Under My Skin (4 page)

Watkins stands. The scrape of his chair grates on my nerves. “Apologize to Miss Veene before you go.”

I grip my History book so tight that the binding creaks. “She’s a liar.”

“I am not,” Stephanie sputters.

Mr. Watkins raises a hand to silence us. “I believe you, Miss Veene.”

I gape at him. “That’s so unfair. You just don’t want to piss her off so you don’t have to deal with her rich daddy.”

His puffy cheeks redden. “Miss Fox. Apologize and go to the office.
Now
.”

Ding-dong-ding
.

The three tones mark the final bell. For me, it’s a death knell.

“Fine.” I turn to Stephanie and stare down my nose at her. “I’m sorry you’re so pathetic that you get off on bullying people.” Then I turn to Watkins. “And I’m sorry you’re too thick to see the truth. I’m
not
sorry for standing up for myself.” I keep my chin up until I get to the hallway, then nearly collapse to my knees in the hallway.

I really screwed up this time.

Adam

Mum drives me to school. No school buses for me. Her excuse is that it’s on the way to work, but the real reason is she doesn’t trust that I’ll be okay out of her sight. Quality time has turned into every waking moment time and the pretense of making every moment last has turned into Cardiac Arrhythmia Watch 24/7.

I clutch my well-worn paperback of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
close to my heart. The doctor robbed graves, stealing body parts to create his monster. I suppress a shiver. In a way, the transplant surgeon does the same thing by harvesting a donor’s organs when they’re on the brink of death. If I get prioritized on the list, I’ll be waiting for that poor victim to arrive. Then I’ll steal his or her heart and with it, their life.

Then I’ll be the monster.

Fingers tight around the book, I stare out the window. Light flurries skitter across the windshield, chasing one another in a ceaseless dance. Frankenstein’s creation pursued him across Europe, tormenting him. The monster couldn’t handle his existence; he resented Frankenstein’s gift of resurrection. I wonder, will I resent my new life? Will having another person’s heart locked inside my ribcage change who I am?

I release a shaky breath.

The car jerks to a stop at the stoplight.

“Are you alright?” Mum asks.

Reality crashes around me. The car gently vibrates as it idles. Suffocating heat blasts out of the vents. I’m not alright. I haven’t been alright for a long time. But if I say so, Mum will have me at the doctor’s office in a heartbeat. Or in the very least, she’ll call Shaw for an emergency session.

I shove the dial closed to shut off the dry air blowing on my face. “Yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

I’m afraid I’ll become a monster
. “Um, nothing.”

“As long as you’re feeling okay.” The statement hangs in the air between us like a cloud of Sarin gas.

“I’d tell you if something was wrong.”

“I trust you.”

I nod. She means it, but I don’t believe her. She wouldn’t have to keep tabs on me all the time otherwise.

She reaches over to brush back my shaggy hair. “You need a haircut. I’ll make an appointment for this weekend. We can catch a movie after, and maybe get some fish and chips.”

“I don’t want a haircut.” I turn away, cringing at how whiny I sound.

There’s a long pause, then a soft, “Oh.”

My stomach twists. “Sorry. I just … I feel smothered sometimes.”

She pinches her lips into a thin line. “Smothered. Because I want to take you to a movie?”

“That didn’t come out right. What I mean is—”

“No, that’s what you meant.”

“
Mum
.”

She grips the steering wheel so tight that her knuckles turn white. “I hope you know that I love you very much and if something happens when I’m not watching, I could never forgive myself.”

“I know. But whatever will happen will happen—”

“Not on my watch.”

“You can’t stop my heart from giving out.”

“You bloody well better believe I can.”

The light turns green. Mum slams her foot onto the accelerator. The car jerks forward.

Five minutes later, we arrive at the high school, both of us fuming like the exhaust pipes on the school buses stuffing the driveway. Students scurry about, a mindless colony of ants scrambling to prepare for the day.

I tuck
Frankenstein
away and grab the strap of my backpack.

“Wait a minute.” Mum grabs her purse from the back seat. She frets with a loose string on the strap.

My fingers grip the door handle. “Mum?”

After sucking in a deep breath, she opens the clasp. Slowly, she pulls out a pill bottle.

“What’s that?”

She reads the label. “Ziprasidone. Doctor Shaw prescribed this for you last week. She said I’d know the right time to talk to you about it.”

My throat goes dry. Changing meds had been part of Shaw’s plan all along. She must think I’m getting worse. “Why didn’t she say anything to me?”

“She doesn’t want to give the impression of being a pill pusher. You are doing therapy and she doesn’t want you to associate medication as the go-to solution for everything. She said it clouded the therapeutic relationship.”

My eyes cross at the psychobabble. “Hiding things from me isn’t okay.”

Mum tips her head to the side. “She said you might challenge this.”

“She gave
you
control over medications I put in
my
body.” Inside, I’m shaking. I clench my fists.

Mum uncaps the bottle and shakes a tablet into her palm. “We’re all on the same team, Adam. This is supposed to work with your anti-depressant to make it more effective. Doctor Shaw said it will also help keep you calm so your heart won’t be as stressed. You’ve been acting more upset lately and after what happened in the city … ”

“More upset?” My voice cracks, something it hasn’t done since I hit puberty.

“Adam, you don’t do anything, talk to anyone, or have any fun. You’ve cut off everyone from home, and—”

“My heart is dying,” I interrupt.

“You’re still alive.”

“For how long?” I mumble.

Mum’s eye twitches. “This isn’t the time to give up.”

I cross my arms and squint at the dashboard. “I’m not taking any more pills.”

Mum plucks her water bottle from the center console. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

I close my eyes, trying desperately to control the bubbling frustration threatening to burst out. “I don’t need it. I’m calm.” I say it slowly.

“I can tell you’re upset. Your hands are shaking and your ears and face are red.”

I open my eyes.

She extends her arm so her hand is practically under my nose. The tiny white pill in her palm sits there, waiting.

My stomach gurgles, churning as if I’d already swallowed the tablet. “A pill won’t fix me … or my heart.”

“I think it’s a good idea.” Mum’s hand trembles, like her voice.

I suck on my lip ring.

“Just try it.”

“If I say no?”

“Doctor Shaw can fit us in anytime.”

In other words, I have no choice. I plop it on my tongue, then wash it down with two swigs of water.

“Thank you, Adam,” Mum says softly. She insists on giving me a kiss and makes me go through two rounds of, “I love you.”

“I’m going to be late.” I open the door, letting in an arctic draft.

“Go on, then. See you after school. Oh, and make sure you eat some breakfast—the medicine works better if you’ve eaten.”

“Alright.”

I make my way inside as fast as the slogging crowd and my heart will let me. A part of the group, but also alone. There’s ten minutes left of breakfast, so I grab a bagel from the cafeteria. Like Mum wanted, I’m fortified with food and psychiatric medication. Ready to face the day.

My homeroom is across the building on the second level. At the lift, I press the up button and wait. The usual wheelchair kids—a grand total of two—aren’t around. Good. No awkward stares and waves and hellos. They know my heart won’t tolerate exercise, but it’s still weird since I’ve got two working legs and all and they, well, don’t.

The janitor pops out of the nearby maintenance room. He props a sign against the lift’s door, then jerks his head in my direction. “Elevator’s out of service.”

Bollocks
. I scuff my heels to the staircase. All I have to do is go slow. I hover at the handrail as precious seconds tick by.

The football team streams past me, dressed in their jerseys. One player—I think his name is Daniel—smacks into my shoulder. “Hey, sorry man.”

“No worries,” I say.

He pauses long enough to clap my back with a warm palm, then continues on. He jogs up the stairs so easily. My heart whines at me in the form of jerky beats. Flashes of New York blink at me.

The first warning bell rings. I slide along the wall away from the stairs, hanging onto the handrail. I’ll wait for everyone else to get to class so I can take my time climbing the stairs without anyone watching. If I’m late, I’ll tell the teacher about the lift. A legit excuse.

The hallway clears. I’m alone.

My palm sweats from holding the railing.
Come on, Adam, buck up. One step at a time
.

“Well, heart, let’s do this.” I take a couple breaths and march up the stairs. I count each step, one through ten, pausing at each one. At the landing, I take a break. When my heart has managed some semblance of regularity, I ascend the final ten.

I’m panting at the top, victorious, despite my slow motion climb. It seems I’ve scaled the equivalent of Mt. Everest with the way my legs wobble and my head bobs like a helium balloon. A sharp tightness jabs my breastbone. A barb streaks toward my shoulder and another toward my jaw. My heart is wielding a sword and is attacking me. I drop to my knees. A layer of sweat slicks my hot skin.

I press my forehead to the wall. It’s cool, soothing. “Don’t stop beating, now. It’s okay, really. I won’t make you go up any more stairs.”

My stomach churns the pill I swallowed. The medicine is supposed to keep me calmer. What if it’s doing the opposite?

I shake my head. It’s just a pill and it can’t possibly affect me that quickly.

The second warning bell rings. I’m officially late. A funny thing to worry about, considering my heart is killing me.

Mercifully, the tightness in my chest begins to lessen.

My heart has forgiven me.

I sigh with relief. Soon enough, I can stand relatively straight. Using the wall for support, I stumble to Ms. Engel’s classroom. I wipe the bits of sweat off my forehead, turn the knob, and slip inside as quietly as possible. Of course, the entire class turns to stare at me.

I halt, caught in the threshold. Anxiety ping-pongs between my sternum and backbone. A fresh layer of sweat pickles my face and body. The edges of my vision start to darken. Oh bloody hell.

I dash to my seat—thankfully, it’s directly in front of me—and sit down, lowering my head to the desk. If I keep my head and heart level, maybe the swirling will go away.

“Adam, you’re late. Please explain yourself,” Ms. Engels asks.

Without lifting my head, I say, “The lift was out of service.”

Snickers ripple through the room.

“Quiet, class.” Ms. Engels’ tone carries a warning. “Adam, do you need to go to the nurse?” It’s the follow up question of doom.

More snerks and giggles cascade through the students.

I lift my head. The swirling worsens. “N-no.”

“Alright.” Ms. Engels starts roll call.

My pulse rushes in my ears, almost drowning out her voice, and the darkness at the edges of my vision spreads. That awful slipperiness of a wonky beat slithers in my chest. It’s followed by the dreadful pause.

I count. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three—

When Ms. Engels says my name, I slump to the floor.

* * *

Someone’s calling to me. It sounds distant at first, but seems closer each time as I claw my way out of the freezing pit of unconsciousness. “Wake up, Adam. Can you hear me?
Adam
.”

I try to answer, but a mumbled groan comes out instead.

“He’s awake.” Whoever it is has a masculine voice. He presses a palm on my shoulder. “Look at me, Adam.”

I open my eyes to slits. “Whaflumblemed?”

The guy leans closer, turning his ear to my mouth. “Say that again.”

I clear my throat and wince. It’s like sandpaper is rubbing against my vocal cords. “What … happened … to … me?”

“Looks like your heart tripped out on you. How often does that happen?”

I don’t answer.

The guy draws my eyelid open and shines a light in my eye.

I turn my face away. “Ow.”

He gently directs my head straight. “Gotta check your pupils.”

While he’s assaulting me with a penlight, I wiggle my fingers and bend my knees to see if I still have control over my body. Someone else grabs my ankles. They ease my legs down.

“Lay still. We’re here to help you.” It’s a woman’s voice this time. She must be holding my legs.

“I’m fine.” It’s true. My heart doesn’t hurt anymore. I clumsily swat at whatever’s in my nose.

Principal Shepherd stands behind Ms. Engels, astute and somber as always. Ms. Engels cups my hand in hers. They’re sweaty, like mine. “You’re okay, Adam.”

I pull away, stomach twisting. I can’t handle her pity.

“Keep the oxygen on until we get you to the hospital.” The male EMT gives me the I’m-a-professional-so-you-have-nothing-to-worry-about smile. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s not to be trusted. People smile to hide the truth. I’m going to die. I’m just waiting for it to happen. Every second of every day.

Ms. Engels wipes her hands on her skirt.

Principal Shepherd says, “I had the secretary call your Mom. She’ll meet you at the ER.”

“She’s going to freak out.” Especially after our non-argument argument about me being fine. She’ll never believe me when I say I’m okay again.

The EMT says, “Let’s get him on the gurney, then we can load him on the ambulance.”