OC Me

by Kristin Albright

  I inhaled the sandwich; I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. We stopped at the nurses’ station to check for news, and hearing nothing new, we headed up to her room. I leaned over right away. “Hi Lisa, we’re here again…any cute doctors stop by today?” I brushed the hair off her forehead, and leaned in to give her a kiss hello.

  I sat down and watched my dad pull out his phone again, no doubt catching up on the news. I opened my backpack and pulled out Hemingway's Farewell to Arms. I had a few chapters to read for Advanced Lit.

  As I opened my book, my stomach plummeted about a thousand feet. What had I just done? Why had I kissed her? I know you shouldn’t kiss people in the hospital – not by the lips anyway. What if I got Lisa sick? With her body so weak and already on the brink, I couldn’t believe I’d been so utterly stupid. I swallowed hard trying to detect if there was any hint of soreness in my throat, any sign at all that I had something I could have passed on to her. I couldn’t tell.

  My chest began to feel tight. As I watched her breathe, I imagined the doctor telling us tomorrow, “Lisa has contracted an infection from an unknown source.” Tears pooled in my eyes; it felt like someone was squeezing my heart. I’d never been so scared before. It was as if my lungs had shrunk - struggling to feel oxygenated, I pleaded with fate; please don’t let me be the one to tip the balances out of Lisa’s favor.

  As I sat paralyzed by these thoughts, I tried to talk myself out of it. I told myself that Lisa was here with a brain injury and spinal cord damage and that a kiss, infected or not, would not tip the balance. But I didn’t believe myself; and despite all efforts to stop, I feared the worst while simultaneously trying to convince myself that everything was fine.

  I don’t know how long I sat staring at the wall, fighting the crushing sensation that came with the fear. Dad’s voice brought my attention back to the room.

  “Amy?”

  “Yes dad?”

  “Are you okay?” He looked concerned, and I felt stupid.

  “Yeah…sorry I was day dreaming.” Sort of.

  “Well, I figure we’ll leave in about an hour. Maybe try to finish up your homework?” he nodded toward the book in my hand. He folded his paper and studied the channel guide for the T.V. The volume was low and I noticed he was flipping through the shows, not paying attention to any of them. I opened Hemingway to the first page and tried to settle into the story. I got some reading done, but not as much as I should have. I was so still stuck on that kiss. Why? I’m sure that it’s pretty normal – someone I loved was hanging in the balance between life and death, so of course I was going to fear anything that could alter that balance – rational or not. Right?

  The remainder of the evening vanished, and before I knew it, I was back in my bed. It was still unmade from our hasty departure late Sunday night. My body melted into the flannel sheets, and I believe I nodded off before dad even brushed his teeth.

  It was 1:47 according to my clock radio when the phone in the kitchen began to ring. My stomach sank, I was afraid it was the hospital calling with bad news. My heart beat in my chest as I waited for my dad to answer.

  “Mom, why would you call so late? No, there’s no change,” he scolded. I breathed a sigh of relief when his words carried back down the hallway. Dad told me earlier that he left a message for Gram and Grandpa when they hadn’t answered the phone. Naturally they were calling for information. His deep steady voice lulled me back to sleep, and the remainder of the evening passed without incident.

  Chapter Three

  A cupcake before eleven is really just a doughnut in disguise.

  ~ Kat

  The next morning, I was back to my old routine. I took the bus as usual – meeting Kat in the third row on the right. Her legs were curled up against the green faux leather, knees leaning against the bench in front of her, eyes closed.

  “Kat?” I said softly.

  She jerked to the side and looked up smiling. “I’m sorry,” she yawned, and slid over offering me my usual seat. We sat in silence on the way to school. I loved that about Kat, how she could just sense when I needed my own time. I studied the trees out the front window; they were still icy.

  After we unloaded our things at our lockers Kat spoke up, “It’s Tuesday.” She sang, wiggling her eyebrows at me. As if I needed a further reminder, she grabbed a small jar off the top shelf in her locker and began shaking it. The quarters clanged against the glass.

  “It is Tuesday,” I confirmed with a smile and a nod of my head.

  “I know you said you were going to try and curb your sweets intake,” She said teasingly, “But-”

  “But, after a couple of nights at the hospital…” I trailed off.

  “Right, you really should stabilize your blood sugar,” she smiled.

  “If you insist,” I laughed.

  “Of course I do!” She said emphatically.

  One of our many traditions was the Tuesday morning bake sale. The teams and clubs fundraising rotated weekly, but someone was always willing to feed our sugar addiction in exchange for our parents’ loose change. This particular morning, a dollar bought each of us a chocolate cupcake piled high with mint frosting and a small carton of milk to wash it down with. I followed Kat to our regular table which overlooked the student parking lot. She thumbed through a magazine while I once again had the internal conversation with my brain that kissing Lisa was not going to kill her. I wished I could believe myself and stop the nausea pulsing in my stomach.

  I gazed out the window watching the cars jockey for parking spaces when suddenly a pair of hands clamped over my eyes and pulled my head back against my random assailant’s chest. I lowered my milk carefully with my right hand, making sure the carton was on the table.

  “Guess who or I’ll eat your cupcake.”

  The voice was deep, but disguised, and I could hear Kat giggling away in front of me.

  “Hmm,” I said. I reached my hands up and wrapped my fingers around the offender’s wrists looking for clues. They were muscular, and a wide leather watch band was buckled on one wrist.

  “Well you’re a boy,” I started stupidly.

  “Mmm hmm.” I heard the voice again. Kat was still giggling. For Kat to be so giggly, he had to be cute.

  “Are you Andy?” I asked. Andy was Kat’s neighbor who rode the bus with us everyday; she had a crush on him back in middle school.

  “Not Andy,” he said playfully. “Kat, give me a chunk of Amy’s cupcake.”

  “No!” I whined. It came out a little louder than I meant it to, and I grimaced hearing myself. Despite my embarrassment, I couldn’t help but notice how nice his cologne smelled and how smooth his hands were.

  The hands dropped suddenly, and the offender grabbed a seat on the bench next to me. It was James Phelps, a boy who’d been in my art class since September: the tall handsome boy I’d told Lisa about. I was dumbfounded. He occasionally nodded to me if we passed in the hallway and had stopped by my easel to chat several times in art, but we never saw each other outside of painting class. His dark eyes sparkled as he smiled at me. I must have looked a bit puzzled because he offered, “Sorry,” he sighed. “That cupcake looks amazing, and they are all sold out,” he pouted. “I was hoping Kat would hook me up with a piece.” He winked at her causing her to laugh.

  “James, the day I take chocolate from my best friend and give it to you, is the day I graduate Valedictorian.” She raised her milk carton toward me, and I obliged the gesture, tapping my carton against hers.

  “Really,” I said “Why would my best friend give a piece of my cupcake to a practical stranger?”

  “Stranger? Ouch! Strong words Amy.” He grasped his chest as though I’d stabbed him in the heart. “Kat and I go way back.” He grinned at me, and Kat started laughing.

  “Way back to where?” I asked, beginning to become confused.

  “Back to composition class,” Kat sighed. We get in so much trouble in there because we take the vocabulary words of the day and pop them into a Ma
d Libs book.”

  I nodded, not knowing where this was going.

  She continued. “One day, the day we learned ‘malodorous,’ I jotted the word down, and it ended fitting the Mad Lib so well that it basically said our English teacher was malodorous.”

  “Stinky,” James clarified.

  They were laughing so hard that Kat was practically tearing up. “I see,” I said pausing; they seemed so immature. I waited to see if she was going to offer any further explanation, and seeing none coming, I stood to leave. I was obviously not in the mood for company today.

  “Wait Ames,” Kat said, gasping for air. “The teacher that day was a sub - it was Mr. H, You know the guy that always wears flannel shirts? The guy with-”

  “-The worst personal hygiene in the world,” James finished.

  As irritated as I had been, I could feel a smile starting to tug at the corners of my mouth. I made the mistake of asking for help that day and ended up almost passing out from trying to hold my breath.

  “Whatever,” I said with a slightly forced laugh. “You guys are funny and may go ‘way back,’” I said outlining the words with my fingers; “but there is no way James, that you will ever obtain chocolate stolen from me by my best friend. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he affirmed. He continued holding eye contact with me and smiled. It was contagious; I couldn’t help but smile back. Sighing, I looked down and broke off a chunk of my cupcake and held it up to him.

  “Seriously?” he asked. “You are the best!” I rolled my eyes in fake exasperation as he carefully ate the chunk of cupcake.

  When the bell rang, he picked up my backpack with one arm and Kat’s with the other and escorted us to the main foyer. He bid farewell to us like a fairytale footman, causing me to laugh once more. I watched as he walked to his first hour class and then turned to go to mine. The change in pace from my typical morning routine with Kat had distracted me from my thoughts and left me slightly intrigued.

  The morning dragged despite the fast pace in each class. The first and second days of the semester were completely different. After one day filled with plans, grading procedures and textbook issuing, the teachers wasted no time diving into their respective subjects. By this time in my education, I’d realized one thing. Every teacher lived and breathed their subject, and while the school always emphasized taking a wide variety of classes, I think each teacher secretly believes that their subject is more important for you to learn than anyone else’s.

  For the most part, I have great tolerance for these enthusiastic teachers even when I don’t like their subject. The one exception is Ms. Kilpway, our physical education teacher. She believes that we should all be devoting our time and energy into sculpting our bodies into those of triathletes. Each semester we run and swim and play tennis with vigor. The problem is, nothing is ever enough for her; and despite our best efforts, at the end of class she is always shaking her head at us like we will never measure up. It would be funny if she wasn’t serious.

  Unfortunately, it is floor hockey season, and if there is one thing Ms. Kilpway likes more than her triathlons, it’s floor hockey.

  “NOW! Pass on the left! The left! YOU’RRRRRRRE OTHER LEFT!” The bellowing had started, and it didn’t help that this was our last class before lunch. Nobody was concentrating, and to be honest, our team didn’t care if we beat Mr. Lamp’s class or not. They were indeed a more athletic bunch; unfortunately for Ms. K, our class was honors track, and we’d just been released from calculus – our energy already sapped.

  We were behind - very behind - and when the puck slid across the floor in my general direction, I spun to the left and raised my stick to slap it over to my teammate. As I lifted my stick, an ear piercing yelp echoed across the gym. I looked quickly over my shoulder, and there stood Kassandra, glowering at me. She’d run forward when I lifted my stick, and it had connected with her shin bone. The teachers’ whistles blew simultaneously, and all play was stopped for the remainder of the class. I’d gotten us out a whole three minutes early. Kassandra howled while pointing to a faint bruise on her leg.

  “We have a game this Friday!” She wailed.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine for your game.” Ms. K said while she glanced at the mark. “It’s just a bruise – toughen up.”

  As the girls made their way toward the locker room, Kassandra made a big show out of limping down the stairs. She turned to me. “I hope you’re happy Amy!” she spat, “You’ve completely ruined my option to go without nylons on Friday. Just be happy you didn’t break anything. My dad would totally sue your family for all you’re worth,” she paused, looking me up and down and finished, “not that it would be much.” She was scowling, and I wished the boys on the basketball team could see her now. She was being ridiculous, but I felt horrible nonetheless.

  “I’m sorry Kassandra. I didn’t see you behind me.”

  “Of course you didn’t…maybe you should LOOK next time,” she snapped back.

  I wasn’t used to my apologies being thrown back at me. I could feel my face burning and my eyes starting to fill. I fought off tears and swallowed hard. I was looking the other direction when I heard a voice say, “Lay off Kassie – it wasn’t on purpose, and it’s a bruise. Stop being such a bitch.” The locker-room fell completely silent, and I looked to see who had been brave enough to reprimand Kassandra. It was Taylor. The two of them used to be good friends until Taylor made the varsity soccer team freshman year and started going out with the boy Kassandra had a crush on. Kassandra scowled but dropped the issue and turned to her cheer friends for comfort.

  Usually I managed to stay out of the locker-room drama; I don’t gossip, and I don’t care if we win or lose. Today I accidentally hit Kassandra, and it seemed like I couldn’t get out of the limelight. Some girls gave me dirty looks – mostly the cheer squad types. Other girls raised their eyebrows and offered a quick smile as if to say they understood. I could have cared less about their responses – it all seemed so trivial and meaningless. I mean how could any of this really matter?

  Chapter Four

  Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.

  ~ L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

  A yellow post-it note was stuck on the counter when I got home.

  Amy,

  Feel free to take the car to see Aunt Lisa later. I have a late delivery tonight. I’ll be home by eleven. Gram and Grandpa are staying at the Holiday Inn (room 227) by the hospital and will take you to dinner.

  - Dad

  Dad’s 96’ Ford Escort is definitely not the coolest car on the block. Its faded teal paint has been out of style for eons, but it has proved to be reliable over the years. I grabbed the keys from the basket by the back door and headed out. I backed down the long gravel driveway and waited until I couldn’t see the illumination of any more headlights. I backed out accelerating quickly and shifted quickly through the gears.

  I groaned with frustration when the orange “E” lit up. Dad was getting to be notorious for leaving the car on empty. I turned into the little station just down the road, glad that I noticed the lack of fuel before getting onto the expressway. The station was nearly empty so I got a pump right away, and filled up quickly.

  When I turned onto the road a loud thunk startled me. Instantly I swung my head to glance over my right shoulder. I couldn’t see anything except a parked car. Had I bumped its trunk when I turned? It hadn’t felt like I’d hit something necessarily; but the sound echoed in my mind, and I figured it was only responsible to check.

  I did a U-turn at the end of the street and crossed back through the intersection. I proceeded forward slowly, straining my eyes looking for a dent. Everything looked fine to me until the light hit it just so, and then I wasn’t sure, so I went and turned around again. Instead of driving past it, I pulled into the gas station, parked in an empty spot near the road and walked toward the car. There wasn’t so much as a scratch. I exhaled a deep breath, not even realizing that I was
holding it in until that point.

  Why was I so sure I’d hit the car? Surely I would’ve realized if I hit something. I shook my head, disappointed that I wasted time on my way to go see Lisa and feeling guilty for holding up my grandparents when I hadn’t seen them since Thanksgiving.

  When I walked into the lobby of the hotel, Gram pulled me into a deep hug. Her little wiry arms wrapped around my back and squeezed tighter than she looked capable of. Grandpa looked older than I remembered. “Hey kiddo,” he smiled and leaned in to kiss my forehead.

  “Hey yourself,” I said, “I’m glad you’re here,” I hugged him, “I mean…not the circumstances but all the same,” I said awkwardly.

  “I know, I know Amy. I’m glad to see you too; it’s been too long. You want to go get pizza?”

  “Sounds great!” I lied. Nothing sounded great, not since Sunday.

  I wished Dad had been able to come to dinner with us; Gram was pale and nearly silent – so opposite of her usual self. As a result, dinner was a bit strained, and I found myself thankful for Grandpa and his banter. He was jovial as usual, saying Lisa wouldn’t want us to be so sullen; which was true, but it was easier said than done.

  “So anything new Gram?” I asked, hoping she would talk about her latest volunteering adventures or perhaps the latest drama with the ladies in the neighborhood.

  “Oh, there’s not much new going on with us…how's school going?” she asked.