The Upside of Falling

One more year, I told myself as another hand shot into the air.
“I disagree with that,” Jenny McHenry said. The color of her cheerleading
uniform matched Brett’s varsity jacket. “Love’s still worth the risk, even if it can
lead to heartbreak.” Students were nodding. Miss Copper was too.
“It wasn’t just heartbreak,” I added. “Romeo and Juliet died.”
“They died for each other,” another student chimed in.
“And if they didn’t, the book still would have ended before showing them
grow apart. Love is temporary. It’s not some magical cure. That’s what
Shakespeare was trying to show. That’s why they died, because they were naïve
enough to think their love could end a war.”
“It’s easy for you to say that,” Jenny said.
The class fell silent.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Love. It’s easy to ridicule it when you’ve never felt it.”
Her words kind of hit me like a punch to the throat. I knew she probably
didn’t mean anything by them. But the thing was, Jenny and I used to be best
friends back in freshman year, when we were both inexperienced fourteen-year-
old girls going through the motions. Until summer flew by, sophomore year
started, and Jenny got her braces off, grew a few inches (so did other parts of her
body), and had no interest in being friends. All of a sudden she was popular. She
joined the cheerleading squad and racked up a trail of heartbreaks.
After that she started acting all self-righteous, giving out love advice and
acting completely condescending that I was single. Like we hadn’t been in the
same boat a few months ago. Like having a boyfriend made her an expert in all
things romance. Puh-lease.
It was bearable at first but now, two years later? It was annoying.
Beyond annoying.
Anyway, Jenny didn’t know the details of my parents’ divorce. She knew my
dad wasn’t around—that much was easy to figure out after spending time at my
house. But I never talked to her about it. And she never asked. So her words

---

weren’t some well-planned insult that knew exactly how low to strike. They
were a coincidence. A coincidence that still hurt.
I raised my hand again. “You don’t have to be in love to understand it.”
“I think you do.” Jenny glanced over her shoulder, pointing at the book on
my desk. “Books are one thing. But real feelings are different. It’s not the same.”
I covered the book quickly with my notepad.
Miss Copper cleared her throat, said, “That’s enough, Jennifer,” and passed
around a handout, announcing that the rest of the period would be for silent
work. She shot me a look when she said “silent” that had me sinking down in my
chair.
For the rest of the class, I scribbled down halfhearted answers, all the while
replaying what Jenny said in my mind. She was wrong. I knew a lot about love. I
knew there were two kinds: 1) real love and 2) fictional love. The real kind was
what I thought my parents had, pre-divorce. The fictional kind was what I’d
preferred since.
I shook my head, imagining the negative thoughts tumbling out of my ears,
and focused on the worksheet. I glanced up once before the period ended and
found Brett looking at me. He had this look on his face like he could read my
mind. Or worse, my heart. There was something about it that had me breathing a
sigh of relief when the bell rang.
Like I said, this day was heading down a one-way street to being
forgotten . . .
Until it wasn’t.
It happened when I was standing at my locker, grabbing my biology
textbook. That was when a shadow loomed over me.
“Two years later and you’re still obsessed with these books.” Jenny grabbed
If I’m Yours from my arms. She looked at the cover and snorted. “Why is he
shirtless? And why are her boobs bigger than her head?”
I grabbed the book and tucked it back under my arm protectively.
“Don’t you find these romance books unrealistic?” she continued.
I pretended to be looking for something in my locker. “It’s part of what
makes them enjoyable.”
“No wonder you were being so pessimistic back in class. If this is what you
read, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”
A few boyfriends later and she thought she was a love guru, bestowing her
knowledge on inexperienced mortals such as me. How gracious.
I wondered if she’d still be saying this if she knew about the divorce. If she
knew I had a reason for being a pessimistic downer. If she knew what it felt like
to love someone and have them walk out on you.

---

“I have to get to class, Jen. Can you save the unwanted therapy session for
tomorrow?”
Jenny, not listening, tucked her curls behind her ears and said, “Don’t your
parents ever ask you about it?”
I froze. It was that word. Parents. The plural. The assumption that there were
two of them.
“Ask me about what?”
“Relationships. I remember your mom used to always talk to us about love
back in freshman year. Remember? She always had hearts in her eyes, waiting
for one of us to have a crush or something. I wish she could see me now. Huh?”
And, oh my gosh, it was just so annoying. Like what was wrong with being
single? What was wrong with not having someone’s hand to hold and whatever
else couples do? Why couldn’t a seventeen-year-old just be on her own and
everyone be okay with that? Without expecting her to fall in love at any given
moment?
I don’t know what had these next words spilling from my lips so effortlessly.
Maybe it was the hurt I still felt over Jenny choosing popularity over me. Maybe
it was the years of her snarky comments relating to my lack of relationships. Or
maybe it was to protect these books I clung to like a lifeline, the only reminder
that some sort of love could exist.
Whichever it was, I found myself saying, “My mom doesn’t have to pester
me about being in a relationship because I’m in one.”
I waited for the ground to begin to shake. For the walls to cave and the
ceiling to follow until we were standing in a pile of rubble and LIAR was burned
into my forehead. I waited for my former best friend to point out that I was
lying. Instead her mouth fell open a little, and I realized how different she looked
from the fifteen-year-old girl I used to know.
“Who is it?” she asked, seeming genuinely interested.
My brain scrambled for something to say. A name. A person. Anything. My
palms were sweating and every fictional character I’d read about seemed to
vanish from my thoughts.
Right when I was about to give up, I felt an arm wrap around my waist. Felt
fingers loop through mine.
I looked up to find Brett’s eyes. He was smiling.
“Hey, you,” he said, staring right at me.
I felt like I had just woken up from a nap and missed the past few minutes of
my life.
“Hi,” I said slowly, staring at his hand in mine. How did that get there?
Brett was giving me this look, like c’mon, Becca, get with it.

---

Jenny was glancing between the two of us, looking as confused as I felt. Her
eyes zeroed in on Brett’s arm on my waist and she said, “You guys are dating?”
Right when I was about to say no, we were not, because that would be
completely ridiculous, Brett said, and quite effortlessly, may I add, “Just for a
few months now. Since summer break. Right?” He looked down at me, waiting.
At this point I was yelling at my brain to send those signals to my mouth that
made me, you know, speak.
I managed a weak nod.
“We wanted to keep it private,” Brett continued, smiling like he was
auditioning for a role in a Hollywood film.
Jenny stared. My hands shook. And Brett just stood there, looking as calm as
water while my insides were a complete tsunami.
“There’s no way you two are dating.”
The way she said it was so confident, so cruel. And that hurt the most.
Because why was that unbelievable? Then all I could remember was how it felt
the first day of sophomore year when I saw Jenny in the halls. When I walked to
her locker, excited to tell her about summer break, and she looked at me and
laughed. “Do I know you?” she had said before turning back to her new friends.
Was that what it was? The difference in social groups? Brett couldn’t be
interested in a girl who sits against trees and reads. No. He had to date someone
of equal social status. Right? Someone popular. Someone like Jenny.
Brett shrugged, seeming unfazed by the entire situation, as if this was a part
of his regular daily routine. Like if you snuck a glance at his agenda it’d say
“pretend to date Becca Hart at ten before heading over to second period.” Easy-
peasy.
“Is this, like, some act for drama class?” Jenny continued.
“It’s not an act,” I said, holding his hand tighter because, why not? Which
may have backfired a little because Jenny said, “Prove it.”
Then Brett stepped in front of me. His back was to Jenny and his hands were
on my cheeks. “Kiss me back,” he whispered when his face was an inch from
mine.
And then it felt like my heart was tumbling down, down, down. All the way
until it hit the center of the earth. And, wow, maybe those books were kind of
onto something about this whole kissing-making-time-stop thing because with
Brett’s lips on mine, it kind of felt that way.

---

Brett
MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT
I probably shouldn’t have done that.
Becca’s arms were still around my neck, and she was staring up at me with
these wide, alert eyes. From this close, I could see the freckles on her nose, and
her hair looked like a massive blur, pushed behind her ears like tangles of
sunshine.
I never go around kissing strangers. I didn’t really go around kissing anyone.
I could feel Jenny watching us the entire time but when I turned around, she
was gone, halfway down the hallway.
I turned back to Becca. “So,” I began. “You okay?”
She coughed. Her eyes seemed to land on every spot in the hallway except
for my face. “Yeah,” she said.
I leaned against the locker, trying to not laugh. “You know, that kiss wasn’t
half bad.”
At that, her eyes finally landed on mine. Her cheeks turned red. The color
was swallowing up her freckles. She picked up her bag off the floor, holding a
book in the crook of her arm.
“I need to get to third period,” she said.
“It’s second period.”
“That’s what I said.”
She took off down the hall. If she walked any faster, she’d be sprinting.
Not the best reaction to a first kiss, for the girl to run away from you.
The sun was still high in the sky when school let out. I met Jeff, my closest
friend on the team, at my car and we drove back to my house. My parents
weren’t home. My dad had taken the day off work to go to some event with my
mom. They were always going to events, waving checks around and making a
name for themselves in our small town. My dad’s money was part of the reason

---

our football team was the best in the state. It bought us new gear every few
months and kept the field in perfect shape.
My dad was proud of our team. More proud of me. He played football in
high school too. Team captain. His talent earned him a full scholarship to Ohio
State, but then my mom got pregnant with me during senior year. My dad gave
up football to stay home with her and raise me. That’s why this team meant so
much to him, and to me. I was continuing the dream he never had the chance to
live out.
My mom loved all the perks marriage gave her. The social standing. The
money. The clothes her friends envied and the celebrity status her last name
carried. My parents never thought they’d be so wealthy after getting pregnant at
eighteen. But my dad went back to college after I was born and got a degree in
finance. Now he’s the CFO of United Suites, a hotel chain throughout the
country. He travels a lot for work. My mom doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t
complain. The money’s enough to keep everyone happy, even when he’s gone
for weeks. He always comes back for my football games, though. He’s never
missed one.
Jeff and I were in the backyard, throwing the football back and forth.
“There’s no off time if you want to be the best” was what my dad always said. It
replayed in my head like a mantra every day, reminding me not to let him down.
I was repeating it when Jeff threw the football. I jumped for it and missed.
“You’ve had a girlfriend for a day and it’s already ruining your game!” he
called. Looked like the news traveled fast around school.
I picked up the ball and threw it back. A perfect spiral. “Still better than
yours!” It slammed into his chest and he fell backward on the grass, laughing. I
jogged over and tossed him a water bottle.
“When did that start?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your”—he waved his hand around—“relationship.”
“Oh. End of summer.” The words came out quickly. I hadn’t even decided if
I was going to go along with this relationship yet. Girlfriends weren’t my thing.
Neither was high school drama.
“And you didn’t think to tell me or the team?”
I shrugged. “You know how people talk at school. I don’t want my
relationship being gossiped about.”
“Everyone is already talking about you,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, for carrying the team to finals,” I teased, slapping his shoulder. “Not
for who I date.”
Truth was, I’d never dated in high school. There were girls, crushes here and

---

there, but it never turned into anything more. I was always so focused on
football, keeping my head in the game to make my parents proud, that I never
had time for dating. I wasn’t into the whole one-night thing like the other guys
on the team. I wanted the kind of love my parents had—real love—but I wasn’t
in any rush to find it.
The gate opened then and my parents walked into the backyard, hand in
hand, looking way too dressed up to be standing beside Jeff and me, drenched in
sweat. My mom’s heels were sinking into the grass with every step.
“Dad!” I grabbed the football and jumped up. “We were just taking a quick
break. Wanna join?”
He slapped my shoulder. My mom was smiling, gazing between the two of
us.
“Next time,” he said.
“Your dad has to pack, Brett. He’s leaving tonight for New York,” said
Mom.
“But the first game of the season is on Friday. You can’t miss it.” I hated
sounding like a whiny five-year-old, but my dad never missed a game.
“My flight lands Friday morning. I’ll be there.”
I smiled, breathing again, and watched them walk back inside. I never cared
for the money or the status. I loved my parents and our family. The rest was a
bonus.
Jeff was looking up at me oddly.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I should go. My mom needs me home to
babysit before she leaves for the night shift.”
I nodded, throwing him the keys to my car. “Take it.”
“Brett—”
“Take it,” I insisted. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow before school.”
He smiled, spinning the keys around his finger. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you
tomorrow.”
I headed back inside. My mom was in the kitchen, cutting up carrots and
something green and leafy. She tossed it all in the blender, poured it into a cup,
and slid it across the counter.
“Thanks.” I drank all of it, trying not to breathe in the smell. “You look
different.”
She fluffed out her hair. “I dyed it a shade darker this morning. Your father
thought it would look nice.”
I nodded, unquestioning.
“We’re leaving for the airport in an hour if you want to come.”

---

I did . . . but I needed some time to think over what happened today in the
hall. I shook my head. “Tell me when you’re leaving so I can say bye to Dad.”
My mom nodded, then walked around the counter and wrapped me in her
arms. She was tiny, barely five feet tall. My dad always said her personality was
bigger than her. I never really understood that, though. She wasn’t very talkative,
unless they were around other people. My mom was quiet. Even her smiles
seemed to hide secrets.
“Everything okay, Mom?”
“Everything is great. Go study.”
I headed upstairs, grabbed my laptop, and searched for Becca’s online
profile. It came up instantly and I sent her a friend request. She had under one
hundred friends. Okaaaay. All her interests were book-related—bookstores,
authors, fan accounts. Her display picture was her and a girl with brown hair
smiling together in a kitchen. They were baking, with flour and frosting on their
faces. I kept scrolling. Senior at Eastwood High School, Crestmont, Georgia,
USA. I scrolled some more; there were hardly any posts. There! Four months
ago, someone asked for her cell number for a group project. I typed it into my
phone and hit save. I told myself it wasn’t really creepy, since we’d already
kissed. Right?
I was staring at my phone, contemplating calling her, when my bedroom
door opened and my dad walked in. “We’re about to leave,” he said, walking to
the edge of my bed. “Are you talking to a girl?”
I put my phone down. “No. No girl.”
“You know,” he said, sitting down, “your mother and I met when we were
your age. Everyone told us we wouldn’t beat the odds, getting married so young,
but look at us. We’re here. We’ve got you, a great life, and enough money to
give you a good future.”
I smiled. “I know, Dad.” He always went off like this, talking about the past.
If there was one thing my parents were proud of aside from me, it was their
money. Their well-earned lifestyle, as they liked to call it.
“Playing college ball is going to be your priority once you graduate, Brett.
Right now, in high school? This is your prime. You need to get out there. I love
your mom, but I think we both have regrets about high school and what we
missed out on.”
I was confused and a little uncomfortable. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, you’ll have the time to settle down when you’re older. You
should be dating now, playing ball. You’ve never brought a girl home. . . .” My
father’s voice trailed off, waiting for me to correct him. He was right. I never
had.

---

“Are you dating anyone right now?” he continued. “Any girl you’re
interested in?”
The problem with having a dad you idolized was that you never wanted to let
him down. Every test I aced, touchdown I scored—my dad bragged about all of
them. My accomplishments were his accomplishments. What he couldn’t do in
high school was what he expected me to do in high school. So when he asked if
there was a girl, saying yes technically wouldn’t be a lie. . . .
I grabbed my phone and pulled up Becca’s profile again.
“Her name’s Becca,” I said, showing him the screen. He took his glasses off
and squinted his eyes against the light.
He slapped my shoulder. “When do we get to meet her?”
“When you get back from your trip,” I said.
My dad said he was proud of me before he left, rolling his suitcase behind
him. I fell back on my bed and groaned. Within a five-minute conversation I’d
manage to dig this shallow, fake-girlfriend-sized hole into a full-out grave. There
was only one thing to do now: fully commit.
I grabbed my phone and texted Becca’s number. Hey, it’s your boyfriend, I
typed. Need a ride to school tomorrow? For fake-dating purposes, I added last
minute. Then a plain smiley face. No wink. Too creepy.
She responded instantly.