“I’ll ask you again, what do you sell?”
I widen my eyes to mimic annoyed and a tad crazy. “I’ll tell you when you offer me a full ride.”
He laughs. “You’re different, Abby. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. In the end, it’s always refreshing.”
“But I’m not Harvard material, am I?” I’m bold with the question and hate the little twinges of hope that he’ll disagree with me.
He flips through the folder he requested on me after the fifteen-minute marker. The teacher in charge of this area freaked out. Freaked. Couldn’t believe I was in here. Couldn’t believe Logan wasn’t. She was red-faced, flustered, apologizing and this guy asked for my student record.
“Great test scores and grades. Aptitude tests are impressive. But your attendance is sketchy and you have no outside activities.” He closes my folder. “You sell yourself well, but I need to be able to sell you on paper.”
Besides junior college, the story will always be the same. “Paper kills trees and I like trees. Creates oxygen and all that.”
A sad smile on his end. He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a card. On it is his name, his number, and his address. “Email me. Send me a list of schools you’ll be applying to. Maybe I can help you, give you a word of recommendation if it should help.”
I accept and push past the defeat and focus on the golden pass in front of me. That’s another thing about running a business. You don’t let emotion get in the way of an opportunity and that’s exactly what this guy is offering.
“Your loss.”
He stands with me and shakes my hand. “I agree. Good luck, Abby. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about you someday.”
Probably. On the six-o’clock news and not in the good way. “You better believe it.”
I walk out the door and in front of me is the principal, guidance counselor, and the flustered teacher. Before any of them can say a word, I flash his card. “Anyone else walk out with this? I believe it reads Harvard.”
Only the guidance counselor smiles a knowing “No.”
“Didn’t think so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
Gotta admit, all of that, including turning my back on them felt really good.
I’m down the hallway, heading toward the exit and sitting on the steps near the exit to the school is Logan. He’s resting his arms on his thighs, his hands are clasped together. The baseball cap pulled down keeps me from reading his emotions, but then again, it’s Logan and he’s always a tough read.
The urge is to go to him, to show him the card, to smile at what I accomplished while he smiled along with me. To act seventeen. To make up a story and listen as he played along. To tease him and have him tease me back. To let him hold my hand again and revel in the butterflies that hatched in my chest the moment his fingers first touched mine.
In my back pocket, my cell vibrates. Logan’s still staring at me and I’m still staring at him. Every time I see him, it’s like two paths emerge. One that calls to me...another that feels inevitable. Either path leads to someone I love. Both will hurt the other person I’m protecting and myself.
It stops vibrating, then begins again. I pull it out and sigh when I spot Linus’s number. The two paths narrow back into one as I’m reminded that any road to Logan only brings him trouble. I circle away from Logan, answer my phone and hold on to the idea that I’m at least saving my grandmother—that I’m at least dying on the inside for a good reason. “I sometimes wish a dragon would appear and eat your phone. Sometimes I wish it would eat you.”
“Stop daydreaming. We’ve got work to do today.”
Logan
The elevator doors open. I enter, then Mom, then Dad. Elevator rides after doctor visits have always sucked, especially when Mom’s in attendance and there’s no one else but the three of us in the box. Dad’s brewing, Mom’s seconds from peeling her own skin back, and I’m worried about Abby.
Dad pushes One and we begin the descent down, but not to leave, but for me to go pee in a cup. The doctor’s not happy with my glucose levels and how I haven’t been able to keep them in a healthy range.
“What if there’s something wrong with his kidney?” Mom’s skipping straight to that high-pitched tone.
“This test is normal.” I lean back against the mirrored wall and watch as the numbers count down. Every year we check for protein in my urine—check to see if my kidneys are considering shutting down.
Mom spins to face me. “This isn’t a joke, Logan. It’s your kidney. You need it.”
“I’ve got two. Consider one a backup.”
The way Mom’s mouth gapes and the utter look of horror in her eyes informs me the joke wasn’t appreciated. The door to the elevator opens, Mom bolts out and I feel like shit.
I follow her and before I can apologize, Mom’s already seeking refuge in the women’s bathroom. I shove my hands in my pockets. To this day I’m not sure how I end up being the one comforting her after every specialist appointment. She was this way even when I was a child.
Mom runs. It’s what she does. Who she is. Days like today though, I get real tired of it. I head to the water fountain, and Dad follows.
“Let me guess,” Dad says. “You’re thirsty.” Because a sign of high blood sugar is thirst.
I bend over and drink—a lot, but it’s not nearly enough and it won’t be. I straighten and Dad’s eyes are blazing. My glucose number was astronomical in the doctor’s office. Not my best moment to be scoring high in front of the doc. It’s like not brushing your teeth before heading to the dentist.
Lunch was my only opportunity to test or give myself insulin and I skipped it to spend time with Abby. Combine that with my only choice for food for lunch being a thick-crust pizza and it was a recipe for disaster.
Dad walks up beside me and I straighten when I feel him staring. “I was kidding—with Mom. Trying to lighten the mood.”
“That’s the problem, Logan. You don’t take any of this seriously. You don’t take anything seriously.”
“The doctor tests for protein every time. It’s routine. The test doesn’t mean he thinks something’s wrong. It doesn’t mean he thinks my kidneys are out of whack. These tests—these appointments—this is my normal and Mom needs to learn how to get over her fears or she needs to stop coming.”
Dad’s eyes harden. “Your blood sugar was over three hundred. Three hundred, Logan!”
“I know. I was there.” In case he missed it that was my blood on the testing strip. “I’m doing the best that I can, all right?”
I walk off, scanning the walls for a sign for the lab and Dad cuts me off. “No, it’s not all right. You’ve got to do better.”
I slam on the bill of my baseball cap and meet Dad’s pissed-off glare. “Fine.”
“Not fine,” Dad pushes. “Why didn’t you test at lunch? You knew you were going to have a high-carb lunch so why didn’t you give yourself insulin?”
“I thought I’d have time to eat and then head out to the truck to test and take a shot if I needed, but I didn’t.” Because Abby was there and I wasn’t missing a second with her.
Dad’s studying my face and when he hears what I didn’t admit to, a rush of air leaves his body. “You’d rather risk your life than admit to anyone you have diabetes.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches. “I’m not risking my life.”
“Every time you don’t test, every time you permit your blood sugar to go high, you’re putting your life at risk.”
Screw this. I move to go around Dad, but he slides into my way. “Stop running, Logan. I’ve let this conversation go for too long, but I’m not anymore.
“Run? I’m not running.” I point to the bathroom. “Mom’s a runner. I can’t run from the diabetes. I can’t hide in a bathroom or pi
ck a new guy and pretend bad things don’t exist. I go to bed every night knowing my diabetes will still be there in the morning. There’s no cure. There’s nothing to make this go away. I test and I test and you know what happens, the same thing. The number goes up, the number goes down. There’s no escaping it because it never ends.”
“That’s right,” Dad challenges. “It will never go away and it’s time you accept that.”
“I have accepted it! I have no choice but to accept it. You want me to be happy about it, but nowhere does it say in all the paperwork I’ve read that I have to be happy about it. I don’t have to like that my body is broken!”
Pain slashes through Dad’s eyes, and I circle away from him only to find myself U-turning back. “What do you want from me?”
Dad places his hands on his hips and his head dips like he’s tired and that’s because he is. Dad’s always tired. His chest expands as he breathes in and I’m shaking my head. I already know what he wants and I can’t give it. “No.”
For years, Dad’s been on me to get an insulin pump and I’ve refused.
“You’re not playing baseball anymore.” Dad throws the excuse I’ve used to not get it in my face, explaining to him that it would be a pain in the ass to constantly remove the device because it could get damaged the way I play.
I’m silent, because baseball was just that—an excuse.
“The pump can help. Instead of depending upon you to test and give yourself the insulin, it will do it for you.”
It’s more complicated than that, but it’s the general idea. I shrug like I might be considering it. Shrug like I have a valid excuse to say no. “I might play ball again this fall.”
“You’re just like your mother.”
Anger explodes through me and I point at the bathroom again. “I’ve already explained that I’m not a runner. That I’ve accepted what I am.”
“What you are?” Dad scrubs a hand over his face. “If you know it, mind explaining it to me?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“One day you’re a ball player, the next you’re into cars, then you’re playing guitar, tomorrow it will be something else. For years, I’ve watched you bounce—from one thing to the next. The next thing crazier than the one before.”
“Is this where you tell me I’m irresponsible?”
“You don’t commit. Not to a sport, not to a hobby, not even to a girl. A girl you were with was shot and your mother and I have heard nothing about her since.”
A mean streak originates in my gut and spreads fast like venom. “Back off of Abby.”
“No, I’m not backing off anymore. You’re so caught up in not wanting to be the person with diabetes that you’ve become everything and everyone else around you. That you hate what’s inside you so much that you’ve never bothered figuring out who you are! And that, Logan—that’s how you’re like your mother!”
We both notice her then—right outside the bathroom door. Mom tucks a lock of her curly blond hair behind her ear. She nibbles on her bottom lip before approaching us, her eyes slashing through my father. “And he keeps it all inside—just like you. No emotion. No conversation. Constantly living a half-life because both of you are afraid to feel.”
Her words strike deep. Too deep. So deep, the need for crazy emerges like a shark circling its bleeding prey. “Sounds like I inherited the worst of both of you and I got the bonus of a jacked-up pancreas to boot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find out if I fucked up my kidneys.”
I push past Dad, my shoulder hitting his and when I get a few steps away, he calls out my name, but I keep walking.
Abby
Rule number four: there’s no such thing as downtime—just another opportunity to make money.
Dad was pretty adamant about that one. Said it several times. He also used to tell me that the best thing about parties was the people watching. Second-best—is having fun while working overtime.
Dad had fun at these things. I used to, but I can’t find much joy in it tonight. Especially since the reason I’m here is because I’ve been summoned by Ricky.
In a motion so slick because I did memorize it, I meet Evie’s palm, accept her money and replace it with a joint. Places and people like this prefer premade to baggies. I don’t make as much money per person as I’m not selling in bulk, but I do nicely with how many people think they need what I have to offer and the markup I add for rolling.
I only do neighborhood parties, only sell to those I know. As always, I’m picky about who I sell to, but most everyone here has more to lose by getting busted than I do.
“Thanks, Abby,” Evie says, and I only nod in response. She disappears into the shadows of the thick crowd. Evie’s an honor student and not from this neighborhood. She was there today, at school, interviewing with colleges. Can’t help but wonder why she chooses here as her place to blow off steam.
The abandoned lot behind the strip mall and to the right of the Section 8 apartments is alive tonight. Someone even went fancy and strung up Christmas lights from metal poles crushed into the gravel. Music pounds from the open doors of a loaded-down-with-speakers Ford Explorer.
A long time ago, my father used to bring me here. I’d peruse the crowd, no fear of anyone hurting me, in search of someone else my age. I was Mozart’s daughter and no one touched me.
When I found another kid, we’d run and run...playing tag, playing hide-and-go-seek, and once I met Isaiah, he became my partner in crime.
I kick the heels of my feet against the crumbling concrete half-wall trying desperately to not miss Isaiah. Missing him is a cold feeling. Hollow. Doesn’t ache as much as losing Logan, but still, it’s not an emotion I like.
My cell pings and my soul twists at the sight of Rachel’s name: Physical therapy sucked today. My legs hurt and the therapist accused me of pushing myself too hard.
I find myself nodding, understanding why she’s texting me. Insomnia again?
Yes. A pause. I miss you.
I shouldn’t have texted Rachel back. Shouldn’t have given her the opening, but I was one of the few people she’d admit her pain to after the accident. Might be the only person she admitted her pain to at all. It’s because I told her one night when she was in the hospital when it was just the two of us that my mother was a heroin addict and that the thought of her sometimes hurts me physically. From Logan’s reaction, she never told anyone. Not that I expected Rachel to spread gossip about me. Rachel is the secret-keeping-forever type of friend.
Me: I miss you, but this is how it has to be. Don’t text me again and don’t push yourself too hard. You have time.
I don’t have time. The boys won’t bring me to you because they have all inherited the crazy gene and I need to get behind a wheel of a car so I can find you and make you see how stupid you’re acting. You need us now more than ever.
Rachel definitely owns a pair. Very few people have ever dared speak to me the way she just did and it’s reasons like this why I decided she would be my best friend. I frown and my stomach twists along with it. I’ve lost my best friend...
“I told you—people like us don’t have friends.” Linus cocks a hip against my wall and I raise an eyebrow. “So stop feeling sorry for yourself and get your fucking game face back on.”
“Don’t touch my wall.” I pocket my cell and consider the millions of ways I could push Linus into traffic.
He slow blinks once. “It’s not your wall.”
“It is. My wall. My name’s on it. Right here.” Because it is my wall, I don’t have to point to prove I’m right and Linus’s eyes automatically shift to where my father wrote my name on it when I was five. This half-wall was a present to me the first time he brought me to this place. I was to sit on this wall and wait for him because it was my wall to protect and nobody else’s.
&
nbsp; Dragons, he told me, would storm the party if I left this wall. Princesses in Dad’s fairy tales never needed saving—a princess was strong enough to save herself.
“You’re not a kid anymore. Will you stop acting like one?”
I hop off my wall and lean into him, not caring he’s taller than me and bigger than me and doesn’t have a problem with shooting other people like me. “It’s my fucking wall and if I told you not to touch it, you don’t touch it.”
We’re in a staring contest—he and I, and I plan on winning.
He blinks first, but he kills my win-joy with. “He’s not coming back for you.”
Pain straight through my heart, but I take pride that I was able to mask that ache. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wall. Daddy gave you a gun. He gave me wall. I gotta say, I totally won.”
A flash of something in Linus’s eyes and I feel the condescending smirk forming on my face. “You don’t like it when I call him Daddy, do you?”
He presses his lips together as if he’s willing himself to not verbally or physically tear into me.
“Which one don’t you like? That it makes him real because he felt for me or that it makes me real and not make-believe? Because let’s be honest, you don’t like feeling.”
“Ricky and I often debate whether you’re brilliant or a sociopath.”
I weigh my options. “Why can’t I be both?”
Linus shakes his head because he never gets me. “Ricky wants to see you.”
Mock jazz hands in the air. Linus ignores my reaction and tips his chin toward the parking lot. Ricky, like me, prefers to do business in cars. His car is nicer than my clients’ and he has a driver, but I’m still not giddy on this meet.