Falling Read online

  “Don’t embarrass me,” Roger told Michelle on our way to the field. “Remember, I drove you here as a favor.”

  “Since when do I ever embarrass you?”

  “Every. Single. Day.”

  I bit my tongue, as I’m sure did Michelle. I would swallow almost anything in exchange for Ken’s glistening muscles.

  We found a spot easily along the vast sidelines. As the guys predicted, only mothers, siblings and the occasional father were in attendance. We plopped down and checked out the boys in their crisp white jerseys and red satin shorts. During the warm-up, Pete O’Reilly stood in the goalkeeper position while the others peppered the field, practicing passes and goals.

  The whistle blew to start the game. The ball changed possession frequently, and both teams ran, passed and attempted goals so often, I struggled to keep track.

  Steve fell down writhing in pain, and Michelle and I jumped to our feet in concern. A muscle cramp, we overheard his mother say. He stood, grimacing, and limped off the field with help. Reese Stevenson, another sophomore, took his place. Fast and focused, he scored a goal in minutes. Jim Ryder took the field, and I smiled. I’d known him since elementary school.

  Of course, Ken in action had me spellbound. His athleticism and strength impressed me, and he was so sexy! I hope, hope, hope you will be mine.

  The team moved together seamlessly, controlling the ball with their knees, feet and heads. They never lost their intensity from the first to the second half. The game held my rapt attention until the final whistle signaled the end of the game, the score in our favor 4-3. The guys ran to the center of the field, hooting and slapping each other’s backs in celebration.

  In the awkward aftermath, I wasn’t sure whether to approach Ken or wait for him to head my way. The answer came soon enough—he walked off with his mom without so much as a wave. I tried not to appear crestfallen despite the hole he’d punched in my heart. Pete, Steve and Reese stopped to thank us for coming, which helped. And Jim and I chatted, his enthusiasm and appreciation genuine.

  I rode back to Michelle’s house in silence, ruminating. Ken didn’t seem to like me at all. Wasn’t I pretty enough? Nice enough? What was wrong with me? I didn’t have a clue.

  §§

  My bedroom was in complete disarray as I redecorated—something I did every few months. The phone rang, and I turned the volume down on my stereo and lunged for it. My parents had stopped answering it back in junior high when ninety percent of the calls were for me.

  “Is this Anna?”

  “Yup. Who’s this?”

  “Reese Stevenson.”

  “Oh, hi.” How unexpected. I sat on my waterbed, the liquid sloshing in response. My pulse ticked up a notch.

  “A bunch of us are partying at my place. Wanna come over and hang out?”

  My insides accelerated even more. My nightstand clock read 9:24. There was no way my parents were going to let me go anywhere this time of night, especially not to a party with boys, let alone guys with whom I was scarcely familiar.

  “That sounds fun, but I can’t tonight.” I cringed, hating my life for a sec. My finger twirled through my pink Princess phone’s spiral cord, winding and unwinding in rapid succession. Did Reese like me?

  “That’s cool. Listen, you know Pete O’Reilly?” Scuffling and muffled whispers in the background leaked through the phone.

  “Sure.” I stopped fiddling with the cord and sat still, barely breathing. I easily conjured up Pete’s image: ash brown hair with a kiss of honey blonde, handsome but shy, tall yet sturdy. Athletic. Cute.

  “Well, he likes you, and knowing Pete would never have the guts to ask you out, I’m kind of doing it for him. I hope that’s cool.” More scuffling.

  Whoa! “What’s going on over there?”

  “Pete’s a little pissed off at me right now. Listen, why don’t you two talk to each other? My work is done. Here’s he is.”

  “Hello?” Pete said.

  “Hi.” My heart rate took off for the sky.

  “Sorry about Stevenson. He, uh, can be a bit of a jerk.”

  I laughed and willed myself to settle down. “No problem. I can relate. My friends exhibit their sophomoric behavior all the time.” I hated how they used to call my crushes to profess love on my behalf—thinking they were doing me some kind of favor. Did I really just say sophomoric?

  “Maybe we should pair them up, give them a taste of their own medicine.”

  I laughed again.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Playing music, hanging out in my room, trying to avoid the parents and annoying brother…the usual.” I flopped back on my bed and crossed one leg over the other, a fuzzy slipper dangling from my toes.

  Pete chuckled. “What are you listening to?”

  “Earth, Wind and Fire. You like them?”

  “Not since seventh grade.”

  “Hmm. I like funk and soul, pop and disco.” I glanced over at my albums, stacked neatly next to my turntable, except for the few on the floor ready to play.

  “I’m going to have to help you with your musical selection.” There was a smile in his voice, but I sensed he wasn’t joking.

  “You think it’s that bad?”

  “Yes, yes I do,” he said, laughing.

  “Why, what do you listen to?” My slipper slid off my foot and onto the floor.

  “Only the best: rock and roll.”

  “I plead ignorance. I do remember the day Elvis died. Does that count?” I flashed to the night friends and I went skinny-dipping on a dare while at camp. Our crackly transistor radio delivered the news about the King of Rock ’n Roll as we shivered on the huge rocks along the river’s edge.

  “Not that kind,” he said, bringing me back to the present. “Later time frame.”

  “Alright, I’m game. You can help me out as much as you want.” I enjoyed bantering with Pete. It calmed me down. A few notches, anyway—my heart still thumped erratically.

  “You’re on. I don’t think I could let you go on much longer listening to that other crap. Who knows what it’s doing to you?”

  I laughed. “You guys having a party?”

  “Just drinking a few beers and trying to stay out of trouble.”

  He said it nonchalantly. I’d drunk beer and some vodka with my girlfriends during our junior high years, but not much. My parents also allowed my brother and I to drink a glass of wine on holidays.

  More scuffling.

  “Guys, knock it off! Damn, you almost made me spill the whole thing. Sorry about that, Anna. These idiots are being hella rowdy over here. I should go before we’re cut off.”

  “Okay…” I trailed off.

  “My family is going to see the King Tut exhibit next weekend in San Francisco, and I wondered if you would like to, uh, come along.”

  He was nervous, and I liked it. He was into me! “That sounds fun. I’m pretty sure I can. Let me talk to my parents and I’ll let you know.”

  “Great. Try not to hurt your ears in the meantime.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “See you in school,” he said.

  We said our goodbyes, and as soon as the dial tone buzzed in my ear, I called Michelle and told her the whole story, then Katy. Once off the phone, I sprawled on my back and did a happy dance, kicking my legs in the air. My other slipper flew across the room. I flipped on my stomach and screamed into my pillow. Pete O’Reilly asked me on a date!

  3

  Crush

  I opened my eyes Monday morning, and my insides churned. Would Pete act friendly? Distant? Would he talk to me? Should I find him?

  It didn’t take long to find out. Toward the end of nut break, he found me hanging out with my friends and joined in as if he’d always been a part of our threesome. He told us a funny joke, the laughter breaking the ice and helping Katy warm toward him. Unbeknownst to Pete, he was under her scrutiny.

  In my futile obsession with Ken, I failed to notice Pete much, but he took cen
ter stage now. I studied him as Katy engaged him in her version of twenty questions. He stood at least five inches taller than me, with smooth, unpimpled skin and soulful eyes—green flecked with gold. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a bulky red and white letterman jacket with his name embroidered in cursive white letters on one side.

  By Friday, Pete had ditched his own friends, joining Michelle and me for lunch instead. His engaging, sarcastic wit kept us thoroughly entertained.

  Pete picked me up for our date. He arrived in a large station wagon—the kind with fake wood veneer on the sides—with his mother behind the wheel. After he met my parents, they escorted us out and introductions ensued. Pete opened the car door like a gentleman, and I slid into the back seat next to his friend, Tony Chavez, a soccer teammate. Pete introduced me to his younger sister, Janie, her resemblance to her brother unmistakable.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Mrs. O’Reilly told my father.

  “Enjoy the exhibit. It’s supposed to be amazing, a once-in-a-lifetime event.” My father leaned down through the car window. “Have a good time—and be careful!”

  Embarrassed, I responded with a weak smile and Pete waved at him. As the car pulled away from the curb, Pete smiled at my eye-roll, a mutual understanding of how parents could be such geeks.

  “Anna, I understand you’re Italian,” Mrs. O’Reilly said, but it sounded like eye-talion.

  “I was born in Oakland, but my father’s family is from Italy.”

  Mrs. O’Reilly stared at me in the rear view mirror. “Your mom, too?”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “My mom’s a regular ol’ California girl. My Dad was attracted to the blonde hair, that whole stereotypical beach girl thing.”

  “We’re Irish,” she said. “And we are one big bunch. I have nine brothers and sisters.”

  “Wow.” I couldn’t handle one sibling, let alone eight.

  “I’m Mexican,” Tony said. That explained his dark complexion and onyx hair and eyes. “Bring on the enchiladas!”

  “I’ve never eaten one,” I said.

  Tony’s mouth dropped. “Tamale?”

  I shrugged. “Nope.”

  “Taco?”

  I grinned. “I love tacos!”

  “Phew.” He pretended to wipe his brow. “I was getting worried.”

  “My turn. Manicotti?” I asked, pronouncing it the Italian way, like mann-a-goat.

  Tony scrunched his face. “What?”

  “You would call it mannacotty, the Americanized version.” My father would shake his head in disgust.

  “Still in the dark,” he said.

  “Pasta fagioli?”

  “You’re speaking Greek now, girl. Give me something easy.”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “Now you’re talkin’.”

  “Try not to pay Tez much attention,” Pete said, “or he’ll never leave you alone. He’s like a seagull waiting for breadcrumbs on the pier.”

  “Tez?”

  A wide grin spread across Tony’s face. “A nickname, but everyone calls me that.”

  We bantered on the way to San Francisco, helping quell my nerves at being on my first date with Pete. His mom and sister treated me nicely, and Tez was a trip.

  We exited the Bay Bridge and drove through city streets, finally arriving at the museum, where a huge banner advertised Treasures of Tutankhamun. This was the first time King Tut and the artifacts buried with him had toured the world.

  As we walked through the exhibit, we learned Tutankhamun was one of the last kings of Egypt’s 18th Dynasty, dying under mysterious circumstances. He was only eighteen years old and likely murdered by his successor.

  Although I found the displays and history fascinating, I could hardly concentrate. Pete stayed close and the tension between us magnified my senses. When his deep voice whispered in my ear, I inhaled his musky cologne. When his hand brushed against my elbow, I experienced a jolt. He grew handsomer each second, making my heart flutter with his shy smile.

  The grand finale of the exhibit was spectacular: King Tut himself in his ornate sarcophagus. As my eyes sought out each detail, I experienced a pang of regret for the boy king who had died so young. I glanced at Pete and the others; all were quiet for this moment. Our eyes met, and he raised an eyebrow toward the coffin and nodded his head, also impressed.

  Walking back to the car, Mrs. O’Reilly and I discussed the exhibit while Pete and Tez joked around, knocking off each other’s ball caps and trying to administer something called “Apaches,” the equivalent of a friendly scalping.

  On the drive home, Pete reached over and took my hand. My breath caught, and I smiled, not daring to sneak a peek at him. It was definite: I was one hundred percent in like with him.

  §§

  Pete and I became immersed in the crush we had on one another. I ate, slept and breathed Pete O’Reilly. I’d had crushes before, but not like this. My friends were happy for me, but annoyed by my new fixation. My journal logged further evidence, rapidly filling with entries and doodles only about him.

  “You’re the cute one,” Pete said one night on the phone.

  “What do you mean?”

  “No offense to your friends, but they’re dogs.”

  “They are not!”

  “What, are you blind?”

  “Ha ha.” I picked at a loose thread on my rainbow comforter. “Everyone always thinks Katy is the pretty one.”

  “Actually, I think Katy is the one who believes that, but she’s a bow wow.”

  “Pete, that’s not nice.”

  “Hmm…is that what I am?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  My cheeks warmed, and I was grateful he couldn’t see my face. “For starters, you’re cute.”

  “Nice and cute? You’re killing me, Anna.”

  I registered his disgust, forgetting how much guys hated to be called such things. “I meant handsome. And you have gorgeous eyes. I love the color of them, particularly with your hair.” I gulped. I’d revealed too much.

  “You’re not so bad yourself. I like that you don’t wear any makeup. You don’t need it.”

  I beamed. “Thank you.” Anytime I’d experimented with cosmetics, it resulted in disaster. Some girls benefitted from makeup, but others—and it was obvious who—had no clue how to apply it or what colors complemented them.

  “Are you ready for your first rock and roll lesson?”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “I want to take you to see a concert—”

  “The Gap Band? The Ohio Players? Funkadelic?” I joked.

  “You’re a real comedian, Trapani. Are you ready to be serious?”

  “Yes, dear,” my tone filled with bogus repentance as I drug my phone across the room and sat down in front of my records.

  “We’re going to see Rush.”

  “Never heard of ’em.”

  Pete conspicuously cleared his throat. “That’s why this is a rock and roll lesson, remember?”

  “When’s the concert?”

  “Two weeks. Reese and I are getting tickets tonight.”

  Fourteen little days until another big date! “Who else is going?”

  “A bunch of us. And you should hear them first so you can enjoy the concert more. Can you come over tomorrow after school?”

  “I’ll ask.” I kept my tone cool, but in the privacy of my room, I raised a fist and punched the air a few times. I was going to his house!

  My parents didn’t fight me about going to Pete’s—they acted amused by our budding romance. After school, Pete and I rode his bus the short distance to his home off Skyline Boulevard.

  Mrs. O’Reilly greeted me warmly and Janie gave me a bear hug, which I found endearing. We dropped our books and Pete gave me a tour. The O’Reilly house was immense, a sprawling three-story brick home with a panoramic view of the city and bay beyond. A massive pool and redwood hot tub filled part of the backyard, plus a three-car garage. Bes
ides the station wagon, Mrs. O’Reilly had a sporty red Jaguar—her little hot rod, Pete said she called it.

  In the kitchen for a snack, Mrs. O’Reilly asked if I liked her home. Liked it? They lived in a fantasy house, a kid paradise. My family was middle-class, but not rich. I couldn’t help being awed.

  Pete ushered me into his room. Rock band posters and one of Pelé (the famous soccer player, he explained), adorned his walls. Sports trophies lined his shelves, along with an assortment of books. I sat on the end of his twin bed while he rifled through what I guessed to be over a hundred albums. He plucked one out and held up the cover. The artwork resembled outer space, the numbers “2112” emblazoned under the band’s logo.

  “Twenty-one Twelve,” he said with reverence, “is the definitive Rush album. Keep in mind there are only three guys in the band.” He placed the record on his turntable, turned it on and positioned the needle on the spinning black disk.

  I started to speak but Pete shushed me.

  “Just listen,” he said.

  The spacey, strange music enveloped the room, at times animated and intense. I couldn’t imagine how only three musicians made the diversity of sounds echoing against his bedroom walls. I dug the drummer.

  “Are you listening to the words? The title song, ‘2112,’ has seven different components, and they all tell a story.”

  I nodded yes, but lied. I hated to disappoint him, but I couldn’t decipher most of the vocals and it bored me to try. Attention span was not one of my strong suits. And anyway, being this close to Pete made it hard to concentrate. I mean, didn’t he want to kiss me? Kissing him consumed my thoughts.

  Mrs. O’Reilly poked her head in the room. “Anna, would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “I’d love to, Mrs. O’Reilly, but I’ll need to check with my mom first.”

  Pete steered me to the phone near the kitchen, and I dialed the number to my mom’s office, praying she was there. She worked in real estate and could be out showing a home.