The Running Dream (14 page)

Next he fills a small bowl with water and brings it and two rolls of chalky-looking white gauze over to the table. “Have you ever had a cast?”

I shake my head.

“It doesn’t take long.” He dunks one of the gauzy rolls into the bowl of water, and when it’s wet, he starts wrapping it around my leg, spiraling from the knee down to the end of the stump and back up. “This has plaster of Paris in it,” he tells me as he wraps. “The water creates an exothermic reaction—do you feel it warming up?”

I nod because my stump is getting warmer and warmer. It’s not uncomfortable. More like a hot towel wrap.

He uses both rolls, then tells me to relax my leg and begins massaging the plaster of Paris around. “We need good contact,” he says, “so we get an accurate impression.” When he’s done massaging the plaster, he smooths it down with his hands, then presses his thumbs around the bottom part of my kneecap, getting a good impression of that area. “There,” he says. “Now we wait a few minutes for it to harden, and that’s it. Easy, huh?”

He cleans up while we wait. There are plaster drips here and there, including on his shoes, and a scuff of it on his pants. He chuckles when he sees me watching him. “Yes, it’s hopeless,” he says, “but I still try.”

I can feel the cast start to lose its heat, and after a few more minutes Hank checks it, then unclamps the straps and says, “Ready?”

I nod, and after some gentle wiggling, the cast slides right off. He looks it over and smiles. “Beautiful.”

Mom asks, “So how long does it take for you to make the socket?”

“Usually about a week.” He looks from her to me, then says, “But how about I shoot for Friday?”

“That would be great,” she says.

He nods. “We’ll give you a call when it’s ready.”

I tie on my left shoe and gather my crutches, and on the way out I run into Chloe in the hallway. “Oh, excuse me!” she says, and dances out of my way.

We smile and say our goodbyes, and as I hobble out to the car on my crutches, I’m filled with a very strange feeling.

One I thought I might never feel again.

Hope.

I
MISSED MATH ON
M
ONDAY
because of my appointment with Dr. Wells, and although Fiona got the homework for me, I had trouble with the lesson and don’t want to miss another day of math if I can help it.

So after my fitting at Hank’s, Mom and I go through the Taco Bell drive-through, and I gobble down lunch and get back to school in time for fifth and sixth periods.

I manage to catch Fiona up on the day’s events during fifth, and I make her laugh, too, by calling it Hankenstein’s lab.

“Wow,” she says as she’s walking with me over to the math wing, “Chloe sounds amazing.”

“She is! If she hadn’t knocked on her leg, I would never have known which one was fake.”

So I hobble into math in a fine mood, and sit in a chair that I pull up next to Rosa. “I missed you yesterday!” she says. And as I’m watching her lips, working at decoding her words, she adds, “I was a little worried.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her, and I feel good that she missed me. So I start babbling about being fitted for a leg at Hankenstein’s lab. She laughs too, and I’m really enjoying that I’m
making people laugh instead of squirm or turn away. I’m also feeling good that Rosa missed me and was worried about me. Something about it is incredibly … sweet.

Then the tardy bell rings.

“Pass your homework all the way over,” Ms. Rucker commands. She’s looking even more stony-faced than usual, sizing up the class from behind her podium.

“All the way over?” somebody asks. “We’re not grading them?”

“All the way,” Ms. Rucker replies.

“Oh boy,” I grumble, because my paper is incomplete.

Barely started is more accurate.

I’d planned to get help from Fiona, but … it hadn’t happened. And I’d planned to “fill in the blanks” during the explanation, like a lot of people do … but there’s no getting away with that now.

Ms. Rucker strolls toward us down the aisle, collecting papers as she approaches. I know better than to try to explain about going to Dr. Wells and getting my leg cast today. I know that in Ms. Rucker’s eyes no excuse could validate such a miserable attempt at the homework.

Rosa sees my paper and her eyes grow wide. She passes hers to me and whispers something, but I can’t understand it and I’m not in the right frame of mind to try.

Instinctively, I place her work on top of mine. The penmanship is jagged. Like her hands can’t quite produce a smooth line. The numbers are a combination of miniature lightning bolts and uneven curves. But the work, the process, the steps … they’re all tidy and easy to follow, with the answers clearly boxed.

Ms. Rucker takes the papers from me, inspecting them as she turns and walks toward the front of the classroom. It takes only three steps for her to stop and level a look at me over her shoulder.

The look lasts maybe two seconds, but in that time she manages to convey disappointment, doubt, and resentment. Here she let me slide on half the problems for all the days I was absent—why can’t I show more effort?

I want to scream, Because I’ve missed a month of school, that’s why! Because I just about died, that’s why! Because everything I do is hard now, that’s why!

Instead, my chin quivers and I turn away.

Rosa passes me a note.
I can help you after school
.

My mom’s picking me up right after
, I write back.

Way inside, though, I know this is an excuse.

The truth is, I’d rather have Fiona help me.

I can understand Fiona.

She’s my friend.

She’s … comfortable.

Rosa writes,
Call me if you want
, and jots down her phone number.

I smile and nod, and tuck away the note, then turn my attention to the board, where Ms. Rucker has begun the lesson.

It’s hard to concentrate, though.

I sailed into class feeling sunny and hopeful, but now here I am.

Crashed against the rocks again.

T
HAT NIGHT
I
BURY MYSELF
in my homework, but at bedtime I still don’t feel like I’ve made a dent. There’s so much reading to do. Especially in language and history. But what worries me most is math.

Especially the new assignments.

Today’s math.

Yesterday’s math.

They’re adding up quickly to tomorrow’s headache.

I try calling Fiona but can’t reach her. First she’s at track, then she’s out with her mother, then she’s busy with something else. At ten-thirty I give up and tell myself that I’ll get her to help me in the morning.

But in the morning Fiona calls to say she overslept, and Mom barely gets me to school on time. There is absolutely no chance for Fiona to help me during the morning classes, and at lunch she rushes off to some meeting.

“Hey!” I call after her. “I really need help with math!”

“I’m sorry!” she calls back. “If I could get out of this, I would!”

She’s gone, and I’m left leaning on my crutches not even knowing where she’s going that’s so important.

“Darn!” I grumble, and I’m feeling very frustrated as I hobble toward the courtyard to eat the lunch Mom packed me. I’m hating math, hating Ms. Rucker … plus I don’t even know where I’m going to eat, or who I’m going to sit with. It’s been ages since I’ve had lunch in the courtyard, and the closer I get to it, the more I do not want to go there. Especially without Fiona.

I’m also feeling really dumb about Rosa.

Why didn’t I call her last night?

So I’m mad at Ms. Rucker, and mad at myself. And I’m hobbling by the 400 Wing when I remember—Rosa eats in Room 402.

I stop for a second, then turn and find the room. And when I peek through the door, there’s Rosa in her wheelchair, laughing with two other girls in wheelchairs.

There are also two boys and a teacher in the classroom. The boys are working on an impressively large Lincoln Log house that’s made out of pretzel sticks. The teacher’s reading a book.

“Hey!” Rosa calls, beaming a bright smile my way.

I hobble in and sit in a chair near her. “I am so lost in math.”

“I’ll help you!” she says. Her voice sounds a little like voices do when you try to talk underwater, but now it’s music to my ears.

“Oh, thank you,” I say, and pull out the assignment.

First Rosa introduces me to her friends. “This is Leesha and Panny.… The guys are Illy and Twent.”

I translate this to mean Alisha and Penny, Billy and Trent, but I’m not entirely sure.

“And I’m Mrs. Wahl,” the teacher calls with a friendly wave. “You must be Jessica.”

I nod and smile, but I feel a little uncomfortable that she already knows who I am.

Rosa gets right down to the math. She shows me her homework and points me through the steps as she explains the problems. “Okay. To find the first three iterates of this function, here’s what you do.…”

I struggle to understand her, especially since she’s speaking math—a language I’m already having trouble with. But seeing her work really helps, and at the end of each problem she forces me to get it by making me do the problem on my own without looking at her paper.

She’s patient and encouraging, and every time I solve a problem right, she says, “See? You’re getting it!” And as I begin solving them on my own, she smiles and says, “See? It’s easy!”

And with her help, that’s what it becomes.

Well, almost, anyway.

When the warning bell rings, I pack up my things and Rosa says, “I can help you anytime.”

“Thanks,” I say back, and this time I know that I’ll take her up on it.

“I can come over, too,” she says.

I hesitate, wondering how in the world that would work, or how she could even offer. It would probably be a lot easier for me to go over to her house … but again, my mind is defaulting to relying on Fiona for help.

Then she totally surprises me by saying, “I would love to meet your dog. He seems so … happy.”

I blink at her. “How do you know my dog?” I’m feeling very strange. Not fully grounded. And it flashes through my mind that I’ve been stalked by a girl in a wheelchair.

She laughs at my expression. “You used to run by my house. I live on Marigold. The house with the mermaid fountain.”

For some reason she’s becoming easier to understand. I barely have to decipher at all. “I know that house! You’re about half a mile from me. I’m on Harken.”

“See?” she says with a lopsided smile as she motors toward the door. “We’re neighbors.”

Mrs. Wahl calls, “Bye, girls!” as we leave, and adds, “Come back anytime, Jessica. You’re always welcome!”

“Thanks,” I call back.

Then I hobble off to class.

T
HAT NIGHT
I have the running dream again. When I wake up, I cry like I always do, but my tears are interrupted by the memory of something new in the dream.

A mermaid fountain.

A mermaid fountain and Rosa, waving from her porch as I run by.

In the dream I don’t really see her. I don’t turn my head and look. She’s a ghost on the porch, a cloudy vapor to my right.