Authors: Pat White
Skipping class is really not good for me right now. I haven’t even done yesterday’s homework thanks to last night’s near brain disaster.
“Dr. Sanders will be with you in a minute.” The nurse shut the door to the examining room.
“Magazine?” Mom offered.
“No, thanks.”
Mom and I wait patiently in the sterile white examining room. Dad had an early meeting and couldn’t come with us. I didn’t expect him to. Last night only made him more insane. I accused them of overreacting, especially Mom, who kept checking on me all night long. I pretended to be asleep, but a few times I heard the door open, sensed her sneak to my bed, and felt her touch my forehead. Why she thought I’d get a fever is a mystery.
Also a mystery, what exactly happened last night in the street?
My recall is fuzzy. I remember the blinding lights burning into my chest, about to vaporize me when I was shoved out of the way.
Vaporize me? Yep, I’ve really lost it. I just wish I could remember.
Taylor says J.D. purposely slammed into me on his skateboard. Dad believed that story and wanted to press charges, but the nurse at the scene said J.D. shoved me out of the way of oncoming traffic.
If he hadn’t, I would have been road kill. Again.
It’s a pretty good bet that another crack to the skull would have been my last. The brain can only take so much.
I can’t help but wonder…why would J.D. care if I got whacked by another car? He doesn’t care about anything but partying and staying out of jail. Wait a sec, I get it: I’m his community service project, his ticket out of probation and the way to clear his record.
Yet last night when I regained consciousness his arms were protectively locked around my body. I inhaled his woodsy scent and felt, I don’t know…safe?
I
am
losing my mind. For real.
A brisk knock snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Ladies.” Dr. Sanders joins us, eyeing a folder in his hand. He isn’t wearing his usual, charming smile. Crap. Did he spot something on the C-T scan?
“Catherine, I see you made a trip to the ER?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need to palpate the shunt to make sure there’s been no damage.”
He washes and dries his hands. Tension fills the room. Not making eye contact, he touches my scalp, my neck. I hold my breath.
“I’ll order another C-T scan for comparison.” He sits on a stool by the window and reviews my file.
Seconds feel like hours. Did he feel something? Did I damage the shunt?
And I think I’m getting back on Cheer when I can’t even cross the street without being run over?
Dr. Sanders finally looks up. His eyes are dark and serious. “I’m going to have to recommend you wear a helmet.”
“What?” My heart plummets. Wear a helmet at school? I’ll look like a dork, a mental patient. I can see it now: look at the alien-headed cheerleader! Freak.
He slaps the folder on the table. “I wouldn’t be a responsible doctor if I didn’t recommend you wear one, twenty-four seven.”
“But, Dr. Sanders—”
“There’s no discussion about this,” he raises his voice.
He’s starting to scare me. Mom must sense it because she places a hand on my shoulder. I barely feel it. No burn, no comfort. My mind is swimming in panic.
“Doctor, this was not her fault,” Mom defends.
“She was walking in the street again,” he said.
“She was crossing the street. She wasn’t walking in—”
“What is the matter with these kids?” he interrupts Mom, then glares at me. “The streets are designed for cars, young lady, not self-absorbed teenagers who tempt fate by stepping in front of a moving vehicle.”
I study my fingers in my lap. This guy is being a class “A” prick.
“Excuse me, doctor, but—”
“I’ll send in my assistant,” he says, cutting off Mom. Without looking at us he leaves the room as if I disgust him and he can’t stand to be around me.
“What on earth…” Mom glances at me. “You okay?”
“What did he mean about me walking in the street…again?”
Mom doesn’t answer. She glances at my Celtic knot ring. She brushes her thumb across it and a sad smile eases across her lips. “I thought you’d lost this.”
“Mom? Please?”
“I don’t know why we have to dredge all that up.”
“Answer me!”
Still studying my ring, she sighs. “J.D. Pratt said you were walking in the middle of the street when he turned the corner and hit you.”
“Why would I be in the middle of the street?”
“That’s just it, you wouldn’t. That boy was making up a story to stay out of jail.”
A piece of memory flashes across my mind. Listening to Maroon 5’s “Love Somebody” on my iPod, completely rocking out…
“I did this to myself,” I whisper. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Don’t talk like that,” Mom says. “If he wasn’t speeding around the corner he could have stopped in time.”
A firm knock makes me gasp. I can’t handle another lecture from Dr. Sanders. I’m raw, crushed by the truth that everyone’s been keeping from me.
The doctor’s assistant, Lisa, comes into the office. “Mrs. Westfield, Catherine.”
“Hi, Lisa,” Mom greets.
I stare at the vinyl floor. Devastated. Ashamed.
Lisa shuts the door. “Catherine, Dr. Sanders wanted me to apologize if he was short with you. It’s been a bad week. His wife and teenage daughter were in a car accident.”
I glance up. “Are they okay?”
“They’re in the hospital. His wife was pretty banged up. His daughter wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. Anyway, he wanted me to talk to you about getting a helmet.”
“I won’t wear it,” I blurt out.
“Catherine,” Mom hushes.
Lisa shares a sympathetic smile. “I understand how you feel, Catherine, but try to see where we’re coming from. It’s our job to help you recover and protect that fragile head of yours.”
I don’t want to be fragile. I want to be tough and confident.
And normal. My “old normal.”
“Here’s the orthopedic office number to get fitted for a helmet.” She hands Mom a card. “Were there any other concerns today?”
“Light sensitivity.” I hope dark sunglasses will stop my HULU’s. Maybe if I can’t see too clearly into people’s eyes I can avoid the visions. Or at least they won’t notice me staring at their noses instead of their eyes.
“No other vision problems?” Lisa asks.
Other than the dreaded HULU’s?
“Not really,” I answer.
“You can see the blackboard?”
“Yes.”
“Understanding words on the page isn’t a struggle?”
“Nope.” Especially when J.D. draws pictures in the margins.
“Okay, here.” Lisa hands me a slip of paper. “These brands of sunglasses carry a line with extra protection against fluorescent lights. Is it mostly the fluorescents or sunlight or…?”
“Kind of all of it.”
Mom looks at me with a concerned frown. “Catherine, you didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You want to protect Mom. That’s sweet,” Lisa smiles, “Just remember we can’t help you if we don’t know what’s going on.”
“Okay.”
“Carlisle’s Vision and Optics in Bellevue carries most of these brands. They have some pretty cute styles so you can make this a fashion statement.”
“As opposed to the helmet?” I mutter, folding the piece of paper.
“Catherine?” Lisa says.
I glance up for a second then refocus on the notepaper.
“We want you to live a long and happy life,” Lisa says. “We’re not trying to torture you.”
I shrug. “I know.”
“I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt last night.” She reaches out and we shake hands. She always treats me with respect, like I’m an adult, not a…what did Dr. Sanders call me? A self-absorbed teenager.
“Mrs. Westfield, call me if you have any questions.”
“Thanks.”
With a smile Lisa leaves the examining room.
“How about girls’ day out?” Mom offers. “Lunch at Gilberts on Main?”
I shift off the examining table. “I’d really like to get back to school.”
Mom looks disappointed. “Oh, okay, sure.”
“It’s just that I don’t want to fall behind.”
Mom hugs me and I hold my breath. Why is it whenever people touch me I get weirded out?
Well, that isn’t completely true. There is one person whose touch does just the opposite. It calms me, grounds me.
I can’t think about him right now. I need to get sunglasses, stop the hallucinations and get back on track at school.
Mom breaks the hug and smiles. “You want to do well in school. It’s so good to have you back, Sweetie.”
“It’s good to be back.” Yes, sir, I’m doing a damned fine job of faking it.
J.D. had been pretty proud of himself last night. He’d iced his back, finished his homework and managed to stay out of Dad’s way.
It wasn’t hard. The old man had staggered into the house at ten, slogged his way up to his bedroom and slammed the door.
An easy night in the Pratt house. Billy was safe in his room and J.D. felt good about having saved the Princess from another ten rounds with a car.
With his feet propped on the window ledge, he’d turned the lights off in his bedroom around nine and watched for the Westfield family to pull into the driveway. By ten thirty he was going crazy and called the hospital. Catherine hadn’t been admitted. A good sign.
Unless she’d been transferred to another hospital that specialized in brain trauma.
Doubt taunted him. Maybe he hadn’t done such a great job of protecting her. It all happened so fast. What if he’d squeezed too hard to shield her from the pavement and hurt her somehow?
He pulled out his sketchbook and scribbled mindless stuff for a few hours to calm down. Around eleven thirty the slam of a car door drew his attention outside. He spied through his bedroom drapes. The Westfield family had returned home.
Catherine looked okay as she walked up their driveway to the front door. Her mom walked beside her, asking her a question and sliding her arm around Catherine’s shoulder. Catherine wrapped her arms around her stomach and shrugged.
Her father walked behind them, his shoulders hunched in a defeated posture. Then he stopped, turned and glared at J.D.’s window. He couldn’t see J.D., but J.D. felt the hatred spew from the man’s eyes.
J.D. stepped away from the window and pressed his back to the wall. Catherine was okay. That’s all that mattered. He couldn’t let her die like that, run down by her friend because…
Because her brain injury prevented her from reacting fast enough to the threat of an oncoming car.
His fault. Again.
Just like the accident.
Just like Mom leaving.
J.D. stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed. But the nightmare haunted him, repeating itself every time he drifted off…
Catherine standing in the street. Frozen.
Screaming.
The car slamming into her just as J.D. reached out…
J.D. hit by the car, flying through the air and landing in a shallow grave. Catherine and her posse standing above him, laughing and shoveling dirt on his head as he struggled to climb out.
By five in the morning he’d given up on sleep. He got up and drew instead, this time a lush forest etched itself onto the page.
Peaceful. Perfect. Isolated.
He headed out at six fifteen, earlier than usual. He convinced himself he wanted to hang out in Coop’s room before class, but deep down he wanted to be there when Catherine arrived so he could talk to her. Make sure everything was okay.
Idiot. She’s not going to talk to you
.
As he climbed the steps to school it was obvious Catherine’s friends had done major damage control on Facebook last night. Popular girls, who normally didn’t acknowledge his existence, shot him dirty looks as he passed. Even his stoner acquaintances kept their distance.
J.D. was a marked man.
What’s that saying, again? No good deed goes unpunished?
With tunnel vision he headed to Algebra, ignoring the sneers, whispers and outright insults as kids passed him.
Just like home.
Keep your head down, your eyes averted. Stay in your own zone and you won’t get hurt. If you’re lucky.
Someone whacked him in the shoulder and he stumbled forward. So much for that theory.
J.D. kept walking. It didn’t matter who it was.
Firm hands grabbed his jacket and jerked him around. Greg Hoffman, Catherine’s macho protector.
“You ever hear that expression, ‘Pick on someone your own size’?” Hoffman said.
“I’ve heard it.”
“Then pick me next time you want to run someone down on your skateboard.”
With a taunting smile, J.D. said, “Count on it.”
“All right, asshole.” Greg handed his backpack to another brainless jock. “Let’s do it.”
“Dude, I am not going to fight you in school,” J.D. said.
“Coward.”
J.D. had been called that so many times by the old man the word had no effect on him.
“After school, after football practice, whatever,” J.D. said. “You pick.” He needed to get to class and take notes for the Princess; not spend the morning in the principal’s office.
As J.D. turned Greg grabbed his jacket and yanked hard, hurling him against the lockers. The brainless jock stepped closer, his buddies closing ranks.
Didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how this was going to end: J.D. in detention for starting a fight.
“Fight me now.” Hoffman’s eyes were glowing like Dad’s when he’d gone too long without a drink.
“I’d rather not be expelled today, thanks. How about tomorrow?”
Greg grabbed J.D.’s shoulders and slammed him against the lockers again. He didn’t fight it, didn’t resist. It wouldn’t do him any good. J.D. was outnumbered. Fighting back would only get Greg more pumped. J.D. knew how bullies thought.
Greg fisted his hand. He wasn’t dumb enough to hit J.D. in the jaw, was he? Nah, it wasn’t worth the damage to his hand. Which meant the jock would strike lower.
Hell, more rib abuse.
“Hoffman!” Coach Snyder yelled.
Since Greg was practically breathing fire J.D. didn’t think anyone could stop him. Coach Snyder, Coop right beside him, marched up to Greg and yanked him off of J.D.