Confessions of a Teenage Leper

by Ashley Little

“But fries with ketchup are good,” I said.

  “Agreed.”

  “And fries with gravy are good.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So why can’t fries with ketchup and gravy be good?”

  “One or the other, Abby. Not both.”

  I looked down at my plate. The brown and red swirled together over the mess of fries. It did look kind of gross. I shrugged, ate a fry. “If you say so,” I said.

  Jude sighed.

  “Are you this particular about all your food or just French fries?”

  “I care about food,” he said. “I respect food.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This.” He gestured to my plate. “This is not respect.”

  I ate another fry, grinning at him. “But it sure is tasty.”

  He gazed over my shoulder toward the kitchen. “I think I might like to be a chef,” he said.

  “Ooh la la.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be a fancy place, like, fine dining or anything. Just simple, good food done right.”

  “Maybe you could have your own food truck,” I said.

  “No. I would be way too cramped in one of those. Plus, I’m not even done growing. I’m probably going to get even taller than this.”

  I nodded, chewing another fry.

  “I was thinking more like my own restaurant.”

  “Oh yeah? That would be cool. What would it be called?”

  “Jude’s,” he said, like it should have been obvious. Then he smiled dreamily like he could see it all materializing just as he imagined. The server came then and cleared our plates. She gave me a wink. I watched Jude stare after her as she walked away. I coughed into my hand.

  “What about basketball?” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “You’re so good.”

  He wiped his mouth on his napkin and scrunched it into a ball. “Not that good.” He launched it into my nearly empty water glass. It landed at the bottom, soaking up the ice water.

  “You’re—”

  “Not good enough to play pro ball. It’s a high school team, Abby. It’s not a career.” He took a big drink from his milkshake and set down his cup. I guess someone somewhere had told him he wasn’t good enough. And maybe they were right. I didn’t know. “What about you?” he said.

  “What about me?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I…I want to be an actress,” I said.

  He screwed up his face a little, assessing me.

  I picked at my nail polish. “I want to be famous,” I mumbled into the table.

  “What?”

  “I WANT TO BE FAMOUS!”

  Some old people turned around to look at us. A little kid in a nearby booth laughed and screeched. Our server looked up from her cash register.

  “Why?” Jude said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just something I’ve always wanted. I’ve always known. I want to get out of Texas and I want to be famous.”

  “You couldn’t be famous in Texas?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t belong here,” I said.

  “What? You’re too good for Texas?”

  “No, no. It’s not that. It’s just a feeling. Like, I don’t know how to describe it…”

  “Relax. I’m just kidding.”

  “Oh.”

  Jude studied me. I could feel his eyes running up and down my body. Over my breasts, my collarbones, my cheeks, my hair. “Yep, I could see that working out for you.”

  I exhaled. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.

  “You’re a total babe,” he said and took out a pack of gum, offering me a piece before popping one in his mouth.

  “Thanks,” I laughed, and wondered if I was blushing.

  “Hollywood?” he said.

  “Yeah. Well, hopefully.”

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “Cheerleading.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m playing the long game.”

  By this time, I had lost almost all of the feeling in both of my feet, which made climbing to the top of a pyramid, or balancing on people’s hands, extremely difficult. My hands and wrists were starting to bother me. They’d get, like, a buzzing feeling, which was different from pain but definitely didn’t feel right. I thought I’d been texting too much and maybe had carpal tunnel syndrome or something. I knew that could happen, that it was pretty common, so I didn’t worry too much about it. My feet I attributed to poor circulation, inherited from my mother’s side. I started to get fevers and night sweats. I thought I had a weird flu that wouldn’t go away. Sometimes I got headaches, but everyone gets headaches. Don’t they? When I knew I had a fever, I’d just take a couple of Tylenol and have a cold bath and get into bed with a cold washcloth on my head. It was usually gone by the morning. I also got tired a lot. Usually when I got home from school or cheer practice, I felt weak. I thought I was just hungry, so I’d have a huge snack, then go chill out for a while on the couch or in my room. One time, I fell asleep after school and slept right through dinner and through the whole night.

  The next morning when I walked into the kitchen, my mom handed me a cup of coffee. “I couldn’t wake you up last night,” she said. “I thought you were dead in there.”

  “Her breath sure smells like she died,” Dean said.

  “Shut up, Dean,” I said.

  “Monkey-butt is how I would describe it. With a little side of skunk.”

  “Are you feeling alright?” Mom felt my forehead.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Abby. It’s called halitosis, okay?” Dean said. “There are things you can do to manage your problem. It doesn’t have to ruin your life.”

  “Would you please shut up?”

  “Floss. Mouthwash. Toothpaste. Have you heard of toothpaste?”

  I turned my back on Dean and looked out the window. Mrs. Greely was out watering her garden. She was about ninety years old but still did all her own yard work. She called me Tabby, but I let her. It seemed right for her to call me that. Maybe you’re a different person to everyone you know.

  “I want us to go back to the doctor this week,” Mom said. “I’ll make you an appointment today.”

  “Dr. Jamieson doesn’t know anything,” I said. “Besides, I have cheer practice every afternoon this week, a quiz on Thursday and a test on Friday. I don’t have time to go to the doctor.”

  “I can take you to a different doctor if you want, but you’re going to have to miss practice one day this week so we can go.”

  “I was just tired, Mom. I’m fine. Teenagers need a lot of sleep! I’m normal, okay? Marla sleeps, like, fourteen hours a day.”

  “She’s on her back fourteen hours a day, I’d believe that,” Dean said. He made the face where you put your tongue in your cheek and move your fist so it looks like you’re giving a blow job. I wanted to hit him in the mouth, but I didn’t.

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’m not sick.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Do it as a personal favor to me, then,” she said.

  “Can I do it as a personal favor to you next week? When I don’t have, like, fifty million things to study for?”

  She sighed. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll make your appointment today.”

  “You might ask if they can do something for your breath, too, while you’re there,” Dean said, fanning his hand in front of his face.

  I leaned toward him and blew my morning breath all over him.

  That day I ate lunch with Marla and Liz. Jude and his friend Brett joined us at our table. Jude slid his tray in beside mine and gave me a little kiss on the cheek.

  “How’s it going?” he said.

  “Urrgh,” I said, gesturing to my pile of textbooks.

  “That good, hey?”

  It was the lead-up to Christmas break and the teachers had it out for us. We had hundreds of assignments and they gave pop quizzes almost every day. I needed to keep my grades
high so I could get into USC and stay on the cheerleading squad through the rest of the year. Marla, Liz and I burned off steam at lunch like we usually did, by making fun of other people.

  Clint Rasmussen walked by us, mouth breathing, checking his phone. “What must it be like to go through life with a head shaped like a potato?” Marla said, her eyes following Clint.

  “You know where he’s from, don’t you?” I said.

  “Not a clue.”

  “Idaho.”

  “No.”

  “That would explain a few things,” Liz said.

  “He’s actually really lucky,” I said. “When he wants hash browns, all he needs to do is shave his face.”

  Liz made a disgusted face, sticking her tongue out the side of her mouth.

  Dale Romanchuk was coming our way. He was a mangled-looking kid who could never quite keep it together. Greasy hair. Glasses. A face full of acne. His clothes were always wrinkled and mis-buttoned. Liz pushed her backpack out a little. Dale tripped over it, spilling his drink, nearly falling, but catching himself at the last minute.

  We laughed, covering our mouths.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” Jude said.

  “Yeah, Liz,” I said. “It’s not his fault his parents are cousins.”

  She and Marla laughed.

  “Boom. Boom. Boom,” Liz said as Heather O’Leary walked by our table.

  “That’s gotta be at least a five point two on the Richter scale,” I said.

  Heather glanced over her shoulder at us. Liz made a mean face back at her, and we giggled as she turned away again, smoothing her hair.

  “I think she’s actually lost weight since last year,” Marla said.

  “No. She just started wearing baggier clothes,” I said. “It’s an optical illusion.”

  “Huh,” she said. “Maybe I should try that.”

  Uber-geek Brian Tate stood in the pizza lineup, just out of earshot. I gestured toward him with my chin. “Excuse me,” I said, emulating his squeaky voice, “but do you know what the square root of I will never get laid is?” Liz and Marla cracked up. Bailey Lovell and Caleb Markowski walked by our table. He was super short and she was really tall. “Here come Brontosaurus and T-rex,” Marla said.

  “Mwaarr!” I dug my elbows into my sides, making little T-rex arms. Liz bobbed her head, stretching her neck up and down, impersonating a brontosaurus. She and I pretended to try to kiss each other and not be able to reach the other’s lips, all the while making dinosaur sounds. We laughed. We laughed so hard we collapsed into each other, unable to breathe.

  “She’s actually a really good basketball player,” Jude said.

  “At least she’s good at something,” I said. “I’ve seen her biology quizzes. She’s failing everything.”

  “We took art together last year,” Liz said. “All she made all year were these circles that looked like nipples. A dot in the middle and a circle surrounding it. Charcoal? Boobs. Pastel? Boobs. Watercolor? Boobs. Clay? Boobs. She’s, like, obsessed with boobs or something. We called it boob-art. Bailey’s boob-art.”

  We laughed.

  “I like boobs,” Brett said.

  “Isn’t that wonderful for you?” Marla said.

  He grinned at her.

  “We gotta go,” Jude said, standing. He cocked his head at Brett and Brett stood up too. I leaned my cheek toward Jude for a kiss, but none came. “See you later,” he said. Then they were gone.

  By the time my doctor’s appointment came, I had another scaly red spot on my chest, right above my left boob. Mom took me to a new doctor named Dr. Lee. She was short with dark hair and dark eyes that looked like they’d seen a lot of sad stuff. I sat on the little bed-thing and showed her the spots and told her everything. She looked closely at each of the spots and touched them all. Then she turned to the sink and washed her hands.

  “Are you sexually active, Abby?” Dr. Lee asked.

  “Um, how do you define…active?” I said.

  She smiled.

  Jude and I had fooled around a bit. I wasn’t saving myself for marriage or anything, I just, I don’t know. I wanted to be in love. Is that stupid? It’s stupid. I know. But you only get one first time! Just one! I wanted to be sure. Jude was supersweet and really nice to me and a great kisser. I thought that maybe he could be the one I would lose my virginity with, but I still wasn’t 100 percent sure. I felt like I was still getting to know him.

  “I’ve never had sex,” I said, hanging my head.

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Abby. It’s perfectly normal.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s just that all of my friends have. So it doesn’t exactly feel normal.”

  “There’s absolutely no harm in waiting. In fact, I highly recommend it,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “You play sports?”

  “I’m a cheerleader.”

  “Really? That’s great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you say that you sweat a lot?”

  “I would say that I sweat a normal amount,” I said. I sniffed at my armpit. “Why? Do I smell? Do I have body odor?” I was horrified.

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” Dr. Lee said. Then she pulled out her phone and started swiping away. I hate when doctors do that. Are they texting? Are they looking something up on WebMD? Nobody knows.

  “I’m fairly confident that the spots on your skin are tinea versicolor. I’m going to give you a fungicide that should clear them up. As for the muscle weakness and fatigue, I’d like you to take an iron supplement and make sure that you’re eating properly, with plenty of protein in every meal, and not skipping meals. Also, you should be getting at least eight hours of sleep every night, preferably more, without exception.”

  “Sorry, fungus?”

  “Yes. Tinea versicolor is a yeast that lives on the skin and causes irregular discolored patches. It’s common for people your age who are physically active and often sweating or in the heat to experience it.”

  “Like, ringworm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because that’s what Dr. Jamieson thought I had and he already gave me an antifungal cream and it didn’t work.”

  “Probably wasn’t a strong enough dosage,” she said. “I’ll give you a pill to take orally in addition to an antifungal cream.” She pulled out her prescription pad and started scribbling. “Nothing to worry about. Although, I’ll warn you, even though your spots will most likely disappear after you’ve been taking the pills for a week or so, they may come back if you’re hot and sweating a lot, like in the summer.” She tore the prescription off and handed it to me. “You’ll be fine,” she said.

  She was wrong.

  Marla and Liz and I went shopping in      a few weeks later. I rifled through a rack of striped sweaters. “I think I’m going to have sex with Jude,” I announced. Liz squealed, clutching a cardigan to her chest.

  “Finally,” Marla said. “It’s been, like, what?”

  “Almost three months,” I said.

  “Christ, I’m surprised he’s stuck around this long.”

  “Marla!” Liz said. “Be nice.”

  “What?” Marla said.

  Liz shrugged. “We thought maybe you were saving yourself for marriage or something.” The three of us looked at each other for a moment. Then we all cracked up.

  “No, no, no, but are you sure, Abby? Are you, like, really sure?” Liz said. “Because you know,” she lowered her voice, “toast can’t ever be bread again.”

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s like Marla said. At this point, we’re either going to have sex or break up and…I don’t want to break up.”

  “Have you talked about it?” Marla said.

  I shook my head. “Jude doesn’t really talk much.”

  Liz nodded. “The strong, silent type.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Maybe he’ll speak more through body language,” Marla said, coming at me, grinding up against my leg.
/>   “Stop!” I laughed, pushing her away.

  “Okay, okay.” Liz flapped her hands. “When are you going to do it?”

  “Where are you going to do it?” Marla said.

  “I was thinking the night of our three-month anniversary. We’re going for dinner at Rydell’s. I made reservations.”

  “Rydell’s?”

  I shrugged. “He likes food. It’s a foodie place.”

  “Don’t eat too much,” Liz said. “You don’t want to do it on a full stomach.”

  “So then…back to his place?” Marla said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not his car, Abby. Please, God, not his car. You’re too good for that,” Marla said.

  “Probably not his car,” I said.

  She made a face.

  “But maybe.”

  Liz squealed, laughing.

  “The back seats fold down.” I shrugged.

  Marla shook her head.

  “Do you need condoms?” Liz asked. She opened her purse and pulled out a gray strip of little plastic packets. “Here. These are the good kind. Not that cheap saran wrap the school nurse hands out.” She slapped them into my hand.

  “Thanks,” I said. I shoved them away in my bag.

  “Our little Abby,” Marla said, putting her arm around my shoulder. “Growing up so fast.”

  I figured by the time our three months rolled around the pills and cream would have worked on my new blemishes. I didn’t want Jude to see the angry red spots and was careful to hide them from him, from everyone. I hated looking at them, touching them, even knowing they were there, but I kept taking the pills and applying the new fungicide every day, three times a day, believing they would eventually go away.

  Jude and I never made it to our three-month anniversary. Jude dumped me two days before. Just out of the blue. No warning. Bam! In a text. After we had been dating for three months. Which is a long time, in high school. In high school, days are like light years. You have all the time in the world, and that world belongs to the young, and you are young; you will never die, and you will always be beautiful.

  The worst part was that right after Jude dumped me, IN A TEXT, he started going out with Carrie Nelson. Like two days later. But, whatever. I’m over it. Obviously.