The Fall by James Preller Read Free Book Online Page A

closed the book on his desk.
    â€œHello, Sam.”
    I glanced around the small, cramped office, bursting with books, boxes, piles of papers, articles and photographs torn from magazines and thumb-tacked to bulletin boards. “I see you’re a hoarder,” I joked.
    He leaned back in his chair, hands hammocked behind his head, and looked around at the office as if seeing it for the first time. He said, “People usually ask me, ‘Why do you keep all this stuff?’ And I always wonder, ‘Why do you throw it all away?’”
    â€œThat’s one way of looking at it,” I said.
    He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me, waiting.
    â€œWell, anyway, just saying hi.” I inched out of the room.
    â€œAre you free?” he asked.
    I hesitated. “I’ve got band.”
    â€œI could write a pass,” he offered. “Sit, if you’d like.”
    So I sat.
    â€œWhat’s up?” he asked.
    I looked down at the hands on my lap. “I started a journal, like you suggested.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear that, Sam. How’s it going?”
    â€œI’m trying to keep up with it,” I said. “A little bit every day.”
    Another silence. Maybe Mr. Laneway couldn’t think of anything worth saying. Maybe he didn’t mind the quiet.
    Finally, he asked, “Has it helped?”
    â€œHelped?” I repeated. “You mean, like with…”
    â€œMorgan,” he said.
    There were no windows in his office, and I really could have used a window right then. The air felt suddenly stagnant, the walls too close.
    â€œI sometimes think it was my fault,” I said, unbelievably. I mean, I never intended to say that to anyone.
    He sat up a little straighter. “Is there a reason why you feel that way?”
    â€œA reason? Like one reason? No,” I said.
    Then I talked for a while. Not about the message board, not that, in so many words. But maybe I gave him enough to figure it out. Mostly I talked about Morgan and me. The times we hung out. And how I rejected her at school. It was impossible to tell all of it. But bits and pieces came gushing out, like blood from a sliced thumb.
    â€œAnd how are you feeling about all this?” he asked.
    (Seriously?)
    â€œPretty crappy,” I said.
    â€œYes,” he replied. “Yes, Sam. I can see that. Let me ask you. Is this about her social media page?”
    (He knew? He knew!)
    I looked away from his serious, super-earnest face. All I could do was nod yes. “Some,” I said.
    â€œI see.”
    More silence, but a worse kind. This one was heavy, thick, sorrowful.
    I studied the tile pattern of the floor.
    â€œYou participated in it?” he asked.
    â€œI wrote some things,” I said. “Then I stopped.”
    â€œDid you ever tell anyone?”
    I shrugged helplessly.
    â€œThat must be a hard thing to live with,” he said.
    At first, I thought he meant Morgan. Because, obviously. Then I realized he was talking about me. I was the one who lived.
    Mr. Laneway pushed a box of Kleenex toward me. I frowned, wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve. He stood up, walked away, returned with a glass of water. “Thanks,” I said, and drank it.
    â€œIn times like this,” he said, now leaning against the front of his desk, close to me, voice very quiet. “In these times,” he sighed, searching for words, “many good, decent people look within and find ourselves wanting. We can’t help but wonder.”
    I wasn’t sure what he meant, but the sound of his voice made me feel better.
    â€œWe ask ourselves, ‘What could I have done?’” he said. “We feel—”
    â€œLike failures,” I said.
    â€œYes, like failures,” he said. “But that’s only natural. It probably means that you’re a caring person.”
    â€œI don’t know, doubtful.” I shook my head. “I really