Sorry Not Sorry

by Jaime Reed

  Slowly, color returned to Alyssa’s cheeks and her breath released in long, even puffs. Sheree used the kit in Alyssa’s bag to check her blood sugar. Luckily, Alyssa was coherent enough to walk us through the rest.

  Once my heart returned to its original position in my chest, I stepped out into the hall. I was on a mission to get carbs for Alyssa and much-needed air for myself. My brain hurt trying to process what just happened and could’ve happened. A montage of worst-case scenarios flashed before my eyes, and there was a high chance that I would throw up before it was all over.

  And how long had Ryon been standing there?

  Wearing only wet swim trunks, he watched me from the end of the hall. He wasn’t my type, but I could see why Alyssa liked him. He had six-pack abs and his smoky, deep voice was better suited for a jazz club than the debate team. Right now, that voice sounded almost menacing when he asked, “What’s wrong with her?”

  I didn’t need to ask whom he was referring to, and I tried to make light of the situation. “That answer could take all day.”

  “I know she’s lying about her girl issues,” he said. “I have a sister. She’s never turned pale or gotten the shakes at that time of the month.” He drew closer, his flip-flops slapping on the wet cement floor. “Look, you’ve known her longer than all of us. You know what’s going on with her—that’s why you covered for her just now. What am I missing? Can you tell me? Please?”

  Good gracious! His face was a moving portrait of pure heartache. But then this was Alyssa Weaver we were talking about: writer, producer, director, and star of her own drama. “It’s not for me to tell—”

  “What isn’t?” he pressed. He wasn’t going to let this drop, which made me even angrier for being put on the spot. How do you keep a lifelong medical condition a secret from a guy you’ve been dating for two months? Riddle me that, Batman.

  “Fine!” I took a deep breath. “Alyssa hates needles, okay? She’s hated them ever since she was a kid. She’d take insulin and get her blood sugar tested every day.”

  I liked Ryon, but that was all he was getting: clear-cut facts, condensed and downplayed for Alyssa’s benefit. No one needed to know the out-and-out terror she faced growing up. The whole thing traumatized her in ways that exceeded vocabulary, so those details would remain closed to the public.

  “Alyssa has diabetes?” Ryon asked, though he didn’t seem fazed by the news. He just blinked a few times and raked his hands through his wet hair. “Okay, so what? What’s the big deal? Why didn’t she just tell me?”

  “She hasn’t told anyone. Whatever her reasons are, you’re not supposed to know, so you can’t talk about it, all right?”

  Frowning, he brushed past me and headed back to the pool. Not the response I was looking for.

  I caught up with him and tugged on his arm. “Ryon, you can’t tell her I told you.”

  “I won’t, but I can’t pretend that everything’s okay. I have to help where I can. Besides, I’m not good at secrets.” He kept walking.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d betrayed Alyssa somehow. She went out of her way to not tell people about her condition, and unlike our classmates, I knew the meaning of discretion without having to google it. There was no way I would’ve told Ryon unless there was a good cause for it. It seemed like one at the time.

  Dr. Langhorne consulted her notes and flipped back a few pages in the file on her lap. “From what I understand, you come from a philanthropic family and have a long history of advocacy work. Do your parents know about your decision to donate?” she asked.

  I sat in the armchair opposite to hers, chewed my thumbnail, and racked my brain for a brilliant reply. “Not exactly.”

  “Is there a reason for that?” A fancy pen twiddled between her manicured fingers as she awaited my answer.

  I had every right to be nervous. The woman’s dark, probing stare made me second-guess every word out of my mouth, be it true or false. A lot was riding on acing my psych evaluation, but glossing over info just to look good might put me on her bad side. And her bad side was a rough part of town that no one in the building wanted to visit.

  Before I walked through the door, it had been made clear that Dr. Edith Langhorne, sociopsychologist of the Atlantic Wellness Center, was not one to mess with. The way the staff never looked the woman in the eye, the speed with which her assistant delivered a file and scurried off, and how she’d kicked Dr. Brighton out of the office for talking over her had driven the point home. The first thing to catch the eye inside her office was the engraved stone tablet above the credenza that read:

  MY HEARING IS ASTUTE, MY PATIENCE IS MINUTE,

  MY WRATH IS ABSOLUTE,

  SO KEEP IT CUTE OR KEEP IT MUTE.

  Yeah, sistah girl was fierce, and no exam had ever worked my sweat glands as much as her question. Maybe it’s because the answer wasn’t so simple. Either way, I gathered enough nerve to say, “My parents and my sister are thousands of miles away, and I don’t want to pull them from whatever they’re doing for something that might not even happen. I’m not looking for a pat on the back or a merit badge, and I wouldn’t be doing this if there wasn’t a dire need for it.”

  “Fair enough.” She jotted down more notes. “But at some point, they will need to be notified and interviewed, if possible.”

  I recoiled. “Why? I’m eighteen.”

  “Just barely, and that makes the situation even more precarious,” she explained. “You’re still technically a teenager—a high school student, and susceptible to peer pressure and rebellion. This might not be a way to impress your family, but perhaps it’s an act of defiance against them. Some applicants expect money, which is not only unethical but illegal. I’ve had people come in here suicidal, hoping to die during the procedure. We have to be absolutely certain that you’re making a well-informed decision and are mature enough to handle the consequences of that decision.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not depressed or suicidal. Trust me; I’ve grown attached to living.”

  “Donating a kidney is not like donating blood,” the doctor went on. “This is a major, life-altering surgery that involves a number of risks, including death. And there’s always that small chance that you may experience complications during or after surgery,” she added. “You need to be aware of all the risks and the long- and short-term effects before going forward. That is the whole purpose of this evaluation. However, you are under no obligation to continue and you are free to opt out at any time.”

  I nodded, though to be honest, she wasn’t doing a great job at convincing me that any of this was a good idea.

  “Now, we won’t contact your family at the moment, but once we move further into the process they will need to be notified,” she said, getting back to business. “Someone needs to know where you are and to be able to care for you after the surgery. And it’s essential that you have a solid support system established beforehand.”

  I hadn’t thought about the hospital stay or the recovery time. It would take weeks to recuperate, and I considered the odds of Grandma Trina signing that absence note.

  Sorry, I can’t go to school for a while. I just had a kidney removed and I need to rest up.

  I shuddered at the thought.

  For days, the idea of the big reveal dangled over my head like an overdue assignment. I’d have to tell Grandma Trina at some point, and it was better that the truth came from me. The medical team required a next-of-kin contact for emergencies. And honestly, I didn’t want to go through the process by myself.

  As soon as I entered the house, whatever delicious concoction Mateo had fixed dragged me into the kitchen by the nose. There were no pleasantries. No “hi,” no “how was your day,” just me heading straight to the pot on the stove.

  “What on earth is that?” I closed my eyes and inhaled the spicy aroma.

  He stirred his masterpiece with a wooden spoon. “Birthday gumbo.”

  I had to facepalm at that one; I’d been so caught up with m
y appointments. “I completely forgot your birthday.”

  “That’s cool. You’ve got time. It’s tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good.” I sighed in relief. “What do you want?”

  “That’s a loaded question. I just want something fun to do,” he said.

  My lips twisted left and right. “I can think of something.”

  “That’s a loaded answer.” He winced at the slap on his arm. “Ow!”

  “That’s what you get. I’m two months older than you. Learn to respect your elders.”

  “You’re not an elder. Elders are accomplished leaders in their community who pass wisdom and resources to the next generation. You’re just old. You get no respect.”

  His reasoning made sense, but I had an argument to win. “I—I have wisdom.”

  “Debatable. What else you got?”

  I sensed a challenge, and the need to always be right brought out my snarky side. Twirling a braid around my finger, I gave him my best Alyssa Weaver answer. “I’m pretty.”

  That made him smile, but he didn’t deny the point, which was progress. “You think that’s enough?”

  I batted my lashes. “It’s a start.”

  He plucked the braid from my finger and coiled it around his own. “It’s distracting.”

  “From what?”

  His eyes fixed on my mouth, appraising each line and curve before he whispered, “I don’t remember. That’s the point.”

  “Janelle? Janelle Lynn, where you at?”

  Grandma Trina’s booming voice shattered the moment. The ruckus had me searching for a weapon, ready to fend off home invaders. Were we under attack?

  She stormed into the kitchen with the phone in hand. “You mind telling me why I’m getting calls from school saying you’ve been out twice this week? You’ve missed four days of school last month. What have you been up to, young lady?”

  My eyes strayed to Mateo, who offered a shrug and an “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” under his breath.

  It wasn’t his fault. He was doing me a favor by delaying a bomb that was going to explode eventually. It was best he stayed out of the way and ducked for cover.

  “I went to the doctor,” I told Grandma Trina.

  For a moment, she looked concerned, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I was getting tested.” I inched toward the opposite side of the counter.

  She stepped closer. “For what?”

  “I’m getting tested for organ donation. I agreed to give a kidney to Alyssa Weaver.”

  “Who?” She paused, struggling to recall the name. It finally clicked for her. “Oh! Leslie’s little girl with the junky house.” I nodded. “Have you lost your mind?” Grandma erupted, startling the dogs by her feet.

  “According to my psych evaluation—no.”

  “You might wanna get rechecked, ’cause there ain’t no way you doin’ this, so you go ahead and tell them people that you can’t do it.”

  I’d known my decision wouldn’t go over well with the fam. I’d expected it. But there was no way I was backing out now. I’d been through too much and couldn’t allow my fear of my grandmother’s authority to get in the way of what was right. “I can’t do that.”

  “Oh yes, you can and you will.” With a speed that defied her age, Grandma Trina marched deeper into the kitchen. Even the dogs knew something was up and they stayed close to the pantry.

  Looking both confused and terrified, Mateo lingered by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. Grandma Trina, still holding the phone, opened the drawer and retrieved an address book as thick and beat-up as her Bible. The pages were the color of parchment, covered with the names of every living and dead soul in the county.

  I cleared a path as she stomped over to the kitchen table. Mateo and I drifted toward each other, our gazes trained on the woman flipping through the raggedy pages with angry swipes and mumbling to herself the whole time. That was never a good sign.

  “This child done lost her mind. Gonna come up in my house and tell me what she gonna do. Don’t even know where the kidney is and talkin’ ’bout givin’ one away …”

  Mateo leaned in and whispered, “She knows we can hear her, right?”

  “Dude, just lay low,” I hissed out. “You gonna get us both killed.”

  Mateo was a slow learner. “What are you doing?” he asked my grandmother.

  Grandma Trina put the phone to her ear. “What it look like? I’m callin’ the Weavers.”

  Oh no! This was going down the wrong road fast. Alyssa’s mom had no idea about my decision. It wasn’t fair for her to get chewed out over help she hadn’t even asked for. Thank God the call went to voice mail. My whole body sighed over the brief reprieve.

  “Hello, Leslie? This is Katrina Pruitt. I’ve come across a situation that requires your immediate attention, so I’ma need you to call me as soon as you get this message. No matter the time. Talk to you soon.” Grandma ended the call and aimed her missiles at me.

  “Janelle, you’re entirely too young to be considerin’ that type of surgery. There are risks,” she said. “You know minorities are at the bottom of the list to get a donated organ? People don’t donate like that.”

  “See? There you go. Donors are in short supply, so that’s why I need to step in,” I argued.

  With not one lick of feeling or hesitation, she said, “The answer is no. I’m sorry about your friend, but I can’t let you do that.”

  That answer had me doing a double and triple take. Had she really said that? Her?

  “But Alyssa needs a new kidney. She’ll die if she doesn’t get one,” I pleaded.

  “I understand that, baby, but why you gotta be the one to do it?” she asked. “There are thousands of people who can come forward. Why don’t you do a fund-raiser and get people to volunteer? You’re good at that sorta thing.”

  That was an option I’d already thought about. “All of the kids in school are underage—I’m the only one who’s eighteen. Alyssa’s mom tried to donate, but she isn’t a match. Plus, we’re a bit on a time crunch here. Grandma, I can’t sit by and let someone die. I’m eighteen years old. Legally, I’m able to have the procedure without parental permission.”

  Her head and shoulders sloped back in feigned astonishment. “Oh, so you’re grown, right? You’re grown enough to get your own place and pay your own way?” When I didn’t reply, she said, “That’s what I thought. As long as you live under my roof, you will not be gettin’ this surgery. So no more talk about givin’ away organs. Now take your grown tail up them stairs and go to your room.”

  I looked at Mateo, who stirred his pot slowly, waiting for my response. I rolled my eyes and ran to my room. There was nothing he could do anyway. He was just as powerless as I was under this roof.

  Once upstairs, I slammed the bedroom door. My screams left my mouth in a grunt, too soft for Grandma Trina to hear. It was all I could do not to punch a hole through the wall, remodel the entire house with my fist. Hypocrites! All of them! But fine, if she didn’t want me here, then I’d go someplace else. I called Sera and asked if I could spend the night.

  I packed a couple days’ worth of clothes, my laptop and charger, then carried the load downstairs. On the way out, I found Grandma Trina on the phone in the living room, no doubt snitching to my parents.

  “Elijah? Hey, it’s Mama. Call me when you get this. Your youngest child has gone wild up in here, talkin’ ’bout giving a kidney to a girl from school. I’ma let you handle that. I’m too old for this mess. Love you—bye.” She ended the call, dropped her cell phone on the coffee table, and turned to me in a clear sign of a challenge. To the death. “And where do you think you’re going? I told you to stay in your room.”

  “I’m going to Sera’s. You said if I was grown enough to donate a kidney, I was grown enough to get out of the house. So that’s what I’m doing.” I opened the door and stepped out into the crisp fall air.

  “Little girl, who you think you’re t
alkin’ to? Janelle Lynn, you get back in this house!”

  I broke into a full run to my car parked on the curb. If this were a movie, there would’ve been an ax murderer or a possessed doll in the house trying to kill me for all the fuss I was making. The barking dogs and Grandma Trina screaming at the door didn’t help the situation.

  I threw my bag in the passenger seat, started the engine, and tore down the street. Once I turned the corner and settled onto the main road, my world fell blissfully quiet again. I finally had the freedom to think in peace. Too bad thinking was the last thing on my mind.

  Some friends were so extra that you enjoyed their company just to drown out your own issues. That was Sera, full stop. She did everything to the extreme, and being within the hemisphere of her weirdness mellowed me out in ways sleep medicine couldn’t. For the past two years, her house had become my vacation home when I wanted to get away from it all.

  Sitting on Sera’s bed with a warm plate of pizza bites between us now, we tuned out the rest of the world. Our textbooks and binders lay open on our laps so it appeared as though we were doing homework in case her parents checked in on us. In actuality, we were binge-watching the latest season of an anime show on Sera’s computer.

  “Hold on. Is this a beach episode?” I asked with my mouth full. “Why is there always a beach episode in these things? It goes nowhere. This guy has six girls literally tripping over themselves for him. Just pick one, senpai!” I yelled at the computer screen.

  Sera lifted her hand to me, demanding silence. “Patience, hoobae. The true payoff is in the shipping wars beforehand.”

  She’d called me junior in Korean; junior, as in inexperienced, which was true in terms of my knowledge of foreign cartoon protocol.

  Sera and I turned to the door at the sudden noise from the bottom floor. Angry footsteps pounded the stairs, growing louder as they moved up the hallway. There was some heavy breathing followed by a slamming door across the hall that shook the figurines on Sera’s bookshelf. Going by the layout of their house, it had to have been Ryon entering his room. What was his deal?