by Stacie Ramey
“No one would consider you stupid, Mom.”
She stops to launch another doozy. “Perfect. Genius. Way to go, Jenna.”
“Why are you mad now?”
“You want us to talk to you about things? It goes both ways.” Her hands are on her hips now.
“What are you talking about?”
“When you found out about the lawsuit, did you come talk with us about it? No.” Mom paces again, only now her hands can’t decide where to be. On her mouth. On her hip. On her head. In the air, waving around. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this mad. “You just went ahead and got angry and did stupid, stupid things. And we let you.”
“Let me? I don’t get a say in my education?”
“Well, obviously you do, since you’ve dropped all of your AP classes.” She wraps her arms around herself. “Is it too late to transfer classes?”
“Yes. It is. And I’m not doing it. I need a break from everything. Studying included.” It’s true. After I found out about the settlement, I felt exhausted. I’d been trying at everything, so hard, for so long. I just needed to…not try for a while.
“Well, you got it. Hope you like your break.” With that, she walks out of my room without even asking if I want my light on or off.
Good thing I’ve got this state-of-the-art system. The entire house is wireless, and I can control every single thing. Want the door open? Press a button. Television on? Same. Awesome, except for the price I had to pay for this tiny bit of magic. The door shuts, and I swipe my way back to Uncle Steve’s email. I bring up the documents, e-sign my name, and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Mom and Dad are never going to get over their need to control me.
But as soon as the email is sent, I feel like a total jerk. I realize in my own twisted story, I am the evil thing that gets her comeuppance. I reek of betrayal and misery and all bad things. Mom’s right. I should have gone to them when I found out about the settlement. Instead I got angry and acted out. I suck. It’s not Mom’s fault I need these tests. The same tests I get every year. It’s that idiot Jerkoby’s fault. Dude was probably overdosing on energy drinks, doppios from Starbucks—whatever it took to get him going after his wild night at the casino or something. No wonder he got the shakes.
The point is, I get these tests every year. Then we meet with the doctors and we see what’s what. Have I grown? Is my spine torqued more than usual? Have my hips dislocated? Are my nerves being impinged? And what can we do about my spasticity? That’s the biggie. But year after year, there’s no good option for me. Which is why I’m sick of going through it all. I’m sick of getting my hopes up. I’m sick of being offered the same old solutions. Drugs that make me sick. More surgery.
A massive weight is on my chest, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I chew my knuckle—a habit Mom hates, which weirdly feels like me getting back at her a little bit. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Tears run freely, and I let them.
I just can’t do this right now. I can’t. I need relief.
Then I pick up my phone and pull up my contacts. I stare at Julian’s number and let myself believe for a second that I could text him. That I could send him a nice little message, and he’d be glad to hear from me. And just imagining it is enough to lift my spirits.
I pretend that I am Jennifer, the better version of me. And as Jennifer, I would text Julian, for sure. To help him, maybe. Because Jennifer is happy to help people.
Julian Van Beck could definitely use some helping. And who better to help him than his former best friend, me? I stare at his phone number. His name lights up my mind, and I can see a Julian montage flash before my eyes. Julian with Rena and Eric and me tramping through the woods all those times. Julian playing hockey with Eric on our street, looking to me for approval when he scored. Julian that day when we went into the woods together, just the two of us. Julian in English class, head down, his body almost curling into itself.
Yes. I will help this boy. And I can be Jennifer when I do. That’s kind of cool. I tell myself that the best kind of giving is when the receiver doesn’t know the one giving the help, like I learned about from those books in the rabbi’s study. It wasn’t only the thirty-six saints. It was also Maimonides’s levels of charity. Apparently, it’s even nobler when the giver doesn’t know the recipient, but I figure I’ve got half the equation for the ideal selfless act here, and I’m disabled, so I’m feeling pretty good about the whole situation. I mean, I’m not saying I’m one of the thirty-six or anything, but…
I want Julian to feel special. That’s the point. I can do that for him. Because I know his heart.
My finger lands on his name and sticks there along with my eyes. I do the trick of staring so long, the numbers float around and appear to lift from my phone. Like that time in the rabbi’s study. I stare longer. I stare at it until it feels the number is burned into my retinas, like it’s been in my mind since I memorized it. Hadn’t I told myself one day I’d tell Julian how I still feel about him? Why not now?
I think about my first text. Me, not Jennifer. Or me as Jennifer. We are entwined with each other, each of us the positive or negative image of the other. I could speak to Julian. And he doesn’t have to know it’s me.
I construct my first text: You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you.
Satisfied with my message, since it hits on so many levels and still doesn’t give me away, I hit send. But then I am instantly hit with a wave of regret. My face heats, and my chest feels tight. Little beads of perspiration dot my neck and my upper lip. Lovely. And just like that I’m back to being Jenna. Stupid Jenna, staring at the screen wondering if he can trace this back to me.
But then he writes back. Who is this?
It’s weird. For a smart girl, I really hadn’t given this whole thing much thought.
What am I supposed to tell him now? I’m the girl who’s been in love with you since kindergarten? Or, I’m the person who knows so many things about you. Like how you look down when you don’t know the answer to a question in class. Or how you fidget when you’re nervous, the movements starting with your hands and progressing down to your legs. How you are always chewing gum, which makes me wonder what it would be like to kiss you. No! I’m definitely not going to say that last one. How about, I know how sad you looked in school today when Chip reminded you of your little grades problem.
I want to help you.
Is it that obvious that I need help?
No! I mean I want to help you adjust to your new school.
Oh. Right. So you knew me before?
A little.
Okay, so that’s an actual lie, but…
And I knew you?
Maybe.
We were friends?
Now that’s a hard one to answer. So I don’t.
How’s your schedule?
So we’re not in classes together.
Do you like your teachers?
You’re not going to answer any personal questions, are you?
Nope. Not one that will tell you who I am.
Why?
It’s an experiment.
See, I knew you were pranking me.
No. Not pranking you. A friend once told me that anyone can help someone else, but it’s most effective if it’s anonymous. I want to try that out.
I just totally riffed on Maimonides, but…
But you know who I am.
Yeah, there’s no way around that.
So how does this work, exactly?
Easy. If you have a school-related question, ask me.
Any question?
Except who I am, yeah.
Ok. Why is Mr. Fishborn such a tool?
You have Fishborn? Sorry. His wife left him last year.
Oh. That’s too bad. So he used to be nicer?
Nah. That�
��s why she left, I guess. But her leaving has made him meaner. If that’s possible.
Perfect.
Just be sure to turn in your packets on time. He does not let due dates slide.
Got it.
He’s a huuuge Georgia Bulldogs fan, if that helps.
Now to just find a way to work that into the conversation.
I’d be subtle. Wear a Bulldogs shirt or bracelet. Don’t mention it. Let him notice.
Great idea! Thx.
My body tingles with the thought that I am making Julian feel good. I swear, that’s how this starts. Good intentions. Mostly. It also doesn’t suck that I’ve got his undivided attention again. God, I missed him.
Who is this? Really?
I consider telling him my name is Jennifer. But that seems way too close for comfort.
I told you. Someone who wants to help you.
Like my guardian angel?
Sure.
Or my fairy godmother?
Even better. Anyway. GTG. TTYL.
No. Stay.
My heart beats like a happy little emoji doing a happy emoji dance. This. Is. Awesome. This is how we used to be.
I’m here.
Thanks for taking time to talk with me.
I want to reach out to him. I want to stretch my fingers through my phone, let them come out the other side, and touch his. I picture how it would feel to touch his hand.
It’s been fun.
Hey. You’re not some idiot on the team trying to get me all worked up?
No. Promise. This is not a joke.
I don’t want to be played.
I’m not playing you. I wouldn’t.
Just so you know, I’m not going to do anything stupid, so if this is a game, you’ll be pretty bored.
Even though I’m not playing him, I am sort of tricking him. But I push that feeling down. So I type.
It’s not a game. I like you. I want to help you.
Why?
I start to panic. This is getting too messy. I’ve got to stop this before it goes too far. I think about just closing out of my app, but I can’t. Not yet because I see those three dots on my phone that mean that Julian is texting me back. That he’s waiting for me.
You there?
I can’t walk away from him and leave him hanging. So I become Jennifer again. Jennifer can handle this, I’m sure.
I like you. You seem like a good guy.
As long as you don’t get your hopes up too high.
That makes me laugh. So like him. Never feeling like he was smart enough. His older brother is a graduate of Harvard Law. Also one hell of a hockey player. But Julian’s smart, too. I remember. When we used to go into the woods, just the two of us, he was always the leader. Every tree looked exactly the same to me, and I felt like we were going in circles. But Julian led us. Calmly. He pointed out each kind of tree. Told me each of the trees’ stories. He bent low and pulled the bushes back, revealing purple berries. “You can’t eat these.” He must have named ten different types of trees. Another seven kinds of bushes. I felt so safe with him. And I knew if anyone could see his knowledge of the forest that they would never question his intelligence.
Hello? Where’d you go?
Just figuring out how low I should aim…
Maybe aim middle-ish?
Gotcha.
What do I call you?
For some reason this question slays me. Because I’d love for Julian to call me anything he wants.
Instead I simply write:
GTG.
And with that, I close the scene effectively. I get my chapter out and leave the reader hanging. You know, if Julian is the reader. It’s my job to get him to keep wanting to read. So I go to bed imagining his face as he read my texts. His perfectly symmetrical lips would turn up slightly. He’d put his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. That’s how I picture him now. Looking back at my texts, rereading them, reading into them, too.
Just then my phone jumps to life.
You said you like me. You. Like. Me.
Laughter pours out of me, and I have to lean back. I breathe in. Breathe out. I think of Julian’s face. His messy hair. His deep hazel eyes. The outer ring, light golden brown, with a ring of chocolate around the outside. I wish I was that other person I could have been. The girl who isn’t stuck in her stupid body. The sophisticated and self-assured me I should have been. Jennifer. I think of what that me would say. I let her take the wheel.
I always have, I type. Then I close my eyes and hope my world doesn’t explode along with my heart. My body is now thrumming with the drumbeat I’ve been moving to for years—his name. Julian. Julian. Julian. But then I think about what I’m doing. I mean, what am I thinking? And I backspace, erasing one letter at a time until I’m left with an empty message box.
So now there’s this sad-looking blank space where my heart just was.
Another message from Julian comes through.
You there?
Oh yeah. Julian. He’s waiting. What can I say to him that wouldn’t seem too pushy or sketchy?
So instead I write. Going to sleep. I chew on my finger, deciding if this next part is too much, but then I type it anyway. Good night.
Friends can say good night to each other. It’s totally fine.
But then my phone lights up with his message back.
Sweet Dreams.
And I know that I’ll be up half the night thinking of him.
* * *
7:00 A.M.
whose bright idea was it to make school start so early.
No idea. Idiots.
Ha! I didn’t know you could be so salty.
Me before coffee.
Me before hockey.
lol.
Hey, what’s your hockey?
Hmmm. I guess books. I’m a pretty big book nerd.
You’re a smarty-pants. Cool.
12:02 P.M.
Do you eat in the cafeteria?
That’s not an allowable question.
You’re tough.
You know it!
2:34 P.M.
Do you text in school?
I guess that’s a no.
Eight
Two days later. Two days of delicious texts from the boy. Two English classes. Two lunchtimes of catching glimpses of him in the cafeteria. I’m staring at my phone, specifically at his texts, as Mom drives us to my doctor’s appointment. This time I’m riding shotgun, but when I’m not looking at my texts, I’m staring out the window.
“Put on what you want.” Mom points to the radio as if I need permission. As if Rena and I don’t usually take over the minute we get in the car. I consider scrolling through my phone for a good playlist, but I’m just not feeling it.
Mom drums her fingers on the steering wheel.
I stare at the world passing by around me and think about how all the time, I feel separate from everyone else. Okay, so I’m giving into a moody little spiral. I think about Dr. Jacoby. About all the things I imagine he did wrong the night before I was born. Was he up all night shooting darts and listening to a Rolling Stones tribute band? Is that why he didn’t pay attention when my poor little body went into distress?
I’ll never know. But I do know some things. I know that it’s time for me to get right with all of this. Somehow. Will that happen today during my doctor’s visit? Don’t think so, but it’s not like that will stop the train wreck that’s about to happen. The one I set in motion.
So here I sit in Dr. Rodriguez’s office with Mom and Dad, going over this very serious situation: my pain-in-the-ass body and what we are going to do about it.
“According to the films, Jenna’s at baseline. No changes.” Dr. Rodriguez stares at my chart as if he didn’t know off the top of his head that I’m just as
afflicted as I used to be. What did he think? I’d suddenly grow out of my CP? That’s not really a thing. “As for trying the baclofen pump, I don’t love that she’s had some bad reactions to medications in general.”
“She has?” I can’t resist a little sarcasm.
Dad throws me a look. “Like?” He knows the answers, but he likes to be kept up-to-date on what everyone’s thinking.
“Well, last year when we tried the oral version of the meds we’d put in her pump, she experienced extreme nausea, dizziness, seizures, and—”
“You make it sound like the Ten Plagues or something. Seriously, someone pass the wine,” I say, cutting in, which makes Dr. Rodriguez smile and Dad scowl slightly.
“Honestly, Jenna, can we hear what the doctor has to say?”
Who am I to interject a little humor into the situation? I guess Dad’s used to me being his obedient little daughter in matters and appointments like this. Times change, dude. People change. I definitely have.
Dr. Rodriguez clears his throat and looks back in my chart. “I think it’s worth trying out the baclofen pump anyway. We can schedule a screening test for her. Take it slow and easy.”
Mom’s hand tightens around the chair while she stretches the other one out toward me. I give her a look and she withdraws it. Not trying to be mean, but I can’t do this. I just can’t. And yet, here I am in another doctor’s visit with Mom crying. Everyone is making plans for me that I don’t want to be part of.
“Maybe we should ask her what she thinks?” I say.
Dad ignores my outburst and leans forward, his hands clasped together so it’s like he’s having a private convo with the doctor. Dr. Rodriguez flips a page in my chart, reads, and flips it again. Reads some more. His finger starts at his mouth, but makes its way to something in my chart. He looks at me.
“My concern is that you won’t be able to tolerate the baclofen. Even in the pump.” He leans back. Rubs the area over his eye.
Dad says, “But don’t we all feel that’s Jenna’s best chance at gaining better muscular control?”
Mom nods.
So does Dr. Rodriguez. “Yes. If she tolerates it, it’s the best course for her.”