Falling Under Read Online Free PDF Page A

princi- pal tells you to write a letter to Clarissa saying you are sorry. You grip the pencil, stare at the paper. Nothing comes out at first. Then you write:

    Dear Clarissa,
    Mrs. Sedgwick says i have to say sorry to you but you shud say sorry to me too for saying i dont have a dad. i have a dad and his name is HENRY and he is a very nice dad. i dont think it is good to say that to someone just be- cause you have lots of friends and cloths. and that is why i got mad and had a fight with you
    MARA LINDSEY FOSTER
    Ps. i also have a Mom in case you wonderd and her name is CAROL so dont say i dont have a Mom too
    Ps again. i heard Ontario Place stinks and has lots of seeguls pooping. I hop they poop on you.

    You know it’s not the letter they want, and you’re not sure about some of the words. You’re about to cross out the part about the seagulls pooping when the nurse comes back in and takes the letter from you.
    She takes you to Principal Sedgwick’s office and makes you sit in the foyer. You’re in bigger trouble now, because poop is a bad word and everybody thinks Clarissa is such a perfect girl, so nobody except you would like to see birds pooping on her.
    Your knee is going to have a big gross scab. But if you stay awake late enough, Mommy will be home and you can show
    it to her and maybe she will rub the back of your neck with her hand and say “poor baby” and kiss it better. Maybe she will. Maybe you could get into more fights and then Mommy will feel sad and kiss you and let you come to work with her instead of sending you to school where nobody likes you.
    You hear a sound like laughing and then voices behind the principal’s door. Someone says your name, and then they stop laughing. You hear the words “broken home.”
    “You have to understand, she’s from a broken home.” “Shh.”
    The nurse comes out and checks your Band-Aids one more time, then Principal Sedgwick brings you into her office.
    “Mara, are you all right?” “Yes.”
    “Are you... are things okay at home?” You look at your shoes. “Yes, fine.”
    For the rest of the day you hear the words “broken home” in your head. You start to worry. When you get to your house, you stand in front of it and look for cracks. There are none. You take out your key and go inside. You check the walls, turn on all the lights and the water, inspect the ceil- ings. Nothing.
    You sit at the kitchen table and think about the house. With all the fighting and breaking of doors off their hinges, and Mommy and Daddy hating each other, you’re surprised something isn’t broken. Then you think of Mommy telling you what a shitty life it is and Daddy downtown on his couch, staring into space.
    Suddenly you understand what the broken part is. There is a crack in your house, a crack from top to bottom. And it runs straight through the middle of you.
    6
    6 a.m.: showered, dressed, caffeinated, etc. Acrylics ready. Butt on chair. Blank canvas. Yuck.
    I’ve looked at a blank canvas hundreds of times, so my stomach shouldn’t be in knots. All I have to do is choose: circles, squares, or rectangles? It’s not like the future of the world hinges on my choice.
    Right. Exactly.
    I shut my eyes and see what comes. A happy face with big sweet eyes, and corkscrew curls springing from its head. Hugo.
    I open my eyes to banish the image, but it won’t go. It winks.
    “Get lost, I don’t do faces.” I haven’t done any kind of portrait since my last Life Drawing class in school, actually. And besides, last night is better forgotten. Much better.
    I blink a few times and imagine a square. Perfect. Large, symmetrical, clean.
    I begin. And if I’m painting over possibility, too bad. Squares calm me. Shapes with logic, with beginnings, mid- dles and ends, soothe me. They numb my mind.
    4 p.m.: check nonexistent voice mail. 5 p.m.: eat.
p.m.: pace.
p.m.: stare into space.
    9 p.m.: ache to see Hugo again. 10 p.m.: put on coat.
    10:01: take off coat.
    10:30: get ready