by Erin Stewart
“ ‘We have been so touched by your bravery and wish you a speedy recovery.’ ”
She sticks her finger in her mouth, making a gagging noise as she holds the box over my trash can.
“May I?”
I grab the box before she can chuck it.
“Cora thinks they inspire me.”
“Inspire you?” Piper scoffs. “They’re total junk. Everyone’s on the front steps with balloons at first, but where are they when you’re sitting on the toilet having your mom wipe you because your shoulders won’t stretch?”
I toss the box back on my desk.
“Wait—they don’t make a Hallmark card for a successful tooshie wipe?” I say. “That seems like a serious oversight in the product line.”
Piper laughs. “Like ‘Congratulations on your first bowel movement after surgery! Hope everything comes out okay!’ ”
“Or ‘That graft looks way less pus-filled! Here’s to an infection-free New Year.’ ”
“Or how about this?” Piper leans back in her chair, her arms folded with a serious, deadpan face. “A card with Zac Efron smoldering off the page, saying, ‘Girl, those compression garments hug you in all the right places. Keep it tight.’ ”
I laugh. “I would definitely buy that one. At least it’s funny.”
“Right?” Piper says. “Like today, when Layne was trying to be all serious and you bust out your Freddy Krueger comment. I almost died. Who said it, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Some girl in the theater. Keira or Kenzie or something.”
Piper’s face scrunches up tight.
“Kenzie King?”
“I don’t know.”
“Long black hair? Face looks like the wind changed right when she was on the verge of a massive snart? Like she’s always right on the cusp of sneezing and farting simultaneously?”
I try to remember the girl’s face. I was so worried about her seeing me that I didn’t get a good look at her or the degree of snartiness on her face.
“Maybe?”
“Well, that’s not a surprise. Kenzie is the worst. The. Worst. Whatever you do, stay so far away from her that when she does finally snart, you’re nowhere near the splash zone.”
I laugh. “Gross.”
“Yes, she is. In fact, now that I know she was the one who said it, I no longer think it was hilarious.”
I send the dream catcher spinning with my claw-hand.
“One time, a girl at the checkout line scream-whispered to her mom that my face looked like melted crayons. I was only like a foot away from her. I’m burned, people, not brain-dead.”
Piper laughs. “I’ve heard that this one senior boy calls me ‘Meals on Wheels’ because I’m lightly toasted,” she says. “Gotta give him credit. That one’s got some nuance to it. You wouldn’t believe some of the dumb things people call me.”
“I guarantee I’ve heard worse,” I say, mildly insulted that Piper thinks she could compete with me, the face that launched a thousand quips.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know if you can handle it, Wheelie,” I say.
Piper leans back in her chair, a sly grin on her face. “All right, then I’ll start with an oldie but a goodie: roadkill.”
“Not bad,” I counter. “And I’ll go with bacon face.”
“Quadriplegic zombie.”
I kneel on the bed, shouting through my laughter. “Scarface!”
Piper screams back, trying hard to stay in her wheelchair as she leans forward to bellow another one. “Snakeskin!”
“Crusty crab!”
“Crispy cripple!”
“Mutant mouth!”
“Pig face!” Piper clasps her hand over her mouth, realizing she called me a name instead of one of her own. This strikes both of us as hilarious, and I collapse onto the bed, holding my stomach. Piper doubles over in her wheelchair just as Cora bursts through the door.
“Girls!”
Piper sucks in her lips, trying not to laugh. Cora looks from me to Piper, her face red.
“That. Is. Enough.”
When she closes the door again, Piper and I both exhale giggles. She wheels to the side of the bed and motions for me to scooch as she hoists herself out of the chair and then inches backward onto the mattress, flopping her limp legs next to mine.
“So who wins?” Piper says.
“I’m pretty sure we both lose.”
Piper’s breath slows.
“The names don’t even bother me. Rubber and glue and all that,” she says. She points to the box of cards on my desk. “Those are the offensive ones.” She puts her hand to her chest and does a high fake voice. “ ‘Inspiration!’ ‘Your story is so inspiring!’ ‘You’ve inspired me to live to the fullest!’ Well, great, I’m glad my terrible personal tragedy could help you get your crap together.”
“And ‘miracle,’ like there’s some higher reason I’m alive,” I say. “My dad pushed me out a window. I lived. He died. That’s not a miracle; it’s gravity.”
“People are the worst,” Piper says quietly.
“Totally.”
“Except you. You don’t totally suck.”
“You should definitely write Hallmark cards.”
Piper laughs. “No, really. You don’t make me want to get a lobotomy, and that’s saying something.”
Piper’s zebra-striped arm presses against my own compression garments. She doesn’t jerk away or seem to notice she’s touching me. She’s not even a nurse or an aunt or a counselor who has to be close to me.
“You know what I mean, though, right? It’s hard to put into words,” she says.
“So don’t,” I say. “Words are overrated.”
Side by side, we watch the dream catcher dangle above our heads.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not facing the nightmare alone.
Ava Lee
BS Therapy Journal
Feb. 26
Words I hate
(in ascending order of loathing)
gross
toasty
crab-hand
the penguin
scarface
pizzaface
zombie
well-done
crispy critter
freddy krueger
brave
inspiration
miracle
lucky
survivor
survivor
survivor
What do you call someone who didn't mean to survive?
Who sometimes wishes she hadn't?
9
If the high school hallway is the gauntlet, then the cafeteria is the guillotine.
When the bell rings for lunch the next day, I scan the crowd for Piper’s wheelchair, determined not to walk in alone. I wouldn’t even be considering it if she hadn’t texted me after first period.
Claimed a lunch spot yet?
Keeping my options open
Hit me up by the vending machines
I’ll think about it
Don’t be a hero
My combat-boot lunch pals from the stage yesterday file past me toward the auditorium. I consider retreating to the anonymity of the curtains as well when Piper texts me again.
Are you coming or what? No one survives solo
While I weigh my options, I notice a poster outside the bathroom, advertising the spring musical. In my old life, I would have auditioned with my friends, would have been part of a group to call mine. Now, I am a solo act.
But maybe Piper’s right: the only way to get through these two weeks is to belong—somewhere.
The clatter from the lunchroom spills into the hallway along with the aroma of Tater Tots and teen sweat.
I push the doors open despite the itch spreading down my arms.
A table of girls closest to me turn in unison. I pretend not to notice how they bunch their heads together over their cell phones, their texting thumbs and eyebrows flying in rapid-fire girlspeak.
I scratch my arm outside my compression garments as the itch intensifies. Where is Piper? I must look lost or confused, probably confirming everyone’s suspicions that my mind is as messed up as the rest of me. The roar of the cafeteria crescendos around me, making me wish I had my headphones, and I’m just about to turn tail and run back to the stage when—
“Ava!”
I’ve never been so relieved to hear my name. Piper waves from a table in the back corner, the hot-pink stripes of her compression garments now visible above the crowd.
“Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys!” she says when I make my way to her.
The other kids at Piper’s table don’t seem to share her enthusiasm. They briefly scrutinize my face and return to their lunches. One boy tinkers with a clarinet, wiping the reed on his shirt before wedging it back into the mouthpiece. A girl pores over a math textbook, and another keeps her eyes glued to her phone while she chews a sandwich.
Piper pats the seat next to her.
“Okay, for real, though, I don’t even know what these guys do after two-thirty every day,” she whispers. “But my regular squad kind of disintegrated recently, and like I said, you need a pack to survive.”
Even though I can feel people looking at me, eating lunch at a table is way better than hiding backstage, and with Piper chatting about BS therapy and all the people and teachers I should avoid at Crossroads, the lunch period is almost over before I know it.
As Piper talks, a boy walks toward us. It isn’t until he gives me a thumbs-up that I recognize him as the kid with no boundaries and zero ability to pick up on my serious “leave me alone” vibes yesterday.
Suddenly hyperaware of my body, I rearrange my arms twice, finally leaning against Piper’s wheelchair handle, trying to act casual. My face heats up, and for once I’m grateful my scarred face doesn’t blush anymore.
“The girl with the space-age hand!” he yells to me above the din of the cafeteria. “We didn’t scare you off, then?”
He squats between Piper and me. I tug my bandana closer across my absent ear, which I am suddenly supremely aware of as well.
“Almost,” I say.
“She speaks!” he says.
Piper looks at us, her eyebrows cocked upward as she chews.
“You know each other?”
“We have earth science together,” he says. “But we haven’t been formally introduced.”
Piper digs in her sack lunch, doing the honors without looking at us.
“Asad, Ava. Ava, Asad.”
The boy grips my hand so tight that I wince. He stands and, with a flourish of his wrist, bows. In the middle of the cafeteria. His black hair flops in front of him as he smiles at me, dimples raging.
“Asad Ebrahim, at your service.”
Piper rolls her eyes.
“Ignore him. He thinks the world’s a stage.”
“And we mere players,” Asad says, beaming.
I try to swallow my own smile, but I know I’m failing at that about as hard as I am at looking casual. I recheck that my bandana is covering my earhole.
“Shakespeare in the lunchroom?” I say. “Bold.”
Piper guffaws.
“Right? He’s like a very old, very cheesy man trapped in a barely pubescent body. It’s the worst of both worlds, really.”
“I will not apologize for my knowledge of the classics.” Asad smirks down at Piper. “Excuse me if I think there are more interesting things than The Real Housewives of Atlanta.”
“I do not watch that,” Piper says, throwing her balled-up paper bag at Asad. “I watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Besides, I’ve seen some Bollywood, so your taste is definitely suspect.”
Asad throws the bag right back at her.
“If you’re going to be racist, at least be accurately racist. My family is from Pakistan, not India.”
“Same diff,” Piper says.
“Actually, not. But I will forgive your ignorance, as there has not yet been a Real Housewives of Lahore.” Asad bows at the waist toward Piper. “I accept your humble apology.”
Piper shakes her head.
“Drama kids.”
“Speaking of which—” Asad straightens up. “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
My chest deflates a little. Of course—he’s here to talk to her.
“There’s a vicious rumor going around that you’re not auditioning.”
“Not a rumor, my friend. Truth,” Piper says.
His smile falls along with his shoulders.
“You’re going to drop us, just like that? Where’s the loyalty?”
Piper backs up her chair, turning it abruptly to face him. She pops a clementine section in her mouth, chewing while she talks.
“Good question. If you find any shred of loyalty in that group, I want to be the first to know. Until then, I’m out.”
Asad starts saying something, but Piper cuts him off.
“I’m out!”
“All right, all right. Message received.” He holds up his hands and backs away slowly, stopping only to deliver another bow to me. “Ava. So glad to have a name to go with the face.”
For the second time with this kid, I can’t tell if he means his words as a subtle dig or he’s the poster child for social awkwardness. Before I can decide, the bell rings and Asad disappears into the wave of reenergized students barreling toward the door.
“What a doofus,” Piper says.
“He seems nice,” I say.
“This is high school. Nice is a death sentence.”
Piper’s eyes shoot across the crowd to a girl standing by the recycling bin, staring at me.
“Can we help you?”
The girl shakes her head quickly and rushes out the doors, still holding her lunch tray. A few other girls nearby giggle. My face heats up again, my neck itching like wildfire.
“Well, that’s not going to help us fade into the background,” I say.
Piper yanks backward on her wheels, grinding to a stop before we reach the door. She looks up at me quizzically.
“Who said anything about fading away?”
10
For the next two weeks, Piper and I walk/roll the gauntlet together. At first I think we’ll double the spectacle—two burned girls, one in a wheelchair with striped neon skin and one with no hair, no ear, and no hand—but our partnership seems to lessen the stare factor. Maybe people are used to seeing Piper?
Or maybe everyone has had their initial gander at the Burned Girl, and soon, some other weirdo will get top billing. They won’t even see me anymore.
Or maybe it’s because Piper is straight-up ruthless.
When a scrawny-looking boy shamelessly points at me one afternoon of my second and final week, Piper runs her wheelchair over his foot.
“Picture for your spank bank?” she says, one hand behind her head like she’s in a pinup calendar. He practically nose-dives into the crowded hallway to escape her.
Whatever the reason, the halls of Crossroads High are a lot less daunting with Piper by my side, and I fall back into a familiar rhythm of school—reading and textbooks and long lectures punctuated by short bursts of hallway chaos. I breeze through most of my homework, and before I know it, my sentence is up.
Saturday morning, the day after my official “reintegration” period has ended, Piper sits on my front porch, a can of paint in one hand and her cell phone in the other.
“I’m here to fix your room. Well, your walls, anyway.” She flips the phone to me. “Oh, and I
made a playlist for you.”
I read the name of the album.
“Fire Mix?”
“Yep. All the best combustion songs.”
She reaches out to turn up the volume on her phone as I bump her wheelchair up the front step.
“Really? You’re playing this song for me,” I say as Alicia Keys blares into the living room singing “Girl on Fire.”
“Fight fire with fire, right?” She grabs a paintbrush from her backpack and belts the chorus into her makeshift mic. “ ‘This girl is on firrrrrrrrrrrre!’ ”
She holds the last note until her face turns red and then takes a small bow in her wheelchair while I slow-clap. She turns the volume down as Billy Joel ticks through the decades of “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”
“I had to get that out of my system.” She produces two more paint rollers out of her backpack and holds up a can of paint the same hot pink as her compression garments. “Let’s do this.”
“I should ask Cora and Glenn first,” I say.
“It’s your room, isn’t it?”
“Technically, yes. But still, I should ask.”
Glenn carries Piper upstairs and I almost abort the whole mission when I show them the paint and Cora’s bottom lip trembles. Glenn leans against the doorframe, Cora leaning into him, looking no bigger than one of Sara’s dolls next to his Paul Bunyan–esque frame. Her mind seems like it’s floated elsewhere. She lightly touches the wall.
“Robin’s-egg blue. Sara must have taken a hundred samples from that paint store before she picked this one.”
I run my own fingers across the butterfly wallpaper runner, the backdrop for our many two-person plays and ballets. Part of me wants to preserve this room forever.
Another part—the one I try to ignore—wants to rip it down to the studs.
“We don’t have to paint it. I like the blue,” I say.
“No, no. It’s your room now.” Cora smiles, but it’s missing her usual “everything’s going to be okay” assurance. “Probably should have done this a long time ago.”
Quietly, Cora gathers up the pointe shoes from the shelf in the corner but can’t hide her shock as Piper smears the first long streak down the wall.