Calli (11 page)

I feel jittery waiting for the yellow bus of doom, and when it comes, I sit in the row right behind the bus driver before anyone has a chance to get a good look at me. Even Delia.

I’m toughening up just like Cherish told me to do.

The driver keeps the doors open for a minute, like
she’s expecting Cherish to trail behind as usual. I should tell her Cherish no longer lives here, but I let her wait until she realizes Cherish isn’t coming.

The bus is quiet except for loud giggling. Are Delia and Torey laughing at me literally behind my back? I don’t turn around. The bus driver has a picture of the Virgin Mary on her steering wheel. I say a Hail Mary to calm myself down.

“Hey, Calli—come tell me and Torey what happened!” Delia shouts after the bus driver drops us off at school. My supposed best friend’s concern seems so insincere that I pretend I don’t hear her as I walk away.

My eyes glance at the ground as I make my way across campus. I’ve never noticed all the papers and broken pencils before. No wonder Mr. Hatley made us go on a Waste Walk.

I don’t get too far before I see a worn pair of green and white All Stars. Dub’s. The jitteriness returns.

He’s staring at me when I look up. I attempt to smile. “Told you I looked bad.”

Dub doesn’t deny it. He wraps his arms around me the way he used to. My body melts into his and it seems so normal, so right. He leans in to kiss me.

I pull away. Not just because my mouth is a mess, but because it seems too normal, too right. We’re better than we were a couple of weeks ago, but I don’t want to rush things, be stupid like some of those reality television stars. Dub plays the rejection off by pressing his lips against my cheek instead. The kiss is so soft and tender that I’m willing to slide my hand into his as he walks me to French. Now this is something I can handle.

“Bonjour!”
Madame Mahoney says way too cheerfully as I walk into her class.

“Yeah.
Bonjour.
” I can feel her staring at me as I take my seat. Everyone has been staring at me all morning. Even a few teachers standing out in the hall eyed me suspiciously.

Madame Mahoney hands my quiz back with a C and tells me that my overall grade in the class is the same. Even with the extra credit.
French manicure.
But a C really isn’t that big of a deal compared to everything else that’s going on. Last semester I would’ve freaked out.

The bell rings and my French teacher blathers so much that my mind wanders. Does Cherish go to a school at the juvenile center? Mom said Cherish’s poor learning skills were because she’d been neglected as a little girl and had moved around so much. And now she’s gone again—locked up this time.

After class Delia meets me at my locker before Dub gets there. The fresh paint on the locker makes it look as out of place as I feel. Delia’s eyes are huge with curiosity and she pulls at a long, springy curl. “Torey said something about cops swarming your place. Is it true that Cherish tried to stab you while you were sleeping?”

I can’t believe she’s standing here asking me this! “Do you actually care, or are you just interested in impressing Torey with the gossip?”

Delia lets go of her curl, and it bounces back into place. “Sorry I asked.”

I leave without saying anything else, without waiting for Dub. The hallway seems narrower than usual.
More crowded. A girl stares at me and then turns to her friend to whisper something. I overhear her say something about “that lesbian girl,” and a senior points at me. I swallow hard to get rid of a scratchy sensation, but it doesn’t go away. I should’ve waited for Dub and I shouldn’t have been so sensitive with Delia. I keep going, taking slow, deep breaths.

Gunner bumps into me right as I walk into biology. When he turns around and opens his mouth, I think he’s about to apologize. What he says is no apology. “Whoa—how did you manage to escape from the butcher?” He laughs like this cow reference is hilarious. A few of my classmates laugh too.

My stomach clenches and my lungs tighten. Why didn’t I listen to Mom about not rushing back? I want to be home more than anything right now. It’s all too much.

I start walking out of the classroom as the tardy bell rings. I feel bad for leaving Dub hanging, but I’ll explain things later. He should understand.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Hatley asks.

“The nurse. I’m not feeling well.”

He says to hold on and he’ll write me a pass, but I don’t wait. The hallway is empty and less panic inducing. The walk to the nurse’s office isn’t long. Mrs. Cunningham rarely sends people home, so I start thinking of everything Ambulance Guy warned Mom about to sound convincing.

“Hi, honey,” Mrs. Cunningham says when I walk into her office. “Take a seat. What can I do for you?”

I sit on the padded bed near a little freezer full
of medicines and frozen sponges in plastic bags for bumps and bruises. “I, uh, hit my head on Monday and I’m not feeling, uh, well.”

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Cunningham asks, filling out some form. For a nurse, she doesn’t look healthy. Her fingers are so thick that she can barely write.

I make sure to talk slowly. “My head hurts and I’m sleepy.” I act spaced out by glaring at an American Cancer Society poster promoting healthy eating. “I’m feeling confused and would feel much better at home.”

Mrs. Cunningham scrunches her eyebrows. “How are you feeling confused?”

“I wasn’t sure where I was after first period.” I can tell by how fast she’s writing that she believes me, that I’m definitely going home. My shoulders relax and I quit staring at the poster.

“Oh, goodness,” she says. “Did you hurt your mouth when you hurt your head?”

“I think so.”

“Goodness, goodness, goodness. Who should I call?”

“Liz.” I give her the phone number. It worked! I’m going home.

She dials Liz’s number and taps her long fingernails against her desk. “This is Mrs. Cunningham, and Calli’s in the nurse’s office right now. I’m concerned she might have head injury complications.”

Ugh—I finally did a good job lying, but the way she puts it makes it seem like I lied too well. I should’ve just said I have a terrible headache, but she never lets anyone go home for a headache. Cramps either for that matter.

“Yes,” Mrs. Cunningham continues. She nods her
head in agreement to something I’m not aware of. “That’s what I suggest.” I can’t overhear anything Liz is saying.

“Thanks,” I say slowly after she hangs up. “Am I going home?”

“Your mom is on her way to take you to the emergency room.”

“I might’ve exaggerated my symptoms,” I say, talking much quicker, but it’s clear Mrs. Cunningham isn’t going to change her mind.

LIZ ISN’T THE ONE who picks me up. Mom does. So much for not worrying her.

“Is Liz okay?” I ask when my mother signs me out of the office.

“She’s fine, but she has a bunch of meetings. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” Mom helps me into the car. “I wouldn’t have been upset. You know that, right?”

“Of course. I was having a rough day, but I don’t need to go to the ER,” I say on the verge of confessing more. Then I think about how Liz said Mom hasn’t been feeling well.

“Well, Mrs. Cunningham was concerned, and I am too. You don’t have an option.”

How did I mess things up this bad?

St. David’s emergency room reeks of harsh cleaning chemicals. After checking in, a nurse tells us to take a seat in the waiting room. We sit near an elderly lady
in a wheelchair who coughs uncontrollably. I cover my mouth with my hand so I don’t catch what she has.

She needs to be at the ER. Not me.

The old lady gets wheeled back. I wait, wait, wait. By the time the nurse calls “Gilbeaux,” I really do have a headache. Pounding. Throbbing. Maybe it isn’t a bad idea to have my head examined.

Some skinny doctor looks me over and asks me to tell her everything that’s happened and asks me those silly questions Ambulance Guy asked and makes me touch my fingers to the tip of my nose. She gets close to my face and examines my pupils. Her breath smells like sausage.

“To be on the safe side, I’m going to order a CT scan,” Dr. Sausage Breath tells Mom.

“Are you sure I need it?”

“Calli, please just do what the doctor says.” The rash on Mom’s face is back. That malaria medicine isn’t helping.

I don’t argue with Mom, and I don’t argue with Dr. Sausage Breath. I begin to shake when a nurse wheels me off in a wheelchair like the one the old coughing lady was sitting in. I’d like to wipe it down with Mom’s alcohol wipes or a whole bucket of vinegar.

“I love you,” Mom says, walking us out.

I wish she could stay with me. “I love you too.”

The nurse wheels me down a few hallways to a dark area where some older guy smacking his gum makes me lie on a table in front of this big white machine.

“Do you need a blanket? Looks like you’ve got the chills,” the gum smacker says, placing a pillow underneath my neck.

“No.” I’m thinking of how Cherish had been so abused that she ended up at the hospital and probably had to have similar tests. She had to have felt entirely worse than I’m feeling now.

I want to be home now more than ever. I should’ve stayed at school. I should’ve told Gunner off. I should’ve waited for Dub. I should’ve done everything differently.

Gum Smacker explains the procedure. I cringe as he pokes an IV into my vein and injects some medicine. My brain is going to glow like a jack-o’-lantern.

The table moves into a tunnel that spins around and the doctor takes pictures of the insides of my head. The whole room feels like it’s moving.

“Hold your breath,” he says into a microphone a couple of times. I hold my breath for a few seconds even after he tells me I can breathe again. Other than the needle and the glowing brain aspect, the scan isn’t too bad, and I’m finally wheeled back to the room where Mom’s waiting.

She looks ashen, like she’s about to either throw up or pass out. “You okay?”

“My chest,” she whispers. “Pain in my left arm.”

I jump out of the chair and the nurse rushes over to Mom, checking her pulse like Ambulance Guy checked mine. “Code Blue!” the nurse yells. “Code Blue!”

MY LUNGS FEEL LIKE THEY’VE QUIT WORKING as a team of doctors and nurses rushes in. Mom lies down on the ER bed. They put a mask over her face. A nurse escorts me out of the miniscule room.

I don’t want to leave my mother, but I need to call Liz. I pray as I head to the nurse’s station.
Be okay, Mom. God, please tell me she’s going to be okay.

The nurse lets me use her phone. As soon as Liz picks up, I manage to say, “Mom’s really sick. Come to St. David’s Hospital. Now.”

It seems like an eternity before Liz gets to the emergency room and finds us. Her whole body droops as she asks, “How’s she doing?” Mom’s sleeping with her mouth slightly open and she’s wired up to a heart monitor, oxygen machine, and IV pole pumping several different kinds of liquid into her veins.

“Better now. The medicine’s making her sleepy.”

Liz hugs me. I can feel her nerves vibrating.

“Are you Brandi Clovis’s family?” Dr. Sausage Breath asks Liz when she returns a while later to check on Mom.

Liz shakes the doctor’s hand but leaves the question unanswered. Places like hospitals have weird rules about these sorts of family-only things.

“Yes,” I answer for Liz. It’s the truth. We’re not blood related, but she’s more than my mom’s partner. She’s a better parent than my own flesh-and-blood father.

“Brandi’s symptoms mirrored that of a heart attack,” Dr. Sausage Breath explains. “But she has a condition known as pericarditis. The sac around the heart is infected. Some medication should help relieve the pain and inflammation. Antibiotics will take care of the infection.”