Freshman Year (10 page)

I only close my eyes for a second or two, but within that short blip of time, the wind pushes me off course. And just as I open my eyes, I see that I'm about to catch my handlebars on the driver's side mirror of a broken down car. Like usual, I overreact to the situation, turn the handlebars too far, and down I go.

When I land on the asphalt, the reality of pain consumes my mind, leaving very little room for Keeta-fantasizing or any other confusing thoughts. I look up at the darkening clouds, which, combined with the metallic smell in the air, tell me the monsoon is about to unleash completely upon me. Within seconds, I'll be soaked.

I try to scream for help, but now sobs are spewing out of me too quickly and preventing speech. I'm on my side and my legs are intertwined with my bike's frame. I look down at my knee; it's hamburger meat. Then there's my ankle. It's throbbing from being tangled in the chain and frame and is twisted at an unnatural angle. My backpack, which has already been rescued twice from the giveaway pile, didn't do much better than me, and the stuff it once held is spewed out on the road like backpack barf. And here comes the rain.

By the time I can push my bike off me and attempt to sit up, I am drenched from head to toe. One of my soggy socks is full of blood and my ankle resembles a watercolor painting of a sunset. Red, blue, and purple are all blending together.

Sitting in the middle of the sleepy, abandoned street, I curse my mom for being too cheap and weird to buy me a cell phone, and I cry a little more. Then, after shoving my new clothes and shoes in my pathetic excuse for a backpack, I use my bike as a walker and hobble to the gas station down the street.

I call my mom collect because I lost all the change that was in my bag.

“Abbey, what's wrong? Who's hurt? Are you okay?”

I thought I could calmly tell her that I need her to pick me up, but when I hear her voice I start to cry again. “Mommy,” I sputter into the phone.

“Oh my God, Abbey. Where are you?”

“I fell off my bike. I'm at the Exxon on Campbell and Grant.”

“I'll be right there, honey. Five minutes.”

When she arrives, she totally freaks out. This is obvious because she keeps on repeating, “You're okay. You're okay. You're okay,” as she drives me to the urgent care at St. Joseph's Hospital. After we check in and I get put into an exam room, she finally calms down a bit.

“We're going to get you all fixed up, my Abbeyroo. Mommy's here, okay?”

It feels kind of nice to be her little Abbeyroo again, so I don't laugh when she says it. Instead I say, “Okay, Mom. Thanks,” because it's good to know I'm loved by at least one person in this messed-up world.

“Why don't you rest one more day?” Mom asks, as she helps me pull up my shorts while I lean on her for support. “Missing one day of school won't kill you, Abbey Road.”

“I'm fine, Mom,” I say between clenched teeth, trying to hold back a scream because she accidentally bumped her arm against my annihilated knee. I am still pretty banged up on the outside, and I rested all weekend with my ankle elevated, but my guilt never let up. All I could think about was Keeta and the moronic way I acted in the mall. I've memorized my apology and written it down for reference. Now I need to face Keeta and get it over with.

Mom drives me to school, and we pick Kate up on the way. I can't maneuver my crutches and carry my guitar, backpack, and foot pillow, so Kate, very unwillingly, carries my guitar over to the performance hall for me. She's about to dump it on me outside of the building, but it's obvious I'm not going to get far if she doesn't at least open the door.

“Geez, Abbey.” She rolls her eyes and swings open the door. “Here you go, gimpy.”

“Thanks,” I say and stick my tongue out at her.

“I suppose you want that door opened, too?” She points at the double doors down the hall, that lead into the music room.

“Yes, please.”

“I swear. You really need to get better soon. This is going to get so old.”

Once we enter the empty room, she pushes me down in my chair and tosses the guitar on my lap, barely avoiding my oozing knee wound, drags another chair over, yanks the pillow out of my hands, lifts my foot, sets it on its comfy resting spot, and leaves in her usual loving manner. “Later, klutz.”

There are still ten minutes before the first bell, and I'm bored and lonely. I unzip my case and pull out my guitar to practice the new song we're learning. It's called “Moon Shadow” and it's a total hippie song, one I think my dad would have loved, but it's easy to play. Before my accident, I had it down, but now trying to go between D and G in a smooth way is a little tricky due to the bandage on my left hand. Plus, my fingertips haven't developed any tough calluses, so they're still sore from the metal strings. I almost get through it twice without messing up, but then I hear a noise behind the curtain.

“Hello?” I say, but no one answers. “Hello?” Nothing again.

Then, thanks to the horror-movie marathons Kate and I have every summer, I imagine a masked killer leaping out from behind the curtain and strangling me with a guitar string or bludgeoning me with a trumpet. “Tell me who you are, or else…” I yell.

“It's just me,” Keeta says finally.

“Oh.” I run my fingers through my hair and grab a clump to twirl. Here's my chance to apologize, but my mind has turned into a bowl of soggy corn flakes and all I can say is, “Hey.”

“Keep on practicing,” she says from behind the curtain. “Sounds like you need it.”

I know I deserve her burn, but it still hurts. Then I take a deep breath and say more than one syllable this time. “Keeta?”

But she's gone back to ignoring me.

“Keeta, come on. Please,” I beg.

“Yeah, what?”

“I need to…could you come here for a sec? It's so
Wizard of Oz
talking to you behind the curtain like this.”

She parts the curtain and walks through. Her face is stone hard as she approaches, but when she looks up and sees my bandages, it softens.
“Ay, Dios mío,”
she says and steps off the stage.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound extra injured so she'll feel obligated to be nice to me.

She stands over me with her hands on her hips like a superheroine and asks, “Are you okay?”

Whenever people ask me if I'm okay when I'm not, I always start to cry. I guess today the tears help me because instead of being angry at me, Keeta sits down beside me, moves my crutches to the side, and puts both of her hands gently on my ankle. “Amara, what happened?” she asks. Though she knows my real name by now, I am glad she still calls me Amara, even if I'm not sure why she calls me this and I wonder what it means.

I sniff back the waterworks and look at her. Hearing my special name again is all I need to know that whenever I actually get around to apologizing, she will forgive me. “Oh, you should see the other girl.”

“
Estás loca
. Look at your knee…and your hand.” She takes the guitar off my lap and places it in its case. I feel naked without it. “I guess you're not playing basketball anytime soon.”

I wonder how she knows about my being on the team, but then realize Stef probably told her. I bet they tell each other everything, like about the moronic way I acted this weekend. I have to stop avoiding it. “Keeta?”

“Sí, Amara
.
”

I melt again.

“What's on your mind?” she asks.

“Why do you call me that?” I ask, deciding the apology can wait.

“Why do I call you what?” she says, pretending to look confused.

“Come on. You know.”

“Well, what do you think it means?”

“Monkey face? Clumsy girl? Goddess of dorks?”

She laughs, and I love that I can make her laugh. “No, try again.”

“Ándale dime,”
I say and playfully shove her shoulder. “Come on, tell me.” That's when I realize flirting comes a lot more naturally when you actually like the person you're flirting with.

“Hmm…” She gathers her hair and tosses it on her back, exposing her neck. I notice a cute freckle by her ear. Is it weird that I want to kiss it? “I'll tell you under one condition.”

I try to stay focused. “Okay. What?”

“You tell me why you're always so nervous to be around me.”

“What? Now you're the crazy one,” I say and pull at the strings of my hoodie until I nearly choke myself.

She laughs again. “Oh, I'm the crazy one now?” she says and then looks down at my foot.

“Yep, that's what I said.” My big toe is sticking out of the ACE bandage, and because I feel self-conscious of its nakedness, I wiggle it and then wince. This makes her even more concerned than before.

“You know what I think?” Keeta says with a smile on her lips.

At this point I would give up brownie batter and
SpongeBob
for the rest of my life if I could just know what she was thinking.

“I don't think you're like the rest of your friends. Are you, Amara?”

Here's your chance. Don't screw it up!
“No. I swear I'm not. I'm so sorry about how we, how I, acted. They were being so stupid and I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry.”

Then she looks up at me for what seems like a million minutes. The walls disappear and I'm so far away I don't even notice when the classroom door opens.

“Boys have the worst timing,” Keeta says under her breath. Then she gets up, dusts off her pants, and hops up on the stage again.

I don't think I ever felt so unhappy to see someone, but I smile politely as Jake walks toward me.

“Oh man. What happened, Abbey? Are you okay?”

Weird thing is that when
he
asks it, I don't cry. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

Jake spends the rest of class asking if I need anything, and I spend the rest of class watching Keeta walk around the room, helping the guys with their finger placements, wishing it was my hand she was touching instead of theirs.

*

I hobble late into Spanish, and Garrett yells, “What the hell happened to you, Abbey?”

Then
Señora
Cabrera tells Garrett,
“Cuide su lenguaje
,
por favor
.
”
And now everyone is staring at us.

I sit down and carefully prop my leg up on Stef's empty chair. After sitting in guitar and then all during PE to file emergency contact cards for Mrs. Schwartz, I'm developing a sore butt to match my sore crutch-bruised armpits. This whole situation blows.

Garrett leans forward to question me more, but
Señora
Cabrera clears her throat and gives Garrett the scary teacher stare, so Garrett writes me a note instead:
OK, how long 'til it heals? Just give it to me straight. You know I don't usually prefer things straight, but this time I'll make an exception.
:-)

I turn the paper over and write:
Ha, ha. The doctor said it wasn't too bad a sprain, so like two/three weeks. Then, take it easy and see how it goes. Don't freak out, I'll be better in no time.

Then Garrett adds to another blank spot on the paper:
You'll pay for this. But since we're friends, I'll try to forgive you. FYI, you're a damn klutz.

Señora
looks our way and scowls a little, but I don't really care. I've already missed whatever it is she's teaching. Besides, Garrett just called me her friend, so our note passing has just become way more important than learning the names of Things in the Market.

I write back:
It's not like I meant to use the road as a slip and slide.
Then remembering my teammate duty, I ask about Stef:
Hey, where's your sidekick? Sick? Hungover? Maternity leave? By the way,
tú eres una chica extraña
.

Hey, I know I'm a crazy girl. It's what all the ladies love about me. Anyway, Stef and her g.f. are fighting in the locker room. She'll probably be MIA for the rest of class.

This is the first time we've ever talked about girlfriends or anything closely related, and it feels good that she trusts me, so I make sure she knows I'm cool with it and reply:
That sucks. I hope she's okay.
Then I can't help but ask a slightly selfish question, revoking any kindness or coolness I just displayed:
They fight a lot?

Garrett's reply comes back on a new sheet, which is a good sign; she wants to keep writing to me. I must have passed the cool-with-the-lesbianism test.
Kinda. I mean, you've met Keeta. FYI, she told us you're in her guitar class. Nice try keeping that a secret, you freakin' geek. Anyway, Keeta
es una coqueta
. Like, she'll flirt with any girl. And she's a
mentirosa
. I mean, like a big-time liar. They should break up already, but whatev.
Wáchale
. I think Mrs. C is on to us.

*

After the longest sixth period ever, I slowly make my way to my locker and drop off my Spanish and social studies books. Then, as I slam my locker shut, someone's clammy hands cover my eyes.

I lean on one crutch and feel the hands. They are big, rough, and not girly. “Jake?”

“How did you guess so quickly?”

“It's a gift,” I say, not admitting he's the only boy I know, therefore making him the only possibility.

He has my guitar in one hand and a soft drink in the other.

I'm sort of, I don't know, angry that he took my dad's guitar from the safety of the instrument closet, but I let it go. “Wow,” I say in the most enthusiastic girlie voice I have. “That's so cool of you. I was just imagining the pain I would have to suffer to go and get it.” Should I hug him or punch his shoulder or something? I mean, I sure as hell am not going to kiss him. I opt for the half-hug-slug-nudge. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He takes my backpack off my shoulder and puts it on over his own. He looks like a double-humped dork. I kind of like that someone is willing to look like a dork for me. I doubt Keeta ever looks dorky for anyone.