The Girl Who Fell Read Online Free Page A

take lightly. After devouring an enormous banana split at Fernalds, we head home where she tells me to shower and head to bed. “Like Coach said, you need your rest.”
    I oblige her the shower, but I spend half the night texting Karen and some of the other players. We’re going to State and sleep is the last thing any of us seem capable of.

Chapter 3
    The following night I go to my dresser and grab the woolen socks that are standard armor for a fall party in New Hampshire. Only days ago I would rage against the idea of attending yet another lame party at Ronnie Waxman’s, but tonight feels different.
    My full-color Boston College catalog sits on my desk. I trace my finger along its spine. Like always, I imagine I’m the girl on the cover, walking the brick path to the arched entrance of an academic hall, books rested on her hip, the photographer catching her on an up-step so that she looks like she’s floating. Soon, I think. Soon.
    Except . . . except . . .
    Lately I’ve had a harder time imagining I can really be that girl . . . self-doubt Lizzie would attribute to parental issues.
    When I sit on my bed to fasten my boots, a soft knock sounds on my bedroom door. For a dumb second I wonder whether it’s Mom or Dad.
    â€œCome in,” I tell Mom.
    She opens the door slowly, Finn forcing his wide doggie body through the crack before pushing his soft head into my shins. I feel for his ears, that sweet spot that makes his back leg flick quick as a jackrabbit.
    â€œHey Sunshine. Do you want to join me for pizza before you leave?”
    Finn’s head lifts at the mention of pizza, and his enthusiasm tempts me down the hall.
    In the kitchen, Mom’s setting the table, still wearing her fitted navy suit. She’s a state prosecutor with meticulous grooming skills, never a hair or fact out of place. I wouldn’t want to go up against her in a courtroom. She’s fierce and forward in a way I could never own.
    She sets out knives and forks, folded napkins. She’s even poured two glasses of milk. Dad’s the eccentric artist type—writes graphic novels for a living—and is way more relaxed. When he lived here, we’d stand around the island eating pizza right out of the box, sneaking Finn the crusts. I take a seat, slide a slice onto my too-formal plate. Finn drools at my side.
    â€œI noticed the Boston College catalog in your room.” Mom wrestles a slice onto her plate. “When’s the application deadline?”
    â€œNot till January.” I don’t tell her that I’ve applied early decision. Fact one: I can’t wait until spring to know my academic fate. Fact two: I can’t have Mom checking in every day to see if I’ve heard. I play with the crust of my pizza, knowing Mom’s approach. She knows the application deadline but wants to talk about something important, something more important than Boston College. I imagine this is how she warms up her witnesses, gets them comfortable with some safe, calming chitchat.
    She blows on her slice. “I talked to your father.”
    She doesn’t even try to camouflage these explosive words. The words I have longed for and dreaded since my eighteenth birthday, the day Dad left with a note as his explanation: “Zephyr’s an adult now and there are things I need to do besides being a parent.” That wasn’t his whole message, but it’s the part I remember, the part that hurt most.
    I stare at Mom, unable to conjure a simple and . . .
    â€œWe’re going to meet for drinks. Tonight.”
    â€œYou’re meeting him? As in seeing him?” I want to scream, Where is he? Where has he been? How can he all of a sudden be in a place that’s close enough for you two to meet up? In my brain four months spreads itself out like a distance. Four months means equator far away. Off-our-radar far away.
    Mom’s fingers move to the