Broken (8 page)

Mom doesn’t agree. A full minute shy of our allotted five minutes, she marches in, brushing her hands together like she’s squashing a bug. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to go now, Anthony. Scarlet needs her rest. And please tell Ms. Blakely to find you a new partner as I’m not sure that Scarlet will be well enough to complete your project.”

All I can do is jump to my feet and stare as she hustles Tony out the front door. He turns to give me one last look and a sad shrug. Then she shuts the door and he’s gone.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask. “I feel fine.”

She puts her hands on her hips and gives me one of her Looks. I shut up, swallowing the rest of my protest.

“You had a rough day, young lady. Who knows if you’ll make it all the way through the day tomorrow? Do you really think it’s fair for Anthony to be counting on your help with a project? You wouldn’t want him to get a failing grade because of you, would you?”

I haul in a breath but swallow my sigh. “No. Of course not.”

“Good girl. It’s about time you think of someone other than yourself. Now you’d better get some sleep.”

“But I’m going to school tomorrow?” I want to make it a statement of fact, defiant. But I know better, so I twist it into a question at the end.

She purses her lips in thought. I cross my fingers, praying for a little magic. “We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

Good enough. I race to my room before she can change her mind.

Ever since the Year of Nothing Good when my folks almost Lost Me not once but twice, my room has been here on the main floor of our house. At first I missed my room upstairs with its gable and window seat, but Dad worked really hard on my new room while Mom stayed in the hospital with me. He calls it the “every girl’s dream come true fairy princess room.”

Sometimes I think he thinks I’m still five instead of fifteen. But the look on his face when I came home from the hospital as he carried me from the car and inside the room that used to be his study—he was so excited, so proud. How could I say anything, do anything, except smile and thank him?

This is my room…imagine a wad of bright-pink strawberry Bubblicious gum. Blow the biggest bubble you can. And pow! It bursts all over a room stinking of pipe tobacco, with pine paneling stained so it’s more rust-orange than brown and olive-green carpet. Then add pink lace curtains, a dresser painted—one guess—Pepto-Bismol-princess pink, and a hospital bed disguised by pink fluffy pillows and comforters with lace trim (that itches anytime it touches your skin) covered with pink roses.

Yes, it’s hideous. But know what? I love it. I really do. My dad might be color-blind, but every time he comes into my room, his smile makes his eyes crinkle and blink fast, like he’s holding back tears. It breaks my heart, the way he feels that he can never help me the way Mom does. He’s as powerless as I am against my Long QT and he hates it.

So it’s easy to keep the lights low and ignore what my room looks like or the fact that I can still smell Dad’s pipe every time I walk in. Instead, I concentrate on the love he put into it.

Hoping for the best, that I’ll be in English class tomorrow, I finish the last of my homework, my memory journal entry. I give Mrs. Gentry one of my hospital memories since I can’t remember anything from my real life that far back. It’s a good story, though. The time when I was five and had diarrhea so bad they had to drill a needle into a bone in my leg to give me fluids. Mom tells the story a lot, especially in the summer when I have shorts on and you can see the scar left behind from where the bone got infected after.

One of my many Near Misses. I hope Mrs. Gentry doesn’t mind a little gore and pus with her memories—sometimes I forget all this stuff isn’t normal for everyone.

The good thing about using this story is I don’t have to bother Mom since I already have her first-hand account (have heard it so many times I can recite her version from memory—my own version is a little foggier since I was so damn sick), so that counts as a primary reference source as well.

I’m a little disappointed I haven’t been able to remember something that doesn’t have to do with being sick. Not because of the homework assignment, but because I’m afraid it’s not because I can’t remember, but because nothing memorable has ever happened to me
except
being sick.

How pathetic is that?

I have a hard time sleeping. Images of Jordan and Tony. The way both of them went out of their way to help me. Thoughts of Nessa and Celina, wondering if they really like me or if it’s just part of the peer mentoring, hanging out with me.

I decide that I think they do like me. All four of them. And I want to keep it that way.

Tuesday morning, Mom and I go in early so she can meet with Celina. I don’t mind; arriving early means I get into school before any lines form at the metal detector. The only other kids here at this hour are the athletes with early practice and kids taking remedial classes during zero period.

I want to go to the library—especially as my first period is study hall—but Mom decides she wants to keep an eye on me, so she sets me up in the far corner of her office, behind the privacy screen.

She keeps checking her watch, obviously upset that Celina hasn’t arrived on time. Another ten minutes goes by and she goes from upset to angry. Then first bell rings and she throws up her hands.

“That girl. You try and try to help her—”

I look up from where I’m reading the notes Tony brought me from bio. “Is there anything I can do?”

Thanks to Celina, I know Nessa and Jordan are in peer support because of Nessa’s sister killing herself, but I have no clue why Celina needs mentoring or support. In fact, yesterday she seemed more of a leader than Jordan.

“No. I’m sure she failed to show up for her appointment because of her little sister.” She rolls her eyes in disdain. Which surprises me. What could a little kid do to get on Mom’s bad side?

Mom answers the question before I can ask it. “You have no idea about her sister. That girl once bit me.”

“She bit you? When?”

“Six years ago.” Mom’s memory could outlast an elephant’s. “I was doing the flu clinic for the district. They sent me to do the special needs kids since I’m most experienced. Didn’t have any trouble at all until it was Cari’s turn. She threw a fit but I got the shot in her. Then she calmed down, turned around, smiled, and sunk her teeth right in me.” Mom’s voice changes to a tone I’ve only heard her use about doctors and nurses who let her down or mess up my care. More than angry. Bitter.

“How old was she?”

“Six. Old enough to know better.”

“But if she’s special needs?”

“Having autism is no excuse. She knew exactly what she was doing.” Again with the voice.

It’s funny, but when Mom gets mad at people, bad things tend to happen to them. Like this nurse who wouldn’t listen to Mom about my IV—she ended up accidentally overdosing another patient on potassium. Would have killed them if Mom hadn’t recognized the symptoms and called the code. And an intern who refused to get the attending to come when Mom was sure I was having Bad Symptoms; two days later someone broke into his car. Karma, she calls it. What goes around comes around.

Still, it’s spooky. Makes me kinda glad Celina isn’t here. Not when Mom’s in this kind of mood.

I go back to bio while she closes the privacy curtain and begins her day. I try not to listen, but it’s hard in such a small office. At first it’s kids wanting to skip a class or sit out in gym without a note from their parents. Mom makes quick work of them, checking their vitals, asking them questions, and sending all but one back to class. The one, a girl whose voice I don’t recognize, sits with Mom, and they begin to talk.

Fascinated, I listen shamelessly as Mom slowly unwinds the girl’s story. Her boyfriend is jealous, texted her all night so she got no sleep, and it wasn’t the first time. The girl begins sobbing as Mom comforts her and gives her advice about handling the boyfriend as well as making an appointment to talk with her more. She leaves after thanking my mom for her help.

When I was a kid, I was embarrassed by the way my mom always inserted herself into other people’s problems. Then, during the Year of Nothing Good, I flat out hated her for it. Here I was, almost dying, and she was focusing all her attention on other dying kids. Not that I actually wanted her overly involved in my life, but that didn’t stop me from resenting the fact that I wasn’t the center of her world.

But now I understand why Mom does what she does. What I think of as meddling, she sees as helping. Like if she can help someone else with their problems, maybe she doesn’t have to worry so much about her own kid. That whole karma thing again.

In a warped way, it’s showing me how much she loves me.

Figuring that out makes me proud she’s my mom.

More kids come and go and I focus on my work. But then I hear a familiar voice. Jordan.

“I just don’t know what to do, Mrs. Killian,” he’s saying. “When I volunteered for peer mentoring, I figured they’d pair me with other guys, maybe spend my time convincing them not to use drugs or drink too much or help with anger management. But this…” His voice fades. “I’m so worried I’m going to mess up and someone’s gonna get hurt. Like before.” From the tight edge to his voice, I know he’s talking about Nessa’s sister, Yvonne.

“It’ll be all right, Jordan,” my mom says.

“Something’s going on with Nessa. She’s up all the time and I’m not sure if it’s a side effect of grief or an act she’s pulling to get people to stop asking her how’s she’s doing or if she’s just in denial and lying to everyone including herself.” His words pour out faster than a waterfall.

Wow. This was more than I’d heard Jordan say all day yesterday.

“Is she acting like her sister did? Before—” Concern makes my mom’s voice sound like she’s caught something in her throat.

“Yeah. Kinda. That’s what scares me.”

“Jordan.” Now Mom sounds serious. “Is Vanessa taking any medication?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Antidepressants can sometimes unmask mania.”

“But her dad’s a shrink; wouldn’t he know better?” Jordan scrapes his chair back like he can’t get comfortable.

“He refused to see what was going on with Yvonne.”

“But what can I do? I couldn’t help Vonnie. I can’t risk messing up with Nessa.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Jordan. I’ll talk with Vanessa’s father, see if I can help.” She paused. “How’s everything else going? With the support group?”

“Scarlet’s doing great.” I beam, pride filling me with his words. Jordan Summers thought I, the girl freak, was great. I wonder if Mom asked him that just so I could hear the answer. Or has she forgotten all about me back here?

He continues, “But you think she has it bad with Mitch Kowlaski? You should see what poor Celina’s going through. I don’t know how she does it. I’d transfer out or something if I had to face that every day. She doesn’t deserve this shit. I keep telling her that, but it doesn’t seem to help. It’s like she’s shutting out the whole world.”

I still have no idea why Celina was in peer support but whatever it was, she was getting bullied worse than being lit on fire by a Neanderthal? Guilt pours over me; it feels cold and clammy, like a spitball hitting my insides. I hadn’t even known—hadn’t even thought about her much at all, other than being glad when she was there to help me.

My first real friends and I’m failing them.

“I’ve tried my best to help her,” Mom says, an edge to her voice. “But I can’t do anything if she doesn’t let me.”

Back in the hospital, I was pretty good at helping kids with problems. Figuring out how to tell their folks how they really felt about their treatments or finding the right person to tell about a mean nurse or doctor—usually my mom. Maybe I could figure out why Celina was being bullied and help her? After all, I did stand up to Mitch Kowlaski yesterday.

I listen as Mom gives Jordan advice and encouragement, paying attention to how she does it without judging him or talking down to him. See, this is why I need to make it through this week no matter what. If I go back to homeschooling myself, how am I going to learn all this stuff? It’s so much more important than learning trig or Spanish.

Friends. Real friends like Jordan and Nessa and Celina and Tony. They’ll be much better for me than any medicine the doctors could prescribe.

I get to English early. Nessa rushes in just as the bell rings and has to sit all the way across the room from me, but she waves and gives me a smile. Celina comes in a few minutes late, hands Mrs. Gentry a note, and slumps into a seat in the far back.

“Let’s talk about the importance of memory—and how it can betray us,” Mrs. Gentry says.

I have my memory journal entry all ready to go, but to my disappointment, Mrs. Gentry doesn’t actually collect them. Instead, she simply glances to see we’ve written something, as she circles the room, recapping yesterday’s lesson.

“What other media make use of memory as a device?” she asks, moving on to new material.

I can’t resist. I raise my hand and answer, “Movies like
Rashomon.
Everyone remembers the same event differently.”

“And that difference depends on—” she prompts.

Before I can answer, someone behind me calls out. “Their point of view. Like in
Laura
where the detective falls in love with a murder victim based only on how the other characters remember her.”

I twist in my seat. It’s Tony. He smiles at me, twirling his pen across his knuckles without looking at it. Show-off.

“Good. Any other movies that are like a memory play? Maybe relying on unreliable narrators?”

“
The
Usual
Suspects
,” both Tony and I chime together. I feel my heart jump when his gaze meets mine. We look at each other, not Mrs. Gentry, as we take turns, trying to top each other.

“
The
Man
Who
Shot
Liberty
Valance
,” I sing out.

“
Casablanca
,” he responds.

I roll my eyes; that one’s too easy. “
DOA
—the original, not the Johnny Depp remake.”

“
Vertigo
,” Tony counters.

“Well, if you’re talking Hitchcock, then even the camera can be counted as an unreliable point of view,” I argue. “He’s all about seeing
not
being believing…” I trail off, too late noticing that I’ve done exactly what I wanted to avoid: I’ve become the center of attention.

Tony is smiling, bobbing his head in enthusiasm, as is Mrs. Gentry. The rest of the class is half interested, half bored by movies older than they are. But everyone’s watching. My flush burns up my neck, scorching everything in its path. I scrunch down in my chair, lower my head, pretending I’m furiously writing notes.

“Well now, seems like we have some cinema aficionados here. But it doesn’t have to be classic film. Any medium, from Picasso’s
Guernica
to TV to songs, can use memories as a framework to engage the audience. And often those memories bear little resemblance to what really happened.”

The sound of pens scratching as we take notes. I slide a glance sideways, through the hair shielding my face, and realize Tony is lounging in his seat, still twirling his pen, still smiling. Then he darts a look at me, his smile widening, like he knows I’m watching him, senses I’m trying to copy his ease and self-confidence. Which of course makes me feel all the less self-confident and more like a dweeb than ever, especially when I drop my pencil and it rolls until he stops it with his foot. He snags it with a lazy swipe of his hand and reaches it forward to me.

Our fingers brush as I accept it. I don’t feel anything in my fingers but my face is burning again, a slow burn that seeps down my body until my toes curl like a cat stretching in front of a fire.

The burn smolders, a good feeling even if I have no idea what to do about it. Right up until Mrs. Gentry tells us to partner with someone and together analyze any work of art that is informed by memories. Before I can move, a chair scrapes and Tony pushes himself up against my chair, nudging Phil to the side with a thud.

“Hey there, partner.”

Suddenly the day seems a whole lot brighter.