Confessions of a Teenage Leper

by Ashley Little

  Marla and Liz were there to console me and bring me ice cream and tell me what an ass-hat they always thought Jude was and that I was better off without him, because that’s what friends are for. They made a list of all the guys I could potentially go out with to get back at Jude.

  “Okay, Abby,” Marla said, “let’s face it. You’re one of the hottest girls in school. You could get any guy you want.”

  “But I don’t want to go out with someone just to get back at Jude. I only want to go out with someone I actually like.”

  “Ugh, that’s so mature of you,” Liz said.

  “Okay, who do you like, then?” Marla asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on!”

  “Dustin Lorimer?” I said.

  “Oh, gawd!” Liz said.

  “What?”

  “He’s so…boy next door.”

  “Yeah, he lives one street over from me.”

  “Really? Dustin? He’s so vanilla,” Marla said.

  “What’s wrong with vanilla?” I said.

  “It’s boring!”

  “I kind of like vanilla,” I mumbled. “As a flavor.”

  They laughed at me. “Who else?” Marla said.

  “I know who you could go out with to make Jude really mad,” Liz said.

  “Who? Who?” Marla said, getting her pen ready.

  “Nate Russell.”

  Marla squealed and wrote his name on the list in her big, bubbly cursive.

  “No way,” I said.

  “Oh, come on. He’s sexy.”

  “He’s about as sexy as a sasquatch,” I said. “He smells like one too.”

  Nate Russell was a skater boy. He had long hair and a nose-ring, between his nostrils, like a bull. He and his friends had a huge hate-on for all jocks and preps, which, of course, included cheerleaders.

  “Even if I did like him, which I don’t, he would never go out with me,” I said. “He hates people like us.”

  “He only hates us because he can’t be us,” Marla said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Maybe I should ask him out,” Liz said. “Do you think?”

  “Sure. If you want to set yourself up for a harsh rejection, go for it,” I said.

  She pouted a little and then went over to my makeup table and started putting on my boysenberry lipstick. “Maybe I should reinvent myself,” she said. “I could make myself into the kind of girl that Nate would go out with.” She picked up a black eye-pencil and began to draw heavy outlines around her eyes with little wings at the edges. “I could probably learn to skateboard. How hard could it be?”

  Marla and I looked over at her. She looked like a blonde raccoon. “Why would you want to do that?” I said.

  “Well, I have really good balance already,” she said. “Plus some of those tricks look pretty fun. You know, like, ollie. Kick-flip. I could totally do a kick-flip.”

  “No, I mean, why would you want to reinvent yourself for a guy? Don’t you want a guy who likes you the way you are? Who likes what you’ve already invented?”

  She shrugged. “I’m only sixteen. I don’t even know what I am yet.”

  Marla and I looked at each other.

  “Maybe I’m actually a punk rocker hiding inside a cheerleader.” Liz kissed the mirror and made a big pink lip-print in the corner. I’ve never wiped it off.

  We made popcorn and watched Bring It On and talked about cheerleading for a while. I told them I was afraid of falling.

  “How embarrassing would it be to fall flat on your ass in front of an entire stadium?”

  “You have to have faith in your squad, Abby,” Marla said. “Someone will always be there to catch you.”

  “Yeah,” Liz said. “We would never let you fall, Abby.”

  And, you know, people can say that, and you hope that they’re right, and you want to believe them, but sometimes, there’s just not anyone there to catch you when you fall. I know it’s hella cheesy to say, but it’s another way that cheerleading is like life. And when you hit the ground, does it hurt?

  Yes, it most certainly does.

  That weekend, Liz, Marla and I went to a house party. It was a big party, the last big one before the holidays. I drank way too much. Jude was there. He was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans and a hat. He looked really good. I avoided him for most of the night, although we had a few awkward moments where one of us caught the other one looking at the other then quickly looked away. Once I was good and buzzed, I sidled up to him on the couch. He was talking to Brett but I interrupted them.

  “Hi, Jude,” I said, then burped.

  “Hey, Abby.”

  “I gotta get another beer,” Brett said, standing. “You want one?” He pointed at Jude.

  Jude nodded.

  “Where’s Carrie?” I said.

  “She’s sick,” he said.

  “Aw.” I pouted. “I hope it’s not an STI.”

  “That’s not funny,” he said.

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean for it to be,” I said. “I was serious.”

  He shook his head.

  The booze had emboldened me. I went for it. “Jude, why did you break up with me?”

  He stared straight ahead. The muscles of his jaw clenched.

  “Was it because I didn’t have sex with you?”

  “No.” He rubbed his thumb against his palm.

  “Because I was going to. I wanted to.”

  “That had nothing to do with it,” he said.

  “Is it because I’m not pretty enough?”

  He turned to me, his eyes scanned over my body, my face. He shook his head, adjusted his hat.

  “Well, why did you then?”

  He sighed. “You’re hot as hell, Abby. But…you’re not a very nice person.”

  My eyes stung. I felt acrid bile rising in my throat. “Oh,” I said, like an idiot. My stomach felt hard and hollow as though I’d been hit. I got up off the couch, went upstairs to the bathroom and threw up.

  I’m not proud of this, but I ended up having sex that night, in the laundry room, with Chad Bennett. I don’t love Chad Bennett. I don’t know if anybody does. Maybe his mother. Maybe. He’s the biggest player in      and has probably slept with half the town. I won’t say he took advantage of me. I knew what I was doing. I think I wanted to get back at Jude. I don’t know. It was sloppy, it hurt and somehow my new red halter top got bleach stains all over it. At one point, Chad ran his hand across a sore on my inner thigh, then recoiled as if he’d been bitten. I felt so ashamed. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was, we didn’t use a condom. For a smart girl, I can be a real moron sometimes. That was one of those times. I don’t know why we didn’t. My bag wasn’t in the room. He didn’t have one on him. It was so stupid. Afterwards, while he pulled his jeans on, buttoned his shirt, I blurted out, “Am I a nice person, Chad?”

  He looked up at me, ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, baby. You’re real nice. The nicest.” He leaned in, kissed my lips. I closed my eyes. “I have to go,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

  When I opened my eyes again, I was alone in the darkness of the laundry room, sitting on top of the dryer, the smell of bleach burning my nostrils.

  Chad didn’t ask for my number, and I was glad. I didn’t care if I ever saw him again. Marla and Liz asked how it was as we stumbled back to Marla’s house in the pale light of dawn.

  “I don’t think you really need to ask, do you?” I said. “You already know.”

  They laughed and groaned because it was true. Both of them had already slept with Chad. I felt dirty and stupid. I wished I could do the night over again. I wished I could have my virginity back.

  When I’m old and gray and looking back on my life, my greatest regrets, I’m pretty sure that one will be near the top of the list.

  I was kind of a mess over Christmas break, obsessing over what Jude had said. Was it true? Was I a mean bitch? Did everyone know it except me? I didn’t think I was, but ma
ybe I actually was. I thought about all of the times we made fun of people. We were just blowing off steam; we didn’t really mean it. Everyone did that crap. I’d been called bitchy before, sure, but, somehow, it wasn’t the same as what Jude had said. It didn’t bother me as much. I didn’t tell anyone what he had said. Not even Marla. I tried not to think about it and instead constantly checked myself for signs of an STI or symptoms of pregnancy. I’d send Marla and Liz desperate texts saying things like: WHY DID I DO THAT??? I’M SUCH AN IDIOT!!!

  To which Marla would reply: At least you got it over with. Won’t be so much pressure next time.

  And Liz would text back things meant to make me laugh, like: Mom?

  Eventually, I just had to accept the fact that I had lost my virginity to Chad Manwhore Bennett. There was no going back in time. There was no un-toasting the bread.

  Not long after that, in early January, I took a really bad fall during a football game that we were cheering at      High, an away game. I was climbing to the top of a pyramid to do a stunt; I was an alternate-flyer because Carrie was away that day. Who knew where she was. Probably with Jude Mailer. Probably being super nice to every living thing. But anyway, I was the flyer that day. Long story short, I had a very poor execution of a front-tuck-somersault from the top of a pyramid of human bodies and ended up falling, twisted and mangled, from about eighteen feet in the air. It was no one’s fault but my own. Nobody dropped me. It was the leprosy bug. Getting in my nerves, my muscles. I thought I could do it; I knew I should have been able to. I was nimble. I was lithe. I was agile as a cat. But that was the old me, before the leprosy got in and fucked up my shit. I know that now. Leprosy made me do it. I wonder how many things you could use that for?

  Abby, your room is a pigsty!

  Leprosy made me do it.

  Abby, you killed your brother!

  Leprosy made me do it.

  Abby, you stole a truckload of diamonds!

  Leprosy made me do it.

  Maybe?

  I broke my collarbone, my left hand (my dominant hand) and wrist, my right wrist, both ankles and my right foot. It seems weird that I would break so much, but I think that was the bug doing its work. The bones of my fingers and hands, toes and feet were already weakening. See, it literally eats you away, from the inside out. Liz said my head bounced off the ground when I hit it. I suffered a serious head injury and was in a coma for sixteen days.

  Being in a coma is probably what being dead is like. It’s like a dress rehearsal for death. I didn’t have any dreams. I didn’t ever know when anyone was in the room with me or talking to me or sticking tubes in my arm or up my nose. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear any voices or see any bright light beckoning me toward it. I was just gone.

  While I was in that hospital bed, my body seriously started to deteriorate. It was like my immune system just rolled over and gave up and said, “Okay, leprosy, you can take over now. We’re done here.” I developed more lesions. All over my face and body. And they had papules. My body blistered and boiled. I don’t want to describe it here in too much detail because you’ll sick yourself, but let’s just say I was disgusting.

  Mom and the nurses kept putting the fungicide on me, three times a day, every day, but it wasn’t working. Obviously.

  The attending doctor at the hospital, Dr. Neal, prescribed a steroid cream that the nurses put on me and this actually strengthened the leprosy bacteria and made it go into hyperactive mode; this is leprosy on steroids. So the spots multiplied again and started turning bumpy and some of the spots on my face turned into giant lumps, the size of walnuts. My lips grew thick and rubbery. At one time, I had wished that I had fuller lips, but not like this. This was grotesque. This was a nightmare incarnate. I guess that’s why they say be careful what you wish for…

  When I came out of my coma, it was like waking up inside a terrible horror movie. And the monster was me.

  My family sat in the hospital room, watching and waiting.

  “Abby? Abby?” my mom said. “I think she’s awake.” She came and stood beside the bed and held my hand. I could see that she was holding my hand, but I couldn’t feel it. “Greg, go get the doctor,” she said. My dad hurried from the room.

  “Mommy?” I said. My voice was scratchy and raw. It didn’t even sound like my voice.

  “Oh, Abby! I’m here, sweetie. I’m right here. Everything’s going to be alright.”

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “You’re in the hospital, honey. You fell. Do you remember?”

  I remembered everything, eventually. It came back slowly, over the next few hours. I felt a cold spike in my stomach when I remembered about Jude and Carrie, what Jude had said, and how I was only the flyer on the day that I fell because Carrie had been away. What if she had been there? Would I still be in the hospital? Broken and mangled? Who could ever know. And I felt an icy splintering in my guts when I remembered what I had done with Chad. I wondered if the whole school already knew. I wondered what he had said about me.

  “You look like Pizza-the-Hut,” Dean said, grinning down at me. “Maybe you could actually get an acting career now.”

  “Dean. Out. Now,” Mom said.

  I looked down at myself. Both my hands and wrists were in casts, as well as my right foot and both ankles. Then I noticed all the new spots on my arms.

  “He’s just glad to see you,” Mom said, brushing a tear away.

  My face felt all tight and puffy. My lips didn’t feel right when I spoke. It was like that time the dentist had frozen my mouth and I couldn’t talk or drink properly. “Mom,” I said. “Show me a mirror.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Abby,” she whispered.

  “Mom—”

  “You’ve just come out of a coma. You’re probably in shock.”

  “WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?”

  “Shh, baby girl. It’s okay. You’re alright.”

  “What happened? You have to tell me, Mom. Do I have AIDS? Am I dying?”

  My mom looked around the room, frantic. “Your dad’s gone to get the doctor. They’ll be back any minute. He’ll explain everything.”

  I started to cry. When you wake up from a coma and you can’t feel your fingers or feet, you have a broken collarbone, a broken hand, two broken wrists, a broken foot, and scabby, bulbous sores all over your body, you cry. It’s just what you do.

  Dr. Neal had run a series of blood tests and a urinalysis to see what the hell was wrong with me, but of course everything showed up negative because the way to test for leprosy is from a skin scraping, a biopsy, which they hadn’t done. So, as usual, no one knew buck-all. Dr. Neal thought it was some kind of autoimmune response to the stress of the breakup, and then the bad fall, and that it would go away in time. They released me from the hospital after a few more days and I had to use a wheelchair to get around because of my broken ankles and foot. I slept on the couch downstairs since I couldn’t get up to my room. I couldn’t even get to the bathroom myself, because of my broken hand and wrists, I couldn’t wheel myself in the chair. Talk about embarrassing.

  I spent most of my time on the Internet, trying to self-diagnose. Dean set up a speech-recognition program on my laptop for me so I didn’t have to use my hands to type.

  For a while I was convinced that Chad Bennett had given me a nasty case of syphilis or a new STI that hadn’t even been named yet. Either that, or I had HIV or full-blown AIDS. That would be just my luck, the very first time I have sex, I would get AIDS. I hated myself. I hated Chad Bennett. I hated everyone in Texas. And everyone in the world, besides.

  I was the most hideous creature to ever exist. The Elephant Man had nothing on me. My life was over. And I was glad. I would rather die than look like a circus sideshow for the rest of my life. This wasn’t supposed to happen. My senior prom was coming up in the spring and I was in the running to be prom queen! I cried under my blankets for most of the day, every day. I refused to leave the house or let anyone see m
y face. Even my family. Marla and Liz came over to bring me my homework and black licorice and magazines, but I told my parents I didn’t want to see anyone, so they never got past the front door.

  “Is she contagious?” I heard Marla ask.

  “We don’t know,” my mom said quietly.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Liz said.

  “We don’t know.”

  “Okay…” Marla said. I could hear the doubt in her voice. “Well, tell her we love her,” she said. “And…we miss her.”

  “I will, honey. Thanks.”

  I heard Mom close the door softly behind them. She came into the living room and set the magazines and candy and pile of homework on the coffee table then sat down beside me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to see them, Abby? It might be good for you.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

  Mom sighed. “Okay.” She reached out to touch my hair and I flinched, turned away from her. She put her hands in her lap. “It won’t be like this forever.”

  “Yeah, but what if it is?”

  “It won’t be.”

  “Okay,” I said. Then I covered my head with a blanket and curled up in a ball, letting tears slide over my face and soak into the couch cushions.

  The next day, Dean helped me make a paper-bag mask to wear over my head, because I couldn’t cut the eyes and mouth holes properly with my broken hand.

  We sat on the couch watching a horror movie. He looked over at me. “You know, I actually prefer this look for you,” he said. “I think brown is your color.”

  I pinched him on the arm.

  “Ah! Don’t touch me! I don’t want the hiv.”

  Mom came into the room. “She doesn’t have HIV, Dean.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. I just got off the phone with the lab. You tested negative for all STIs.”