A boy slips on the landing of the stairwell at the end of the vast corridor of his suburban high school. His dizziness is as colorful as the school’s bright shadowless walls. He descends, legs akimbo, arms flapping, suspended momentarily (a panel or so) in midair. His face exhibits more confusion than shock, and bears a sideways “S” of a smile.
He has slipped on the stairs. He is carrying important test papers for the principal, which are now scattered to the winds. He has once again eroded an authority figure’s trust in his ability to carry out a simple menial task. The boy plays on numerous school sports teams, has run for student government. Yet this is his prevailing reputation—the kid who falls on the stairs carrying the papers.

The boy experiences the exact same sensation of wide-eyed disorientation when he falls in love. He floats, he loses focus, he loses control of his limbs, he has trouble holding onto things. His infatuations trouble his friends, who catch him in acts of callous neglect or outright dishonesty. Like the grown-ups who trust him to carry things, they are forgiving, or just forgetful, and the damaging situations repeat themselves endlessly until this is his legacy.
He is able to sustain social and amorous relationships with the two most popular girls in school. He leads a popular local pop band, is able to build community spirit among a wildly diverse group of friends and classmates, has organized protests and stared small businesses. Yet to many of those who presume to know him best, he is the perpetual skirt-chasing moony-eyed romantic.

He is often grounded for his misbehaviors, and even for his well-intentioned acts which snowball, beyond his control, into widespread chaos. But of course he can’t ever really be grounded. He is ever ungrounded, floating, flipping out, unfettered, slipping and falling upward.