The Edge of Falling by Rebecca Serle Read Free Book Online

Trevor. We took Mr. Tenner’s English together sophomore year, and Trevor liked it even more than I did, so I should have assumed he’d be here. He hangs in the doorway for a second and catches my eye. He smiles—that soft, sweet, heart-melting smile—andslides into the only available desk: two rows over, the same seat as mine.
    Hey, he mouths and holds up his hands like who would have thought?
    I give him a small smile and face front, but my heart is racing. It’s ridiculous that after two years, Trevor can still light my pulse.
    It’s always been this way, though. He came to Kensington from The Anderson School on the Upper West Side, and from the first day freshman year there was just something about him, something that made me want to be close to him. A lot of girls felt it too. He was the new hot commodity on campus, the boy with the soft brown hair and blue eyes. He was sensitive and kind, and when you spoke to him, about anything, he’d listen, like you were the only person in the room. The only person in the world, really. Most girls in our grade wanted to feel that from him, and I was the one who got to.
    We didn’t become friends until sophomore year, but once we started hanging out, it was instant. It felt like I had known him forever. I recognized him and he recognized me. It didn’t take very long after that for us to be a couple. I remember the exact day, the exact moment. We were sitting in my room with Hayley. She wanted to paint us, and she had her whole station set up—her canvas board, easel, watercolors. “Holdstill,” she said. “Don’t move so I can do it properly.” That was when he did it. We were sitting side by side, and he just reached across, ran his thumb over my cheek, and kissed me.
    Hayley put up a fuss. She said that we were disobeying her orders, we were moving, but when she gave me the painting a few weeks later, it was of us just like that: his hand on my face, his lips brushing mine.
    I try not to think about that now, though. Because now we’re not together anymore. We can’t go back.
    Mr. Tenner asks us to take out our syllabuses. I see we’re reading Virginia Woolf and Nine Stories , J. D. Salinger’s short-story collection, this year. I happen to be a huge Salinger fan. I own multiple copies of all his books: Franny and Zooey. Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters . When we used to go up to the Berkshires, I’d make my parents stop at every bookstore to try to scour for first editions. I’ve gotten some off the Internet, too. I couldn’t admit this to anyone, because it would seem too obvious, like it meant something different from what it does, but he’s my favorite writer by far. It’s the way he so clearly identifies humanity. It’s crisp and sharp. Like iceberg lettuce, or a knife. You don’t know whether you want to bite into it or use it to cut through something.
    Mr. Tenner is counting down the books, explaining what we’re going to attempt to finish before December break, when Kristen walks in. I’m immediately struck by how tiny she is.She’s always been small, even shorter than me, and she’s got ice-white skin that’s almost translucent—ghostlike, even. But she looks even smaller than I remember. She holds her hand up to Mr. Tenner. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispers.
    The room erupts into deafening silence—the kind that’s filled to the brim with glances and raised eyebrows and restrained gossip. Everyone is looking between her and me and Mr. Tenner, who motions for Kristen to take a seat at the empty desk in the back. He doesn’t pause for more than a moment before he keeps on lecturing.
    Kristen weaves her way left. Please don’t look at me, I silently pray. Not in front of everyone. Seeing her now makes it all real. The things I pushed aside over the summer. The whispers I ignored and buried down right there with the truth. What if she actually spent the summer getting treatment? The thought of it makes me feel ill, makes the room