Breaking the Fall by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online Page B

move my neck.
    I was aware of Sky, rows away from me. When she bent to make a note in her three-ring, when she ran the point of the pencil back through her long hair, I knew it, even if I wasn’t looking.
    Mr. Milliken was, as usual, trying to sell us history by making it into something you could see on a tabloid: ANCIENT WEAPONS BLOW OFF ARMS AND LEGS . SEVERED HEAD FLIES THROUGH AIR LOOKING AND THINKING .
    It had been Mr. Milliken’s contention one day, in an attempt to stir his class awake, that a severed head could see and remember, and even gaze out in wonderment at its new condition. The Revolutionary War, under discussion, had segued into the French Revolution and the guillotine. Just as now the Civil War was about to drift into the Gatling gun. We were never going to make it to the H-bomb.
    I was a mess from the night before. Not a wreck; I can take punishment. My neck was stiff and I had the very slightest double vision. My mother’s medicine cabinet had furnished some Tylenol and some pills that I supposed were for menstrual cramps. I had taken them, too.
    To encourage Mr. Milliken, I leaned forward and drew a small explosion next to the pink line that marked the margin. I wanted him to think I was taking notes. I needed the distraction. I was seared inside with my new understanding: I was trapped.
    It was so painful that I tried to edge away from the word.
    But I could hear Jared’s laugh, kind and mocking at once. He knew, and I knew, the truth. I was a coward until I played the game again.
    â€œChain shot!” Mr. Milliken nearly shouted, desperate to keep our attention. “Howling, twisting chains cutting men in two.”
    The board read: Civil War. Causes. Armaments . But what swept Mr. Milliken was the great hunger to have all of us quiet. And more than that. He wanted us to care. “Grape-shot,” he said, getting hoarse. “Point-blank. Bodies atomized.”
    The bell rang, and Mr. Milliken slumped on his podium. His freckled face was flushed, and I could tell by the way he did not meet our eyes that he was fatigued by his performance, and at the same time sure that it was wasted on television-dazed cattle. I already understood that Mr. Milliken did not relish the destructive details he recounted. He found them of some interest, but he believed that only gore could keep the attention of his class.
    â€œNice lecture,” I said as I passed, and Mr. Milliken gave me a careful look, wary that I was being sarcastic, hopeful that I was being sincere. “It was no joke,” he said, meaning his lecture or the Civil War. “I don’t know if it was ignorance or courage that made them go through it.”
    He said this quietly, half to me, but, so not to embarrass either of us if I didn’t give a damn, half to the podium, a maple-stained plinth made of plywood.
    Then he realized that he was going to be late for Driver’s Education, his next class and mine. I could tell by the way he started bubbling-in spaces in his roll book that he had forgotten to post the absences.
    I was stalling, lingering, hoping to fall in with Sky as she left the class. But she was already out the door, having, I realized too late, waved with her fingers, a casual, careless little hello wave.
    Such waves are friendly, but not intimate at all—not even a little. I would need a plan, something ambitious.
    She was smiling, I consoled myself. It was a genuine smile, with that sideways look she has. I was warmer inside considering that.
    â€œI have made a decision,” said Mr. Milliken.
    He stuffed papers into a scuffed black briefcase, a big worn leather thing like something Drama could borrow for Death of a Salesman . He fell into stride with me, both of us shouldering through the crowded halls.
    There was something sincere about Mr. Milliken, eager and honest, even though he was sick of his job. I did not attempt to flee him, even when he said, “I picked you.”
    We