It's My Life

by Stacie Ramey

  He winks at me again, and I know for sure Mr. S. is trying to help me. I’m reminded why Mr. S. is just about everyone’s favorite teacher.

  I steal a look at Julian, who must feel my eyes on him, because he turns to face me. He nods at Mr. Stechshulte like he’s a good guy. Like he’s glad that our teacher was nice to me. Julian’s always been a little protective. I smile back. Then I look at my computer and pretend I’m typing something important when really I’m just biding time until the classroom door opens and some aide brings in a wheelchair for me to borrow. Luckily the bell rings just as the chair gets here. Life is good.

  * * *

  My strategy for going to lunch in a wheelchair is to hang back and let everyone else get there first. I pack my lunch and have a seat at Ben’s table guaranteed, so there’s no point in taking on the crowds. But Mrs. Wilson doesn’t like to wait. After the bell rings, she wheels over my small electric wheelchair, the one they keep at school for me in case of things like this.

  “Just for the rest of today,” she says, and I forget that most of the time she’s a condescending pain in the butt. Maybe I’m projecting my feelings on her, a concept of transference—something they’re learning about in Ben’s AP Psych class, which I know because I read his AP textbook online using his PIN. I’m that dorky.

  I start to work the toggle and maneuver through the masses, a feat that would be way easier if I had my better chair or even my electric scooter. That thing can pivot on a dime, but this old thing feels clunky.

  “Can I drive for you, Jenna?” Mrs. Wilson checks her watch. “I’ve got a call to make.”

  “I’ve got it,” I say as I jerk forward a few more feet.

  She stops and looks at the path being forged to the cafeteria. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s fine.”

  “Okay.” She smiles at me, hesitates, and looks at her watch, which is flashing a bunch of messages that she must feel compelled to answer.

  She nods one last time and turns around.

  A breeze blows, too cold for middle of October. I shiver and pause my movement, not ready to go forward. I feel almost like I’m a little seasick. But then some kids open the cafeteria door for me, and I let them give me that courtesy. Another cold wind blows, and suddenly I can’t manage moving my chair and holding my coat around me. The cafeteria is blindingly bright and buzzing. There’s so much talking. Laughing. It’s all too much for my senses. I push forward some more, trying to avoid knocking someone over, but the round tables look like they are spinning. I start to get panicked.

  Hands come down on my armrests. I can’t see who it is.

  “May I help you?”

  It’s Julian.

  My heart melts. In the melee, his question sounds so gallant that I almost forget he’s just being kind.

  “You usually sit over here, right?” he asks.

  I don’t even answer, my voice locked in my throat from the fugue-like feeling I’m working through right now. But I clock that Julian knows where I sit. He wheels me up to Ben, who jumps up to move the cafeteria chair out of the way and make room.

  “It’s about damn time, girl.” Ben gives me a side-eye, taking in the wheelchair situation, but he knows better than to ask why I’m using it with all of these people around. He’s got his fake glasses on, the ones he wears when he’s trying to look especially smart. “You’re missing everything.”

  “Mostly I’m missing you,” I manage to say, because it’s one of our things.

  Ben tilts his head a tiny bit. “Let me have a look at your handsome escort.”

  Julian puts his hand on his over his heart.

  And I melt again.

  Julian leans his body against the arms of my wheelchair. “What are we missing?”

  Those two letters light a fire in me. He said we, as is the two of us, as in how couples refer to each other. We. We. We. Wheeeee.

  Ben smiles at me—a little too obvious for my taste—and that makes me want to beat him silent. Is he kidding me? He dips a fry in ketchup. “So,” Ben says as he turns back to his crowd. “We need to get planning…”

  I tune him out because this is his way of giving Julian and me space.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

  “No problem. I can take you to your next class if you need.”

  “Nah, I’ll be fine.” The words are out before I can stop myself.

  “You sure?”

  I can imagine Jennifer cringing at how inept I am at this flirting thing, but in for a dime, in for a dollar. “Going to ditch this chair after lunch. Don’t need it.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.” He salutes Ben and takes off.

  When he leaves, Ben says, “Well, that was smooth.”

  “I know, I know. I am a complete idiot.” Julian’s trajectory to his table is intercepted by Tori, and I try not to watch her flirt with him, but it’s like the universe wants me to have a front-row seat. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

  “Look at it this way, you’ve got the whole ‘playing hard to get’ thing totally down.”

  Julian ducks away to join his hockey friends, but it’s pointless to get too excited about that. If it’s not Tori, then it’ll be somebody else. Someone who knows a thing or two about how to do the dating thing. Someone who doesn’t fumble over her thoughts. Who doesn’t mess everything up.

  I nod and force my attention back to Ben and his friends and pretend as best as I can that I am not still feeling the sting from my stupid fantasies.

  But the thing is, I remember.

  I remember when we were little. When he hung out at our house. That time in first grade when the kids on the playground were playing who would you marry, and Julian didn’t hesitate. He shined his smile my way. “Jenna,” he said.

  “Why her?” Elana Whaley pouted.

  “Because she’s not afraid of anything.” He smiled at me, and I smiled back. I was pretty fierce back then; it’s true.

  Lucy, one of the queen bee girls in my class, told him, “You’ll have to give her something. Or it doesn’t count.”

  I thought that would end it right there, but with one hand he undid his prized Batman watch. He’d gotten it for his birthday and was never without it. He would never let anyone else touch it, much less hold it, but he took it right off and handed it over to me. My palm was stretched out, shaking a little. Even back then, he made me feel so important.

  “A Batman watch? That’s so stupid!” Lucy declared.

  I closed my hand around it, a simple movement for most people, but hard for me to pull off sometimes, without clamping down too hard. “I think it’s cool.”

  Julian’s smile spread across his face and even filled his eyes. Then a couple of boys raced by with a kickball, and Julian ran off with them. He turned back and called, “Hold on to that for me, Jenna.”

  “He’s kind of cute,” Lucy said.

  But I didn’t need her approval. I already knew.

  * * *

  4:05 P.M.

  Favorite Disney princess?

  Who says I even like Disney princesses?

  Please. Everyone does.

  You do?

  Of course. Mulan. She’s badass.

  I’m not sure I buy that.

  Buy what?

  The Mulan thing. Guys say they want a badass, but when you were little, tell me you weren’t all swoony for Cinderella.

  Ok. Guilty. I have two favorites. Mulan and Cinderella. Buuut the new version of Cinderella who doesn’t need the prince to save her.

  So the Into the Woods Cinderella. Cool.

  Don’t know her, but if you say so.

  So you’re saying you don’t have a favorite?

  Truth.

  Ok. Belle.

  I knew it!

  Because of the books. And because she’s French.

>   Oh sure. Sure.

  Would it interest you at all to know I am like the Beast? At least on the ice!

  The Beast is really the prince. So…

  The prince who gets the girl and scores all the goals.

  Funny, I don’t remember scoring goals in any of the versions I’ve read.

  You have to read between the lines. It’s called making inferences.

  On second thought maybe I choose Elsa.

  Because of the Beast comment?

  Lol. No. I like that she goes off on her own. Lives her best life. You know?

  Yeah. But don’t go moving to one of those no wi-fi places.

  Where is there no wi-fi?

  Green Bank, WV, home to national telescopes.

  Interesting.

  I’m full of useless info.

  Not useless. Cool.

  Yeah. Cool. But don’t move. Promise?

  Promise.

  Ten

  I aim to go straight to my room when I get home, but Mom steps in. “What’s the big rush, Jenna?”

  “Just want to get a start on my homework.”

  “You have a lot?”

  “Some.”

  “Okay. Since it’s just you and me for dinner, I revoke the ‘no working at the table’ rule.” She plops my computer down in front of me, then moves herself to the recliner nearby, where she’s got a book stashed and a TV tray ready for her soup. Moments like this seem almost perfect to me.

  Mom smiles at me like I’m such a good kid, which is funny because really all I’m doing is researching ways to help Julian with The Great Gatsby. So far I’ve pulled up a bunch of summaries online. I’ve bought a few of them, then I’m combining the parts I like. Cut. Paste. Copy. I load them all into a file to send to him tonight. If he texts.

  As I’m Googling teaching methods for high school English, I get an email notification from Uncle Steve.

  Subject: Baclofen Pump Success Stories.

  Subtle, isn’t he?

  It won’t hurt to look. So I open the email and read his note.

  Just so you’re completely informed.

  —Uncle Steve

  I open the first one, a video of a girl a little older than I am. College-aged looking. Her story is pretty convincing. She used a wheelchair when she was little. Had some surgeries to stretch tendons. Still had spasms. Tried oral medications. They made her sick. This was her last-ditch effort. Had the pump placed last year and hasn’t looked back. I rub my eyes. Given her experience, I’d have to be nuts not to try this.

  So I decide to look for all of the reviews of the procedure. It’s weird—every single thing from books to movies to medications all have good reviews and bad ones, but this pump only has positive reviews. Could that be accurate?

  My cell pings, and there’s a new text from Ben.

  So? Still floating from your mini flirt fest with Julian today?

  I chew on my nail and almost send a question mark, but then I realize he’s talking about when Julian pushed me to our lunch table. To be honest, it’s not like I forgot about that. Or how it felt when he breathed on my neck. Or how casual he was when he leaned against my wheelchair. How he used the we word. I just don’t want to think about how I mucked the whole thing up.

  Hello???

  That was cute.

  Cute???? Sigh. You. Are. Too. Much.

  He was just being nice.

  So let him be nice some other way.

  Bye.

  Ok. But I am not done with this.

  My cell beeps, but I shift my attention back to another baclofen success story. I’m sure Ben’s final word is super amusing, but I’m drawn in now to YouTube and Brittany, who looks straight at the camera. She discusses how she had to use a wheelchair all through high school, which is way worse than my current situation. Now she’s boasting she’s chair-free and only uses a cane or a walker when she’s tired. I detect a tiny muscle weakness on her right side, mainly around her mouth. Probably no one else picks up on it, but I do, because I’ve been there. I wish I could speak to this Brittany person. Could I? I scroll through the links at the end of the video. There’s her picture with an email address to ask questions. Her email. Should I reach out? Ask to speak with her? If she’s a real person and not just a paid actor…would she want to speak with me?

  A feeling of extreme exhaustion sets in, like how your bones ache when it’s too cold. This means my body’s worn out for the day. I’ve spent too much time upright. Seven o’clock is too early to go to bed, but that’s my body. It demands. I listen.

  I am a mess of knots and spasms all of a sudden, primarily in my back and legs. The small of my back, as they say, even though I know the actual medical term for it. L3 and L4, which refers to the lumbar region of the back. Disc numbers three and four. Sometimes I can work that out by laying on a tennis ball where the point of biggest pain is and holding it there for two to three minutes.

  “Mom?” I call.

  “Hmm.” She doesn’t look up from the book she’s reading.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  Mom doesn’t ask to finish the next part in the book. She doesn’t sigh or anything. She simply closes the book and lowers the recliner and smiles at me. How come she doesn’t resent me? I mean, my body, my needs, me. I am way too much. I wish it were different, but it isn’t. Shouldn’t it bother her? Isn’t she as tired of my body as I am?

  Mom’s by my side in seconds. She pushes my soup to the side and closes my computer.

  Her smile is the only indication that she saw I was watching a baclofen video, but she knows better than to say anything. “You need help?” she asks.

  “I’ve got it,” I say.

  “Okay if I just stand by?”

  Mom knows that when I get like this it doesn’t take much for me to teeter and fall or twist something the wrong way.

  “Maybe just turndown service,” I say jokingly.

  “So fancy.” Mom’s voice is all sweetness and light, as if it’s her dream to wait on me.

  She follows me to my room and busies herself as I change, wash up, go to the bathroom, and finally brush my teeth. Mom helps me into bed. I reach over my head to the shelf that holds a single tennis ball.

  “Your back?”

  I nod.

  “You want a pain pill? Or a muscle relaxer?”

  “I think I’m okay.”

  She opens my night table drawer and spills two pills into a little cup we keep there. “In case you change your mind later.” She puts my water bottle next to my bed.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “As you wish,” she says. It’s one of our things, and I’m glad she still wants to say such things to me after our arguments this week. After all of my defiance—whether warranted or not.

  I push the tennis ball against my lower back, the right side, since that’s the part that hurts the most. I settle under the covers. Mom hands me my computer and my phone, which beeps the minute I have it in my hands.

  “Anybody interesting?”

  “Just Ben. He’s all pissy about some school store thing gone wrong.”

  “I like that Ben, though.” She walks to the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  She means text her. So much more civilized than screaming or ringing a bell, like Colin in The Secret Garden. Mom actually got me a little bell one time, because I was fascinated with the concept. But now, technology.

  Speaking of which, I guess I should answer my bestie. Only when I look at my phone, I see that it’s not Ben who has been texting me. It’s Julian.

  6:58

  Hey.

  7:15

  You there?

  7:23

  Oh. Was hoping you could help me.

  My heart rate accelerates. Back when I participated in physical therapy, the ther
apist would always say “Make your heart beat as fast as someone who’s in love,” and there was a heart sticker on the monitor that he wanted me to shoot for. I’d laugh and think, “How would I ever know about love?” But here I am, texting the boy I adore. Adoration isn’t love exactly. Also, he doesn’t know it’s me. But those are small details. Miniscule even.

  I text back a very articulate, hey.

  Oh, awesome. I was just going to give up on you.

  I rush to type back.

  Don’t do that!

  I won’t.

  Man, Julian’s gotten flirty. Not that I’m complaining. Even though part of me is annoyed he’s flirting with someone else, even when that someone else is me.

  So what do you need?

  You ever read The Great Gatsby?

  Of course! It’s a classic!

  It’s probably going to kill me.

  Yeah, but what a way to go!

  Wow. You’re really into this stuff, huh. Ok that settles it, I’m going to try to look at it through your eyes.

  Good. Then you’ll see it as an incredible love story.

  What color are they anyway?

  I’m so confused. Is he talking about Daisy and Gatsby? Why would that even matter? Then his next text comes in.

  Your eyes, I mean?

  I giggle. Yes. I actually giggle out loud. But I type back.

  Better keep to the book, right?

  Yeah. Just thought if I was going to look through your eyes I’d need to know what color they are.

  Brown.

  My fave.

  You lie.

  Yes. But never to you.

  And for some reason it feels like he means it. Like he knows it’s me and he’s sending me a message, like that time he gave me his Batman watch.

  Read the first two chapters and then we’ll talk.

  Well, since you won’t tell me your real name, I’ll have to have a nickname for you. How about I call you Juliet?

  Ok. Now all I have to do is find my Romeo.

  Wow talk about an arrow to the heart. Would it be too much to admit I’m slightly obsessed with these conversations now?

  Obsession is a word that means something to me.

  Maybe not Juliet, maybe that’s not right. You told me you like Elsa.