Broken (9 page)

The morning goes by in a rush with no problems. I’m actually starting to think maybe I can make it as a normal high school sophomore. Mom makes me eat lunch with her, and I’m afraid she’s going to make me go home instead of finishing out the day. But my vitals are fine, so all she does is give me an extra vitamin, watches me swallow it, then lets me leave for world cultures.

On the way, I get lost and have to fight upstream through the throng before finally getting to the classroom just before second bell. Everyone stares at me when I enter, a few of the guys in letterman jackets holding their noses or making gagging motions. As I move down the aisle, searching for an empty seat, the football players and their cheerleader friends edge their seats closer together, blocking my path.

“How’s your heart, Killian?” someone behind me calls out in a singsong. I spin around. Now they’ve pulled their chairs together as well, trapping me in a circle.

My blush burns so badly my scalp feels like it’s on fire.

“Hope you’re not gonna ralph again, Miss Scarlet.” A girl points to my cheeks and I feel sweat edging my upper lip. I’d fought so hard to make it here, but now all I want to do is run back and hide in my mom’s office.

“They’d better let Mitch play on Friday,” one of the football players says. “If we lose, it’ll be all your fault.”

“And we won’t forget it,” chimes in a cheerleader.

“How is it my fault that Mitch set me on fire?” I ask. But no one listens.

There’s a crashing noise as someone’s book falls to the floor. I whirl around. Make that
is
pushed
to the floor. Nessa is there, her smile maniacal as she rocks her hip against one Diva’s chair, almost shoving her out of it.

“Whoops. Silly me. Forgot how anorexic you were, Marie. How do you stay on your feet when it’s windy?” As she pretends to apologize to one girl, she “accidentally” kicks a football player’s messenger bag, sending it sliding across the floor and under another kid’s seat. He scrambles for it and we take advantage of the opportunity to push his chair out of the way and finally make it to the last row where Nessa’s saved me a spot.

The teacher, Mr. Thibodeaux, rushes in with a dramatic flourish and looks up, expecting to be the center of attention. His expression shifts when he sees he’s not, then he sets his sights on me.

“Ah, Ms. Killian. I heard rumors you were actually in attendance today. Thank you for gracing us with your presence.” I’m not sure at first if his Southern accent is real or fake. He bows his head in a courtly nod, eliciting a round of laughter from the kids. When he looks up, he’s beaming again. He turns and starts writing on the board, enunciating each word as if this wasn’t an honors class and we can’t read. “His-story is writ-ten by the vic-tors.”

As Mr. Thibodeaux turns back and begins a dramatic lesson on how history would be reinterpreted if told from the point of view of losers—after the way Mitch and his teammates have welcomed me to Smithfield High, I’m in total sympathy—Nessa quietly edges her chair toward me until we’re almost touching. She points with her pen to her notebook and nods.

You
OK? Missed you yest.

I shrug and nod in response.

Heard
what
happened
with
Mitch, yuck. And your hair!

Almost
ruined
everything,
I write back, self-consciously brushing the burnt strands that I’d trimmed that morning behind my ear.

Everything???

Deal
with
folks—have to make it through Fri without getting sick. Otherwise no school EVER, grounded FOR LIFE.

She frowns, gnawing on her pen.
Had
no
idea. We’re here to help. You need to tell us this stuff!!!

I shrug, embarrassed.

Nessa scribbles again.
Why
didn’t you answer my texts???? Texting
you ALL day yesterday!
She taps her pen furiously against the “ALL.”

Texting me? No one’s ever texted me—I never had anyone who even called me on my cell except Mom and Dad. My phone is for Emergencies only. I glance down at my backpack where my cell is nestled in a pocket beside Phil, waiting for an emergency.

Rules?
I write back. The school has a policy of no texting or cellphone use—which, as I look around, I realize no one actually follows. Half the class is using their phones beneath their desks, the other half napping. Isn’t anyone listening to the teacher?

Nessa scribbles furiously.
Rules
are
for
fools.

As Mr. Thibodeaux drones on about the French Revolution, I bask in the glow of having friends like Nessa worry about me, breaking the rules to check on me. I guess maybe this whole idea of peer support is a good one. But how can I help them in return?

I scribble a note in the margin of my notebook and angle it toward Nessa.
Is
Celina
okay?

No. Bad day with her mom.

Her mom? I thought it was her sister who was the problem.
Her
mom?

Yeah. She’s home, dying. Hospice care.

I turn to look at her. I know about hospice care. End of life, palliative treatment the doctors call it. Shame burns through me. Here I am worried about pissing off a few football players or how to fit in so not everyone is constantly staring at me, while Celina has to deal with losing her mother, taking care of an autistic sister, and being tormented by bullies?

I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.

Nessa shrugs.
She
doesn’t like to talk about it.

Mr. Thibodeaux fixes us with a glare and we both straighten, pretending to care about a world beyond Smithfield High.

Last period is Spanish. I’ve been dreading it, but taking a language is a requirement for graduation. If I’m going to come to school, might as well act like there’s a chance I’ll live long enough to finish. Too bad, because I suck at languages—I tried teaching myself, everything from French to Russian, but the same tin ear I bring to all things musical, I bring to languages.

As I weave my way through the crowd in the hall, I spot Celina. She’s got her hoodie up, head turtled between hunched shoulders, face down as she skirts along the wall. I wave to her then quickly drop my hand as two girls stare at me. No way will she hear me if I call her name—and that’s got to be just as uncool as waving—so I try to hurry after her, but she vanishes.

I end up in the wrong hallway and have to backtrack to make it to Spanish. I sneak in just after the second bell only to find that I needn’t have worried about being late. The teacher isn’t even there. Any students actually interested in Spanish are wearing earphones and droning phrases that sound like they were invented by Dr. Seuss. There are maybe five of them.

Everyone else is talking, goofing off, or doing homework.

Cool. This I can handle, especially at the end of the day.

Turns out Tony is in the class. Earlier, I sat behind him in biology—no sign of Mitch, yeah!—but haven’t had a chance to talk to him since our movie geek-out in English.

He smiles and gestures for me to take the seat beside him. Stretching out his long legs—they take up two desk spaces and his feet are big enough to need their own zip code—he brushes his foot against mine. I’m not sure what to do but I’m smart enough to know I should play it cool, despite the way my heart lurches. I fumble in my pack for my Spanish book and try to ignore how close he is.

“That was fun. Talking movies. In English,” I say, hoping I’m not making too big a deal out of it. Other than my dad, I never get to talk to anyone about movies—certainly not the way Tony and I had earlier.

“Uh-huh.” He’s still staring at me but saying nothing. Is it always this much work, getting a guy to talk?

“You know a lot about movies.”

He shrugs. “You’re not really interested in Spanish?” he finally asks. “Mr. Greenfield is the wrestling coach and he’s too busy to be bothered, so everyone gets a B anyway.”

“I’m not interested in Spanish,” I confess, wondering why he cares.

“Good. Then let’s work on our biology project.”

For a moment, I wonder if he’s only interested in me for my genetic pedigree. But there was a real spark between us in English. I hadn’t imagined that—had I?

“I thought you were getting a new partner,” I say.

“Nope.” He reaches down to grab his notebook. I edge away, uncertain. He pulls out a sheaf of research notes on Long QT.

I’m still uneasy. “But—”

“You think I’m just looking for the easy grade?” He fills in the blanks. I nod. “Let’s see, the chance to work with a cute girl who loves the same movies I do and is smart and stands up for herself and her friends…oh yeah, she also probably knows more about genetics than Ms. Blakely does. So hmmm…a chance to get a good grade plus the girl?” He taps his pencil against the side of his head as if thinking hard. “Gee, what do you think I should do?”

His face twists into a parody of confusion. I can’t help but smile. But I want to be certain. These feelings…the way he makes me feel is totally different than the way Jordan does and I have no idea if any of them are real or not. Can I trust them? They’re too new, too fragile for me to risk it. “You don’t even know me.”

“Duh. That’s the idea.” He scrapes his chair closer to me. “If you’re worried about your mom, don’t. She doesn’t scare me.”

He’s about the only person. Mom pretty much intimidates everyone—even my doctors.

Then Tony looks at me, the full weight of his focus on me. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me like that before—not like I’m a problem patient or a diagnostic dilemma or a freak. More like I’m the only thing in the whole wide world. My heart does a little jig and I take a deep breath to settle it down.

Then his smile wilts. “Unless—do you mind working with me?”

I tilt my head and tap my own temple, scan the ceiling as if looking for heavenly guidance. “Gee, a chance to work with a smart guy who doesn’t mind being seen with a girl who has to lug around her own life support equipment? What do you think?”

He blows out his breath in mock relief. “Great. Now that we have the formalities out of the way, let’s talk cardiac ion channels and genetic mutations.”

Spanish is over much too fast. Tony says good-bye; I grab my stuff from my locker and meet my mom at her car. Jordan was nowhere to be seen around our locker, but after spending so much of the day with Tony, in a weird way, I’m kind of relieved.

Mom spends the short drive home fuming about Celina not showing up this morning. “After all I try to do for that girl. I can’t believe how disrespectful she is.”

“Nessa says her mom’s really sick. Maybe that’s why she didn’t make her meeting with you.” I’m trying to stand up for Celina without making Mom think I’ve taken sides. Juggling friends and parents, I’m discovering, is a tricky thing.

Mom shakes her head in disappointment. “I know she’s in peer support with you, but if I were you, Scarlet, I’d steer clear of that girl. She’s trouble.”

No way am I going to abandon a friend—not when I can count them all on the fingers of one hand. I’m silent. Mom’s in no mood to discuss the matter more, but I vow to find some way to help Celina.

“Could you download my medical records onto the home computer so I can use them for our science project?” I ask as we pull into our driveway, hoping that talking medical stuff will brighten Mom’s mood.

Dad’s Subaru isn’t there—he’s usually only home Friday nights during the week, but sometimes he surprises us and comes home sooner. I should be used to it, but still it always makes me lonely when I see the empty spot on the driveway. Mom parks her Explorer in the garage and doesn’t answer me until we’re inside the kitchen.

“What science project?” She’s twisting her keys on the metal ring that holds them. Among them is the flash drive shaped like a caduceus that has all my medical files stored on it. Just In Case.

“The one Tony and I told you about last night. Ms. Blakely wants us to do complete medical family histories and then research any genetic predispositions.”

Usually she loves talking about my Long QT. She wants my dad to get tested to see if it came from his side of the family, but Dad’s afraid of needles and hasn’t gone yet. It’s not like it changes my situation. She’s always telling everyone who’d listen how it’s such a relief to finally know what’s wrong with me and how it’s amazing that such a tiny thing, a tiny misspelling of the DNA on chromosome 11, could potentially kill me.

Tonight she surprises me. Says nothing, merely hangs her coat up and sets her key ring with the flash drive into the small bowl on the countertop beside the door. “We’ve discussed this before, Scarlet. I know you feel like you’re all grown up now that you’re in high school, but there are things you’re not ready for.”

Same old story. When it comes to me and anything to do with my health, I instantly revert to patient. With Mom as decision maker, controller of knowledge, dispenser of wisdom and prescriptions.

We’ve butted heads over this before. This summer Mom wanted the doctors to implant the internal defibrillator into my heart and I refused. I’d just turned fifteen and knew more about the pathophysiology of my disease than the intern taking care of me, so the doctors agreed. Plus, Dad was on my side. He couldn’t bear the thought of me having yet another surgery.

Mom was livid. Didn’t speak to me for a week, barely acknowledged my existence other than to hold her hand out with my medicine right on schedule. She gave Dad the cold shoulder as well. Living in the same house with her was like walking around, holding your breath, peeking around corners to make sure you didn’t wake the monster.

Not that my mom’s a monster; she just knows how to hold a grudge, that’s all. The stress was so bad that I had a Set Back—that’s why I was three weeks late starting school—and then things went right back to normal. Me in bed, Mom taking care of me, and Dad letting her run the show.