My mom hugs and I punch. Go figure.
When JP started doing this loan-business stuff back in the eighth grade, I didn’t give it much thought. Why would I? I was there for the first transaction. Chase Cooper wanted a pack of gum and was short a dollar. JP spotted him and a week later, with my help, got two dollars back. It was even a little fun shoving Chase into the wall; I’m not going to lie. It’s a rush. Now we’re in high school and his side project has gone school-wide, which is weird. Especially since he doesn’t need any cash, ever, but it’s his thing and we all have a thing. Something to distract from real life. He gets off turning guys who need a favor into clients who owe him. So if I can make him happy in some dumb way, then that’s what I do to help. Better than sitting in the kitchen.
When Mom gets up and fills their glasses with more ice, I sneak my things into my bag and whisper away off the couch. The cane is wood with a worn-down rubber tip that normally tack-tacks against the floor, but I work to be as light as a cotton ball.
It takes forever. I breathe once I’m in my room and the door is closed. I hop over to my window and stare at the roof. That football still taunts me. I close the curtains and sit at my desk to ignore the pull to go get it. I search for a podcast I haven’t already heard, but I’ve heard them all, so I randomly pick the one about dazzle camouflage. The spine of the chemistry book cracks as I lay it flush against the flat wood. I’m reading, but my eyes slide down the page. My mom and my best friend are downstairs talking about wine-bottle-dodging strategies while my leg screams in pain.
I mean, jeezus. His own mother throws empty bottles at him. I’ve seen the welts. He’s shown me. And afterward JP’s head would shake, and his perfect hair and perfect body and perfect face would follow as he slumped against the wall, looking like a young Greek god on a bad day. It dawns on me I would still trade places with JP. Any day. So WTF does that say about me?
NINE
“Strip down and climb up onto the bed,” the nurse says. “We have to measure you.”
This is what all kids want to do at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning. Get half-naked in a hospital and wheeled into surgery. Yesterday I had an emergency appointment with Dr. Jensen and he looked at the X-rays and was like, yeah, that cast needs to come off ASAP.
“You should’ve told me as soon as your leg started hurting,” Mom says.
“Your mom’s right,” the nurse says. He logs into the computer and types some stuff. “Growth plates could get messed up, if they haven’t already.”
Mom inhales sharply, like she’s the one in pain.
“You need to strip,” he says to me, and then gives my mom a look.
“I’ll step out.” She slips out of the exam room and shuts the door behind her so the metal knob clicks.
The nurse’s head turns toward me. “Anything you want to ask while your mom’s gone?”
I shake my head.
“Now’s the chance,” he coaxes.
What does he think I need to ask him, where’s the nearest whorehouse? I tilt my baseball hat and look up at him from my wheelchair. “I’m good.”
“All right. Skivvies and a gown.” He tosses a threadbare green number in my lap.
He’s joking, right? That thing is as small as a Kleenex. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll be in the hall with your mom,” he says, taking the clipboard with him.
A full-length mirror beckons on the back of the closed door, and I pivot my wheels away from it. Being anywhere near naked is one of my least favorite hobbies. Especially when I always hope to see someone else looking back at me.
But not today. I have to go into surgery, get these stupid pins removed and replaced, and get a new cast. Hooray. This is why I’m here when I’d rather be in trig.
Everyone’s in a tizzy about my leg healing in a confined space. The bone will bunch up and I’ll be all lopsided. To which I say, I don’t care. It’ll give me an excuse to slouch.
A knock at the door and the nurse is inside before I’m finished. “I’m not done yet,” I say as I struggle with my jeans. They’re stuck.
“Here, let me help,” he says, reaching for my jeans before I get a chance to say whether or not I am cool with that. But I sit there like a mute as he wrestles off my pants over the cast. When he’s done, he re-hands me the gown and the obvious dawns on him. “Whoa, dude, this isn’t gonna fit.” Nurse Ryan, as per his name tag, digs under the counter and pulls out one that’s more my size.
He stands above me. “You sure you’re only fifteen?” He makes something that could be confused for a laugh.
I push off the wheelchair and now I’m the one to stand over him. He’s a good half foot shorter than me. I put on the gown, but why I don’t know. Modesty? Pride? I doubt there’s much left. “Yeah, I’m fifteen.”
“All right, show-off.” He points to the scale. “We should weigh you first. Hop up.”
Easy for him to say.
He fiddles with the sliders. His eyes bug. “Two hundred and seventy-two pounds.”