The Fall by James Preller

Happy.
    Me: Happy is good, I guess.
    Morgan: Yes. It’s all good.

 
    THAT TIME I KIND OF TRIED
    I once tried to talk about it with Morgan. You know, that thing that hung over her neck like an ax. The trolls online.
    I learned never to try that again.
    It was tricky from the get-go, because I’m not good at talking about, ahem, real things . As a rule, I’d rather not. Also, I didn’t want Morgan to know what I knew—or that I had been any part of the crapstorm on her social page. So I tried taking the long way around.
    We were at a new place, for us. The playground behind her old elementary school. It was pretty sweet and absolutely empty. We sat up in an awesome pirate’s ship like a pair of seaworthy scalliwags.
    â€œI can’t stand the way my teeth stick out,” Morgan complained.
    â€œI never noticed.”
    â€œI should have had braces when I was younger, but my parents…”
    â€œYou look fine,” I said. “No one cares.”
    â€œWhen I get older, I’m definitely going for plastic surgery,” she said.
    â€œWhat the what?” I said. “Are you going to buy a big set of plastic boobs?”
    â€œMaybe.” She laughed. “Or a nose job, or a stronger chin. My lips are too thin. I look like a chicken.”
    â€œCan you buy false lips?” I asked.
    â€œBotox,” Morgan said. “Look at my face. I have a lazy left eye. My nose is sort of squished. And I have totally a white person’s lips.”
    â€œYou are totally a white person,” I pointed out. “You need to stop, Morgan. You are fine the way you are.”
    (I know, I should have said “beautiful,” but: integrity ! Plus, I didn’t want to send the wrong message.)
    â€œFine? That’s it, huh?”
    â€œYou look like yourself,” I said. “Like Morgan.”
    â€œThat’s the problem. I don’t want to look like me,” she said.
    â€œWhy are you suddenly so weird about yourself? Plastic surgery is gross.”
    â€œI don’t think so.” Morgan shrugged. “If you can improve what you’ve got, and you’re rich, why not go for it?”
    â€œBut those Hollywood actors look so fake. It’s ridiculous. They can’t even smile,” I said.
    Morgan stood, stretched, and went over to the slide, where she zipped down surprisingly fast. “That thing’s dangerous,” she warned, right after I came down headfirst. We messed around on the swings for a few more minutes, rode the ceramic pelicans on springs, then shifted over to a bench beneath a shady maple tree. We were six years old all over again, missing only individual juice boxes and a Tupperware container of Goldfish crackers.
    Morgan checked her cell and it instantly annoyed me. “Seriously, Morgan,” I said. “Are you really looking at your phone again?”
    â€œI really am, yes,” she replied. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
    â€œMaybe you could unplug every now and then,” I suggested.
    â€œOh please, Mother. Are you going to talk at me today?” Morgan said. “Unplug? That’s how they kill old people in hospitals.”
    â€œSeriously, Morgan. What’s so great on there that you have to read it while I’m sitting here right next to you?”
    She told me she was following the feed about some Disney celebrity who got arrested for drunk driving. Morgan claimed there were tons of embarrassing photos all over the internet. Everyone was slamming the celebrity on Twitter, nonstop one-liners. Morgan read a bunch to me out loud. At first the comments were clever, then cruel, and eventually just mean.
    I said, “I sure hope she doesn’t read all that stuff.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI wouldn’t want to read it if it was about me,” I said.
    (See what I was doing there?)
    â€œLook, Sam,” Morgan answered. “She nearly ran over a baby