It's My Life Read online

  I can practically feel the heat coming off Julian, and can picture how the tips of his ears have turned red. I may be way too focused on the boy’s physiology. Most girls in my position would consider his anatomy. His strong shoulders. His cute smile. It’s not that I don’t get all of that, I do. It’s just that I remember so much about him. How he looks when he’s interested in something. Like hockey, of course, but also birds and trees, actual specific trees—the names and where you find them and all.

  Mr. S. turns around and looks at me. “Jenna might be a good person for you to team up with. You both missed a bunch of assignments, and she’s pretty great at getting caught up.”

  Now it’s my turn for my ears to go red.

  Tori grabs Julian’s phone right out of his hand. “We already exchanged numbers and set study dates, Mr. S.”

  And it’s not that they already exchanged numbers that bursts my dream bubble. It’s that she’s holding his phone and he’s not objecting—to anything she’s doing.

  Mr. S. puts his hands up like he’s surrendering.

  I can feel Julian try to catch my attention, but I make myself busy looking over my paper even though all I’m doing is wishing like mad that I was the one who got to hold his phone and make study dates with him.

  * * *

  Every once in a while, a bear straggles out of the woods on the north of town and goes into someone’s back yard. It makes everyone talk about how we are depleting their habitat. Everyone gives their best bear advice, as in how to avoid getting eaten by one. Me? I worry about the bear. Will somebody shoot it? Can it find its way home?

  Today, a bear sighting has everyone in school all worked up. Kids have their phones out at lunch. They’re doing some kind of GPS thing that tracks the bear. I’m sitting with Ben and his group of marketing kids, who are all talking about fund-raisers and price points, and I scowl at my phone.

  Ben puts his palm in front of Simon Newsome’s face as Simon tries to talk him into carrying condoms in the school store. “It would definitely drive sales,” Simon says.

  Ben looks super annoyed. “No. No way,” he says, then he swivels to face me, his shoulder bumping mine. “What’s up? Aside from not being able to contend with the stupidity of our peers?”

  Simon leans across the table. “It’s not stupid. It’s brilliant…”

  Ben ignores Simon completely now, just shuts the dude down. He turns to face me full on. “Tell me what’s got you down, sweets.”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “Probably. But that’s our thing, isn’t it?”

  “I’m worried about the bear.” I show him my phone. “They’re tracking him, and it’s not like it’s his fault. He’s just being a bear.”

  Ben takes a sweet potato fry off my plate, dips it in ketchup, and chews on it slowly. He looks like a movie star from the old days, only back then the fry would have been a cigarette. He watches the bear live-action tracking cam. “I think he got away,” he says, showing me.

  “Really?”

  He puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “That’s why I love you, Jenna. You have the sweetest heart.”

  “Or I’m a big dork.”

  “Those things are not mutually exclusive, you know.”

  Julian walks into the cafeteria, and my eyes zoom in. I immediately feel worried for him, like the bear. No, this high school isn’t hostile exactly. Most people are fairly chill, and I don’t worry he won’t find a table. I mean, theoretically he’s already found one, since he’s been back a while already. It’s just, if he sits with Tori, that would kill me.

  Simon snaps his fingers in front of Ben’s face. “Are you going to address the condom issue?”

  Ben cracks up and puts on one of his this-is-going-to-be-fun smiles, which distracts me for a second from the where-will-Julian-sit situation. “Should I give it to him?” he asks me.

  “Uh, yeah…”

  Ben shifts his attention back to Simon. I half listen while I watch Julian exit the food line. “We are not going to pursue your useless idea. Final decision.”

  Julian starts walking down my row. The hockey team sits just to the left of us, so that’s probably where he’s headed. I breathe out. No girls sit at the hockey table. Eric says it’s practically forbidden.

  “Give me one good reason,” Simon demands.

  Ben’s smile gets more wry, if that’s possible. “I’ll give you three reasons.” He holds up one finger. “First of all, because the guidance counselors and the nurses give the things away for free.” Another finger goes up. “Second, I do not want to know who is doing who here on campus.” Ben looks at me. We both pretend to shudder. “Third. You know what, we don’t really need a third reason because the first two were so good. But if you must have a third reason to be satisfied, it is simply this: I am the Marketing Academy president, and what I say, goes.”

  “That’s right.” I snap my fingers in front of Simon’s face.

  Ben turns to me. “Girl, you’ve got a mean streak.” Everyone gets silent. His dimples show. “And I like it.”

  “That’s what he said,” Simon chimes in.

  Ben’s eyes go wide for the tiniest second before streamlining to pissed. He points away from our table. “Out. Out of my sight.”

  “You can’t throw me out!”

  “No one talks about Jenna like that in front of me.”

  Julian stops directly behind Simon. “There a problem?”

  Chip, one of the hockey players, claps Julian on the back. “Keep cool, man.”

  Julian turns, hands Chip his tray. “The coolest.” Then he rotates back to face Simon and puts his strong hands under Simon’s armpits.

  “What the… I didn’t do anything.”

  Julian lifts him to his feet, where Simon stands gaping. Julian pushes him forward. “Keep not doing anything away from Jenna.”

  My face heats. Embarrassment is one of those things my body can process right away.

  “You okay, Jenna?” Julian asks.

  My tongue is anchored right to the bottom of my mouth. Get it together, Jenna, Jennifer’s voice bites at me, and somehow I manage to spit out a very weak “Sure, sure.”

  Chip gives Julian a “what’s up?” look.

  “She’s Eric’s little sister.”

  “Just don’t get suspended for fighting. You’re practically on probation already for grades. We need you, man.”

  It’s Julian’s turn to blush, and I wish I could help him like he helped me. His hazel eyes fall on mine. Kind, sweet eyes. “It’s been a while, huh?” he says.

  For a split second it feels like how it used to between us when we’d shoot baskets at the hoop Dad put up in our driveway for me to practice my balance. I had a decent free throw back then, and sometimes that would make Julian look at me like I was special.

  Ben grabs my hand under the table. Squeezes it to remind me that the boy actually said something to me and politeness dictates that I answer him.

  “Yeah.” Could I be more articulate?

  “We just moved back,” he says. “Different house. Across town.”

  The boy is saying all of these short choppy sentences, and I can’t decide if that means he’s uncomfortable, shy, or just hoping to end this convo quickly. Ben squeezes my hand again, this time pretty hard, and I almost cry out, but instead I say. “It’s nice having you…back.”

  Oh my God, I did not just say that.

  Chip puts his hand on Julian’s neck. “Say goodbye, man.” Julian waves weakly while Chip forces him forward. “You gotta get focused on two things, grades and hockey. That’s it.”

  The sounds of the lunchroom pick back up as if they had been paused for that nerve racking exchange with Julian and someone somewhere hit play. I still can’t breathe or focus or deal with anything. My mind desperately goes over every single moment of the la
st few minutes. Ben lets go of my hand and takes out his phone.

  “We still need to plan our big three,” Ben talks above the roar. “Freshman Tours. Trunk or Treat. Homecoming. Who’s ready to take lead?”

  I usually love watching all the game play and politics of the marketing kids’ table. Watching sophomores try to upstage juniors. Everyone hoping their pet project will make it into the showcase and eventually move on to competition and hopefully regionals, states, and then nationals. Today, I could care less about all the machinations. I only care about what’s going on at Julian’s table…or more importantly, inside his head.

  From where I’m sitting I can see Julian pull out his phone. How I wish I could zoom into his screen. He’s texting someone. Who? I watch as his face stays even, no lighting up for whoever is texting him. Crisis averted. For now.

  Although, at some point, Tori will be texting him. Helping him with English even though Mr. S. made a point of saying I’m the one who should be helping him. Me. Not her.

  So…why don’t I? I mean, I could anonymously text him. He doesn’t have my number, because I didn’t get my phone until after he moved away, but I have his.

  I stare at my cell.

  I’ve always been good at memorizing things; it’s how my brain works. So when Eric was team captain for the rec hockey team, he tacked the team list to the front of the refrigerator in case he had to call someone after practice or get them to volunteer for a car wash fund-raiser or something.

  And I’d play this game. I’d make my eyes linger on the shapes of the names of the boys as if Julian, teammate number six, was just a part of a group. Like his number meant nothing to me. But each time my gaze landed on his listing, my face would burn with the knowledge that I was singling him out.

  At the hockey games I pretended to watch the entire team, but from my perch in the box, I stared at him. I may have tolerated their strong, musky athlete smell and endured their awful jokes—but I was there for the eye candy.

  I always tried to laugh or say something smart back, but around the team my tongue knotted, and the air I desperately tried to control, a small part of the incoordination of CP, raced through my nose just at the same time our team scored. So maybe there was a God after all, because he didn’t want me to snort in front of Julian.

  I think about Julian’s number stored on my phone, just waiting for me to use it. The knowledge lights a fire inside me. I think of all the ways texting would be to my advantage.

  First of all, there’s wait time. I am almost always able to get a message out of my mouth, in the right order, pronouncing each word separately and like a pearl strung on a beautiful necklace. Most times, that’s exactly how it works. Most times, I’m pretty clear. But sometimes, like when Julian was getting rid of Simon earlier, the electric wiring in my brain goes all loopy, and my muscles tense and slack, or slack and tense, and that means I’d sound like I was talking around a bunch of marbles, drooling, and choking as I tried to speak. Also there are the things I want to say to him but can’t. That, of course, has nothing to do with motor control.

  At the hockey table, Chip puts his arm around Julian and brings him into the impromptu huddle that’s happening at his table. Hockey talk. Grades talk. This is how the year starts. Most hockey teams don’t even start practicing until November—it’s a winter sport. But our hockey players are all in for just the one sport. No fall ball for them. It’s hockey, or it’s nothing. So they start early, which means Julian’s already behind. I wonder if that’s weighing on him. I bet it is.

  Julian nods to whatever they are saying. He’s taking the vow, but his shoulders are still slumped. I want so much to reach out to him and tell him not to worry. It’s like I can hear him feeling how he’s not smart enough or fast enough or good enough. And I wish I could find a way to show him he’s more than enough.

  For me.

  Seven

  Bedtime means I’m perched in my bed, surrounded by pillows, and with the head of the bed raised. I remember how as a little girl I used to feel like a princess as Mom and Dad kissed me good night and I slowly lowered my bed to the perfect position. Now, years later, still propped and surrounded by fluffy bedding, I feel trapped. It’s weird how that happens.

  I take my iPad that’s set up next to my bed and swipe through a few messages from Ben, some random emails, and finally, the latest email from Uncle Steve.

  I put together emancipation documents for you to look at and see what they’re all about. We can talk soon.

  Dread creeps into me, followed by guilt and, finally, sadness. I picture how Mom and Dad will feel when Uncle Steve and I make our big stand. Do I really want to do this?

  I write back to Uncle Steve.

  Ok. Thanks.

  Mom’s knock on the door makes me jump. My cheeks heat. Guilt-ridden and unsure, I face Mom, who doesn’t miss a single thing. “I was going to say good night, but you look sort of flushed. You feeling okay?”

  “Yes, Mom.” I close my screen, covering up my treacherous little email exchange. “I’m fine.”

  She comes within two steps of putting her hand on my forehead, but I throw a “Mom!” at her, which makes her pull her hand back. Just like that, I’ve won a minuscule victory.

  “I wanted to tell you we have a doctor’s appointment on Thursday. Dr. Rodriguez.”

  “Awesome.” I’m suddenly glad that Uncle Steve and I are looking into this emancipation thing. I need to be in control of all of this.

  “We’ll just listen to what he has to say, Jenna. Let’s keep an open mind.”

  I face her down with an icy stare. “Really? Like I haven’t been keeping an open mind all this time? Like I haven’t listened to you and Dad and all the doctors. The army of doctors.” Doctors who could be just as “good” as Dr. Jacoby. My parents couldn’t protect me from malfeasance then, so could they really do it now?

  Mom’s hands come out in front of her. “I know you have, Jenna, but this time might be different.”

  I breathe out. Breathe in. Try to calm the wild storm raging inside me. “My mind is open, Mom. It always has been. I’m not the one who lied this whole time. I’m not the one who…settled.”

  Direct hit. Mom deflates like a balloon. “Settled?”

  “Come on Mom…the settlement…”

  I’ve been sitting on this information since I found out about it, not sure how to broach the subject with my parents. Go figure it would come out in a fit of anger.

  “You know about the settlement? How?” She asks. Her face pales and her hands shake, but at least she’s not crying. Yet.

  “I found it online.”

  “Oh.” She looks at her hands, clasps them together, and looks back up at me, her face a mix of despondence and resignation. “I knew we’d have to have this talk one day.”

  “If you knew that, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know.” She wipes her eyes. “It was all so scary, the day you were born. Your father and I were so…” She looks at the ceiling. “So scared.”

  “Because of the CP?”

  “No. We didn’t know about that right away. Because your birth was difficult. We were afraid we’d lose you.” Now she’s full-on crying.

  “Mom. I’m fine.”

  She smooths down my hair, straight today, because Rena did it over the weekend. “I know you are.”

  “But this is exactly what I’m talking about. I have a right to know. Everything about me and my condition.” And now I’m crying, too, which is awesome, because I’m trying to be all in charge and stuff.

  She nods. Grabs a tissue off my night table. “I know you do. I know. It’s just, it was such a scary thing, and you have no idea what it feels like to almost lose a child.” She sits, her face completely drained of color now.

  “So…medical malfeasance,” I say, pushing.

  “It’s the term they
used for the lawsuit, so we could set up a trust fund for you. The same fund that pays for all of your mobility aids and therapies.”

  “And the doctor?”

  Mom looks at me funny. “What about the doctor?”

  “He just gets away with it?”

  “It’s not that simple. No one knows exactly—”

  “I know. He screwed up, and I’m paying for it.”

  “Jenna…it’s not like that.” She stands up. She waves her arm. “And you’re doing fine.”

  “You call this fine? In bed at seven, because today exhausted me? Seizures? Surgeries? What part of any of that is fine?”

  Mom pulls back as if I hit her. She tents her fingers under her nose. Looks up. “This isn’t helping. None of this is helping, Jenna.”

  So that’s where this ends. This is the extent of the conversation. “Tell me about when you found out about my CP. What did you do? What did you think? Were you scared?”

  “Of course we were scared, Jenna. But you were fine. You are fine. You were so little, and we were worried, but you’re fine now.”

  “Yes, I’m perfect, just the way I am.”

  “You have a lot to be grateful for. We all have a lot to be grateful for.”

  “Forgive me for not being grateful that I have these crutches and these messed-up muscles and these…”

  “Stop it!” Mom waves her arm around. “Just stop it. I know things are harder for you. I understand all of that, but you have to keep going.” She puts her hand on her head. “Oh my God, that’s why you wanted to be moved into all of those classes.”

  My face burns, but I pretend like I don’t know what she means. “What classes?”

  “The ones that are too easy for you. The Gen Ed ones.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with regular English.”

  “No, there isn’t. But not for an English buff like you. I can’t believe I didn’t even think to ask. I’m so stupid.” She walks around my room in wide circles that become tighter as she walks.