I'm Not Her

by Janet Gurtler

  Mom picks that moment to walk in, as Kristina projectile-vomits on the nurse again.

  Mom runs straight back out the door and I stand frozen in place not quite believing what is happening. The nurse scrambles around as Kristina cries feebly. Seconds later, another nurse comes rushing in the room with towels in her arms and Mom right behind her. The nurse points at me and then the door as she rushes to Kristina.

  I gratefully hurry out into the hallway and stand outside the room, shifting from foot to foot, listening to the retching sounds and then weak crying, barely audible beneath the reassuring words from the nurses.

  Mom comes out of the room a minute later, still clutching a cup of coffee. “Jesus Christ, they need to give her better anti-sickness drugs on her next cycle.”

  I close my eyes, not wanting to think about my sister going through this again. Mom’s hand brushes against my arm as she hurries past me toward a trash can and pitches out her coffee. We stand in the hallway awkwardly. Inside, we can hear Kristina retching and crying. Mom goes back inside but I’m frozen to the spot.

  Eventually, one of the nurses comes out of Kristina’s room with a handful of soiled towels.

  “It happens like this sometimes,” she tells me and gives me a sympathetic look before hurrying off, probably to the laundry chute. “We gave her antinausea meds, but we didn’t get the dose right.”

  ***

  At school the next day, I duck down in my chair like I’m three years old. I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Kids wander into class and sit, draping bodies over chairs and desks, checking out their phones and texting. Despite trying to be invisible, I feel curious stares on me and hear my name and Kristina’s whispered. Rumors circulate the air, invisible but always there, like tiny particles of dust.

  I sit up a little straighter, wondering how I’m going to pull this off. It’s nothing compared to what Kristina’s going through, I know that, but my world doesn’t seem the same anymore either. It’s a lonely place pretending that everything is fine.

  I pull books from my backpack and check over my unfinished homework as the classroom fills up. After the bell rings, Mr. Pepson stands, tells everyone to put away their phones, and begins speaking. He’s the lead school faculty advisor for the Honor Society chapter, so I’ve invested many hours demonstrating what a great student I am to him. By habit I pretend to be interested in his lecture about A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’ve worked hard over the first term to show him I’m quality HS material, but after a while suspect if he doesn’t finish his lecture soon and I have to sit still another minute, my head will explode. As he assigns a thematic essay on Shakespeare, I gather my stuff and walk to the front of the class.

  Clark Trent watches me with undisguised curiosity. I ignore him and lean forward and whisper. “I’m feeling sick,” I tell Mr. Pepson. “I need to go see the nurse.”

  He stares at me for a second too long, and I’m about to resort to the female problem excuse that makes male teachers squirm, when his eyes flicker with sympathy.

  “Fine, Tess. Go.”

  Mr. Pepson acts as if it’s normal for me to get up before the bell and leave. An anal Honor Society wannabe. I head for the door, sensing curious, staring eyeballs on my back, but rush out. Instead of going to the nurse’s office, I bolt down empty hallways, heading toward the front door of the school.

  “Hey, Tess.”

  The voice startles me and I stop and freeze, grabbing at my chest to make sure my heart stays where it’s supposed to. It’s Jeremy. The stalker.

  “Where’re you going?” he asks.

  “Home. Flu.” I fake a cough to prove my point.

  The look on his face convinces me he knows I’m lying.

  “What?” I wish he’d go away and leave me alone. “What do you want?”

  “I saw you running down the hall so I told Mrs. Sheppard I had to go to the bathroom. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  I wait for him to explain more but he says nothing.

  I start walking again and he hurries along beside me. He’s not as tall as me and has to rush a little to keep up. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “I saw Kristina,” he says softly.

  My entire body freezes as a cold rush of fear goes through me. “What?” I repeat, but my voice is hardly recognizable as my own. I look around but it’s just the two of us. Everyone else is in class.

  “At the hospital,” he whispers.

  I open my mouth to lie, to tell him he’s wrong, but then I close it. If he’s seen her, how can I lie about that?

  Jeremy takes me by the arm and pulls me along with him. “Come on.” We keep going until we reach the front door. He hurries to open the door and waits until I go first and then we’re on the front steps and the heavy doors close behind us. It’s cool outside and I’m not wearing a coat so I shiver a little, but nothing will make me go back inside the school.

  “How did you know she was at the hospital? Are you seriously stalking her?”

  Jeremy glares at me and his eyes shoot sparks of anger, but then he blinks and instantly they’re gone. He drops his gaze to his feet. “I’m not stalking her.” He looks in my eyes then. “I saw Kristina when I was visiting my mom. She’s being treated for breast cancer.”

  I lower my gaze to the cement, and stare at initials someone etched into the top step years before. I wonder how that love affair turned out. If one of them got sick, or if they still remember the times they kissed. I hold my breath until my lungs shout for oxygen and then breathe out slowly and inhale again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and wonder why people always say that when they find out bad news. Sorry? It’s not my fault, so exactly what am I actually sorry about? Am I sorry that his mom is sick, or sorry that I have to deal with the fact that he’s told me?

  I’m expected to show him compassion and understanding because he’s suffering too. And I do. I feel bad, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to be forced to think of boobs as a source of disease and I don’t want to think about cancer.

  “Thanks.” He lifts his shoulder and there’s pain but also quiet dignity in the movement. I look away and feel ashamed.

  “How’s Kristina?” he asks.

  “Terrible.” I sigh, and speaking the truth drains me.

  “That’s about what I expected,” he says. “Cancer is horrible.”

  His honesty has a surprising, calming effect on my anger. I realize if anyone is remotely close to understanding how I feel, it’s him. I look at him, really look at him. He’s a cute boy with his babyish face and his clean wrinkle-free clothes. Goes to show how deceiving appearances can be. He looks like he doesn’t have a problem in the world.

  “She doesn’t want anyone to know about it,” I tell him. “No one.”

  He smiles sadly and juts his chin down and then back up, in a sort of nod. “I’m not going to say anything, if you’re worried.”

  “I’m not worried,” I tell him. We stare at each other for another minute. “Should I be?”

  He shakes his head and even I can see the weight of sadness in his shoulders. He won’t say a word.

  I start to walk down the steps and he follows.

  “Aren’t you supposed to get back to class?” I ask him.

  “Aren’t you?”

  I gesture at my backpack. “I’m leaving.”

  He nods without pointing out the obvious. I’m skipping my next class too. I’m leaving school without permission. Again.

  “I’m sorry about your mom.” I mean it this time.

  “I’m really sorry about your sister,” he says. “It must be hard for you.”

  It’s the first time someone says that. The first time someone recognizes that I have to deal with it too. I wipe away sudden tears. “Thanks. You better go back. See you around, Stalker.” I give him a teeny smile.

  He laughs. It warms my heart just a little to hear that people still laugh when the people they love have cancer.

  I plow toward a group of kid
s across from the school yard, hanging out. I duck my head, hoping it’s not volleyball players or friends of Kristina who in the last few days have constantly been seeking me out for updates. I’m no longer invisible and it annoys the heck out of me. The sudden surge in popularity has nothing to do with me.

  The tears damned up behind my eyes press harder to get out. I hurry past them, hoping I can make it by without starting to cry, and then slam hard into another body. I catch my breath when a hand grabs me.

  “Hey, Freshie. Take it easy. You almost knocked me over.”

  Nick.

  He smiles like I’m amusing. My insides do the stomp from seeing him look at me like that. It pisses me off and I squirm to get away. I have an irrational urge to belt him in the stomach for making me crush on him and for looking happy when my world is falling apart. Fortunately, I’m sane enough to know that punching him in the stomach won’t solve anything, and might get me expelled or thrown into intensive mental therapy. So I just stare and round up the butterflies in my belly with an internal net.

  “Whoa.” He stops smiling. “You okay? You look like your dog just died.”

  “What if my dog did just die?” I snap.

  His face reddens and his eyes dart around nervously. “Seriously? Your dog died?”

  I bite my lip and shift from foot to foot. “Um, no. I don’t actually have a dog.”

  He focuses back on me. Then his eyes flash. Guilt rattles me.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I seem to say that to him a lot. From the corner of my eye I see the group of kids moving away toward the front doors of the school.

  He blinks, but then his expression relaxes and he holds a hand up to his ear. “What’s that? Did Surly Girl just say sorry? Apologize to me?” He grins.

  “A miracle,” I say dryly.

  “I’m glad your dog didn’t die. I’m partial to four-legged creatures.” He smoothes back his hair. “So you’re skipping classes again?”

  I automatically look around to see if anyone heard him but no one is around. Everyone’s scattered off. I turn back to him and he’s grinning even wider.

  “I see you’re becoming quite the delinquent. Must be bad for your academic record.” He actually tsks me.

  “I have no strikes. My mom has covered all my ditching.” I glance around again in case anyone from the Honor Society is lurking around corners taking notes. For a moment a flash of fear rattles me, that they sent him to test my character.

  “Must be nice to be so perfect,” Nick says. “You and your sister.”

  His choice of words takes away my breath. I’ve never been called perfect in my life. Kristina’s always been the perfect one.

  “I am so far from perfect it’s not even funny.” I think of Kristina and my heart pounds. She’s not so perfect anymore either.

  “No? Well, what about your perfect grades? I heard you’re going to rule the world one day. Or at least try to change it.”

  I breathe out slowly. “You heard wrong,” I say, and my voice is shaky. My perfect grades are slipping. I’ve handed in substandard work in three classes, including Mr. Pepson’s. I’ve not done homework. I’ve missed classes.

  “Your sister okay?” he asks in a softer voice, as if somehow I’ve blown her cover. “She must be pretty sick to be missing all this school,” Nick adds.

  God, can’t she miss school like other normal people, without search warrants being issued? This conversation is officially not any fun at all. I don’t care what Nick wants. I want him to leave me alone.

  “Kristina’s fine.” I eye the parking lot and my horrible pink bike, the lone bike at the bike stand at the end. “Fine. Fine. Fine. As fine as the print on the bottom of a contract. Fine.”

  “A contract?” he asks. He studies me as if I’m behind glass at a zoo, picking bugs from my fur or something. “You know you’re kind of weird, right, Freshie?”

  I glare at him, daring him to say more, but he just grins. “In a good way. Listen, while I’ve got you here, being so friendly to me and all, I wanted to ask you a question.”

  It’s just the two of us now. No cars pass on the street, no kids on the schoolyard. Nothing. People I associate with, the brainiacs and the art freaks, are all in class. Sitting at the front. Mouths closed, ears open, waiting to learn something new or show off what they already know.

  I’m all alone. I want to run, but something about Nick keeps my feet planted on the spot, listening to him instead of taking off like I always seem to do lately. In the back of my mind I wonder how it’s possible I’m talking to a cute boy when the bell’s going to ring for the next class any minute and I’m outside the school instead of in it. My ears warm. When did Nick become cute in my mind?

  “You’re a tough one to figure out, Freshie. What makes a girl like you start skipping school?” he asks as if he cares. I hear other unasked questions hanging in the air.

  I try to think of something to say, a story that will throw him off the truth, keep him from finding out about Kristina’s sickness, but I got nothing.

  He smiles again. But it’s a different smile. It’s warmer and I hate to admit it, but it makes my stomach swoop a little. I am crushing. I’m a stupid girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Crushing on juvie D’s is so not my style. Especially juvie D’s who are man-whores.

  “Never mind,” he says when he sees my expression. “It’s not my business.” My heart skips. “I’ve seen your dad golfing a lot lately,” he says conversationally. “He’s taken a couple strokes off his game.”

  I struggle to contain my reaction to him and snap, “Good for my dad.”

  “Another touchy subject?” He holds up his hands in mock defense. “I’d better quit while I’m ahead. Okay, back to my real question. What are you doing after school?”

  I picture myself that morning, promising Mom I’ll hop the bus after school and meet her at the hospital to keep her company with Kristina. I tried to get out of it, telling Mom how much homework I have, how I need my quiet time to study properly and keep my grades up. I explained that the Honor Society is watching closely and these are crucial times for me.

  “Clubs are not everything, Tess. Priorities,” she said.

  I wonder if I were the one sick if she would make Kristina miss volleyball practice. I’m glad I haven’t told her about the contest, afraid she’d try to take that away from me too. Trying to sketch my ideas and get the right feel is the one thing that’s helping me stay sane.

  She doesn’t care about homework or my grades. How important the whole semester is. Or that I’m being judged on more than just my academic proficiency. She doesn’t know I’m avoiding my best friend. Or that I’ve found an art contest that could change my life, but can’t connect with my muse.

  She doesn’t know any of it. She never asks.

  I want to ask her why Dad isn’t missing work. Why he’s spending more time at the office and more time on the golf course instead of less. Why I’m the one who has to deal.

  I drop that line of thinking and focus on Nick. He’s much nicer to think about than my mom.

  Focus. What am I doing after school?

  Oh. My. God.

  I lose my breath, imagining for a brief second that he’s going to ask me for a date. My cheeks get hotter. As if, my brain tells me. As. If.

  “Um,” I fumble my words around. “Uh, family stuff. Why?”

  “What about Friday?” he asks.

  I stare at him. “What about it?”

  “You doing anything after school Friday?”

  I don’t move. Me? He is going to ask me out? I tell my stupid fluttering heart to quit it. No way. I don’t want him to ask me out. I don’t care what my body is saying.

  He needs something. He’s probably trying to find out more about Kristina. He is in the fan club after all. Even though he doesn’t know the group is about to disperse due to problems with the leader.

  My lips press tight and I swallow. “Why?”

  He flashes another smile. “
Man, you’re not exactly an easy person to ask a question.”

  My heart continues tapping out a fast tango. My cheeks are like a forest fire blazing out of control. “What question? Access to my sister or maybe a loan?” My mouth snaps out the insults without my permission.

  His eyes narrow and he frowns.

  I curse my brain for not stopping my mouth from spewing out words, and then he surprises me by throwing back his head and laughing.

  “Your sister or a loan, huh?” he says. “Tess, why won’t you just answer my question?”

  “I got to go.” I turn and run, heading for my bike as fast as my sneakers will take me.

  I’m relieved yet bummed when his footsteps don’t follow. Deep down, a part of me is developing an unhealthy crush on that boy, and that’s so not a good thing. I don’t want to have a crush on a senior who gets drunk at parties, drives around volleyball girls, and thinks my sister is hot. Even I have enough sense to predict the outcome of that one.

  My crushes are not usually so ridiculous. I tend to covet boys who don’t actually talk to me. Like celebrities. Or famous artists. My pheromones tend to hone in on unattainable intellectual types. Not that Nick is attainable. God! My face breaks out into a fresh flush of fire.

  I run to my bike, longing for the days before cancer. The days when boys ignored me and I ignored them. I wonder what Nick was going to ask, but pretend it doesn’t matter. Pretend that I don’t hope he really planned to ask me for a date. Cause it sounded like it.

  But no. How could that be?

  chapter eight

  A couple of days later, the deadline for the Oswald contest is looming and I’m no closer to finding my flash of artistic brilliance. Never has my ability to create been obstructed before. It’s like the cancer slithered over to poison me with some of its evil.

  Because Mom is out at some important charity luncheon with the professors’ wives, she asks me to leave school early to be with Kristina, so I take a cab to the hospital. When I walk into Kristina’s hospital room, she’s alone. Not even a nurse around. She’s lying on her bed and when I get closer my breath catches. Her eyes are closed, she’s motionless, and I’m compelled to check her chest to make sure she’s breathing. It’s rising and falling slightly but she doesn’t wake, so I pull a chair up beside the bed. I sit down and study her. Her cheek bones look more angular and her collarbones jut out from her blue hospital gown. I’d have to use different techniques to sketch her now. Her essence has changed. She’s less charcoal and more shading.