Sick Bay

by Nova Weetman

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s a big deal.’

  ‘Okay …’ I force a smile, making an effort because I like her.

  ‘And how are you feeling about graduating? About high school?’

  I pretend to think, when actually I don’t know the answer. ‘Fine. Excited.’

  Ms Barber nods and I notice the piercings in her ear, the flash of green when she moves her head. ‘Transitioning to high school can seem pretty overwhelming.’

  ‘I’ve moved states and schools. It’ll be fine.’ But even to me, this sounds like a lie. Leaving Sydney was horrible.

  I’ve been trying not to think about finishing primary school because my friends aren’t coming with me. I’m going to the local high school. My friends are going to private schools. Lina’s been desperate to talk Mum into sending me to the same school as her, but there is no way my parents will go private. They both went to public schools and they think they turned out okay. It’s one of the rare things they agree on, other than my bedtime and the amount of carbohydrates in a banana.

  I also know that starting at a new school again means more explanations about diabetes and the bumbag I wear. It means I’ll have to answer annoying questions and find somewhere private to do a test that isn’t the toilets. I’ve never liked hiding out in a smelly cubicle to do a test.

  Before Ms Barber can grill me any longer, there’s a little knock on the glass, and I see Meg hovering.

  ‘Come in, Meg,’ says Ms Barber warmly.

  Meg stares at me as she shuffles into the room and sits next to Ms Barber. Until we spoke to each other in Sick Bay last week, we’d never had a conversation. I don’t know her deal but there are plenty of rumours about how poor she is, and how strange. She’s wearing the Gumby t-shirt again so maybe it’s the only one she has. It sort of annoyed me that she was in Sick Bay when she didn’t need to be. It’s not like I have a choice.

  ‘Meg, Mrs Myer has requested that you make a graduation speech at the ceremony. Riley is making one too,’ says Ms Barber.

  From the look on Meg’s face, I’d say she’s even more suspicious about this request than I am.

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t like the sound of that,’ says Meg.

  ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll be right there with you,’ says Ms Barber gently.

  Meg holds up a wrinkled brown paper bag and shakes it at Ms Barber. ‘I can’t.’

  Now I’m intrigued. What’s in the bag?

  ‘I’ll help you,’ says Ms Barber quietly.

  ‘I’m not going to graduation anyway,’ says Meg clearly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s just a chance to wear a dress and brag about yourself,’ Meg tells Ms Barber.

  I smile a little, trying to hide it behind my hand, but I sort of agree.

  ‘Whoa! Why don’t you tell me what you really think?’ says Ms Barber.

  I don’t actually think Ms Barber minds Meg’s honesty. She’s one of those teachers you can say anything to. I like the way she tries to catch Meg’s eye, before saying, ‘You don’t have to come. But you do have to write a speech. You’re the best writer in grade six. Mrs Myer wants a diverse spread of students. Blow us away, I know you can.’

  Meg looks at me and takes a noisy breath. I’d love to know what she’s thinking.

  ‘Okay, well you two will have to meet with Mrs Myer at some point. She hasn’t chosen the boys yet, but she will.’

  The lunch bell goes, and instantly there is noise around us. Meg scurries off and I notice her slippers again. Who wears slippers to school?

  ‘If you have any questions, just come and find me, Riley,’ says Ms Barber.

  I head out of the office into the rush. Everyone’s stampeding to put away their books and their folders and grab their lunch boxes. Today I’m slow. Swallowed up in the hurry.

  ‘Look!’ Lina bops up in front of me, holding a bunch of pale green envelopes. She’s beaming. I know what they are. She’s been telling us about this for weeks.

  ‘Awesome! I love the colour.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. I was going to choose blue.’

  ‘To be honest, green is much nicer,’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s mint, not green. Come on,’ she says, grabbing my arm.

  ‘Toilet,’ I tell her, lying. ‘I’ll meet you out there.’

  She pulls a face, but then notices Elle and Tessa heading outside. ‘Whatevs,’ she says, impatient to catch up with our other friends.

  I’m supposed to check my blood glucose levels before I eat, like every time before I eat a meal. And I sort of haven’t been lately. But after ending up in Sick Bay last week, I’m trying to be more careful because Mum’s lectures are next level. I’d rather wait and do it alone in the empty common room than outside where everyone eats lunch and can see. It’s not just that though. My friends don’t really understand how often I’m supposed to do a test. They think it’s a part-time kind of condition, one that should fit in with my life. Not the other way round. Sometimes, if I do a test in front of them, one of them might want to help, which means they want to prick and squeeze my finger so a drop of blood bubbles up. They also love sticking the strip into the meter and waiting for the beep. I really hate it when they want to tell me the reading too, like I’m their patient.

  I’m diabetic, if you didn’t already know that. I have an insulin pump that goes straight into my stomach, which I’ve had since I was in grade four. The pump is attached to a thin plastic tube that has a soft cannula at the end. The cannula is inserted under my skin every few days. If I didn’t have the pump then I’d have to inject insulin into myself, which I’d hate, particularly at school. I have to calculate the grams of carbohydrates for the food I eat and then put them into the insulin pump and then the pump releases the insulin for me.

  It’s fine most of the time, except when I forget to do a reading before I eat, or if I over calculate or under calculate the grams of carbohydrates, or deliberately forget altogether. Then it’s not fine. Then I’ll either have a high or a low and if I have a low I have to treat it with jelly beans. And Mum lectures me. That’s why I occasionally end up in Sick Bay. I also might have a low or a high if I’ve exercised, if I’m sick or for something random. Sometimes I feel low at netball and Mum makes me come off the court. There are heaps of things that can throw out my readings, not just food.

  Having diabetes also means endless explanations to newbies about why I wear a bumbag (to carry the pump and test kit of course!). Some people suggest the stupidest theories. Like, it’s because I’m a robot. Yep. Thanks Matt Park. Hilarious. Or another favourite is that it’s my spy phone. That was Thomas someone in grade four in Sydney. As if. Isabelle Doherty used to joke with her friends that it was an illegal listening device and they should all stay away from me. Joy. It also means I sometimes get treated differently. I hate that most. I try to hide the bumbag, but it can be hard, particularly if I’m wearing fitted clothes or if I have to take out my pump to put in carbohydrates.

  I’ve been diabetic for years now. When I first had symptoms Mum didn’t know what was wrong with me. By the time she took me to the doctor, I was hours away from diabetic ketoacidosis (or DKA as the doctors like to call it) and I could have died. I think it still freaks her out to think about it. Even though my parents never admit it, they totally wish I was just like all the other kids. But I’m not. I have type 1 diabetes. I have to say ‘type 1’ because otherwise people assume I’m type 2 and then they blame you and think it’s your fault because you eat too much junk food. As if. People can be so judgemental.

  To be honest (or TBH as I like to say) I sort of think it’s only my fingers and my stomach that are diabetic. The rest of me is pretty normal. I’m not supposed to use that word. Mum always corrects me when I do. Tells me there’s no such thing as normal and it’s just a construct and yadayadayada. I tune out when she goes into psy
ch speech. She’s a psychologist so there’s a lot of that sort of talk. Secretly, I call her The Brain.

  I know she’s right. But what she doesn’t get is that I don’t feel normal or abnormal. I know there’s nothing wrong with me, and I know being the same as everyone else does not make you ‘normal’, but the only parts of me that are directly injected or pricked are my fingers and my tummy. So, I think of myself in two halves – the body bits that are tested and the body bits that aren’t. I haven’t tried to explain that to Mum. I’m sure she’d think it was stupid, but it makes sense to me.

  I turn away from the few kids who are still riffling around in their lockers and prick my finger. I feel how hard the end of the skin is from where it’s been jabbed thousands of times. I like the toughness of the skin. I squeeze the tip and a perfect red bead pops out. I insert the strip into the meter and then add a small drop of blood to the end of the testing strip. There’s a beep and the number 5.2 is displayed. My blood glucose level is within the range it should be. Mum will be happy.

  When I look up, I see Meg watching me from the other side of the room. She’s fully staring, which is sort of creepy because nobody else is in here.

  ‘You right, Slipper Girl?’ I call out. I hate being watched while I do a test.

  My words must break the spell because she spins around and hurries off. Maybe she’s heading to the Sick Bay, even though she’s not even sick. I can’t believe anyone would want to hang out in there if they didn’t have to.

  Meg

  Usually I go shopping after school on Wednesdays because that’s when Mum has money so it means that lunches on Monday and Tuesday are even smaller than usual. Today all I had left was a squashy tomato and a cracker, but thanks to Sarah, now I’m working my way through cheese and biscuits left over from the staff lunch.

  The door to Sick Bay bangs open. I was hoping for a quiet hour or two, but now it looks like I have company.

  ‘Afternoon, Meg,’ says Dash.

  Dash is wearing his daily uniform of choice: a pair of blue cotton shorts and one of his many Star Wars t-shirts. I look at him then snatch up the last biscuit from the plate.

  ‘Hi, Dash,’ he says to himself. ‘You’re looking lovely today. Why thank you, Meg. I washed my hair last night. And so are you.’

  Taking out The Bag from my pocket, I start breathing deeply. In and out, in and out, filling it with air.

  ‘It’s me, Meg. You don’t have to breathe like that. Remember?’

  ‘Don’t you have a class to go to?’ I snap as he squeezes past me, and tuck The Bag next to my leg. I haven’t even had a chance to chat with Sarah like I normally do.

  ‘She speaks!’ Then he sighs and perches on the edge of the bed. ‘Cross-country training.’

  ‘My deepest condolences.’

  Dash smiles at my understanding, and I see a flash of coloured braces lining his teeth. He hates PE as much as I do. Not for the same reasons as me, rather because he claims he has better things to do than throw a ball back and forth. I suspect it’s also because of his asthma. Dash isn’t like the other kids with asthma, who can do most things as long as they have their Ventolin puffer nearby. His asthma is severe. It makes him wheeze and cough and frequently head off to hospital. He’s in grade five, although he seems older. He spent much of grade one in hospital reading the Harry Potter series and most of grade two re-reading it. He once explained he knows things because he has a bunch of older teenage girl cousins and an older sister, Elle, and they forget he’s younger. I think he’s just observant, like most kids who’ve had to sit out of things and watch the world go on around them.

  Like me, he’s short, although, unlike me, he has heaps of friends. Sometimes they even accompany him to Sick Bay and hang out until he’s feeling better. As far as Sick Bay companions go, he’s not too bad. Except when I feel like being alone.

  ‘Explain to me why we are made to run five kilometres in a circle,’ he says.

  I shake my head. I’m the wrong person to ask.

  ‘Pointless,’ he says. ‘Mum bought me these new sneakers for it. What do you think?’

  He holds his feet out and we both look down. They are black with a red stripe down the sides. Then he must notice my slippers because his head jerks up. Obviously his sister hasn’t told him yet about my latest fashion choice.

  ‘Oh, Meg, I’m sorry. They’re just stupid shoes.’

  ‘Well they look superior,’ I tell him.

  He nods and his cheeks are slightly red. I know he’s embarrassed because he’s just shown off his new sneakers while I’m sitting here in slippers. He fixes his hair, like he’s trying to think of what to say. It’s not like Dash to be stuck for words.

  ‘Yeah. It’s the stripe. Supercharges you,’ he says finally, looking up at me with a tentative smile.

  ‘Tell me, Dash, have you ever come across Riley Jackson in Sick Bay before?’ I ask him.

  ‘Who’s Riley Jackson?’

  I roll my eyes at him and he laughs. He’s also a resident jokester.

  ‘Let’s see. Riley Jackson. Plays netball in Elle’s team. She looked promising for a few months but now seems to have joined the dark side. They even have the same hairstyle. But you already know that. According to Elle, her parents are super strict so she doesn’t hang out at our place with the others. Instead, I’m frequently stuck with Lina. And even our dog disappears when Lina’s around,’ he says with a groan.

  ‘Riley didn’t get my Anne of Green Gables quote,’ I say, feeling mildly disappointed.

  He laughs. ‘Nobody gets your quotes. Stop pretending you don’t like it that way!’

  He’s right. I like quoting characters and knowing most people my age have no idea what I’m talking about.

  ‘And Meg … we’re talking about one of Lina’s friends. Remember how much Elle changed when she started hanging out with her. Lina’s like an amoeba: expanding every second, sucking up everyone around her so she can feed on them,’ he says, like that should be enough to make me stay away. And it should.

  Lina Surfy’s one of those girls I’ve spent my life avoiding. Even before Dad died and things changed at home, I instinctively knew to stay away. Dash has never liked her much either. She’s mean enough to kids her own age; she’s brutal to anyone younger.

  ‘I wasn’t asking about Riley because I want to be her friend. She came into Sick Bay the other day. I was wondering if you knew why.’

  He shrugs. ‘No idea. I can find out though.’

  I don’t want Dash to spy for me. ‘No thanks.’

  He leans down to grab a book from the coloured straw basket near my feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to be helpful,’ he says, holding up a tatty picture book called Duckling Disaster with a cover of a duckling peering over the top of a bluestone wall.

  ‘Once upon a time …’ he starts to read.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you love this one,’ he says.

  I narrow my eyes at him and glare up from behind my fringe. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the one where the duckling loses her sister down the well.’

  ‘No.’

  He dramatically drops the book back into the basket. ‘You ruin all my fun, Meg.’

  ‘I do my best,’ I say, kicking off my slippers and tucking one leg underneath my bum. And as I do, The Bag dislodges from where it’s been wedged down the side of the chair and flutters down onto the floor.

  Dash reaches it first and holds it out to me. I don’t look at him as I snatch it away, and as I do, I hear a rip as a small piece of brown paper tears at the top.

  ‘Sorry, Meg, I didn’t mean to …’

  I check the damage and it’s only small, but still, soon I’m going to have to start looking for a new one.

  ‘Here’s the scrap. I’m sure we can fix it,’ he says. ‘I’m
good with a glue stick.’

  I roll my eyes although a tiny smile sneaks out too. Only Dash could get away with this. He smiles back, takes The Bag off me and throws it up into the air. We both watch as it floats gently down and sails underneath the germ bed.

  Riley

  My friends are all sprawled under the square monkey bars near the fence. There are three of them. I make four. Our posse. When I started here it took a while to find friends, partly because I knew it meant I had to explain diabetes and that’s hard sometimes. Then one day during PE, Lina chose me for her team because we were wearing matching pastel cat t-shirts and that was that.

  ‘Finally!’ Lina says, holding up the green envelopes. ‘You took ages, R!’

  ‘Party invite time!’ Tessa says, clapping her hands together.

  Elle moves across so there’s space for me between them.

  ‘Mum had them printed at work,’ says Lina as she hands out the envelopes.

  Our names are in flowing black print across the front.

  Tessa starts to tear hers open, but I shake my head at her, knowing it will unravel Lina if we spoil the envelope. I tuck my finger under the back and slide gently along the seal, popping it open. We all take out our invites in unison.

  The invites have magnets on the back so they can be stuck straight onto a fridge. On the front, there’s a photo of Lina beaming in the middle of me, Tessa and Elle at athletics day last term. I know why Lina used an old photo. She has braces now and nobody is allowed to take her picture again until they come off.