KINDER
Today Mr. Laneway asked me how I was doing and it turned out that I was okay, and I told him so. I think I was more surprised to say it than he was to hear it.
He suggested that I should consider taking an elective next year for creative writing.
I was like, “Really?”
He said, “You bet.”
Problem is I’d have to miss lunch. That’s my favorite part of the school day, the only time you can relax a little. When you give up lunch to take an elective, you have to grab snacks while you’re walking down the halls. I’ve seen those people, the lunch-missers, and they are scuttering around like squirrels munching on nuts. Hyper-achievers. That didn’t seem like me.
At the same time: Cool, Mr. Laneway likes my writing. I’ve showed him bits and pieces of my journal. Not everything, but some of it.
He says I have talent.
“More than talent,” he said, “you have heart. It shows in your writing.”
My jaw hit the floor. I probably stood there, shoulders forward and arms dangling, Neanderthal-like. Grunted, “Ugh?”
Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe it is me after all.
This year I’ve learned to like writing, liking the person I become when I write.
The feeling I got was more important than what I actually (really-really) wrote.
Right here—on the blank white page—I’m beginning to see the real me. Does that sound like I think I’m all that? Because I so don’t. But I do think that writing things down has helped me see what I really feel. Does that even make sense?
(Doubts, uncertainties. Carry on!)
It’s hard to describe, but I don’t know what I think until I read my words on the page. I read them back and sometimes I’m like, “Whoa, dude’s pissed.”
I might keep going with the writing thing. Who knows? Try to read more, think more—and by that I mean think more of my own thoughts, not a bunch of ideas borrowed from everybody else. My own shit, good or bad.
I grew up thinking that deep down inside me there waited the real boy, huddled in a corner. And if I just chip-chip-chipped away at it, it would be finally revealed: the true me. Like a sculpture made from stone.
Now I think the opposite might be true. We create ourselves out of nothingness, we are flesh and blood only. Sticks and stones and raspberry jam. The real boy is the person I create through my actions. My deeds and my words. The choices I make.
I am Sam.
Sam I am.
The real me is what I do, how I treat you …
And you …
And you …
Um. I’ll have to puzzle this one out another day. Getting fuzzy, brain’s a little scrambled today (like eggs), and there’s a zombie apocalypse on television calling my name.
I’m saying only this:
I’ll be kinder
Tomorrow.
MR. SMOOTHIE
I’m just about at the end of this journal, a few more pages to go. I’ll buy a new one soon and start fresh. But before I close this book, bury it in my dresser, I’ve got a couple more things to say.
I bumped into Athena at the mall.
Let me say it up front, I’m not a mall guy. My basic policy is, I’d rather not. So if I’m there, it’s usually because I got dragged by my mother, or to catch a movie at the Cine 18 with some friends. But if I do go, it’s mandatory that I stop for a mango shake at Mr. Smoothie in the food court. I’m addicted to that liquid.
I was with Demarcus and Jeff. We were seated around a table, our trays knocking around like bumper cars. Those guys snarfed burritos. I was happy with my awesome, extra-large mango shake.
Then D said, “Look, there’s Athena Luiken. I haven’t seen her since she left school last month. She cut her hair wicked short.”
I turned and there she was, sitting on the other side of the food court. She looked different now, paler, thinner, more fragile.
D snorted. “She probably joined the witness protection program. Athena doesn’t exist anymore.”
It shook me up, sitting there listening to the bogus hum of their voices. As if they knew anything. It all came rushing back. All the old feelings, images of Morgan, and my anger. After a few numb minutes, my heart contracting like a fist, I saw that Athena and her mother had gathered up their packages and were preparing to leave.
“Hold on a sec,” I told Jeff and D. I stood with my tray in hand.
“Where you going?” Demarcus asked.
“I’ll be right back,” I explained, not really explaining at all.
I bypassed the nearest trash can, sailed through a sea of tables, and drifted into Athena’s path.
Even at that moment, I didn’t know what I would say, or if I’d even say anything. I was tempted to turn away, not acknowledge her. Why was I even waiting here? What was it D said? Athena doesn’t exist anymore.
I stood there watching, waiting, holding the stupid tray as if it were a sacrificial offering. They came closer, walking side by side. The ghost who used to be Athena listened as her mother talked.
That’s when Athena’s eyes glanced in my direction. I saw her see me. Something terrible crossed her face, like a dark wind crossing over tall grass. It was a look I’d seen many times before on Morgan’s face as she walked down the hallways of school.
Right at that moment, I knew Athena wished she could disappear. Maybe in the same way that Morgan had wished she could disappear.
What did I want from her, after all this time?
I didn’t know.
I still don’t think I’ll ever understand it.
I remembered all those times in school when I looked up and Morgan was suddenly there. How I’d always look away. How I never said a word. How I failed her.
And now here came Athena Luikin, a shopping bag pressed against her chest, her head down, shoulders hunched, trying to appear invisible.
I remembered The Bell Jar. “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead” was a line that Morgan had underlined in red.
“Hi,” I said.
The word came out dry and brittle, like a dead leaf crumbled in someone’s hand.
Athena looked up, startled. She almost smiled, nodded once, and kept walking.
She didn’t apologize.
I didn’t expect her to.
After all, neither did I.
I see you.
It wasn’t forgiveness exactly, but it was the best I could do.
ONE LAST THING
I had one last thing to do.
I went to Morgan’s page online. It was still up, a forgotten site in cyberspace, like a dusty attic in a big house.
I sent an e-mail to the host, explained things as best I could, and requested they shut it down. I scrolled to the beginning and read all the way through. Every anonymous comment.
No one was responsible, yet our fingerprints stained every word.
Die, die, die.
No one cares.
Fat ugly beast.
I opened a new comment box and wrote:
You did not die.
I still see your passing light
In the fireflies
That flicker and fade
Outside my window
In the invincible summer night.
I guess I will remember
Everything.
—your friend, Sam Proctor
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Preller is the author of the popular Jigsaw Jones mystery books, which have sold more than 10 million copies since 1998. He is also the author of Bystander, named a 2009 Junior Library Guild Selection, Six Innings, an ALA Notable Book, and Mighty Casey, his own twist on the classic poem, “Casey at the Bat.” In addition to writing full-time, Preller plays in a men’s hardball league and coaches Little League. He compares coaching kids to “trying to hold the attention of a herd of earthworms.” He lives in Delmar, New York with his wife, three children, cats and dog. You can sign up fo
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
Not Like Me
Cast Out
Slogans on Shirts
One Spectacular Fact
The Game
Super Awkward
The First Time
Somebody Else
The Shrine
What’s Done is Done
Blank
Filling in the Blanks
People Talking
Still Nothing
Accident
The Tower Gets Tagged
Alone, Together
Dance Lessons
I See Her Flying without Wings
The Goddess
Could Have Said
The Library
About Me
I Looked Away
Not Me
“Go,” She Said
I was It
Somebody Laughed
Sorry
The Great Auk
The Water Tower
The Water Tower Again
Sorry
One Truth
The Beast
The Sister
Doubts
Dad’s Gun
Somebody’s Fingerprint
She Liked Baths
Meeting with Laneway
Clear All
Groundhog Life
Gotta Get Going
She Quit Dance
That Time I Kind of Tried
Something
Nothing
Satisfaction Guaranteed
The Refusal
Handled
The Fallout
Identity
Hours Seem Long
Good Dog
Laneway, Revisited
Baby Steps
Spring
Knew Her
Summer Meeting
Things She Said
The Day I Heard the News …
The Gift
Dad Says
Public Speaking
Face Meets Fist
I Knocked
Things I Like
Words
Reading
You Are
The Apology
Oh Why
Where Dreams Come True
I Hate the World
The Only One
In the Stairwell
The Note
Jewelry Store
The Last Time I saw Morgan
Kinder
Mr. Smoothie
One Last Thing
About the Author
Copyright
A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
An Imprint of Macmillan
THE FALL. Copyright © 2015 by James Preller. All rights reserved. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Preller, James.
The fall / James Preller. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: In writing in his journal about middle-school classmate Morgan Mallen’s suicide from bullying, Sam explores whether he was a friend, or one of the bullies who ignored her at school and tormented her online.
ISBN 978-0-312-64301-0 (hardback) — ISBN 978-1-250-06647-3 (e-book)
[1. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. 2. Suicide—Fiction. 3. Bullies—Fiction. 4. Cyberbullying—Fiction. 5. Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.P915Fal 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2015002566
Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
First Edition: 2015
eISBN 9781250066473
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