It's My Life

by Stacie Ramey

  As fun as this is, the hours are ticking away for me, like some deranged clock in a messed-up fairy tale. To start with, Julian and I have been put in the same book circle in English.

  There are five of us in this group, each with our own particular job. Lorin is the group leader, I’m on quotes, Julian is on foreshadowing, and the rest—Karen Forester, Frank Dumante, and Bella Justice, who frequently bemoans that her parents obviously wanted her to be a stripper or a mixed martial arts fighter—are on facts. It’s not looking good for the team.

  Lorin, who is a serious book nerd like I am and who takes her role as leader very seriously, starts us off. “So how many of you have actually read the first two chapters as instructed?”

  “Come on, man, I had two matches this weekend. I’m toast,” Frank contributes from his completely reclined position in his chair. His posture must piss Mr. Stechshulte right the eff off, because he kicks the chair’s leg and points to the papers in front of Frank, which makes him sit up straight and pretend to be on top of it.

  Mr. Stechshulte hands out a few papers stapled together, and I’m surprised and disappointed to find that he’s given us summaries on the first two chapters from Shmoop. My face must register my displeasure because he says, “Just in case you need a few reminders of what you read this weekend.” And then he’s gone.

  Frank smiles stupidly and he points to our teacher, who has retreated to his desk. “That guy’s got style.”

  “No,” I surprise myself by saying. “He just knows you didn’t read the book.”

  Julian smirks.

  Frank balls up a piece of paper and tosses it at Julian’s head. “Like you read it.”

  Julian holds up one hand like he’s testifying. “First three chapters, as a matter of fact. Ask me anything.”

  I can’t help the pride that fills me. Julian read the chapters. Because of me. Lorin rewards him with a grateful look and then she’s back to business. “Okay so first thing, we’ve got to choose a theme to concentrate on. There’s classism. Power. Money. Or love.”

  “Love,” Karen says.

  Frank snorts. “Always the same with you girls.”

  “Maybe why half of us are turning to girls ourselves.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  Julian kicks his chair. “Enough.” And his eyes slide to me to see if I’m offended. I know he’s trying to be nice, but it irritates me that feels the need protect me.

  “So love it is,” Lorin says decisively, ignoring Frank. “What do we all think?”

  “Well.” Julian sits up a little taller in his chair and looks at the notes he took over the weekend. “It’s clearly a riff on marriage versus love. I mean, Daisy is married to Tom, who claims to love her, but hurts her both physically and emotionally.”

  “Excellent analysis, Mr. Van Beck,” says Mr. Stechshulte, who somehow managed to sneak up behind us again without any of us noticing. “This group is getting an A for today.”

  Lorin grins and makes a few marks on her paper. I’m mostly thrilled that Julian is feeling smart and confident. I smile at him and he gives me one back. A purely platonic I’m glad to be in class with you smile, but I’ll take it anyway. Love is about making the other person feel special, isn’t it?

  * * *

  Ben waits for me at our lunch table, dressed as a lumberjack with a collection bucket in front of him. One of his big fund-raisers is charging $1 for not dressing up on spirit days. He pushes a cinnamon roll across the table toward me. I rub my hands together, but just as I’m about to reach for it, Ben says, “Slow down, girl. We’ve got a lot to discuss first.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Your outfit, for one.” He slides his sunglasses down his nose. “Or lack thereof.”

  He points a fork at Simon, who is dressed as a reindeer.

  “Yeah. About that,” Simon chimes in.

  “So disappointing.” Ben shakes the container at me. “Pay up.”

  “I’m saving it for the game,” I say.

  “That’s what he said,” Ben says as he nods his head toward Julian, who is sitting with his friends, but is staring at his phone.

  A little thrill goes through me. Julian is waiting for me.

  Well for the pretend me, anyway.

  * * *

  Thursday, 3:26 P.M.

  So, this is the big game.

  Yup.

  That’s all you’ve got?

  Yup.

  No words of encouragement? No telling me to get it done, score, kick their butts?

  You already know all of that stuff.

  True.

  So tell me something I don’t know.

  I’ll be there, cheering you on.

  Heart emoji.

  So how exactly do I interpret a heart emoji?

  That’s up to you.

  OK. I think it means you’re happy I’m going to be there.

  Sure.

  I’m missing something?

  Sometimes you’ve got to read between the lines.

  Heart emoji.

  What does that one mean?

  You used an English/reading term.

  And that makes your heart beat fast?

  Yup.

  Good. To. Know. See what I did there? Used punctuation as emphasis.

  OH MY!

  The ladies love a smarty-pants.

  This one sure does.

  Three heart emojis and a smiley face emoji.

  Fifteen

  It’s about two hours before we leave for the game and there’s no sign of Rena or Eric yet. “Mom?” I call out.

  “In here.” Mom’s in the kitchen, shoving a pan into the oven. She closes the oven door and looks up as I approach. “They’ll be here soon.”

  “I need Rena to help me with my costume.”

  She wipes her hands on the dish towel and reaches under the sink for rubber gloves.

  “Can you grab the beets?” she asks as she takes a cutting board out and sharpens one of her knives. “It’s supposed to be really nasty out tonight. I can’t believe how fast the weather turned this year.”

  “Don’t even start. Rain or not, cold or not, I am going tonight.” I plunk the bag of beets down next to her.

  Her eyes go to my face in that worried Jewish mother look that makes me super uncomfortable.

  “Stop, Mom. I’m fine. It’ll be fine.”

  She holds the beets under the water and scrubs them clean. I take each beet from her and dry them with a paper towel and soon we’ve got this rhythm going so well that I don’t even hear the door open. Or the approaching steps.

  “Damn, what did those beets ever do to anybody?”

  I turn to face Eric. Squeal. Drop everything and run straight for him.

  He crushes me with his hug, but it’s a good kind of crushing.

  “How you doing, little sister?” he asks.

  “Glad I’m not a beet!”

  “Very funny, Jenna,” Mom pushes past me and gets her own Eric hug. “How are you, sweetie?”

  He puts his hand on his stomach. “Starved.” Then he drops a big duffel bag on the ground. “Brought my laundry, but I’ll do it myself.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Put it in the laundry room, and we’ll battle that out later.”

  I walk with Eric as he deposits his laundry as directed. “I heard you got a little raucous with Mom and Dad?” he asks.

  “Had to happen,” I say. “Who told you? Mom, Dad, or Uncle Steve?”

  “Rena. The ears of the house.”

  I put my hand on my forehead. “She’s like a super spy. I didn’t know she knew. She wasn’t even home when the big talk happened!”

  Eric checks the washer. “Should I actually be a grown-up and do my own laundry?”

  I punch his arm. “Tell me how Rena
knew.”

  He rubs his arm. “Man, you’re getting strong.” I wind up, threatening another assault. He puts his hands in the air. “Okay, okay. You know how our house is. Nothing’s a secret.”

  We walk to the front of the house, where he finally takes his coat off and hangs it on the hook.

  “So that means Mom and Dad have been talking about it.” I chew on my finger. “I mean, that’s the only way she could have heard.”

  “All I can say is never underestimate the curious nature of our baby sister.”

  Almost on cue, Rena pushes open the door, sees Eric, and slams into him. The two of them lurch toward me. And soon we are this blob of happiness. Limbs and bodies and hugs and smiles. I seriously missed my brother. I’ve definitely missed this. The three of us together here in the living room, threatening to knock over glass vases and picture frames. Mom approaches, arms outstretched, and we let her be part of the hug.

  When we break apart, Mom says, “Dinner’s in half an hour.”

  “We’ll be late for the game.”

  Dad enters from the hallway off the garage. “Dinner is nonnegotiable,” he says to all of us, but catches my eye to make sure I’ve got the not-so-subtle double meaning. It’s clearly a crack on our recent battles.

  Then he smiles, and all of this feels so perfect.

  * * *

  “Hurry up, Eric,” Rena calls over her shoulder after dinner, “we’ve got just enough time to make you Olaf and convince Jenna to go as Anna.”

  “Olaf? Hell no. I’ve got my own costume. Besides, shouldn’t you be Anna, you know, the younger sister?”

  “It’s role playing, Eric. I can be the eldest for once.”

  “She’s been trying to usurp you for years,” Eric tells me in a conspiratorial tone.

  “I don’t mind. As long as she takes my place when it comes time for the hospital stays.”

  Rena’s smile stretches. “Least I can do, big sister. We’ll use some kind of magic or something to Freaky Friday that shit.”

  Mom shakes her head, but we can tell she’s into all of this.

  As Rena dresses me up, I sit and think about what’s coming next. The hockey game with my favorite people. I’m excited and also nervous. I want Julian to do well. I want the team to win. I want so many things right now, and it feels so good.

  Ready in ten minutes. Ben texts.

  I send him a smiley emoji.

  Rena paints my lips. “This color is called Lolita,” she says breathily. “It’s perfect for you.”

  “You mean for Anna?”

  She plops a wig on my head. Then a ski hat with those fuzzy balls on the end. “Of course.”

  * * *

  Ben’s arrived, and we’re ready to head to the game, but before I go anywhere, I’ve got to do an assessment.

  Weather? Rainy and cold. That means extra layers, like everyone else, but it also means Eric has to start the car and warm it up for me. My body doesn’t stay warm once it gets cold, and I have a real risk of respiratory infections. So that also means a blanket for me in the car and one for during the hockey game.

  Next assessment? Mobility aids. It’s going to be a long walk from the parking lot, unless we use my handicapped placard for the car.

  “I’ll drop the girls and park,” Eric says.

  Dad shakes his head. “They probably won’t let you do that. Take this. Just in case.” He hands over the placard, and Eric takes it.

  Mom points to my walker and my electric scooter, waiting in the living room. “Which do you think for tonight?”

  “Um…neither?” I counter.

  “One or the other,” Dad says. I can tell by his stance this is also nonnegotiable.

  “Which is easier?” I ask Eric.

  He fiddles with his keys. “Whichever one you want. We will make it work, no problem. I just ask that we make the decision and get going.”

  And here we are. Me facing down my beast, in the form of mobility aids. Which would be easiest to use? The scooter, definitely. But the walker would make it easier to get into the seats in the stands.

  “We can bring your crutches for when we get inside,” Rena offers, clearly reading my mind and my mood.

  I think of all the accessibility issues with going to a game at Skate Zone. Over the years, with me attending Eric’s games, the facility has improved its accessibility. Some issues were fixed thanks to my father’s insistence and my uncle’s legal intervention, plus a grant from an anonymous donor to put in ramps in a few different places. Still, it’s a bear to make it work with a crowd and the frenzy. I can picture me tripping in my walker. That would be worse than using my scooter.

  “Okay. Scooter.”

  Mom smiles, clearly glad I’m being reasonable. “All charged and ready to go.”

  As we all load into the car and start the drive to Skate Zone, I think about what this would be like if I was Jennifer—the girl who can race to the car in the cold and shiver as she waits for it to warm up. I’d take my gloves off and blow on my hands. The cold would feel good to me, make me feel alive. I’d look at my phone and see my boyfriend’s texts to me. I’d wear the scarf he gave me for my birthday—delicate, baby-blue faux cashmere because he knows I’m cruelty-free when it comes to my food and my clothes. I’d wear it as our special signal—a reminder of how soft his arms are around me and how we’d celebrate his victory, just the two of us, in his comfy bed.

  “Jenna?” Eric calls. “Jenna?”

  The scene fades, and I stop being Jennifer and become the girl in the van with Panic! playing in the background. “Death of a Bachelor,” to be precise.

  “Yeah?”

  “I asked if you were warm enough.”

  “I’m fine. Just thinking about the game.”

  “I’ll bet,” Ben adds. If I could reach him, I’d smack him silent. “As we all are.”

  Rena giggles. “You two are so weird.”

  Eric inspects me like people in my family always do—for signs of impending seizures and the like. I stick my tongue out, to which he says, “Real mature,” but he moves the car forward. We’ve reached the superlong line to get into the parking lot.

  Mr. Burrows, one of the hockey dads, is collecting tickets, wearing a fanny pack around his middle to store the $5 he gets from every driver who wants to park. We are considered the home team this time, so our team gets to keep the purse. These are all well-established traditions.

  Eric puts the window down and reaches for his wallet, which is stuck in his Viking belt. The fact that he had packed a full Viking costume is not lost on me.

  “Well look who it is. I might have heard you were coming.” Mr. Burrow fist-bumps Eric, which makes Rena and I exchange amused looks. Eric may have graduated, but he will always be the champion. “How’s college treating you?”

  “Can’t complain,” Eric answers.

  Mr. Burrow leans against our door, despite the long line of cars snaked into the street. “We’re going to destroy them tonight,” he says, smiling widely. Then he notices Eric’s hand, waves away Eric’s five-dollar bill. “No, no, put that away. No charge for you. Best scorer in three counties.”

  “Thanks, sir. I heard Matthew’s having a hell of a season.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that Daniel’s the best goalie in the state.”

  “Never does.”

  Mr. Burrows steps back and waves us forward. “Glad you’re here for the big game, Eric. Wouldn’t be the same without you. Try up front, they might have saved a spot for you.”

  When we get to the first row of the parking lot, there’s a cone in the center of the remaining parking space with one of Eric’s old jerseys attached to it. “I’m guessing this is for us?” he says.

  Rena throws her hands in the air. “Huzzah.”

  The sheer number of people already on the sidewalk reminds me of the
performing arts theater where we saw Wicked for my birthday last year. Rena had wanted to see it forever, and Ben got me hooked on the idea. Dad finally took off work one Saturday and took us. I wanted to go into the city. I loved how New York was always filled with people walking in a big crowd, like everyone was moving toward something exciting. I loved how you could lose yourself in the mob and become a totally different person. But NYC is never easy with all of my mobility devices, so we went to a performing arts center in Hartford.

  Mom used the opportunity to talk to me about that operation the doctors wanted to do. The baclofen pump. How much better I could be if only I let them slice me open and fix my broken parts with magic or that superglue stuff they use on cuts now. The thing is she bought the entire deal. Why shouldn’t she? She wasn’t the one who’d be ripped open and have that mess stitched inside of her.

  Now driving through the crowd in my scooter, I wonder about the baclofen pump and if it could make my life better. And if so, wouldn’t I be stupid not to try?

  We get to the front of the rink, and Mrs. Jacobs, one of the senior boys’ mothers, is taking tickets. Her face lights up as we wind our way forward. She wraps her arms around Eric. “So good to see you. Ian said to go straight in.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Jacobs.”

  Eric leans on the handlebars of my scooter. “Pays to know people.”

  The hockey rink is super loud already. Our school is dressed up in Frozen costumes, and it’s really funny to see the difference in the stands. Danbury’s fans are dressed only in their boring blue and white garb. Ben points to a bunch of kids in his marketing classes standing at center ice but in the nosebleed section. They are all holding signs and blowing those cheapo horns you get at a party store. They are collecting donations from the crowd as they do. “I’m going to manage the peons. You mind?”