After the Fall by Kate Hart
For Catherine, first and favorite raisin girl
PART I
BEFORE THE FALL
“We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?”
—The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
RAYCHEL
It’s entirely possible Matt can see up my shorts.
I don’t really care—my best friend has never shown any interest whatsoever in my underwear—but the only ones clean this morning were black and lacy. Not ideal for rock climbing, and not ideal for a photo shoot, especially one for his school assignment. I shift my position on the cliff face, trying to cover up.
“You okay?” Matt asks, lowering the camera.
“Just trying not to flash you.”
“Don’t worry.” The clicking resumes. “I’m surprised you’re not more hungover today,” he says a minute later.
“I didn’t drink that much.”
He snorts. I only had two beers last night, but arguing will make him ask why I threw up, and that’s not a conversation I want to have right now. Luckily Matt won’t ask about the rest of the evening. He never does. “I’m ready to come down,” I say instead.
“Hang on…” He steps sideways and tilts the camera. “This angle looks badass.”
If that’s a pun, it’s not worth acknowledging. “My arms hurt. I’m going to fall.”
“You’re only a few feet up.” But he moves out of the way so I can jump down. My foot hits a rock when I land and pain shoots up my leg, making me yelp. The rest of me hits the ground with a thud that snaps my jaw closed.
Matt’s beside me in half a second. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, struggling to my feet.
“Let me—”
I bat his hand away and take a cautious step. It hurts like a mad bastard and I can’t keep from wincing.
“Are you crying?” he asks.
“No!” I rub my eye. Black smears the back of my hand. I knew I shouldn’t have worn mascara.
“Sit down,” he says, gesturing at a moss-covered rock. “Let me check it.”
“Having a doctor for a daddy doesn’t make you one.” He stares pointedly at me until I sit, then pokes and prods, trying to rotate my foot. “Ow! Damnit!”
“Sprained, I bet.” He stands to retrieve his backpack. “We’ll have to tape it.”
“You don’t even—”
“They taught us this summer.” His explanation is muffled, his head already half-buried in his enormous backpack. I teased him about it this morning and called him a Boy Scout when he mumbled something about “being prepared.” Going to Outward Bound was supposed to make him more comfortable in the woods. Instead he came home with a million worst-case scenarios and their solutions loaded on his back.
But I can’t make fun now. “Should I take my shoe off?”
He pulls out an ACE bandage. “It’ll swell too much. You won’t be able to hike out.” The thought of four miles back makes me groan. “I could carry you,” he says, voice flat, and I smack his arm in answer. “Okay then.” He starts to hand me two ibuprofen, but stops to pour water on my palms first, rinsing away the dirt. “That’s what I like about you, Raych. You’re not afraid to get dirty, like most girls.”
I stick my tongue out before swallowing the pills.
*
The return hike takes three times longer than usual. Whenever I stop to rest in clearings along the trail, Matt paces, his shadow long and looming. The sun’s already dipped behind the treetops and we’re not even out of earshot of the Twin Falls yet. He keeps glancing at the sky, like I don’t know we’re burning daylight. “I’m going as fast as I can,” I snap as he checks the time.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not worried.”
Liar. Matt’s always worried.
MATT
By the time I get Raychel back to my house, my hands are cramped from clutching the steering wheel on the curvy Ozark back roads. The drive to the Twin Falls trailhead is dangerous enough in daylight; at night, all it takes is one deer to kill your car, and you, for that matter. There was no conversation to distract me, at least, but Raychel’s choice of music and the fact that she’s probably pissed just made my hands clench even tighter. “I’m sorry,” I say, as we reach the front door.
“For what?”
“For making you climb just so I could take pictures. I could have—”
“Matthew,” she cuts me off. “I like climbing. And you didn’t tell me to jump down or put a rock in my way. But you did tape my ankle and get me home. So chill.”
I nod.
“And thanks.” She gives me a hug, more awkward than normal with her balance messed up. My hand accidentally brushes her boob, but she doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
“Ready to face the Inquisition?” I ask. I help her inside to the living room, where my parents are watching a preseason football game.
“Raychel!” Mom gasps, hitting MUTE. “What happened?”
“Just twisted my ankle,” Raychel says, shrugging.
But Dad’s already standing up. “Better let me take a look at it.”
Raych rolls her eyes at me as she follows him to his office, and I return it, even though this was the whole point of bringing her to my house: seeing Dad will save her the co-pay at the ER.
They emerge a few minutes later, Raychel clomping down the hall on crutches like a three-legged horse.
“You were right—it’s sprained,” Dad says with an approving nod at me, “but not too bad. Just remember to RICE it,” he adds to her.
Raychel sighs. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. I recognize the prescription from years of soccer injuries. “How long do I have to use these things?” she asks, tapping a crutch against her good foot.
“A week or so. And no hiking for a while.” He glances at me again.
She snorts. “Matt’s not my keeper.”
“No, but I know how you two are,” he says.
I am hardly the bad influence here, but I nod dutifully. Raychel just thanks him and turns to Mom. “I meant to return your book,” she says. “It’s in the car.”
Mom smiles. “Did you like it?”
“It was so good! The ending made me cry like—”
Blah blah blah. They can talk books all day long, so I tune them out and watch the game until Raychel whacks me in the calf with a crutch to let me know they’re done. She’s basically the daughter my parents never had, and I’m pretty sure they’d trade me for her in a heartbeat. “You ready?” she asks.
“If you’re done with your BFF.” I make a face at Mom.
“Hit him again for me,” Mom says, and Raychel obliges.
*
In the morning, my brother stumbles into the kitchen, hair sticking out in every direction. “Morning,” Dad says. Andrew grunts and takes a coffee mug from Mom, who’s holding it out like a bone to an unfriendly dog.