by Ginger Scott
I think she tells Owen. But I also don’t think she tells him exactly how bad it is. I begged her not to.
My family can’t see me this way. They won’t like what I am becoming.
At first, the fights came out of nowhere—guys who have been here for months, or almost a year for some, would just kick me and beat the shit out of me to prove they could. The longer I’ve been here, the less initiating I get.
Thing is, though…the fights…they give me something to do. I’ve started instigating. I don’t mean to, and every night, I tell myself I’m going to stop. But I can’t. I don’t do it without cause, really. Usually, someone newer than me is getting picked on, so I open my mouth and say shit to get people to stop. And when they turn their attention to me, every other thought and feeling I have goes away. It’s nothing but fighting for survival in this place.
I guess I’m surviving.
When I fight, I forget about you. I didn’t want to tell you that part, but now that I’ve written it…I think I’ll leave it.
I hope you’ll write back.
Andrew
Chapter 10
Emma
“Are you sure you can’t come…just for the first period. Look…see what I just did there? I called it a period. I’m learning my hockey lingo,” Lindsey says, holding her fist out for me to pound. I do it slowly, my lips in a tight smile as we touch. This faking and pretending thing…I’m not sure how long I can keep it up.
“Yeah, they should totally let you in the booth to call the game,” I tease, pushing myself to be light and funny despite how sick I really feel. She scrunches her face at me as she continues putting on her boots and wrapping her knit scarf around her neck. I haven’t been able to make eye contact with her for longer than a few seconds at a time. Lindsey and I have never been big on swapping stories about our intimate moments. She’s only slept with a few guys, and my list is still at zero, so I guess there isn’t much to share. I hope we don’t start with this one.
“Very funny,” she says with a grunt as she finally gets her boot snug on her foot. “Seriously, though…I’m going to be sitting there alone. Can’t you come for…like…just a little bit?”
I could come. I have some time before Miranda’s presentation. But I managed to hide myself in the library on campus until the morning, and I snuck in here at five, exhausted enough that I didn’t have to hear Andrew leave for his place. I know he was still here when I came home, because his wallet and keys were on the counter when I came in. I touched them. I wanted to flip his wallet open, look at it. But I didn’t. I can’t actively go see him play hockey—not now that I’ve done such a bang-up job of avoiding his face for almost a full afternoon. And seeing him on the ice? I just…I can’t do that. I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.
“I’m just really stressed. I’m introducing her, and they want the usual speech—you know…about me? Anyway, I really want to get there early. I’m so sorry; don’t hate me,” I say, biting my lip, my inner voice begging her not to guilt me anymore. I can’t handle any more guilt.
“I get it,” she sighs. I sigh in response when I turn away from her, about eleven hundred tons of pressure fleeing my shoulders all at once. “At least…tell me, how do I look?”
“You look nice,” I smile at her, taking her full outfit in. She’s dressed like she’s ready for a ski trip. It’s not that cold at the rink. But I don’t want to burst her bubble. And there’s probably also a part of me that likes that she won’t have to borrow something warm from Andrew.
When Andrew left, I sort of got into hockey—Blackhawks mostly. My dad had always been a fan and was thrilled, and we went to a lot of games. I learned the basics from watching, and my dad taught me the nuances. It was our thing, even though I went in the beginning because it reminded me of Andrew. When my mom got sick, we had to put a stop to our trips. Neither of us ever wanted to leave her home alone for long—her body was weak, and the chemo…it wasn’t working. I think we knew it wasn’t working long before a doctor told us. We didn’t want to miss any time with her, certainly not so we could sit in nosebleed seats at the United Center.
I haven’t been back to a game since. It just doesn’t feel right going without my dad. And I don’t think going anywhere but to work and home feels right to him. She’s been gone for two years, but it still feels like yesterday we put her in the ground and said goodbye.
I move to the kitchen while Lindsey finishes getting ready. There’s a dinner being served at the presentation tonight. It’s fish—salmon—which I guess most people think is delicious. It makes me gag. I pull the peanut butter from our cupboard, scraping it empty so I can overload a slice of bread to tide me over until the presentation’s done. I flip open the trash lid to throw the jar away, then go back to spreading the peanut butter when a flash hits me; I flip the lid up again with my pinky finger. No purple. The trash is halfway full. I know it hasn’t been taken out.
No purple.
I drop the knife and wipe my hands on a towel, then completely lift the lid, kicking the side of the can to move debris around just enough that I can see if my sweatshirt is buried.
It’s not.
“Hey…uhm…Linds?” I call for my friend, prepping myself to ask her if she’s seen my sweatshirt—if she’s the one who saved it from the county dump or if someone else did—when I march by the front door and do a double take at the clothes hanging from the hooks nearby. Her jacket. My jacket from last night, which I know I hung there without seeing anything else. But this afternoon…there is something else. My sweatshirt is hung on the last hook.
I pull it free and smell it, noticing it doesn’t smell like it’s spent the night in the trash. It also doesn’t smell like Andrew.
“Yeah?” Lindsey answers behind me. I grip my sweatshirt and take a quick breath before I turn to face her.
“My sweatshirt…” I start, waiting to see if she has a reaction to it, like an oh yeah, I saved it for you kind of reaction. She doesn’t, which means…
“You know, I heard Andrew say he liked purple. He mentioned it—that it’s a nice color—when I wore this. You should wear it,” I say, the words just coming out one after the next before that little gatekeeper in my head has time to tell me to stop it, because this is a really bad idea. And it’s mean. I’m using Lindsey.
She smiles and takes my sweatshirt into her hands, and my insides rush with conflict. She’s taken it, though, so I walk the line on the other side—the one that’s not being nice—and keep going.
“You know, I always loved this one. You should wear it more,” she says, carrying it back to her room.
I love it too. That’s why I wore it the first time I went out with Andrew. It’s Roxy, and has little diamonds on the front that are both tough and feminine at the same time. That’s what I wanted to be—tough and feminine. Not broken and frail and unable to do things like run, or skate, or date a boy. I should wear it more, especially now that my new go-to sweatshirt is forever ruined with wine stains. Except now, it reminds me of this Andrew—Drew—which makes me love it less.
I hover in the kitchen, nibbling at my sandwich while Lindsey changes, and when she comes out in my shirt, I compliment her, ignoring the loud voice kicking me from the inside and telling me I shouldn’t do this. I’m not being fair to Lindsey, and I’m stooping to Andrew’s level. But I let her walk out the door anyway, and I sit quietly in my chair and finish my sandwich, playing out the scene that’s about to happen in my head—she’ll show up, he’ll see her, and he’ll think of me.
* * *
Part of being the prized student is being available to shine the spotlight on your benefactor at a moment’s notice. Miranda Wheaton is winning an award, and she called me two days ago to ask if I would introduce her before her presentation and speech. She’s kind—but there’s also a very rigid thread that runs through her that’s not to be messed with. When she asks, you say yes. That’s the unspoken rule, and I learned it quickly when I backed out of something freshman year and found
myself fighting to get back into her circle.
I’m special, and I still had to fight. There is no gray with Miranda Wheaton—everything is black and white. You are either in or you’re out.
I need to stay in.
I also need to get the projector working. I’m sweating. I sweat when I panic. I’m panicking, too. Even though I’m not the one really getting an award, I am the one sitting up here on my knees in front of the small table, unplugging and replugging the same cord to the computer—expecting the screen to just randomly appear one of these times—despite the fact that I’m not doing anything different.
Come on. One, two, three…work!
I lean forward and rub my head. I should have worn my hair up. Right now, my heavy locks are only making me hotter. I twist my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, jabbing a pencil through the middle of the bun to secure it in place. I go back to the stubborn computer and punch a few buttons. Here I want to cut into people’s bodies for a living—and I can’t even get a PowerPoint to show up.
“Hey, mind if I maybe…just…”
A pair of very large, very masculine hands reaches in front of me, and when I look up I’m greeted with startling-blue eyes on a chiseled face and just enough of a beard to make me want to touch it…just once.
No, no…don’t touch it, Emma!
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, but I was in the back…over there?” He nods over his shoulder, to the doorway where two other equally handsome men are leaning, watching me flail. I’ve been flailing in front of them for nearly an hour. On my knees. I think maybe I swore a few times, too. Oh my god! “You’re…kind of struggling, huh?” he says. I blink at him, twisting my lips before I look back at the computer in front of us both. I pull the cord out and plug it in again.
“This is my only move,” I say with a shrug, looking back up at him again. “That’s all I’ve got.” Yep, those are definitely blue eyes. Not blue-gray like mine. His are a better blue, like…sky maybe?
His laugh comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, under the tight silvery gray shirt and slightly darker gray tie that he’s wearing on his chest like a superhero emblem. I laugh internally at my observation: my hero in a suit and tie.
“I think you just need to put it in…display mode…which is right…” His speech comes out in pieces while he crouches down next to me and opens a few windows, punches a few buttons, and holy shit, Miranda’s presentation is on the screen!
“You’re amazing,” I say, standing on my feet and staring at the screen with wide eyes and an open mouth, working every second to avoid looking back at him with the same awe and amazement. I can tell from my periphery that he’s smiling. I can also tell that his smile—it’s really nice.
He chuckles, and I give in. I look, and my body flushes instantly.
“No, I just do a lot of presentations. It’s more of a matter of knowing how to push the right buttons, not really being amazing,” he smirks, taking a few steps back until he reaches the edge of the stage I’m on—we’re on. This sexy, sexy man is talking about pushing buttons and I’m blushing in front of professors and doctors while on a stage.
“Oh…yeah, right,” I say. My heart is beating the way it does when I chug uphill in a rollercoaster. I’m nervous, and my palms are sweating, and this hot guy with a beard just winked at me.
When he leaves the stage, I move my attention back to the computer—sorting through the slides to make sure they’re in order and on the right one to start. I tug my purse out from under the table and pull the small note cards I’ve made out next. I sit against the back wall, in a seat in a line of chairs left there for the presenters for the night.
Dr. Miranda Wheaton saved my life.
Dr. Wheaton is more than a visionary.
It’s an honor to study with her.
I mumble to myself the start of my few short paragraphs. I’m uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd, but speaking about this…it amps up my anxiety about seven-thousand levels.
I understand why I need to, though. Or maybe not need to, but why people want to hear it. It’s compelling. My story is the perfect illustration on why Dr. Wheaton is the best, why she deserves this award tonight, and why she’ll continue to win hundreds more just as prestigious.
The crowd filters in, and after several minutes, the background is filled with nothing but non-stop chatter and the clanking of wine glasses. When I look up from my notes, I’m almost dizzied by the number of important people—sitting in chairs around tables with linens—looking at me.
I’ve never been nervous about the idea of cutting into someone. I’m not worried about the MCAT, and I’m actually looking forward to my first rotation through trauma. The idea of working in the moment—to save someone’s life—it’s the entire reason I made this my dream. But speaking to this room full of people?
I’m terrified.
“You look a little pale there, Emma. You feeling okay?” Miranda Wheaton’s voice is somewhere between an angel and a sergeant in the military. Her tone is friendly and non-threatening, but there’s a confidence underneath that is intimidating as hell. I wish more than anything I could mimic it. I’d like that ability in about six minutes when I step up to the mike.
“A lot of people here, huh?” I admit with a swallow as I look up at her and flip through the cards anxiously in my lap. She smiles and sits in the seat next to me, pulling her small pocketbook into her lap and flipping it open to check her lipstick in the mirror on the underside.
“They’re all afraid they’ll need me someday, so they figured they better show up,” she jokes. I laugh lightly, mostly because she’s probably right.
“I practiced a few times at home, and it’s under a minute,” I say, holding the cards up, hoping she doesn’t want to see them. Christ, what would I do if she started editing them now?
She leans into me, her shoulder draped in a silk blouse, pressing against mine wrapped in polyester.
“You are going to do just fine. Honestly, you can get up there and tell four knock-knock jokes for all I care,” she says. I smirk, but look back down at my cards, knowing the story on them is important to her, despite what she says. She claims she doesn’t want the attention, but her office is immaculate, and the entire back wall is covered in awards, framed letters, and tokens from important people recognizing everything she gives.
Miranda does amazing things for people, and I was just one of them. But I’m the one…the one who has the story, and I’ve been urged by her, gently, enough times to share the story on her behalf to know she likes the credit that goes along with it. It’s fine—she deserves it. I’m here because of her, and if it costs me a few uncomfortable minutes on a stage in front of Chicago’s best doctors, then I can handle that.
As prepared as I am, I suddenly feel taken off guard when the dean of Tech’s medical school begins to speak at the microphone. He doesn’t share many details about me, just a teaser that I have a compelling story to tell—the whoosh of my pulse through my head drowning out the rest of what he says. I know it’s my turn when he turns to face me, clapping, and I notice the rest of the crowd clapping as well.
I suddenly wish I had worn something prettier—something that would at least give them something to look at rather than the black pants and navy blue blouse with the thin gold necklace dangling between the pockets. I’m with it enough to remember the pencil in my hair, and I pull it out quickly, tucking my twist of hair to one side over my shoulder. I didn’t even wear tall shoes. I’m in flats, because I was afraid I would have to walk up steps to the stage. Seems my youth and upbringing has worn off on me—always minimizing hazards.
I don’t know why, but when I step to the podium, that thought rushes through me. That word—hazards. And then all I can think of is that day with Andrew, of skating, and the time I let go of his hand and stood on my own. The day I laughed at hazards, and begged my parents to let me just have this one thing—a day to be young on the ice with him. When I look back out over th
e crowd, my nerves feel in check. I place the cards flat in front of me, no longer feeling the urge to have to look at them. I know my story. I know it well.
“My name is Emma Burke, and I was born with a congenital heart defect. Usually,” I pause, smiling at the thought I just had, “I have to really dumb it down for people when I explain it to them. But this isn’t that kind of room, is it?”
I wait for a few seconds as the crowd gives in and laughs, a sense of comfort settling into my chest. I glance back at Miranda, who smiles in support, nodding—acknowledging all she and I have been through together.
“I was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome. For those of you who are here with your medical-jargon-loving dates and aren’t quite sure what that means—basically, I was born with half a heart. One side worked…and the other was more than just lazy.”
I get a few more chuckles from making fun of my stupid infant diagnosis. It owes me a few laughs—it’s stolen enough over the years.
“By the time I was eight, I had three surgeries. Yep…” I say, pausing, lips pulled together in an accepting smile. “All the big ones. You know…Norwood, Glenn, Fontan…Larry, Moe, Curley…”
The audience gives in completely now, their laughter the kind that people passing by outside could hear. I glance up and into the eyes of my new friend, the one with the sexy tie and touchable beard. He’s smiling and laughing, too. For some reason, that makes me feel even more comfortable.
“Things were going well. I had a forever-good excuse to get out of running laps in PE. I had to get some exercise, but never anything like running. I could do less vigorous things, like simple tumbling or dancing. I’m horribly uncoordinated, so trust me—dancing was not too much for my young heart to handle.”
Out of nowhere, my arm chills at the memory of Andrew’s elbow looped through mine; my mind hums the sound of the fiddle that played over and over for that glorious week we had square dancing. Even as I stare back into the smiling eyes of my new friendly face across the room, my memory is pulling up the dimples and messy hair of the boy I met when I needed someone most. I don’t think of the him I know now, but rather then—when he was…everything.