After I Wake (6 page)

My classes were spent in the corner, where I sat in the beginning of the year, zoned out, sometimes asleep, sometimes not. March rolled into April, and May began sometime after. I started cutting classes in April. By May, I was a different person, and my life was dominated by the little blades hidden under my mattress.

I was shuttled back and forth to physical therapy the whole time, where they taught me how to massage my stump, and they kept calling it a stump, to keep the muscle healthy once the stitches came out and only precise scars remained and how to write with my right hand. An occupational therapist came a few times while I was still in the hospital to get me started on recovery to help me adjust to a right-handed life. I barely paid attention. I didn't do any of the things they taught me. I typed agonizingly slow on my computer. I refused to wear sneakers or laced shoes, opting for flats and boots that zipped up on the side so that I didn't need to tie anything.

I thought a lot about the last things Dr. Mae said to me before I left the hospital, while my mother scheduled a checkup for two weeks in the distant future. How we, and by we she meant I, had avoided certain complications but remained open to others, things like higher sensitivities to cold and now the exciting prospect of phantom pain. My hand may have been gone, but apparently my body refused to accept that and could imagine that it was there and make me feel the pain of it. It was not something I looked forward to. It was, by whatever fortune I had left, not something I've ever dealt with. I'm sure luck has everything to do with it.

Emmett came over the first day I was home and cuddled with me. He was good at cuddling. We watched a movie from which I remember exactly zero of the details, and Emmett ranked the men by hotness, failing to engage me in some sort of conversation. I stayed quiet. That day, he couldn't get me to smile.

 

 

I'
VE
RUN
out of things to do with my mother for the day, and instead insist she go into the office and do some actual work. She trusts me enough to leave me alone in the living room, considering the only dangerous thing I could do is sit on the remote. Or nap. That would be completely dangerous. After she finally disappears upstairs, I flop down on the couch.

I stare at the ceiling awhile, and then, when I grow bored of that, I pull out my phone and text Emmett. No matter what the time of day is, he possesses an almost frightening power in which he can text back with the greatest speed and can also produce the most eloquent of sentences. And he's not doing anything either because it's a Wednesday night in the middle of summer.

I do envy his skill, and take it as a challenge to outdo him, and so it begins.

Me:
What do you find to be naturally occurring in your own little pocket of universe this fine portion of calendar?

Emmett:
Well you see, my dear Carter, I've taken a gander at myself in the mirror today and decided that it simply would not do. I am currently making puberty my bitch, and I shall update you on that anywhere from weeks to months to years from now.

Me:
But do tell me, are you not one with at least seventeen circumferences around the sun down, and therefore relatively close to being altogether satisfied with the physical maturing of your corporeal self?

Emmett:
My dear Carter, I can choose to ignore your most likely accurate theorem in the pursuit of a simple activity which will distract from the most recent he-who-shall-not-be-named.

When Emmett begins talking about his ex-boyfriends, I'm pretty sure he's admitting defeat. But at the same time, I might just be too self-absorbed. I'm also not willing to admit loss. Obviously.

Me:
Was your Voldemort cute?

Emmett:
Utterly handsome. The CHEEKBONES. And the ratty band shirts. And the “I don't care” attitude.

Emmett:
UGH CARTER WILL I NEVER FIND LOVE? *GROSS SOBS IN LITTLE UNIVERSE CORNER*

I am a big fan of the theoretical universe corner. They seem cozy and warm in comparison to the horrifying void of space. Universe corners would be weird, though, because the universe is infinite and ever expanding and nobody I know actually cares about universe corners. But the mental image is pleasant.

Me:
I think you underestimate yourself. Will you come over and watch movies? It's summer, and I'm bored. I'll start whining.

Emmett:
Is your mom ok w/it?

I honestly think the shorter and more concise our texts get, the closer we are to going somewhere. I have to climb up the stairs to poke my head into her office and frighten her slightly, which I apologize for. But permission is ascertained, and Emmett is granted leave from his summer boredom and apparent conquering of his own puberty to join me.

Me:
yup, now get over here. Bring popcorn.

Emmett:
Ah, yes. A fine meal for a fine moving picture with accompanying sound. How absolutely delightful, I must retrieve the unpopped substance in the grand pursuit of inflating it with the aid of the hot air provided by your waves of micro.

And less than ten minutes later, I am snuggled into the man's side as we watch superhero movies and take delight in pointing out their flaws and highlights. I am cold, and Emmett is hot, but he kindly puts up with my not turning on the air conditioner and cuddles for a while because he is the cuddly ninja and a perfect human.

As he leaves five hours, 2.17 movies, and 1.75 cheese pizzas later, he hugs me close and whispers in my ear.

“I know you're still miserable. It's in your eyes. Write a damn poem. Write me a poem. No, write me a rhyming poem.” I pull back in disgust. Rhyming poems are awful. I hold firm in the belief that they lower both the IQ of the reader and the poet, and such rescinding of intelligence includes, but it not limited to, every other person on the planet.

Three minutes later, my phone vibrates with a text from Emmett.

Emmett:
BY WHATEVER ALMIGHTY POWER RESIDES ABOVE I HAVE DONE IT CARTER.

Me:
Well, that's one hell of an introduction.

Emmett:
I have come up with a last line for a poem for you.

Emmett
: It hit me while I was driving.

Emmett:
It was so powerful that I immediately had to pull into a gas station.

Emmett:
And text you.

Emmett:
As I am doing so now.

Emmett:
BECAUSE IT IS UTTER PERFECTION.

Me:
Well… what is it?

Emmett:
end it exactly as follows.

Emmett:
… and she dared to hope

Me:
No

Emmett:
I AM A GENIUS I TELL YOU.

Emmett:
WAIT WHAT? WHY THE HELL NOT?

Me:
Too abhorrent, blasé, contrived, dreadful, ebullient, forced….

Me:
I could easily keep going. The alphabet is my friend.

I think I've texted back too late. I can practically hear the screech of his tires as he returns to my doorstep in order to pursue a proper argument, which I have no energy left to fight.

Me:
Don't bother coming back, I'm sleepy.

I'm sure he's going to wait and plot this one out. Maybe he'll even write a poem himself. I'd like to see that. He's more of an artist-y type.

Actually, I'm not really sure what type he is. We usually talk about me.

 

 

I
T
WAS
one hell of a party. Everyone in the school was celebrating the midsemester finals ending. There had to be multiple parties going on. I chose to go to the ones with the artists. We'd pick a house and gather, the drama geeks, the writers, the visual artists, the singers, the dancers, those types of people. The LGBTQA club usually came too. It sounds varied, but honestly, it was a small group. There was a lot of overlap of talent.

I was usually invited to those parties because I fell into the writer's category, and I went to represent the A in LGBTQA because I've always been absurdly full of asexual pride. Emmett would always go with me. I was probably invited because Emmett wanted me to go with him. Emmett was invited to everything; everybody loves him. That fateful night, he wasn't able to attend; he was out eating a fancy dinner or something with his parents. So I went by myself. Emmett was and is my best friend, but I had other people I could sort of call friendly people who wouldn't lower my IQ in standard conversation.

We usually ordered pizza and sat around, talking about television and movies, and playing improvisational games. They were quiet affairs. They were peaceful and incredibly fun. I was hoping that party would be along the same lines, because I was looking to unwind after the stressful testing period.

Brittany, though, who volunteered to host the party at her house for the first time, had a different idea of stress unwinding. She had procured a fake ID and got a keg. I suspect that she used her makeup-applying skills to make herself look older. I've seen her handiwork; it is astounding, quite frankly.

I got there fashionably late, my mom having dropped me off at the door, and was greeted by a bunch of ragingly drunk artists. They were running around with Solo cups and letting their drinks slosh over the sides. They grabbed handfuls of chips from various bowls that were scattered throughout the main room and smashed them into their mouths, carelessly letting the crumbs fall and get ground into the carpet beneath their feet. Somehow, the neon orange cheese stains were unified, as if they'd leaped out of a painting to fall on the floor.

I sat down on the couch and watched the proceedings with a morbid curiosity. People kept disappearing into the kitchen and coming back, significantly drunker, less coherent, and seeming incredibly stupid. It looked disgusting, but it was entertaining as hell to watch.

Brittany slunk in from a door in the adjoining hallway, using a towel to scrub off a rogue wrinkle, assumingly from her trip to the liquor store. She saw me and narrowed her eyes with a vicious delight.

She disappeared into the kitchen, much like her fellow artists, but returned with two full cups and made a beeline toward where I sat, practicing a perfect posture and watching the events unfold in front of me, most likely with a horrified fascination written on my face.

“Hey, Carter, welcome to my humble abode.” Brittany put both cups on the table in front of us and smiled at me. I shoved my hands in my pockets as a response. “How are you tonight?”

“I suppose I'm alright, but a little shocked. This is definitely not what I was expecting.” I was honest, but wary of her intentions. Socializing had never been my strongest suit. I was lost.

“Aw, don't be shocked. We're all just having fun,” Brittany cooed, before standing up and dragging over two girls who were dancing to the tinny music blasting from one of their phones. Harper and Darcy moved the table and plopped on the floor while Brittany resumed her perch next to me, essentially caging me in, although I failed to notice what they were doing at the time.

I nervously struck up a conversation with Darcy, which Harper joined, giving me a little relief because Darcy and Harper were a funny pair, and Brittany sipped her beer from her place next to me and occasionally opined on the topic we were discussing. After a few minutes, she grabbed the second beer off the table and handed it to me. I accepted it politely, but refused to drink any, while casually scanning the room for a plant to dump it in, just as I'd seen it done in the movies.

When I casually excused myself, Brittany grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me back down, and my drink sloshed onto my shirt, soaking me. I gasped audibly, swearing loudly in annoyance. Harper and Darcy laughed hysterically while Brittany began apologizing profusely, seemingly sincere.

“Let me grab more!” Harper shouted exuberantly when I focused on her. I tried to protest, but Brittany cut in, coming to my aid.

“No, Harper, it's fine. Carter's got to finish what's in her cup first. Look, it's still got a few sips in it.” The three girls got into my face, cheering me on to finish the last third of my drink. Darcy even tapped on the bottom of the cup, nudging it into my face. Gravity did that annoying thing it does, and a bunch ended up in my mouth. I choked on it, and the beer dribbled from the corner of my mouth. I gulped down the rest and shuddered.

I was worried about the beer and getting drunk, while everything I ever learned in health flashed through my mind. It takes thirty seconds for alcohol to reach the brain. Maybe I was getting in my own head, but I started feeling looser, more relaxed. I hesitantly took a small sip, finishing the cup, and put it down on the table. The action was celebrated with cheers from the three girls.

Darcy excitedly got me more. We toasted the end of our horrible tests, and drank our beers quickly. Needless to say, I got very drunk very fast. Brittany disappeared to mingle with her drama friends. I suspected she was less drunk than we were, but frankly, I didn't care by that point. I was having too much fun. I felt free.

A little while and a lot of beer later, I suggested to Harper and Darcy that we go for a walk. There was a lovely forest behind the house, and when the ice smothered the exposed branches in the winter, it was a beautiful sight.

We ran into the woods, tripping over each other and laughing. Darcy and Harper kept leaning on each other and twining their hands together to drag each other around and dance in circles. Darcy started singing, and we joined in. Harper began composing fan fiction out loud, and we shouted ideas at her to make it better. I started speaking in rhymes.