It's My Life Page 7

  Are they talking my doctor into this? They can’t actually think that’s a good idea, right? All of my sass and my bravado disappears; this is just nuts. I stare at the ceiling. It’s got an ugly water stain in the corner, which detracts from the “healing green” color of the office.

  Dad asks, “What are our options?”

  “Our options?” I ask—obviously from the cheap seats.

  “We could put her in the hospital for a few days. That would allow us the flexibility to run some tests. Find out if we can make this thing happen.”

  “How long?” I ask.

  “Two days. Three at most.”

  Tears burn the back of my eyelids. I shake my head without even meaning to.

  Mom looks at me, and I’m glad she caught my response to all of this.

  Dr. Rodriguez addresses just me this time. “I know you are not in favor of a hospital stay, Jenna. But the protocol calls for tests before surgery. Let’s see how those tests go before we go any further. And let’s keep you are under medical care for a little while after so we can help alleviate any potential side effects.” He looks to both Mom and Dad and sweeps across the room with an open-palmed gesture, which sickens me. “We all believe it’s in your best interest.”

  “Talk to my lawyer,” I say.

  Dr. Rodriguez smiles. Patronizing me. Trying to be a good guy, maybe. I smirk back. Because I know all I have to do is snap my fingers and Uncle Steve will serve the papers. But then what will happen? I mean, if left to my own decisions, what would I want the doctors to do? I haven’t figured that part out yet.

  “When?” Dad asks.

  “Well…” Dr. Rodriguez shifts his attention to his computer. “Schedule is open for next Thursday.”

  “That’s right before her birthday.” Mom’s voice sounds choked up.

  “Maybe figuring out how we can finally give her the baclofen pump and give her the best chance at normal mobility would be the best birthday present ever,” Dad says.

  Oh my God, he said it. He said “normal.” We have outlawed, banned, and forever exiled that word from our vocabulary.

  Mom stares at him. He crosses his arms.

  I want to scream at him. I want to shriek. I want to blast him for being so effing insensitive. But I get where he’s coming from. If I become “normal,” then he can let himself off the hook for not picking up at his first meeting with Dr. Jacoby what a d-bag of a doctor he was.

  My cell vibrates. I almost pull it out, but I need to stay strong.

  Mom dries her eyes. “I’m not so sure…”

  “She will be able to participate fully in birthday activities by Sunday at the latest.”

  Around me the conversation starts up again, as if they never really expected me to participate.

  “Jenna? Are you even listening? Honestly, I wish you’d try to care about these next steps,” Mom asks.

  I turn to her, anger coursing through me. “What I want doesn’t matter. You know I don’t want this. You know I don’t want the surgery. You know all of this, and yet you keep going.”

  Mom’s expression goes from annoyed to incredibly sad. She brings a tissue to her nose. “We just want to help you.”

  Her sadness breaks through my wall of anger, and I see past all of my shit and straight into her heart. When this all started—my life, I mean—I was just a kid she wanted. I mean, she didn’t ask for me to be so much work, did she? She probably envisioned a normal kid. There’s that word again. Even after being banished from our house as if the word alone is responsible for all of this.

  “Jenna?” Mom moves my hair away from my eyes. “You here?”

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “So you’ll try?”

  “You’re not exactly giving me a choice, are you?” I stare into her eyes, will her to see me, really see me, to understand that my gripe is not with them, or even with Dr. Jacoby. It’s with this situation, the one that means I’ve got to relegate my care to people who feel justified in deciding things for me. For. Me. Like I’m an infant still and dependent on them.

  Dad turns to me. “Jenna, we’ve given in to you about your classes, which both your mother and most of your teachers feel is a bad decision.”

  For the millionth time I think about who I could have been. But this time I get all mystical about it. I think about me—the preborn, soul of Jenna—who became mixed with the human person with the messed-up body.

  I swallow the rage that brews inside me.

  “David…” Mom tries to defuse this nasty situation.

  “And…after this semester is over, we are definitely going to have another discussion about that.”

  My stomach drops. If he moves me out of my classes, I won’t be with Julian anymore. So I throw my hands up. “You win. I will do this. But I am not changing classes.” It occurs to me that Uncle Steve might need to help me with a few school-related things.

  There’s a lot of murmuring and a bunch of wrap-up words, but I remove myself from all of them.

  When we exit the office, the day is nasty gray, and the fake light-blue siding on the building we just left pisses me the eff off. The hospital is the same kind of phony. All bright on the outside with tons of windows. Painted and designed to look like a nice place, a happy place, a making-dreams-come-true sort of place, but I know the truth. It’s no castle. It’s a prison. At least for me. But then again, everything’s different for girls like me.

  5:00 P.M.

  Are you over me already?

  No. Sorry. Had a bunch of stuff after school.

  You worried me.

  Sorry. I had a pretty suckish day, TBH.

  You want to talk about it?

  Nah. Thx. How was your day?

  Crapped out on a Geometry test.

  Who do you have?

  Bartoletti.

  He’s a softie. He’ll let you correct all of your answers to bring your grade up.

  Really?

  Yeah. And he’ll tell you you’ll get half of the points back, but most times he gives you more than that.

  You had him?

  No. Know someone who did.

  Thanks. You save the day again.

  Have to go for my superhero costume fitting now.

  Send pics!

  As if.

  What? You can cut off your head so I can’t see it.

  Not. Going. To. Happen.

  I happen to be an expert at superheroes and their costumes so you might need my help.

  There are literally thousands of comic books to use as models.

  Uh oh. Big question. Might be a deal breaker for us.

  ?

  Marvel or DC?

  DC. Of course.

  So glad you’re not an Avengers fan or something.

  Are you kidding? With Khal Drogo playing Aquaman?

  Whatever it takes to keep you in my universe.

  Don’t you mean the DC universe?

  That too.

  Nine

  Ben drives Rena and me to school this morning, which already makes it a better day than yesterday’s suck fest. Once Rena’s bounced out of the car and onto the pavement, I turn to Ben.

  “I’ve got a confession.”

  Ben stops sipping his Dunkin’ iced latte long enough to raise an eyebrow.

  “I’m sort of…” I look at my phone. “Well, I inadvertently…”

  “Spit it out, girl. You’re not on trial.”

  “I’m kind of catfishing someone.”

  He chokes. He puts his hand on his throat and leans forward. I pound him on the back. When he’s fully recovered, he says, “You’re what?”

  “I guess that’s what you call it.” I flash my phone at him.

  He takes it. “I better have a look.”

  I put my hands over my face. Pe
ek between my fingers. This is going to be bad.

  “Wait…what? You’re not catfishing someone—you’re catfishing Julian.”

  My hand goes out, but Ben doesn’t return my phone. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He scrolls backward. I guess I didn’t realize how many texts Julian and I have exchanged because he’s still scrolling minutes later. He puts his hand on his forehead. Looks at me. “I have so many questions. So many. So. So. Many.”

  “I get it. Just ask.”

  He steeples his fingers and drums them against one another. “Which to choose, which to choose.”

  I smack him.

  “Okay. I guess my first question is why?”

  My turn to take a sip of my drink. “Ummmm. I wanted to?”

  “Okay. I can see that.” Ben puts on his careful tone, like the way you’d talk to a wild animal or something. Not the kind of tone he usually uses on me. “So you’re not worried about being found out?”

  “I’m being careful.”

  “Honey. No. This is not careful. This is playing with fire. No. This is playing with fire and a big can of gasoline. This is playing with fire, a big can of gasoline, and kerosene as backup. This is…”

  I put my hands in the air. “I get it. I get it. I’m an idiot. But honestly, it’s a fun distraction.” I take another sip. Try to act nonchalant. “And it’ll be fine as long as I never give him my cell number.”

  Ben raises his eyebrow. “You two are in class together. You used to be friends. For some reason, he’ll need something. He’ll ask you for your number, and what are you going to say?”

  I chew on my straw. “I don’t know. Ugh. You’re right. I’m screwed. Oh my God.”

  Ben plays with his eyebrow, which he only does if he’s superstressed. “We’ll figure something out. But man, Jenna, when you go, you go big.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Speaking of going, let’s move. I think the cool fall air might calm me down.” He fans himself.

  We open our doors almost on cue. He races around to meet me with my crutches. His car’s a bit low for me, and I need a little boost. “You’re a little savage, aren’t ya, girl?”

  “Savage and stupid.”

  “Nah. I think you’re just moved by love.”

  “Who do we love?” Chip comes up behind us, and I want to die.

  “Who don’t we love?” Ben quips, his arm slung around me so that I don’t faint right there in front of Julian’s friend.

  Chip cracks up, then jogs ahead of us.

  I jab Ben in the ribs. “That was close.”

  “Too close for comfort. We will discuss this more when it’s safe.” Ben walks me to my hallway. “If only you were in my classes.”

  “I know.”

  “Is this revenge plan against your parents worth our being separated?”

  “No. But bonus? Guess who’s in my English class.”

  Ben kisses me on my cheek. “You’re playing with fire in all areas of your life. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I like to be consistent.”

  “Yes. Yes. Consistency. So important.” He points at me. “See you at lunch. Don’t you do anything ridiculous until then.”

  I watch him walk away and wonder if he’s right that I’ve bitten off way more than I can chew. The bell rings, and it feels like a warning.

  And a warning I will most likely disregard as I practically sashay into my English class. Julian comes in at the echo of the bell, and I’m sitting in the back of the room so that I can see everything that happens in front of me, including his entrance.

  My seat allows me to gawk as Julian lowers himself into his chair with careful deliberateness. Mr. Stechshulte gives him a smile that’s half pained. I’ve seen Julian move on the ice, where he flies. If he’s late to this class, it’s on purpose.

  Mr. Stechshulte starts, “Class, I am on the verge of making a terrible decision. Please talk me out of it.”

  Everyone sits up straighter. Tori holds up her new iPhone. “Should I get it on Snapchat?”

  The class laughs. So does Mr. Stechshulte. Also Julian. He leans toward Tori, his chin in his hand, and looks at her like she’s something special. It feels like someone punched me in the stomach.

  “I’m going to let you guys choose the next book we read.”

  “Captain Underpants,” Steve Maxwell, with his thick neck and meathead body, yells out.

  The class laughs some more until Mr. Stechshulte holds up a copy of Great Expectations and one of The Great Gatsby. Needless to say, I’ve read both of them. Twice. But with this class, no matter what the book is about, they are going to vote with their eyes. Gatsby is a much thinner book, by more than half.

  “Show of hands.” Mr. Stechshulte holds each book up, moving them forward one at a time and collecting votes. Like I thought, not even close. “Okay,” Mr. S. says, “we’ve got our next book.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Julian slump lower in his chair. I remember he said he hated to read. The Great Gatsby is a great read. It’s filled with really cool symbolism and incredible scenes. But most of all, it’s about a guy who loves a girl who, even though she loves him back, is unable to act on that love. She’s this little bird trapped in her gilded cage, and, even though Gatsby gives her a way to break out of that cage, she doesn’t do it in the end because she needs its protection. This book feels so close to my reality sometimes. That’s the thing with stories—when you can see yourself in them, it’s easier to remember the details.

  Julian runs a finger over his spiral notebook, where he’s written the names of bands. Blink-182. Mumford & Sons. Red Hot Chili Peppers. Imagine Dragons. There’s something about that list that gets to me and makes me feel porous and open in the best possible way. Like he’s showing me who he is inside.

  Suddenly I imagine myself as Jennifer. I’ve gone over to his house to help him, and we spent three hours going over Gatsby. I am equal parts exhausted and really happy, because he really seems to be getting it. I’m wearing a red flannel shirt. His. And super comfy jeans. My legs are stretched out, long and lean. We are the image of teenage perfection, me in my Jennifer body, him in his hot hockey player one. He reaches up and moves a piece of hair behind my ear, staring into my eyes, then searching my face. His gaze reconnects with mine. He looks happy, wearing the little smirk that he usually covers with one hand. But this time, he doesn’t cover it, and that tiny bit of intimacy makes my body light up like a candle. I let him inspect me, but then the heat of his attention gets to be too much, so I defuse it.

  “I’m a mess, really. So not ready for viewing.”

  He puts three fingers over my lips. “Shhh.”

  His bed is so soft and the covers are so inviting and he’s so damned cute, I just want to lie back and let him follow me.

  “You’re perfect,” he whispers. I am perfect. I am good enough and smart enough to deserve the best. I let him kiss my neck and behind my ear. Rascal Flatts is playing in the background. I’m not a huge country music fan, but something about its lazy twang softens my resolve further, and I let Julian kiss me. My hands frame his face. He called me perfect, but he’s the one who’s perfect. He smells musty and salty, and I feel his body pressed against mine—his strong legs and his tight frame. I feel the weight of him on me, and it makes me feel so grounded and alive. So alive.

  “Jenna.” Mr. Stechshulte waves his hand in my face. “You okay? You with us?”

  I blink. I’m back in class. Facing forward, thank God, and not staring at Julian. Sweat dots the back of my neck. I sweep my hair back because that’s a normal girl thing to do, but really because I need to cool off.

  “I’m fine.” I reach for my water bottle and almost knock it over, but Mr. Stechshulte catches it. Everything is going in slo-mo. I feel myself fading away, becoming farther and farther from t
his world, and I wonder if this is a start of a seizure. But then the lights snap back into focus.

  Mr. Stechshulte hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods and strides back to the front of the room. “Okay. So we decided.” He turns on the projector and focuses it on the screen at the front. “Here is the reading schedule.”

  Everyone laughs, because he had obviously predicted which book we’d choose.

  I grab my water bottle and take a slow drink, but then my hand releases, and I drop the water bottle, sending it spilling all over the floor.

  Mrs. Wilson, who is popping in on me today to make sure I’m okay, chooses this exact moment to stop in. “Oh, Jenna.”

  “It’s no big deal.” Mr. Stechshulte pushes the button on the wall. “We need a mop in room 1–153. Just water.” Then to me. “Nothing too tragic, right, Jenna?”

  I nod.

  “You’re all right?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, though I burn with embarrassment.

  “Good.” He does one of those old-man, good-guy winks. “Now where were we?” Mr. S. does a motion with his hands directing the class’ attention back to him, and I breathe out.

  Mrs. Wilson takes out her cell and types in some sort of text. I’m sure it’s about me. And I’m also sure it’s not something I’m going to like. “I think we better get you a wheelchair for the rest of the day, just in case.”

  I seethe with anger at Mrs. Wilson, even though she’s really just doing her job. And I don’t exactly want to get into it with her in front of everyone, so yeah. I’m stuck.

  “Remember to stick to the schedule, people. Do not fall behind.” Mr. S. pauses to scan the class. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s just a few pages. But trust me. You don’t want to have to play catch up.”

  “Do you want me to copy down your assignments?” Mrs. Wilson reaches for my backpack, which must really annoy Mr. S., because he shoots her one hell of a withering look. Then he scratches the area over his eyebrow, and I can practically hear him sigh heavily.

  “It’ll be in Google Classroom for everyone to access later. You should all do that.” He points to the class. “Now would be good.”

  Mrs. Wilson withdraws her hand from my chair.