“Denny, I know how you feel and I heard your piece. But Paige isn’t some girl I’m going to walk away—”
“I wasn’t going to say any of that. Hold your horses, little hell-raiser.”
I grin, and he drops his hand from my shoulder. I don’t know what it means. Maybe I’m more to him than a good deed. And maybe he’s more than the asshole who said awful things to me on the bridge.
Denny clears his throat and gestures at a duffel bag I hadn’t noticed at his feet. “Figured you might want some dry pants. You should come home and make calls. Get some sleep or whatever.”
I stare at the rectangle of light above my bed. “Call Mom, you mean.”
“That can wait. If you want.”
I roll my head to the side on the mostly flat pillow. Denny is tugging at his hat and shifting on the plastic chair. He’s doing his best. I guess it’s all any of us can manage.
They release me with Denny, and he takes me home, driving long blocks to avoid the bumpy roads. I follow his suggestion and sleep for six blissful hours on the couch, with the Weather Channel on and a brand-new air conditioner humming the living room into an icy cocoon. He’d installed it after work while I was stealing the SawzAll out of the back of his truck. I almost cried with joy when I opened the front door.
The shower before I head to campus is almost worse than the fall, but it’s good to feel clean when I head outside. Denny wants to drive me, but I want to be on my own two feet. It’s a new start, and the sun on my face feels good.
I think about taking the bridge on First Street, but Paige is right. Whatever was on that bridge is done now. History isn’t eating us alive anymore. We cut it free and let it go and broke a few bones for good measure.
The guys finished the walkway while I was in the hospital, the rotten boards that dropped me through putting the whole team into high gear. Now it’s a procession of smooth, even planks under my feet. The locks are still there, glittering on the fence, but they don’t have anything left to say. Not to me.
I meet Paige on a bench in front of her dorm like she asked through Denny’s text messages. I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s definitely not this. She’s in a skirt and a white blouse, hair clipped back from her face, and she looks good. Well rested.
She’s also holding a paper bag with handles, like she’s been shopping. So, yeah, it’s different. This time last year, Paige stayed up all night researching skin infections because I cut myself on a fence and refused to get stitches. She doesn’t look like she’s been worrying like that.
“So, a shoulder specialist tomorrow?” she asks.
I nod. “Arm is still mostly a dead fish, so I must have ripped loose something I need.”
She angles her body toward me, fingers tracing the side of my face. I smacked the bridge there too on my way down, which I didn’t know until I saw my shiner in the mirror.
“You look terrible,” she says softly, but before I can feel bad about it or ask if I need to brace for another we-can’t-be-friends conversation, she kisses me.
It’s soft and brief, and she pulls back before I’m ready.
“Did you finish your presentation?” I ask.
“Yes.” She smiles. “It was good. We came in second. A couple of kids I never dreamed would be competitors had a working prototype for a new water-filtration method. Crazy.”
I laugh, and then groan. “Really need to not laugh. Hey, what happened to Gabriel? Is he all right?”
She nods. “I walked him home last night after Denny went with you. He actually helped me with the presentation, let me practice the conclusion.”
“He’s smart like you.”
She nods. “We snuck into the library. He looked up a couple of articles on other substances that have shown up in the river. All this stuff from the past keeps turning up in there.”
“Could he still hear his mom? After I fell?” I ask.
She frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s having a hard time with it—letting go of the past, I guess.”
“When are we ever ready to let go? The past feels safe.”
“Sometimes you have to push past safe to get to healthy.” Then she touches my face again, because she’s not talking about Gabriel. “That promise I made. It wasn’t good, Theo.”
“I don’t know. Your endless love doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It wasn’t love at all,” she says quite seriously. “It was desperation. And fear. I thought if I could keep you close enough, maybe no one would see what a mess I am. That fear is what haunted us.”
“I thought it was me,” I admit. “I was the one who made it so awful. I was the one who broke everything.”
“We were already broken. And for once, it was my issues that boiled over, not yours.”
“Paige, your issues didn’t bust me through rotten wood into the river.”
“Maybe not, but any power that bridge has is given to it. We give it the power. The lock is where it starts, but what’s in us does the rest.”
She turns and pulls a pair of shoes out of her bag, tall brown sandals with a silver strap. They’re a little dirty. Then she pulls out a twisted-up silver earring, and I tilt my head.
“If these are get-well presents, I’m not sure they’ll fit.”
Another grin from Paige, but this one doesn’t last. “I thought these shoes were mine. The ones I wore to the picnic.”
I glance at them, and then I shake my head. “Yours had gold straps. I remember.”
“I also wear an 8,” she says, pointing at the faded 9 on one heel. “I also remember that the earrings I lost that night, the ones Dad brought me from Spain, had three hoops. These have two. They aren’t mine. And you don’t even know about the antibacterial gel I found. It was the same brand for the party and I was sure you’d left it. Convinced. But it was my friend Elise’s. She’d worn my sweatshirt before returning it and left it in the pocket.”
“I’m not following.”
She frowns. “The things I thought I found from the party? I was wrong. They dredged up bad memories. It was all in my head.”
“What happened on that bridge wasn’t all in your head, Paige. That purse wasn’t your head. That thing—it was crawling underneath us.”
“I know it was. And somehow I know it came from my head. All this time, I’ve been trying to deny all my anxiety. Over you. Over my parents. Over everything. I buried it as deep as I could, but it came out. It will still come out if I don’t deal with it.”
“The bridge is fixed,” I say. “I walked over it today, and I’m telling you that whatever happened there is finished. It’s finished with us, at least.”
“But I’m not,” she says. “I’m not finished.”
She pushes at the shoes with the tips of her fingers.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She smiles at me, wavy hair framing her heart-shaped face. “Not yet I’m not.”
My chest tightens before I speak again. “What about us? Are we okay?”
“I have no idea what we are. I guess we’ll have to learn as we go.”
I grin even though it hurts. “Good thing I like unpredictable.”
She keeps the bag and asks me to walk with her, and despite my entire body hurting, I’m thrilled to do it. We stop at the entrance to a building labeled Student Services, and on the door, I read something about mental health.
God knows, I could always use the help, but I’m pretty sure I can’t just stroll in because I’m a friend of some girl on campus. Off my look, Paige shakes her head.
“It’s for me, not you. I just wanted you to walk over here with me.”
“I’d walk anywhere with you,” I say with a goofy grin. “I’d even fall off a bridge.”
She laughs, so I see them before she does, crossing toward us with worried, tight expressions. Her
mom is a taller, more freckled version of Paige, and her dad is solid and dark and scowling at me. She tenses a little when she spots them, but then forces out a breath, and to my shock, takes my hand.
A month ago—hell, maybe a day ago—I would have pulled away and headed for the hills. Today I stand straight and squeeze her fingers. I did a god-awful thing to Paige, but I’ve done good things too. Maybe I can learn to do more.
“A fresh new start, right?” she says as if she’s reminding herself.
She lets me go and goes toward them, bag in hand and shoulders back. She looks strong on her own, and it makes me smile.
I turn my head up the sky where the sun beats down, hot and bright. Her words play through my mind.
A fresh new start.
Sounds like just the thing I need.
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Acknowledgments
ADHD is not a play-pretend diagnosis. Like Theo, millions of teens live with ADHD, and it affects their social, academic, and emotional lives, and many are doing so with little support and under the pain of tremendous criticism.
I’d like to thank Dr. Richard Kern, who has provided years of insight and wisdom, and Leanne Ross, who is an inspiration to teachers to look beyond labels to see the potential within.
I had an unbeatable team supporting me through Theo and Paige’s journey. To Annette Pollert-Morgan, your insight and wisdom blow my mind. Thank you for helping me say what I mean. Thank you to the incredible Sourcebooks Fire team: Todd, Alex, Cassie, and my talented cover artists Nicole and Kerri. To Suzie Townsend and Sara Stricker and the team at New Leaf Literary. Being a New Leaf author is such a gift—I’m so grateful for your support.
To Romily Bernard, forever and always—nobody’s breaking up this band, baby. Also, to Jody Casella, who sometimes told me to go to bed, and who often told me different is good.
To my beautiful, brilliant OHYA writers, Lisa Klein, Julia Devillers, Margaret Peterson Haddix, Edith Pattou, and Erin Richards. Edie, your gentle spirit gave me courage to go for the supernatural! Erin, thank you for understanding that professional triumph and the stomach flu can produce similar symptoms. Also, thanks to Tim for taking a panicky call on a Saturday.
To Janey and Rick, thank you for making me feel so welcome in your home and lives. And to the many other authors and friends who’ve been especially supportive this year: Leigh Anne Tooke, Liz Deskins, David Weaver, Robin Gianna, Sheri Adkins, Mindee Arnett, (for emails that kept my chin up), Mindy McGinnis (for working writer advice), Kurt Dinan (who encouraged me when I needed it), and Kristen Simmons (who invited me to Dayton and dinner).
Thank you to God for giving me the strength to write this book in a whirlwind year. With You, all things are possible.
And thank you to my incredible family, David, Ian, Adrienne, and Lydia. Without you there would be no Starbucks deliveries or Timbits breakfasts or much-needed documentary breaks. Ian, Adrienne, and Lydia: your love and laughter fuels every page. I love you for being exactly who you are, and I am so lucky to be your mom.
About the Author
A lifelong Ohioan, Natalie D. Richards spent many years applying her writing skills to stunningly boring business documents. Fortunately, she realized she’s much better at making things up and has been writing for teens ever since. A champion of aspiring authors, Richards is a frequent speaker at schools, libraries, and writing groups. She lives in Ohio with a Yeti and a Wookie (her dogs) and her wonderful husband and children. We All Fall Down is her fifth novel.
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Chapter 1
No one said anything about rain in the brochures.
Not that there were brochures. There was a handwritten sign-up sheet in the cafeteria, followed by permission slips recycled from ghosts of field trips past. I’m not really sure why I was expecting a world-class production. Must be the director in me.
I stumble under the weight of my pack, sloshing through a puddle. Cold water oozes through my boots and socks. So much for Mr. Walker’s plastic ponchos keeping us dry. I guess after six straight hours of rain, dry is relative anyway.
“I hope you packed your dirty clothes in the plastic bags I handed out last night,” Mr. Walker booms from the front of the line. “They might stink, but they’ll be dry.”
The other girls cringe a little at the idea—all except Ms. Brighton, our younger, cooler teacher guide. She’s very Zen about these things, nodding along in her crystal earrings and mud-dyed Gaia Mother T-shirt.
I’m in the last half of the group, behind Jude with his ever-present earbuds and imperious gaze. Since I’m five-two, the back of his poncho is about all I can see, but it’s better than looking at Lucas.
Anything’s better than looking at Lucas.
Even behind me, I can feel him. Looming. Everyone’s tall measured against me, but Lucas is ridiculous. He towers. If there were actually a sun to be found in this Appalachian monsoon, his shoulders would cast a shadow you could hide two of me in. I have no idea what you have to eat to grow like that. Corn? Eggs? Small children?
I trudge onward, slowing to shift my backpack. The right strap is digging a painful trench into my shoulder, and I can’t find a way to move it. My poncho slips with the effort, and a river of icy water slithers down my back.
“Holy crap!” I say, arching in a futile effort to escape.
“Keep moving, Spielberg,” Lucas says behind me.
I grit my teeth and walk on. If I respond, I might have to look at him, and I’ve worked very hard not to do that. I’ve not looked for sixty-two days. It’s a pretty good track record. I’m not going to wreck it just because he ended up on my Senior Life Experience Mission. At the last possible minute, no less.
“Is this really top speed for you?” he asks, sounding like he’s on the verge of a laugh.
I stare at the line of backpacks and ponchos ahead of me, resisting the urge to snap back at him. I need to be the bigger person here. It’s not like I don’t know why he’s picking at me.
“Still sticking with the silent treatment?” he asks. “Gotta give it to you, you’re committed. Slow-moving as shit but committed.”
OK, I’m bigger person-ed out.
I whirl around. I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t—but the words blurt out. “Newsflash, Lucas! I’m moving as fast as I can. Not all of us are loping around with giraffe legs like you, so if you’re in such a rush, feel free to move ahead.”
He steps closer, and it happens. I see him. Really see him.
Fricking crap.
He tilts his head until his face is visible inside his plastic hood. How does he do it? He’s just as wet and miserable as the rest of us, but somehow, he’s owning the hell out of a poncho that makes me look like I need a zip tie and a trip to the curb.
I should walk away, at least look away. Lucas is all sharp lines and hooded eyes, and I should have learned my lesson. Because standing here brings me right back to that night on the porch. My ears go buzzy with the memory of crickets singing and the backdrop of the cast party inside. My face tingles because I remember other things too—his scratchy jaw and soft mouth and my heart beating faster than it ever should.
My gaze drifts to his smirk and lead pools in my stomach. That’s what I’m really mad about. It’s not his teasing or the rain or anything else. It’s the fact that he turns me into the same fluttery mess I was all summer. He still turns me into my mother, and I hate it.
I try to move away, but he catches the edge of my poncho—keeps me facing him. “Huh.”
I cross my arms. “Huh, what?”
“Look who suddenly remembers me,” he says softly.
“Don’t.”
“I won’t,” he says, though his grin needs a parental advisory label. “I didn’t then, did—”
; Lightning flashes, bright enough that we both jerk.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississ—
The sound that follows is like the sky being torn in two. It ends with a bone-deep rumble that rattles the ground and bunches my spine. I close my eyes and take a breath, yoga-slow. It doesn’t cleanse anything, so I try another.
Across from me, Lucas is searching the sky. I take the opportunity to turn and bolt ahead on the trail. Not that there’s anywhere to go. Away from him is good enough.
I plow into Jude’s back in my eagerness to escape. He spares me one millisecond of irritation, and then he’s back to pretending we’re all part of the scenery.
The trail widens here, or maybe the forest is less dense. Who knows? It gives me enough room to move past Jude until I’m next to Emily, my tent mate for the last two nights.
Emily looks back at me—a sparkle of dark eyes under her poncho—and her mouth twitches. Is she smiling at me? That’s new.
“Some trip, right?” I ask.
She ducks her head. And that’s as close to a conversation as we’ve gotten. I sigh. We have three more days of awkwardness in the woods. Three. More. Days.
“Hold up.” Mr. Walker is ultra-alert. “Everybody stay right here. Don’t move.”
Our single file line separates, students clustering into a group. The rain is a touch lighter now, and everything’s hazy and foggy. Mr. Walker clomps ahead while we wait. I roll my achy shoulders and try to ignore how damp and sticky I am under my trash bag poncho.
I can’t see much, but it wouldn’t matter if I could. We all look alike. I mean, Lucas is an easy spot, towering six inches over everyone here. Mr. Walker would stand out too if he hadn’t walked off—he’s the only one with an actual rain jacket, plus he’s got that bright-yellow plastic-sleeve-protected GPS strapped to his arm. I can’t see where he went though. Being short offers few advantages.
“What’s going on?” Madison asks, turning to touch Lucas’s arm for the fiftieth time this hour. “Can you see anything, Lucas?”