by Amber Kizer
“I have friends.” His rapid-fire answer dismissed her. Uh-oh.
“Oh yes, your friends online? Invite them to dinner, I’d like to meet them. You can’t, can you? They don’t exist. They are not real people. Real friends come to dinner.”
“Ma—”
“Don’t take that tone. You are going camping with Trevor and his friends. I already said yes.”
“I’m seventeen!” Sam shouted.
“Don’t worry, Samuel. I’m sure some of those boys play games too.” She turned on her heel back toward the house.
He paused and sat with it for a moment. Dammit. At least when he was on dialysis every day she couldn’t force him to go camping. Camping? Sam camping?
He needed to charge up his extra batteries. What a pain in the ass.
Misty shifted in the seat again. Her bony butt felt bruised and sore from the hard chairs that populated her school days. She smothered a halfhearted yawn. She needed to get more sleep, or better sleep, or something.
Bell ring. Bell ring, please. School or apartment, Misty’s life sucked.
I never wanted to return to high school, but there were days when I missed my life so much it was worth the pain. Someone needed to keep an eye on Misty even if I was the only choice.
Back in these halls it felt like Groundhog Day, a loop that made my skin crawl. I felt like I relived the trauma of that last school day over and over again. I kept waiting for someone to pop out at me in the hallways wielding scissors, but they couldn’t see me. Nothing changes. No one really sees Misty either.
Misty’s class schedule was a couple of levels down from mine in the world of the mediocre student. English. Math. Civics. State history. Art. PE. She cared about none of it. She only wished she could get paid to be there. Her locker was full of unpaid medical bills she hadn’t felt good enough to log in yet.
The last bell rang and I jumped up, ready to get going. Misty needed the library’s refuge. I knew this. Did she? Classmates disappeared like a magic act. Misty didn’t move very quickly, so she was last to leave.
“Misty?”
Misty blinked before raising her eyes, but she avoided eye contact, fearful the teacher might see too much. “Yes, Mrs. Youngs?”
I knew that look. Misty wasn’t going to be asked about an assignment. This was the caring, the I-notice-you teacher face. Nine out of ten times it wasn’t like they really wanted a response; they just wanted to make sure that they’d asked, in case. Well, in case. In my case, there was a staff meeting the day I skipped school because someone reported the Skirts bullying me. I don’t know who saw, or who spoke up, but it was too late. Obviously, because I died that weekend. The new school policy was to react faster. How? No one really knew. And if there were consequences for the Skirts for that assault, I didn’t know that, either.
Mrs. Youngs leaned against her desk and folded her hands as if in prayer. “Misty, I am worried about you. Your grades have continued to slip and I have spoken with your guidance counselor. We want you to know that we’re here for you. We’ve reached out to your parents but they haven’t responded.”
Panic raced through Misty’s system. A hit of adrenaline. The tang of fear. The sudden twisting of her insides in rebellion.
Didn’t they realize that there were things more important than grades?
Bigger than school?
Misty’s brain locked up, blanked out, trying to think of something, anything, to say. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to choke the teacher.
That morning at the library, Misty had carefully opened the newest stacks of bills. She organized them by date, by doctor, by procedure. She marked the invoice numbers, the amounts paid and owed, the dates sweeping past like the hands of a clock. She tucked them into a box she hid behind the Russian poets, between the shelves, books, and back wall. Every bill, every letter demanding payment, she kept. That morning, the running tally of what her family owed, that went unpaid, topped a quarter of a million dollars. Her medications, follow-ups, and treatments might be a hundred thousand dollars a year. Forever. There are no classes in how to keep track of medical bills and how to pay them with no job, no help. Misty might ace that class.
I wondered if my parents got a bill for my brief, but high maintenance, time at the emergency room, in the operating room. Did they get a bill from the surgeon for taking all my pieces? Or in some karmic system did they get monetary credit for my sacrifices?
“I’m fine, Ms. Youngs. Still recovering from the liver transplant. They said it would take a while for me to focus and feel one hundred percent. I’m not supposed to push too hard. My parents work a lot.” Misty’s lie rolled off her tongue. I’d watched her use the words “liver transplant” enough to realize exactly what she wanted to accomplish.
Immediately, the teacher’s posture changed. “I don’t want to pressure you. I simply want you to know I am here if you need anything. Tutoring. Extra time after school. Whatever I can do.”
Misty had insurance for a week before it ran out. Her parents didn’t tell the doctors that it was ending. Billing didn’t double check. A girl shouldn’t see how much saving her life cost and the money it took to maintain. It’s not something I ever thought about. What would you pay? You say anything? Did anything mean living in a hovel and eating beans out of food banks for the rest of your life? That no matter how hard you worked you’d never catch up, never make enough for a breath free from that crushing weight?
“Thank you,” Misty said, hoping she might escape soon.
“You’re a very brave, and very lucky, girl, Misty. I’m sure you know how proud we all are of you.”
For getting sick? For having a dead person’s organ? My liver inside her? What did she have to do with that? Why would either of those things make her brave?
Misty nodded and didn’t let the door close before she put her head down and dove into the sea of flailing bodies in the hall. I was never sure where to look. At people I recognized? At people I’d never seen before because I used to stare at the tiles under my feet? At the banners and artwork and flyers that seemed like a hodgepodge of colors and demands?
I forgot Misty for a moment. Until she shuffled past a glass case.
That’s me!
Within the glass walls was last year’s yearbook photo blown up to poster size. Me. Generic blue background. Long hair pulled back in a braid snaking over my shoulder. My eyebrows so blond they seemed nonexistent. My mouth gave a Mona Lisa smile. It could be interpreted as happy, or secretive, or miserable, but it wasn’t a tooth-baring grin.
Misty, stop. Please.
Misty leaned against the wall, grabbing my attention. They never listened to me. They never did what I asked. My shrine forgotten for a moment, I studied her. She was sweating, cold, and clammy. Her heart raced and she inhaled shallow, panicked breaths. As she waited, I drifted back toward the case.
A few handmade We’ll Miss You signs and drying roses that were molding in that plastic tumbler they sold at football games. There were two newspaper clippings and a couple of printed online bits. One was an article accompanied by this same photograph and—
Misty thrust herself forward. The ribbon, or force field, or whatever I called this invisible thing that tied us together, only stretched so far.
I want to see those clippings.
I need to read those pages.
Misty ignored me and continued on farther away.
Yes, six months had passed. I tried not to notice everyone walking around the case without glancing at it, let alone caring about the girl inside, but being ignored so quickly hurt. Was my life really that easily forgotten?
CHAPTER TEN
Leif’s feet hit the pavement in an almost steady rhythm, with only the slightest hesitation on his right side. His knee ached, but it was so much less than it had been, he tolerated it fine. It was the stiffness in the morning he wasn’t used to yet.
Another lap down. I’ve never understood people who run on a track. You’re going in circles. By choice
. Isn’t that silly?
I wished a hungry tiger escaped from the zoo to chase everyone … at least then they’d have a reason to try to run faster. The circle part notwithstanding.
Leif’s mind wandered. He worked on a “thing” in his head.
It’s called a song. It’s poetry put to music. Why does he insist on calling his passion for writing songs a “thing”?
In his head, a girl in a white nightgown waited at a window. The lyrics rhymed. He frowned, and the girl’s dress shifted to jeans and a tank top.
Not any easier to rhyme, doofus. Plop. Mop. Crop. Wean. Mean. Seen. I have a headache.
As he worked, his pace picked up. When he blew through the start-finish line, he wasn’t remotely paying attention to the world around him. The coach’s whistle blew a shrill reminder and Leif ran back toward the herd of tracksters.
I continually found the amount of Lycra and bare skin on the girls at these practices astonishing. Leif’s baggy, calf-length shorts and rotting plain T-shirt were the uniform for the boys. The girls all seemed to “shop in the easy department,” if my mother’s judgment wasn’t too harsh.
Would I still be alive if I hadn’t tried so hard to be good, boring, and bland for my entire life? Maybe if I’d worn Lycra earlier, once in a while, I wouldn’t have gone to that stupid party.
The whistle tooted short bursts until the track team quieted. After debriefing the season, and talking about off-season nutrition and training, and maybe even how to train poodles—I was trying to get a bird to poop on the coach’s head instead of paying attention—finally, the coach shouted, “Go hit the locker room and get ready for the awards ceremony. Your parents should be here and we’ll get started within an hour. Circle up. Color chant on three. One. Two. Three.”
As if one body with fifty voices they began, “Gold!”
“Black!”
“Who’s got your back?”
“We got your back!”
“Black!”
“Gold!”
“Who’s takin’ first?”
“First is sold to black and gold.” Applause, cheers, and whistles filled the stadium and echoed back as if the stands were full.
I’d never been much for chanting. But I thought Leif loved this team stuff.
He shouted the words with his team but they were empty. He used to get fired up and feel a part of something bigger than himself. It didn’t matter that the cheer sounded as if it had been made up by a third grader, it was theirs. Now he only felt stupid.
Interesting. Poor Leif is starting to feel human.
As the sounds died down, Coach called out, “Leif, stay back. I want to talk to you.”
“Sure, Coach.” Leif watched his teammates jog off the track field. They chatted and joked and he stayed frozen on the grass, waiting for the coach to talk to him.
Coach put his arm around Leif’s shoulders. It felt heavy and too tight, more like a yoke for oxen than a gesture of camaraderie. My stomach tightened at Leif’s surge of discomfort.
Uh-oh.
Coach said in a low tone, like they were part of a conspiracy, “I want you to know how much we appreciate you working out with us this season. The freshmen got a look at a world-class teammate. Stellar commitment to sport. There will be a special new award tonight. Want you to take a few minutes and gather some thoughts to share.”
Thoughts on what? Working out? Leif didn’t have any words of wisdom.
“And I want you to know how much we appreciate your father’s support of the booster program. Camp this summer will be possible for us because of his—”
Leif jerked away to face the older man. “Wait, what? My dad did what?”
“He made a sizable contribution to the athletic fund. I’m sorry, son, I thought you knew.” Coach shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal.
“No.” Leif quickly shut down the expression on his face, but anger boiled in his gut. “Thank you.” He was being given an award because his daddy wrote a check. Heaven forbid they show up at a sports-award ceremony and their kid doesn’t get an honor. They made up an award for him. Ouch.
Coach continued obliviously. “We’re calling it the ‘No Quit’ trophy. Looking forward to handing it to you.”
Leif’s hands fisted and he stepped farther away. His tongue felt swollen and obscene in his mouth.
The coach didn’t notice as the local reporter called out to get the man’s attention. “I’ll see you later, son. Thanks again for showing us how to be a competitor.”
Leif took his time getting to the locker room. With no witnesses, he leaned against the brick wall behind the gym and pounded it with his open palm until the skin burned and split. His parents would expect him to smile and take the applause. For doing what?
He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He needs to leave.
He reached into his pocket and felt for his tiny MP3 player. He swished the volume up and pushed off the wall. He didn’t have to be at the ceremony. Let them accept the bogus award.
I frowned. Leif lived for this kind of thing, didn’t he?
He took off, racing around the back of the school until he hit the bike trails that circled our town.
I guess not.
He ran until blisters rubbed on his heels. He ran until his body dripped sweat as if he’d just come from a swim. He ran until there was nothing in his head. Nothing at all. As the sun began to set, Leif knew the awards banquet had to be about over, but he didn’t want to go home. Not yet. His muscles burned and moaned with fatigue. Damned overachiever ran a marathon before noticing he overdid it.
I wanted to huff and puff and catch my breath too. I was beginning to forget what exercise felt like in my own body. I used to hate exercise. Funny, the things we miss.
He started walking the backstreets of town. The alley door to Art and Soul was propped open. He pulled his earbuds from his ears and heard country rock thump out at him. Was Vivian working?
You smell, Leif. Resist.
He sniffed himself quick and passed his truly impaired olfactory test.
I hope she really likes him.
He used his already-soaked shirttail to smear the sweat across his face before hesitating for a few heartbeats outside the door. What if she wasn’t inside? What if she didn’t want to see him? He stepped forward and turned a corner into a private studio space.
“Leif?” Vivian quickly turned her canvas away from the door and clicked off the music. “What are you doing back here? Are you okay?” Her expression went from shock to pleasure to concern in three blinks. She cataloged his expression as a dreary gray (Pantone 414).
He stepped side to side, as if testing his knee, then dropped into an empty chair. He hadn’t noticed how exhausted his body was until he stopped moving.
“Are you thirsty? I’ll get you water.” She fled the room.
Will she come back?
She returned with her arms full of sweating plastic bottles. Did she clean out the fridge?
“Isn’t track over?” she asked, handing him a couple of cold bottles.
“Thanks.” Leif chugged one whole bottle before taking a breath and nodding. “Today was the debrief practice to talk about next year and summer training.”
“Oh. Are you okay?” she repeated.
He stared at his hands. I saw how torn he felt. He wanted to talk. He wanted to confide in her, but his tongue flopped around without obeying.
“Sorry. Never mind.” Vivian stiffened, and I knew she took his silence personally, like he didn’t want to answer the question because she asked it.
Leif blurted, “My dad paid the coach to give me an award.”
“I didn’t think you were competing on the team.” Vivian frowned but relaxed.
“I wasn’t. Just working out as part of my physical therapy.”
“Oh.” Vivian sat down next to him. I hoped she was downwind. “He can do that?”
Leif grinned ruefully and shook his head. “Yeah, he does whatever it takes to be numbe
r one.”
“What’s the award?”
“The ‘No Quit’ trophy.”
“Oh.” Vivian glanced away. I felt a giggle bubble up in her stomach. She tried to swallow it back but couldn’t catch its tail. It dribbled out, breaking open her lips so more could follow. She slapped a hand over her mouth, trying to smother the giggles, but they just kept coming.
Leif looked at her in surprise.
Come on, Leif, you have a sense of humor, I know it. Laugh.
He chuckled, and that made her laugh more. Soon, they were both laughing so hard I thought they might split open their scars.
“Congratulations?” Vivian snorted out the word, which sent them both spiraling back into guffaws the joyous hue of sunshine (Pantone 108).
“Thanks.” Leif swallowed more water.
They sat as silence gently blew in around them, until Vivian asked, “But isn’t the banquet tonight? Like, now?”
“Yep. I’m skipping it.” Leif’s tone was steady and confident, with just a dusting of insecurity that maybe only I heard.
“Wow. That’s brave.”
Leif frowned. “No, it’s not.”
“Have you ever gone against your parents before?”
Leif shook his head. “No, I guess not.” He’d always thought he wanted to be the best too. That winning was everything.
“Will they worry? When you’re not there?” she asked.
He shrugged, standing up. His knee throbbed and tightened.
“You should text them that you’re all right,” Vivian pressed.
“Maybe. What are you working on?” Leif changed the subject.
“A new painting of a special girl.”
He moved toward it. “Can I see it?”
Vivian blocked him with her body.
Leif raised his hands in surrender. “Not ready?”
“Not yet. Wanna come over? If you want to avoid going home. Are you hungry?” Vivian’s voice drifted off as if she realized what and who she was asking. She’d never brought a boy home. It wasn’t like a date.
Sure, Viv, keep telling my heart you aren’t falling for Leif.
“Starved,” he answered.