Swoon at Your Own Risk (17 page)

Xander walks back to me a few minutes later with a stack of magazines. "Okay, so the selection is quite limited. There's a
People
magazine from ... ooh, last year.
Cosmopolitan,
but it looks like it's been heavily censored." He shows me the ripped-up magazine. "
Ladies' Home Journal, Road & Track, Field & Stream—
"

"Too many bad associations."

A smile flickers across his face. "Really? You have bad associations with trout?"

"More than one." I grab the magazine. "But I am going fishing with my dad next month, so..." Our fingers brush.

"Oh, is that right?" Xander grins. "I like thinking about you hooking—"

"Don't." My body feels fizzy, even though it's probably just blood loss.

"Don't what?" He flashes his eyebrows at me in a way that momentarily makes me forget my pain.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Okay." He bites his lower lip to squelch another smile.
"I'll sit over here, and you can read up on your fly-fishing techniques."

"I use bait."

"I'm sure you do."

Now I'm smiling. "Quit making it sound dirty."

"I'm not saying anything." He does that thing with his eyebrows again. "I can't help what you're thinking."

I quickly page through the magazine. "I'm thinking of a Slow-Poke jig." I hold up the photo of the lure on page 119.

"And you're accusing me of talking dirty."

I reach over to whack him on the knee with the magazine, but moving my leg makes me wince with pain. "Ooh." More blood seeps through the napkins, dribbles down my leg. Tears spring to my eyes. I tell myself that it's 100 percent caused by the pain, but I'm also feeling bad that Dad didn't even want to
talk
to me on the phone and that Mom is having too much fun hanging out, munching on cheese fries, with Jane and Rowdy. I could call Grandma, but she's probably whispering soapy nothings to Dishwasher Dude.

Xander jumps up and runs over to the receptionist, and I half expect to hear him yell about needing a doctor in some dramatic way like in the movies. Instead he starts flirting! The girl dissolves into smiles and giggles. And I'm thinking,
Great
,
not only have my parents abandoned me, the guy who's supposed to be keeping me company wants to score a date with a most definitely out-of-high-schoolER receptionist.
I look down at the magazine, but my eyes have trouble focusing through the tears pooling in my eyes. From the pain. Only the pain. I look up to see Xander strutting toward me, a triumphant look on his face.

"You're up next."

"What?" I'm completely confused, not sure what he's talking about.

"I told her that you were bleeding quite a bit, so she moved you up on the schedule." He sits down next to me, leans over, and whispers, "Ahead of the broken arm, even." He tilts his head. "What's wrong?"

"I thought you were—" Suddenly I'm too embarrassed to say anything about flirting. "I mean, I thought I'd have to wait longer."

"Naw. I know how to work the system." He leans back, stretching his legs out wide. "Kyra has a lot of asthma attacks, so I've spent my share of time sitting here, and I've learned that you get further with sweet talk than screaming. My sister can be quite the screamer, so I'm used to smoothing things over." He nudges me with his elbow. "Thanks for not screaming."

"Yeah, okay. I guess." I go back to flipping through my magazine, but I can't concentrate, what with the pain, the
close proximity of Xander's arm next to mine. Every now and then his bare skin brushes mine. Feels warm.

"So, why do you help bring Kyra to the ER?"

"My sister usually wants someone to tag along." Xander looks at me all seriously. "It's really a bitch being a single mom. So I try to help out when I can. Watch the kids. Keep her company. Let her have some kind of life."

"That's nice of you." Just like this is nice of him. Waiting with me. Just when I'm analyzing his potential character flaws—he's obviously a complete doormat like I am, and that's the last kind of person I need to hang out with—a nurse wearing purple scrubs pops out with a clipboard. "Polly Marie Martin."

"That's us!" Xander stands, holding his hand out to me. I hesitate. But he grabs my hand, using his other hand to support my back as I stand. The pain in my leg wallops me.

"Easy," he whispers. "I've got you."

And he's so gentle, so kind. A tearful sigh shudders through me.
Suck it up
!

"What did the nurse say when the vampire asked if he needed stitches?" I ask. "Oh, I'm positive. Get it?" I think I've mixed up the joke because he doesn't even smile.

He says, "It's okay. I'll stay with you. You're going to be just fine."

The way he's reading my mind truly freaks me out.

The nurse guides me to a small area separated by a thin curtain. "Can you get those shorts off?" she asks. "The doctor will want to see the entire scope of the injury."

"I'm not about to—"

"I won't look," Xander says.

"What kind of hospital is this? A burlesque show?"

The nurse glares at me as if I'm the one acting unreasonable. "Just slip the shorts off. I'm sure your boyfriend—"

"He's not my boyfriend. I don't have a boyfriend."

The nurse looks me up and down, assessing my mental stability. "Just get yourself into that hospital gown, okay?" She turns around and leaves. "The doctor will see you in a few minutes."

I stand there leaning against the narrow wheeled bed.

Xander takes a step back. "Look, I can leave."

"Thanks." I breathe through a wave of pain.

He steps behind the curtain, and I watch his tall shadow as I unzip my shorts. I'm reminded of the sound of his skateboard on the pavement and my ill-advised Xander-zipper fantasies. If only I had a concussion, then I'd be oblivious to this humiliation. And maybe
that
would be worth Dad tearing himself away from his girlfriend of the month to come see his
oldest daughter in the Emergency Room. I edge the fabric down my hips. That's when I get stuck. I can't move the stiff denim over my wound. Hurts too much. I attempt to hop on my good leg, but I lose my balance and crash to the floor.

"Polly!" Xander twists through the curtain, pulling me up from the floor. My shorts puddle around my ankles. I'm wearing pink Wednesday underwear. It's Friday. Not that it's my main concern in this situation, but still.

"Let me help you onto the gurney, okay?" He scoops me off my feet in that foolishly romantic, bride-and-groom-crossing-the-threshold way. He sets me down gently. My leg hurts so much, and without my shorts staunching the flow, my bleeding increases. A deep gash carves through my upper thigh.

I hear the doctor flip through my chart as he comes over. "Prepare a suture kit," he says to the nurse before shifting into friendly-doctor mode. "Well, what do we have here?" No one wants to hear that cheerful voice at midnight, especially when the hot neighbor guy has just seen you in your pink undies.

Xander steps away from me. "I'll wait outside the curtain."

I reach out for his arm. "Um, don't?"

"You sure?"

I nod my head yes. The air in the room feels so cold. And I'm hurting so bad.

The nurse brings a tray of shiny silver tools that look like they belong in a museum of medieval torture or something. The doctor probes my wound, squeezing it, watching blood spurt. I gasp.

"It's a deep one. You said you were"—he looks at my chart—"riding in a grocery cart? Do you know how you got cut?"

I'm biting my lip so hard that I can't answer. I shake my head.

Xander takes my hand. "Squeeze as hard as you want to."

I feel completely self-conscious as the doctor rinses my leg with an orange iodine solution. But then he starts in with the needles. One to numb me. One with antibiotics. One to protect me from tetanus. He lifts a long needle into the light. I squeak. And I squeeze Xander's hand so hard that I might break some of his bones, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he brushes the hair from my sweaty forehead.

"You're going to be okay." He kisses my forehead.

I can't stop the tears from coming. My lip quivers. Big fat drops slide from my eyes. The thing is: I'm not feeling anything physically. I'm numb. But for the first time all summer the rest of me is most definitely
not
numb. I'm feeling everything.

And that's when I feel myself slipping into the fuzzy dark edges in my vision.

Dear Miss Swoon:
My ex-husband is great about paying child support but not so great at actually supporting our child. It didn't used to matter when my daughter was little. But now she's started asking me why her daddy doesn't come to her school programs, etc.
—Needing More Support

Dear Needing:
Time to call in reinforcements. Families are born, but they can also be created. Find a new and improved male role model.
—Miss Swoon

So many stories in an ER. Did the stoic kid break his arm while trying to skateboard to impress other kids? (No, that was me.) Why does the man in the filthy, tattered coat drink so much? (Is it because of his father?) Why did her handgrip mine so hard? (Not pain. Is it her father? Probably not me)
—
X.C.

I roll over, whimpering, in bed, blinking into the too-bright sunlight. I'm feeling muscles I never studied in AP Bio. Gently I touch the bandage over my stitches.
Ooh.
The skin on my arm feels tight as a million little scabs form; I look like that guy who paints with the dots—what's-his-name, Seurat—has had his way with me. So, yeah, I guess last night
did
happen.

A strange rush of emotion twitters through me. Xander kissed me (on the forehead) and held my hand (out of pity). Xander also watched me bleed, cry, faint, and, um, wear my pink Wednesday panties on the wrong day of the week. Somehow, fixating on that detail feels safer than contemplating other details like his sitting with me for the three hours after I passed out. Even after Mom arrived.

Thinking = pain.

I inch my aching self out of bed and wander into the kitchen to find Grace and Grandma making Fourth of July pancakes: blueberries, strawberries, whipped cream.

"Hey, what do you know, something not on the Hamburger Heaven menu."

"Happy birthday, America!" Grace squeals.

I pick at the thick bandage on my leg. "Just because you throw a birthday party doesn't mean you're going to get presents, you know."

Grace sticks her tongue out at me. "Does so! Grandma already bought me a Webimal: the patriotic bear! I named her Betsy because I played Betsy Ross in our fourth grade program. And she made the first flag." She plops whipped cream on her pancakes.

"Maybe Grandma could buy me a clue."

Grandma swipes a finger through Grace's whipped cream and slurps it into her mouth. "You doing, okay, sweetheart? Heard you had a spill. Let me look at you." Grandma makes a
tsk-tsk
sound as she examines my arm. "How did you manage this?"

"Well, I gave up on my pathetic attempt at channeling my inner bad girl. I thought that hanging out with a bunch of geeks would be, you know, safe and innocent. But I still ended
up standing in front of Xander Cooper in my pink Wednesday undies. On a Friday."

Grace drops her fork.

"No big deal, Grace. The nurse made me do it. But promise me you'll never wear day-of-the-week underwear. It just complicates things."

She nods slowly. I'm completely warping the poor child.

"I'm sure he wasn't reading your underwear." Grandma grins. "Not with your tight little fanny."

"Yeah, I was real attractive bleeding all over the place."

"Maybe I should try the damsel-in-distress routine." Grandma puts a hand to her forehead. "Oh, dah-ling."

"I think you kind of did that already with the dishwasher," I say. "'Oh, I don't know a thang about washin' dishes,'" I imitate.

Grandma giggles. Very un-Swoon-like. "Some girls have all the luck. Hank's a cutie, but he's no skateboarding hunk."

I tear off a hunk—okay, wrong word—of pancake. "No one uses that word anymore."

"Your mom said he waited in the ER with you for three hours."

"It was only two hours and forty-seven minutes."

Grandma drops blueberries onto her pancake stack. "Honey, he is obviously smitten."

"He's just incredibly responsible. I'm sure he's got that do-gooder complex like Always Helping Out from last Tuesday's column."

Grandma smiles. "Maybe he's just a good boy?"

"You make him sound like a dog." I take a plate of pancakes to the table and flip through the paper to the Style section, purposely skipping the serious political news. Style is all about Fourth of July picnics.

"Hey, Grace. Dad called about the fireworks, right?"

She shakes her head. "I'm going with Amy. To the parade and the fireworks!"

"But Dad said—"

Mom walks in and, I swear, she's still got halo hair. She says, "I'm sure we'll find plenty of ways to keep you entertained. Maybe you can attempt to amputate your left arm tonight."

I'm not in the mood. "But Dad called, right?"

Grace shakes her head. I watch emotions flicker across Mom's face.

"I told him that I had to spend the day with you or I'd melt away." Mom makes a big show of melting into the floor.

Grace and Grandma laugh.

I can't even fake a smile. "But he didn't come to the ER. I haven't seen him in forty-three days."

"That's obsessively mathematical," Mom says. "Maybe I should hire you as my accountant?"

"You'd try to pay me in Hamburger Heaven leftovers."

"How did you know?"

Grace pops a strawberry into her mouth. "Dad sent me an e-mail with the cutest little puppies."

"Oh, send that one to me, Gracie Pie," Grandma says. "At least he's trying to stay in touch."

"You're saying I should feel all warm and fuzzy because he sent me and thirty-five other people a donation request for Triathlete Barbie's latest charity bike race?" My leg throbs.

Grandma laughs, sputtering coffee onto her robe. "She does look like a Barbie!"

"They all do," Mom and I say at the same time.