Excerpt: Catch Me When I Fall

A wise old owl lived in an oak
The more he saw the less he spoke
The less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can't we all be like that wise old bird?

Millie

It all starts with everyone else. At least, that's what I've noticed. We listen to other people. We think about what they're doing , wonder what they're thinking, or dream of waking one day and walking in their shoes. It's something that happens everywhere, I think. But especially in our town. Where everyone knows everybody else and no one is left behind. We keep track of one another; everyone is accounted for. We make sure of it. We watch one another, and carefully. We know who does what and when. Who would lend you a hand, even if you didn't ask. We know who would judge you right out and who would do it with a smile. I think of it like this: The start of this town, and the end of it, all lie in what we know. And we all know just a little too much.

It's the mistake people make the most. Thinking we know these people, I mean. Because, you know, you never know if some one is being honest with you. You only know what they show you. And sometimes that isn't a whole lot. See, I know some things for sure. Like that mass will be called every Sunday morning. And I will walk down the street with my mother and we will pass Father Jacobson in the doorway, and we'll exchange greetings. And then, I will feel his eyes on me as we walk through the doors and line up in the pews like we do. And I will feel that itch at the back of my right knee where the brace is and get frustrated. And then we will get to our knees, the whole lot of us, as the priest reads in Latin. And I will hide myself. Or, at least, I will try.

Out of the corner of my eye I will glance over at the Shiffers to get a good look at Andrew. Or I will try to signal to Sara Marshall beside him. And I will feel the eyes of the town on my back. I will hear their whispers. You know, they aren't half as discreet as they ought to be. I hear them all the time, gossiping after service. Talking about horrible, shameless things. That my mother says to ignore. But I don't. Do most of them know the real truth of it? Probably. But with eighty seven people in town, it's hard to talk about much else. We've only been living here for nine years, since I was five. And it's us newcomers that so often get stuck in the middle of it.

That's why no one will believe me.

I'm sure of it. That they'll think I made it all up. That I came up to him. Enticed him. That he was seduced by the devil and that I am going to burn in hell for all eternity for what I've done. The gravity of it will fall on my head. And it will crush me. Already, I can feel it.