Broken (10 page)

“You said yourself that I have a responsibility to Tony. It’s not fair that he be penalized.”

“I also told Anthony to get another partner. This is too much stress on you,” she argues.

We stare at each other across the kitchen island.

“This means a lot to you,” she finally says with a sigh.

“Part of being a normal student is working with other kids. Besides, there’s nothing in those files I haven’t lived through.”

Her lips tighten and I realize that reminding her of all my Near Misses and the times they Almost Lost me was exactly the wrong thing to say.

“I said no, Scarlet. End of discussion. I’ll talk with Ms. Blakely and ask her to assign Tony a new partner and you another project. One that won’t require you snooping around sensitive records.”

“But they’re my records,” I protest. I can’t lose Tony—despite what he said in Spanish, would he ever talk to me again after I ruined his bio grade?

“I think you’ve had a long day. Time for bed. Good night, Scarlet.” Her tone is one of command.

As always, I surrender. What choice do I have? But as I pass the bowl sitting near the door on the way to my room, I can’t help but give the key chain a second glance. I could do it. I could go behind her back, defy her.

But I don’t. Instead I creep through the living room and into my room. Sent to bed without my supper. Just like a little kid.

I curl up on my paradise of pinkness bed and sulk. What have I done to deserve this? Being sick my whole life, never making any friends, spending most of my days either in a hospital getting poked and prodded or alone at home, miserable.

The worst thing I’ve ever done is to hide the vitamins Mom is always giving me—they’re really to make her feel better, not me, so I figure I’m not really hurting anyone, right? Except I hate having to do it because I hate lies. Really, really hate them.

Everyone lies. Even my mom lies. A lot. To me.

They aren’t nice lies, like “you look good today.” Instead she says things like, “this is the last time, I promise,” when the nurses are poking me for veins that have collapsed, sticking needles into me over and over, tying the tourniquet so tight and gritting their teeth like they take it personally that I’m a “hard stick.”

Or “it’s almost done, you’re fine, they’re almost done,” when really they’ve just begun to shove a tube up or down or inside-out and the real pain is still to come.

Mom’s lies are more dangerous than any doctor’s dull needle, fat tube, or sharp knife.

My dad lies too. Once Mom was across the state at a school nurse conference and I fainted and it was Dad who found me and rushed me to the ER. He was just like Mom, clenching my hand, biting his lip, telling me over and over that everything would be okay and it wouldn’t hurt and last time, I promise.

I was so angry with him. Told Mom I never, ever wanted Dad to take me to the hospital again. She worried he’d messed something up, told the doctors the wrong thing or mixed up my allergies. But no. He’d just broken my heart with his lies.

One of my nurses once told me that all parents tell lies to their kids. Wishful thinking, she said. They hate seeing their kids in pain, so all they can do is hope and pray that it will be over soon. They don’t want to tell lies. They want to be telling the truth.

It took me a long time to figure out that she was right. Still didn’t make it hurt any less.

But now I’m fifteen—practically an adult, not that I’ll ever live long enough to be a real grownup—and I’m getting ready to do something even worse than lying.

The second worst thing I’ve ever done doesn’t seem so bad, except that keeping secrets feels a lot like lying. Last Christmas when I was in the hospital, Mom thought I was going to die. Guess everyone did because all the churches in town were praying for me and reporters even came to interview my folks about their sitting vigil, hoping for a Christmas miracle. But I didn’t die. I lived.

When I got home and Mom was back at work, a package came for me. This happens a lot—usually they’re silly get-well cards or stuffed animals or food I can’t eat because of my allergies. Mom loves it—she’ll have me handwrite thank-you notes while she decides what to do with the loot, doling it out to neighbor kids or taking it to kids we met who are still stuck in the hospital.

But this package was different. It came from a mom whose son had been in the ICU at Children’s the same time I was over Christmas. Only he was waiting for a heart transplant that never came and he died on New Year’s Day.

He’d gotten an iPad over the holidays but only had the chance to use it a few times before he got sick, she wrote. His name was Nassir and if he’d lived he wanted to become a pediatrician—just like the newspaper article said I wanted to be (I’ve never remembered saying this to anyone; medicine is definitely an interest of mine, I just know I’ll never live long enough to actually become a doctor)—so she hoped I’d accept the gift and think of Nassir as I pursued my studies.

And there it was. My escape route to the world outside. I’d no longer be worried that everyplace I went online and everything I read or wrote would also be read by Mom and Dad. I swear they had the toughest spyware ever installed when I began online homeschooling. Like I was going to waste my days looking at porn or something.

I stared at the iPad and realized two things. First, I was free!

Second, it was the same size as a school notebook, thus easily hidden and camouflaged. It was my secret, something special that belonged to me alone. I could do anything I wanted with it and no one could stop me.

I touched the power button, my wool sweater releasing a spark of static electricity that leapt through me. That feeling of lightning striking stuck with me. I still feel it every time I turn my iPad on and escape from my life.

That was nine months ago. What I’m about to do now is worse than lying or keeping a secret. I think of that key ring, of the flash drive. I listen as Mom climbs the stairs to her room.

A thrill runs through me. I’m going to do it. I’m really going to do it.

I think of Tony, the way he looks at me. My heart skitters. I climb out of bed and creep across the floor to my bedroom door. Open it and listen hard for Mom.

I can’t believe it. I’m about to defy my mother for the sake of a boy I’ve just met. This is not me, not my world. I’m crossing into unexplored territory.

Electricity sings through my veins. It feels good, so very good that it pushes away any guilt. Then I step through my door and head for the kitchen.

I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, straining to hear the slightest noise from Mom’s room above me, her key chain with the flash drive mocking me from across the room.

After all, it is
my
medical history. Why can’t I have it?

Plus, it’s not just for me. This project will help both Tony and I get a good grade in bio.

And, if I’m going to be an adult, I should know the truth about my illness. All of the truth. Even the ticking time bomb that is my heart.

A heart that’s pounding now. Hard and fast, my pulse jumping along my neck.

All I need is a few minutes—time to upload the files onto the family computer, send them to my top-secret Dropbox account, then erase all traces.

I listen carefully for any sign that Mom’s still awake. Nothing.

The family computer is in the dining room since we never use it for eating. That way Mom and sometimes Dad can keep an eye on me when I use it—or so they say. They never use it themselves since Mom has her laptop and Dad has one his work gave him.

I turn back to the dining room and turn on the computer. Even pull out a notebook from my backpack as if I’m really doing homework. I’m a bit ashamed at how good I am at this sneaking around.

The computer warms up finally (my iPad is soooo much faster!). I get dizzy waiting for Windows to finish loading and realize I’m holding my breath. Then I open a window for my fake homework. Just in case. Behind it I hide my Dropbox, ready and waiting for anything I want to upload.

Now or never.

I creep into the kitchen—only getting a glass of water, honest. I get my glass. Stop and listen. There’s a creak overhead. My heart does a somersault and lodges in my throat.

Then the sound of the toilet flushing. I relax, knowing this is my best chance. I grab the key chain, race across the darkened kitchen, and plug it into the computer.

And wait. And wait.

Overhead, from Mom’s room, comes the sound of water rushing through the pipes. I hold my breath and listen hard, hoping it will keep going. Maybe she’ll take a bath, giving me all the time in the world.

Then it stops. Damn.

Finally the flash drive icon pops up and I open it. I don’t have time to take a look at anything; I simply select all and upload them to my Dropbox account.

More creaking upstairs. My mom’s on the move.

I keep my hand over the flash drive, ready to snatch it as soon as the light goes out. Mom’s bedroom door opens and closes.

Damn!

The drive’s light keeps blinking in time with my pulse pounding.

Mom’s footsteps start down the steps. There are twelve of them. I hear her come down one, two…

The drive finishes and I yank it out. I can’t afford to run back through the kitchen because it will make too much noise.

Counting Mom’s steps—six, seven—I replace the drive quietly in the bowl. Eight, she hits the creaky step, nine…I’m halfway across the kitchen, can see the computer—the screen is filled with my Dropbox account!

Ten, eleven, twelve—I make it to the computer and click open the screen with my homework just as Mom rounds the corner from the living room.

“What are you working on?” she asks.

“English. That memory journal I was telling you about.”

“For
The
Glass
Menagerie,
right?”

I nod. She wanders into the kitchen and turns on the light. I panic but force myself to watch her reflection in my computer screen rather than turning around. Does she hesitate when she passes the bowl with her keys? Does she notice that they aren’t in the same place? Maybe she memorized how the keys were arranged and is testing me?

No, that’s crazy.

But then she stops in front of the bowl. My fingers spasm on the keyboard; I can’t even fake typing. Her hand traces the air over the keys.

I suck in my breath. Waiting. She knows, I’m certain.

I manage to close the window of my Dropbox from the icon in the toolbar. But I still need to purge the history from the browser. While she has her back to me, I use the mouse and a few right clicks to do that—have to do it twice, my hand is shaking so bad.

Finally she turns around, raising a teacup in her hand. “I’m going to make some tea. Want any?”

Mom drinks tea and watches me do my homework. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she says. “But I really think this is a big decision and we should let your dad weigh in on it.”

Dad always sides with her, so that’s as good as declaring it a done deal. Except I have the files. Will I have the guts to use them? She’ll find out sooner or later from Ms. Blakely if I do.

I’m so used to having Mom around to run interference and protect me from Bad Outcomes in the hospital that it never occurred to me that having your mom around all the time at school might not be the greatest thing in the world. Especially when it seems half the school goes to her for counseling and guidance.

Just like she knew everything that went on at the hospital—more than the doctors even—she knows everything that happens at school. No secrets.

Maybe I should erase the records, tell Tony to find another partner.

I take my evening dose of atenolol—the medicine that’s meant to slow my heart and keep it beating nice and steady—say good night to Mom and crawl into bed. A trilling noise sounds. It takes me a moment to realize it’s my cell phone. I dig it out of my pack.

“Hello?” I ask, sure it’s a wrong number. No one has ever called me on my cell phone before—except Dad when I’m in the hospital and he’s on the road. And this isn’t his number.

“Yeah, so, what’s up?”

I blink in surprise. It’s Nessa. And—I glance at my clock—it’s 10:18 at night.

“Nothing.” I’m sure that’s not the right answer, but it’s better than telling her I’m already in my Hello Kitty pj’s.

“Yeah, me neither.” Her sigh sings thru the airwaves. “I’m so bored.”

I’m not; I’m tired.

“So, how’s it feel?” she asks. “Having Jordan and Tony both checking you out?”

Okay, not so tired now. Now I’m wide awake, clenching the phone to my ear as I struggle to act calm. “What do you mean? Did Jordan say something?”

She laughs. “Didn’t have to. First time in months I’ve seen him smile was yesterday at lunch when you took care of Mitch.”

“You and him aren’t—”

“God no. He was Vonnie’s boyfriend. That would just be gross. Besides, we know each other too well to ever hook up. It’d be like kissing your own brother.”

“He is cute,” I allow, as if I’m not overwhelmed by the thought of Jordan Summers actually being interested in me. The not-quite-dead freaky new girl.

“Oh please. Cute doesn’t cut it. Tony Carrera’s cute. Jordan’s out and out hot.”

“Tony’s more than cute,” I argue. “He’s really smart and has tons of great ideas and—”

“I saw how he was staring at you during English. Before you too went all ancient movie history on us.”

How did I miss that? “Really?”

“Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

I think about that, wince, and ask the question I know I shouldn’t ask. I wish I could be certain and confident like Nessa. But instead I’m a mass of self-doubt. “Why? Is it just because the whole school’s been talking about me? I’m like the freak flavor of the week. That’s all.”

“Are you kidding? Scarlet, take a look in the mirror some time. These guys are used to trailer trash and Taylor Swift wannabes—girls who try too hard, pretend to be something they’re not. Look at the Divas.” She snorts. “Vonnie hated them by second semester, said they were so fake and full of it. You’re not like that. You don’t put on an act, you’re just…you.”

Which so didn’t answer my question: why would any guy be interested in just plain old me?

But I’m too chicken to ask. Still figure any guy who wants skinny, sallow me is either blind or a loser too. And I’m not about to lump either Tony or Jordan in that category. So instead I say, “You’re not upset. About Jordan, I mean, if I—we—”

I can’t even finish the thought and feel my cheeks burning just thinking of the idea of me acting on any imaginary attraction Jordan may or may not have for me. Idle chatter, girl talk, that’s all this is. Nothing to do with reality.

“Actually, I always thought he and Celina might—”

Oh God, Celina! Shame burns through me as I remember the way she and Jordan sat together at lunch yesterday, the way he’s always watching her, like he’s measuring something carefully. “You’re right. I should just forget it.”

“No, no. Jordan’s a big boy and Celina has her hands full with her sister and mother and stuff. Last thing she needs is one more complication.”

“Doesn’t her dad help out?”

“He tries, but with all the hospital bills and stuff, he works two jobs. Does landscaping during the day and works at a convenience store at night. And Celina’s sister—she’s a handful. Especially with things all topsy-turvy over there. She’s twelve but she has autism, and a lot of time Celina’s the only one who can calm her down and handle her. Well, Celina and her mom, but with her mom in and out of the hospital—”

And I thought I had a crazy life. “Can’t we help? There’s got to be something we can do.”

“I’ve tried. So has Jordan. It’s hard. Celina loves her sister, but she doesn’t really like others to see her. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not ashamed of her, it’s just—”

“Hard.” Kinda like carrying your own ICU equipment with you wherever you go. “I get it. But if it’s just us, we can make it easy for her. Maybe this weekend we can go over and watch her sister or clean the house or something so she can spend some time with her mom?” I’m totally ad-libbing here. Hoping it doesn’t sound too strange, to be so desperate to visit someone else’s house, to try to make a difference for them. I want to be able to help, like my mom was able to help Jordan and those other kids this morning.

“Maybe.” Her voice upticks and I can tell her mind is buzzing with possibilities. “We can take her to the game Friday night—it’s been so long since she’s been anywhere except home and school. And then over the weekend, we can return the favor by watching Caridad for them?”

“But who will watch her sister Friday night?” I ask, half thrilled and half terrified by the thought of going to a real live football game.

“Hmm…could your mom? She’s a nurse, so there’d be no one better qualified.”

Silence thuds between us. I can’t tell her my mom doesn’t like Celina’s little sister. Or that she’ll never let me go to a game anyway. “I don’t know.”

“We have a few days. Work on her.” She makes it sound like parents were as easy as homework—give it enough time and effort and you could get any grade you wanted. If only.