  Falling

  a coming-of-age novel

  Katherine Cobb

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Some references to businesses, street names, bands and schools are intentional, representing reality in the time frame of this novel. This book also contains sexual themes, profanity and some behavior or scenarios which some may find difficult or offensive. It is intended to realistically depict issues some teens face.

  Copyright © 2020 by Katherine Cobb

  Copyright © 2014 under title Skyline Higher

  Printed in the USA

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who many quote brief passages for a review.

  Published 2018, 2020

  Printed in the USA

  Bandito Publishing, LLC

  P.O. Box 166

  Farmville, VA 23901

  To the high school friends who had such an impact on my life— Chews, Renny and Tash, and PT Alright, Red, Head, Bean, Pirate, Slon, Tav, Mike and Scott.

  To Natasha Singh and Doug Young—rest in peace, my friends. You are both in my heart and greatly missed.

  Since the first edition of this book, Cathy Peterson also passed. She was like a second mother to me during my high school years and I remember her with enduring fondness.

  Contents

  Sophomore Year, 1978

  1: Slopmores

  2: Flirting Practice

  3: Crush

  4: What Happens at Rock Concerts

  5: Steady

  6: Rivalry

  7: Boy Trouble

  8: Surrender

  9: Homecoming

  10: Round Two

  11: The Undoing

  12: Lost

  13: Limbo

  14: Out of Purgatory

  15: Gimme an A

  16: Tryouts

  17: Taking the Plunge

  18: Summertime

  19: Heavy Breathing

  20: On Your Mark, Get Set…

  21: Go!

  22: Day on the Green

  23: Last Hurrah

  Junior Year, 1979

  24: Back to School Specials

  25: Enjoy Coca-Cola

  26: Teen Drama

  27: White Christmas

  28: Jailbreak

  29: Sweet Sixteen

  30: Prom

  31: Easy Come, Easy Go

  32: Pregnant

  33: Countdown to Summer

  34: Free at Last

  35: Country Club

  36: Busted

  37: The Nightmare

  38: The End

  39: Surreal

  Afterword

  A Special Message from Author to Reader

  Hey! Don’t miss this part where I share my real life experiences with you—you know, the heavy stuff. But don’t skip to the end and check it out first because there are plot spoilers, and we don’t want that. Read the novel, then the Afterword, then connect if you want to.

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Playlist

  About the Author

  “This book is hella cool!”

  Hella is a word associated with Northern California, particularly the San Francisco Bay Area, believed to be in existence since at least the mid-1970s. Basically, it’s the shortened version of “hell of” but typically used in place of “really,” “totally” or “very” (the Titans are hella better than Tech) or to describe quantity (I’ve watched hella TV). You’ll find the word in Falling, because we said it all the time (like, hella)—and still do. I just wanted you to know before you started reading so you were hip to the slang (now you’re hella cool too!).

  Sophomore Year

  1978

  1

  Slopmores

  I stepped off the bus for my first day of high school, palms already sweating. I had finally advanced to the big time: Skyline High, class of 1981. I wiped my hands on my favorite bell-bottoms, which flared so wide at the hem, they obscured my sandaled feet.

  “Pretend we’re not related,” said my older brother, Anthony, as he shoved past me toward campus.

  “Thanks, bro’. Love you, too.” Chump! I had my own friends, thank you very much. I didn’t need him, or his lame buddies, to navigate the waters.

  “Michelle!” I yelled as she exited another bus. With her bushy red hair and oversized glasses, she personified her last name of Homely, which incited plenty of torment throughout her school years. She waved and wound her way over. Her jeans were at least three inches too short, and I fought back a comment. High school is going to be the nail in the coffin, Mich.

  Michelle’s gaze darted in several directions, taking in the chaos. “This place is a madhouse.”

  “For real! Let’s see if we can find Katy.”

  We joined the throngs of students making their way into the nearest buildings, the drab green exteriors resembling old office structures. Michelle and I squeezed together, but were jostled like apples on a conveyor belt. Skyline was humongous—one of the biggest high schools in Oakland with five junior highs funneling into it. I studied the map yesterday to avoid getting lost, relieved the buildings were numbered in a layout that made sense, as long as I could keep it straight. Powers that be, please let me find my locker and classes easily. The last thing I need is more of Anthony’s stupid gloating.

  Ethnic diversity populated the student body. We passed black, Hispanic, Asian and white kids in the hall. My olive-toned skin—a direct contribution from my Sicilian father—made Michelle’s fair complexion seem even paler in contrast. Some students towered over us, and I gawked at the manly facial hair protruding from some of the boys’ faces.

  Michelle pointed. “There she is.”

  Katy tossed her thick sable hair and shoved a hairbrush into the back pocket of her jeans. Her sea-green eyes, highlighted with sparkling shades of purple eye shadow, matched her shirt, and her cheeks glowed a pinkish-orange. Pretty but not overdone, as usual.

  I compared myself, silently determining whether I measured up. Michelle may have been hopeless in the looks department, but Katy always looked pulled together. Tall and slender, clothes hung just right on her. Even so, my chestnut eyes and matching long hair made me a standout. Clear gloss coated my lips, my only makeup.

  “Hey girls. We made it.” Katy flipped her voluminous hair once again. “Now everyone act cool.”

  Whatever. Katy Mulligan, the self-appointed ringleader of our threesome, thought herself more important than she actually was. Michelle and I had followed her around since seventh grade, supporting her queen bee identity, but it got tiresome. Not that I didn’t like her—I did—but I lacked the backbone to combat her bossy behavior.

  The bell rang, and we split up to find our classes. Math came first. I found the classroom without much trouble and slid into a seat in the middle row. I didn’t recognize one face. The tardy bell chimed and the teacher didn’t move us into assigned seats. Maybe they were actually going to treat us like adults in high school.

  A cute guy sat near the front with feathered hair a few shades darker than mine. He turned around, laughing at something his friend said, and his sapphire eyes caught mine. With lightening speed, I diverted my attention to my backpack and pulled out a notebook and a pen.

  The morning passed in a blur. I sat next to Michelle in history, followed by twenty minutes of free time deemed a nutrition break before Katy and I headed to gym for third period. Fourth, I was on my own, and then came lunch.

  Michelle and I shared the same lunch break. We bought meals i
n the space-aged cafeteria and sat on the steps by the lawn (another bonus—we could eat anywhere we wanted on campus).

  “How you making out?” I took a bite of my hot dog.

  “Pretty good, except I’ve already received fifty pounds of books and the day’s only half over.” She caught her turkey sandwich as her tray wobbled off her lap and clattered to the pavement. “Crap!”

  I reached over and fetched her milk carton, handing it over. “At least we’ve got history together. Did you see that guy who sits near the door?”

  “Me and every other girl in class. Total fox!”

  “There are tons of cute guys here.” I admired several in the vicinity, as students milled about the courtyard, cement steps where we sat and expansive lawn behind us. “You should see the one in my first period. He’s the best so far. His eyes are amazing. And only half the day’s over. There are bound to be more.”

  “Hello slopmores!” a voice rang out behind us.

  I swiveled. Two girls loomed over us.

  “You’re sitting on the senior steps. Move!” said the sandy haired one, hands on her hips.

  “What does it matter?” I said. “We can’t sit here?”

  “Only if you want us to stuff you in a garbage can.”

  “You have got to be joking.”

  “Nope. It’s what we do to lowly slopmores who don’t know their place.” Both of them laughed.

  Michelle and I begrudgingly stood. How ridiculous. We grabbed our belongings and walked across the breezeway to sit on the concrete wall.

  “Bye-bye,” they called out, waving us away.

  “That was hella uncool,” I muttered.

  “Bitches,” Michelle said.

  Anthony wandered past, snickering with his pals, Brent and Todd. They all wore the same uniform: jeans and rugby shirts. “You’re making friends already, I see.”

  “And I see you guys phoned each other this morning to decide what to wear,” I answered.

  Todd stared. He gave me the creeps.

  I glowered. “What are you looking at?”

  “Something mighty fine.”

  Anthony elbowed him in the ribs and I shook my head. Geeks.

  The lunch bell sounded, and the rest of the day passed uneventfully. Some of my classes were going to be tough judging by the thick textbooks and instructions doled out. At least I’d found my locker in the 40 Building and classes without hassle.

  §§

  My father kissed my mother on the cheek, loosened the knot in his tie, tossed his suit jacket onto a chair and made his daily cocktail. He packed a highball glass with ice, poured a liberal shot of gin, added fizzing tonic water and chucked in a slice of lime. He stirred the whole shebang with his index finger, licking it afterward. My mother bustled around the kitchen finishing up supper, her maroon dress protected by an apron advertising Kiss the Cook.

  My parents asked to hear about my first day, and I obliged them.

  “I think I’ll like most of my classes. In PE, I can pick whatever sport I want from a bunch of options. It’s unheard-of, getting choices.” And the guys! So many choices!

  My father squinted. “Gym, huh? How about your real subjects?”

  “English is usually easy, and my math teacher seems cool. Art will be a piece of cake. The verdict is still out on the rest.”

  Mom wiped her hands on a hand towel. “Did you find everything okay? Was Anthony helpful?”

  I shot her a look. “Are you kidding? He shoved me out of the way and told me to pretend we weren’t related.”

  My mother shook her head. “I wish you two would get along better.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Diane.” Ice clinked against the glass as my father drained his drink. “If they don’t like each other yet, it may never happen.”

  “Alphonso Trapani,” she chided. “Don’t encourage it.” She trotted out our full names when frustrated or angry, not that it happened often. The lamb to my father’s lion, there was no mistaking who wore the pants in our family.

  “He’s right, Mom. Ant’s a jerk and there’s no use denying it. The best kid in this house is sitting right here in front of you.”

  She swiped her blonde hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Did you make any new friends?”

  “She got kicked off the senior steps,” Anthony said, laughing as he entered the kitchen. “God, I’m starved, Mom…when’s dinner?” He picked some melted cheese from the lasagna resting on the counter.

  “Keep your mitts out of there, and don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said, her Catholic upbringing rearing its almighty head.

  Ant rolled his eyes. My father’s glare stopped him cold.

  “And what about you, mister? You going to bring home some decent grades for a change?”

  Here comes World War III.

  “Sure, Pop. I’m all over it.”

  “What does this mean: ‘I’m all over it?’ Is this English?”

  “He’s trying to sound cool, Dad.”

  “Instead of sounding cool, why don’t you try getting smart?”

  Although I didn’t mind hearing my brother get chastised, it bothered me our father came down so hard on him all the time. He said he was tougher on Ant than me because he didn’t want him to become a mammoni—a mama’s boy. But it was too late for that.

  2

  Flirting Practice

  The routine of school soon replaced the awkwardness of that first day. My friends and I lived for nut break, lunch and the minutes between classes, giving us opportunities to talk, gossip and ogle boys.

  Michelle and I habitually flirted with guys on the soccer team during our lunch break. Her older brother, Roger, played on the team. He was our excuse to stop, hang out and chat with these cuties.

  I zeroed in on Ken Trainor, the blue-eyed babe from my first period class. Michelle’s affections fell on Steve Connor, whose body bulged with stare-worthy muscles.

  We found them lounging in the hallway of the 30 Building, where jocks and popular kids fraternized.

  “What do you want now?” Roger said, acting annoyed. His hair was as bushy as Michelle’s, only blonde. Owing to his senior status, he sported a full-blown matching mustache. “You sophomores are so pesky.”

  “You know you love us, Rog,” I said. “Plus, we’re the only girls in school paying you any attention.”

  He guffawed, but there was some truth to that. “I guess you’re alright, Trapani. You aren’t as gumpy as those other friends of Michelle’s, but you are still a bunch of teenyboppers.”

  “I am not a teenybopper, or a slopmore or any other stupid name you all have for us.” I glanced to Ken for backup as another sophomore. He smiled, and I forgot my train of thought. He had the whitest teeth…

  “When’s the next game?” Michelle said, knowing full well as the schedule was taped to her refrigerator. Roger stared at her sideways but let it slide.

  “Friday,” Ken said. “You coming? We could use the support.”

  I beamed. He asked us to watch him play! “Sure! We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Michelle?” She nodded enthusiastically, right on cue. “Don’t people come to your games?”

  Ken shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Except our mothers,” Pete O’Reilly said, his tone sarcastic. Usually the quiet one, his response surprised me. He leaned against the wall of gray lockers in his navy tracksuit, one Adidas-sneakered foot propped against a locker in the bottom row. Super cute.

  “I guess soccer isn’t as well-known as some other sports,” I said, guilt-ridden about attending every football game so far. “I’m not even sure how you play. I mean, I understand you score goals, but I’m not familiar with any of the positions or rules.”

  “Soccer is more complex than kicking the ball into a net, and it takes a hell of a lot more skill than football,” Roger said. “Everywhere else in the world, soccer is the number one sport. People are a little slow to catch on around here.”

  The boys launched into a disc
ussion about games, international players and specific plays. Michelle and I tried to keep up, but gave up and discreetly scooted away.

  Once out of earshot, I grabbed Michelle’s arm. “He asked us to come! Do you think it’s like a date?”

  She shrugged. “Does it matter? He wants us there. That can only be a good sign.”

  “What am I going to wear? God, he is so fine!”

  “You should go for it,” Michelle said. “I tried measuring myself against Steve today. If I put on the flattest shoes I own, we’ll be the same height. I could live with that.”

  I doubted that would be the issue when it came to Michelle hooking Steve’s attention. She needed so much help in every way, but I didn’t want to discourage her. “Try talking to him at the game. Maybe we’ll all go out for pizza afterward!”

  We made plans for Friday. Those consuming thoughts made it difficult to concentrate in the rest of my classes as I daydreamed about the possibilities.

  I passed Katy a note between periods giving her the juicy details and inviting her to the game. She wrote back, disinterested, and called soccer a lame sport. Then she challenged whether Ken had asked me out, saying I was reaching. Of course, she droned on about capturing the attention of some football player and blah, blah, blah. She thought she was so perfect—but, reality check: Nay Nay, Little Ray! It bummed me out she could be such a downer.

  In my journal entry that night, I wrote:

  Ken Trainor is a total fox, and he wants ME to come to his game! I think I’m in love!!!! Plus, our babies would be so good-looking. And Katy can kiss me where the sun doesn’t shine. She is such a killjoy sometimes! Maybe she’s jealous. Whatever!

  The soccer match started right after school at Merritt College. Before leaving Skyline, I stopped at the girl’s bathroom for a quick touch-up. I brushed my hair, cooperative for a change. I’d picked the right outfit with my flared jeans, hunter green v-neck tee and black choker with a tiny silver heart dangling from the center. Casual yet beguiling. And natural—I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.