Mom (proper noun, woman, 42): short, wispy-dark-haired person who birthed you. Looks like a Tolkien elf with laugh lines. If she is not at work, find her at home in mud boots in the yard, weeding vegetables, cursing at rabbits for getting into her garden, caulking cracks in the shed and/or house, or throwing a stick for Puppy. In winter, find her in the leather La-Z-Boy, wrapped up in a blanket.
Harrison (noun, brother, 13): enormous boy-man with skinny limbs good for climbing trees, thick brown curls like mine, and a potbelly full of macaroni and cheese. Find him in the sixth grade, playing Minecraft, or sulking in the outdoors because he can’t play Minecraft.
Bette (noun, sister, 9): a miniature version of Mom, but for all we know was deposited by aliens to examine our species. Find her at the tree line building weird structures out of sticks, in the back of her fourth-grade class making beeping noises, or doing Harrison’s math homework for caramels as payment.
Davienne (noun, baby sister, 6): another Mom miniature, but with Harry’s and my sturdy build. Find her as the most popular girl in first grade, sticking jeweled stickers to everything, and still blissfully unaware that her siblings’ habit of yelling “Surprise!” whenever she enters a room is the result of an unfortunate case of eavesdropping on Mom and Dad when they found out they were pregnant again.
We’re all here because Dr. Clarkington has to determine whether or not I’m healthy enough to go on an overnight trip to Nationals in Boston next month, and to finish out the school year.
The answer is obviously yes, because, like, look at me. I mean you can’t look at me, Future Sam, but there’s nothing grossly wrong. Sure, I have to shake my hands and legs out sometimes because they fall asleep. And my eyeballs hurt. But I think that’s just from reading too much. Besides, no one needs hands and legs at a debate tournament. Just a memory and a voice.
If Dr. Clarkington says I’m too sick, there are two major consequences:
(1) If I don’t go to the debate tournament, I can’t win, and (2) if I can’t win, then my NYU essay (about working steadily toward winning) was a lie, and I go into NYU a liar. Not to mention the fact that my entire high school career would have been a waste. If not for spending hours in the government classroom after school and on weekends, I could have been a popular, sex-positive hottie by now. Plus, I was just born with that steely blood, man. I always want to win. The first time Harrison beat me at chess (this year) I banished myself to only playing checkers in self-punishment. Anyway, that’s not the end of it.
If I don’t get to finish out the school year, my grades go down.
If my grades go down, Hanover will reconsider my valedictory status.
If they take away my valedictory status, my parents will realize I’m losing control of things… and they might not let me go to college in the fall.
If I can’t go to college, I… actually haven’t even considered this possibility. I can’t imagine what I’ll do. Probably walk up the Appalachian Trail with nothing but a coat and some jerky, hoping to start a new life somewhere in Canada.
It’s because there’s this part of me that wants to be extraordinary. Like I want to believe that if you work hard and you have good ideas, you can be who you want to be. Like Stuart, for example.
Imagine the horror if I were to be banished from school, and I run into him somewhere, and by some miracle speak to him without going into psychedelic reverie.
Sammie: Oh, hey, Stuart. What is that, Zadie Smith’s new novel?
Stuart: Hello, Sammie. Wow, yeah. It’s amazing. And you! You’re stunning. You’ve really grown into your glasses.
Sammie: Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.
Stuart: What are you up to these days? You’re debating in one of the most prestigious competitions in the country, right?
Sammie: No. No, I’m not.
Stuart: Oh really? What a shame. What are you doing instead?
Sammie: Oh, just, you know, diseasin’. Diseasin’ around.
This cannot happen.
I just proposed popping down to the Co-Op to buy a large bouquet of flowers to give to Dr. Clarkington, but Mom just looked at me like, Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?
I also feel really dumb because we’re all in our nice clothes since we have to go to Harrison’s confirmation after this. I told Mom that we look like we got dressed up to go to the doctor and that’s dumb.
Mom sighed. “Just let me be out of my scrubs in public in peace.”
“But it’s as if you’re wearing pajamas all day, that seems nice,” I said.
And she was like, “Have you ever had an old man show you a mole on his lower back while you’re in line at the grocery store because he thinks you’re a nurse?”
“Touché.”
Mom’s not a nurse yet, by the way, Future Sam. She’s still working reception at the Dartmouth Medical Center.
Still waiting.
Text from Maddie: Where are you?
Me: Be back in time for practice