Under My Skin (5 page)

“The lift is out,” I say.

“Lift?”

“Elevator.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“I’m English.”

He chuckles. “No problem. We’ll get you out. Roll on your side.” He places a backboard next to me and angles it, ready to wedge it under me.

“I can get on the gurney myself.”

“Stubborn one, eh?”

With a resigned sigh, I roll to my side so he can put the backboard in place. Then I cross my arms and rest my hands on my stomach so the team can scoot me on the gurney.

“You’re a pro,” the EMT says.

“I’ve done this before.” I scan the room while he and his partner connect the safety straps. It’s empty. Ms. Engels must’ve cleared the students out while I was unconscious. What a sight I must’ve been, sprawled on the floor, pale and sweaty.

Now that the EMTs are jostling me around, a dull throbbing in my head escalates to a sharp drumming in time with my heartbeat.

“My head hurts,” I grumble.

“Bet it does. You whacked your skull on the ground when you passed out.” Ms. Engels tucks a loose strand into her bun. Her hands shake. “I’ve never seen anyone go down that fast. I wished you’d have said something.” She glances at Principal Shepherd, then gives me a small smile.
Chin up, you’ll be fine
, it says. Too bad the wideness of her eyes says something else.

The entire class crowds the hallway. Despite Ms. Engels and Principal Shepherd urging them to move toward the opposite end of the hall, they linger, gazes locked on me. I want to scream at them to stop staring, but I’d just look like a lunatic.

The EMTs load me on the ambulance. We arrive at the hospital ten minutes later. Inside, a nurse is waiting to direct us to an exam room. A perk about having heart condition: you get to jump to the front of the line, no waiting.

Mum’s at the nurse’s station. I’d like to ask her how she beat an ambulance. She’s bundled up in a thick, puffy coat, gloves, and a scarf. She bounces from one foot to the other, her knee-high boots clicking with each step. “
Adam
.”

“Mum.” I sound weaker than I like.

She rushes to my side and clamps a hand over mine. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

I give her the run down while the nurse wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm and an aide fixes an ID bracelet around my wrist—the broken lift, taking the stairs, and passing out in class. Mum’s face collapses with every word.

“You shouldn’t have taken the stairs, especially after what happened this weekend.” She brushes my hair with her fingers like she did this morning. With each swipe, layers of stress peeled off her face until she returns to the serene, Buddha-esque complacency she wears during a crisis.

“I had to get to class.”

“You should’ve gone to the main office and explained the situation to the Principal, or even the school nurse. They’d have excused you.”

It’s a rational, logical solution. I retreat into silence while the nurse interviews Mum for my medical history and again for the ER doctor. The doctor tries to talk to me, but Mum interrupts if I don’t answer quickly or thoroughly enough. The phlebotomist takes blood work, a tech hooks me up to an EKG machine, and even a neurologist does her thing checking reflexes and whatever, all thanks to me hitting my noggin.

After they’re all done, Mum says, “I’m going to step outside and call your father to let him know what’s going on.”

“Tell him not to come.”

Her brow furrows. “Why not?”

“There’s nothing for him to do here.”

She sighs. “Oh, alright. I’ll talk him into staying at work. For now.”

An hour later, the surgeon, Dr. Jervis, shows up. He wouldn’t be here if this was some routine, unimportant jerkiness of my heart. Jervis carries a clipboard all official-like and clears his throat. His bald head shines in the fluorescent light.

Mum rises from the plastic chair in the corner—about two feet away—and grips my hand. I just stare at my feet.

Dr. Jervis walks to the opposite side of my bed and says, “Your heart is in an unstable rhythm and your cardiac enzymes are elevated. It may have been from the extra stress this morning or it could be a continued deterioration of your condition. At this point, you’re not stable enough to go home so I’m recommending you be admitted for continuous cardiac monitoring. We’ll connect you to telemetry and have you moved to the cardiac floor.”

The words tunnel into my ears, down my throat, and knot around my heart. I can’t stay here, tethered to wires and IVs, surrounded by sterile walls and the bitter antiseptic smell. Nope. Nada. No way. I breathe faster, shaking my head. “I’m going home.”

He scratches his cheek with the end of his pen. “I’m sorry, but that’s not an option right now.”

“I can wear the monitor thingy at home.”

Dr. Jervis scribbles something on his papers. “The cardiac nurses are better trained in managing your condition, and I think you’re ill enough now to be prioritized on the list.”

“You say it like it’s a good thing.”

“It is. It’s one step closer to getting better.”

One step closer to death, more like
. “How long am I going to be here?” I ask.

He clicks his pen. “It’s hard to say.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“
Adam
.” Mom clamps a hand over my wrist.

“It depends on when a donor comes up. I know it’s hard. With any luck, it’ll be over soon.” Dr. Jervis gives a quick nod.

A steady ringing grows in my ears. Dr. Shaw has been so diligent in assessing my thoughts about death and ensuring I’m not suicidal. Little did she know, my heart was making the decision on its own, regardless of anyone’s input—not Mum’s, not Dr. Shaw’s, and not mine.

“The good news is, with you in the hospital we’ll be able to get you directly to the OR when a heart is available.” Dr. Jervis’s upbeat tone frays my nerves. Slicing and dicing is what a surgeon lives for. Dr. Frankenstein had the same optimism … until he created his demise in the form of a reanimated corpse.

Mum shakes the doctor’s hand with both of hers. “Oh, that is good news. Thank you, doctor.”

I grit my teeth. Being at the top of the list means two things: 1) There’s no going back from here, and 2) I get first dibs on a heart, but that’s only if I stay alive long enough for a matching donor to come along.

Darby

The secretary frowns when I walk into the office. She has the phone pressed to her ear. Her lipstick travels well past the edges of her lips. “An ambulance? For what?” she says to the caller. Her voice is rough from years of smoking. Her face looks like used tissue paper—thin, wrinkled, and ready to tear at the slightest touch. White dots of spit cling to both corners of her mouth. If I painted a picture of her face, I’d use a black Sharpie for the lines and mix sand in taupe paint to create texture for her skin.

A high-pitched yelling spurts out of the receiver.

The secretary holds the phone away from her ear. “Ms. Engels, calm down. I’ll call 911.” She switches phone lines, fingers flying over the buttons in a blur. Her eyes dart to me while the line rings.

“Mr. Watkins sent me here.” I keep it short and sweet.

She points to a bench. “Sit there.”

I sit and drop my backpack to the floor. “How long do I have to wait?”

Ignoring me, she rattles off information into the phone. Some kid collapsed in his homeroom class. As soon as she finishes giving the school’s address, she calls Principal Shepherd. “I called an ambulance for a student … and Darby Fox is here.”

Shepherd pops out of the hallway before the secretary has time to set the phone down. She catches sight of me and says, “Oh, Darby. There’s an emergency. You’ll have to wait.”

I stand. “I can come back later.”

“Don’t you dare go anywhere.” She points a finger at me.

“If someone’s dying, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“Sit. Down.”

Half an hour and a bustle of EMTs, gurneys, and gawkers later, I follow Shepherd into her office. I know this monotone room well. It’s all order and ninety degree angles. Like her tan suit, the Oriental rug has boring muted colors. Two streamlined leather chairs face the desk squarely. The informational pamphlets about drugs and safe sex are organized just so on the table between the chairs.

On her spotless desk sits my school file centered perfectly on her ink blotter. It’s thick and frayed at the edges from so much use.

Shepherd sits in a high-backed leather chair, her spine as straight as the rest of the room. Her hair is a bit out of place. It’s the only sign she’s been ruffled by what happened.

She rests her gaze on me. “Miss Fox. What brings you here today?”

“Is that kid all right?”

“He’s fine. No need to worry. Please answer my question.”

The woman is impossible to distract, even when one of her students gets hauled off in an ambulance.

I shrug. “Stephanie Veene called me a slut.”

Principal Shepherd tents her fingers. “And … ?”

“If Mr. Watkins would’ve listened, she’d be sitting in this seat right now.” I slouch to offset her stiffness and focus on the window behind her head. The blinds are open. Sunlight glints off the windshields of the parked cars outside, creating a halo around Principal Shepherd’s head. Someone as goody-goody, follow-all-the-rules as her would never understand a screw up like me.

“Perhaps I should call them both in.”

“Stephanie will just talk her way out of it like usual and Watkins will back her up.”

“There are two sides to every story.” She swivels in her chair a couple inches, reaches for the blind wand and twists it, shutting out the glare. “And Mr. Watkins had to make a judgment call.”

“His
judgment
is wrong.”

“How so?”

I bite my tongue, kicking myself for blabbing. Daniel would say I have to pick my battles. I do. Every single one.

“Hmm?” Shepherd doesn’t let her question slide.

“He completely ignored what Stephanie did.”

“You’re the one who ended up here and she didn’t.”

“Exactly! Totally unfair.”

She nods, but her lips purse a bit. “I still haven’t heard your role in the incident.”

“I defended myself.”

“What did you do?”

“I called her a bitch.”

“And … ?”

“There’s no
and
.”

She purses her lips. “You can’t fight back.”

My leg jitters, like my thoughts. “Am I just supposed to let her get away with it?”

“The reality of your situation, Darby, is that you keep getting into altercations with other students and—”

“
She
started it.”

“
And
this behavior cannot be tolerated.” Shepherd opens my file and fingers through the layers of pages, each one neatly cataloguing every misstep I’ve made since I set foot in this school. A three inch stack of evidence proving I’m a liar.

I pick some paint on my jeans with a fingernail. “All I did was call her on her crap.”

She arches a brow. I wonder if she’s ever had a wild side. It’s doubtful. “You can’t keep doing this, Darby.”

“I had no other choice.”

“There’s always another choice.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Explain it so I can.” She continues to flip through my file, shuffling detention slips, letters to my parents, suspension orders.

“She wouldn’t have stopped.”

“Stephanie has a less than desirable habit of provoking others.”

I’m stunned into silence. My jaw drops and everything.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” Her dark eyes spark with what I guess is curiosity. Maybe she really wants to know what I’m thinking.

Or she could be baiting me.

I twist a lock of hair around my finger until I can feel my pulse. “Dunno.”

She sighs. I bet she’s tired from the sheer magnitude of how many times we’ve had this conversation, whether it’s about a shouting match I’ve had with another student, or the number of classes I’ve skipped during the week, or the one time I egged a teacher’s car. Repeat: One. Time. “Regardless, the actions of others should not dictate our own.”

I can’t suppress rolling my eyes. “How would you handle someone calling you a slut?”

“I’m sure it was hurtful, but returning hurt for hurt doesn’t help.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Whatever.”

She props her elbows on the desk. “I’ll let you off with a warning today, but I will be sending an email to your parents.”

I stand. “Fine.”

She rises from her chair. “Darby, I wish you’d give up this attitude. You’re a bright girl and have a lot of potential. If you put as much energy into your art as you do getting into trouble, you’d go far.”

“Uh-huh.” I head toward to the door. She has no idea how much energy I put into painting. I give my whole soul to it. Mostly every waking moment is taken up with it. People have no idea. They just see bad-girl Darby who’s too stupid to get over her dyslexia.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

She’s not the only one.

* * *

After school, I take Daniel’s advice and ride the bus home. I don’t want to take the chance he’s heard about my trip to the Principal’s office. Sometimes his lectures are worse than Mom and Dad’s.

As soon as I arrive home, I set up a study session on the kitchen island, creating an altar made up of a notebook, my English textbook, a couple of pens, and a dictionary. All so Mom can see that I really am trying. I need to earn brownie points any way I can to buffer against Shepherd’s email.

At first, I pretend the words have some meaning that I can understand. Unfortunately, the letters scramble almost immediately and I’m left staring blankly at the page, mind looping the crap day like a
gif
from Hell.

My eyes bug out at the tumbling letters and words. I blink a few times, then rake my gaze across the room to clear my mind. Pale late afternoon light filters in through the breakfast nook’s bay window. It matches the dove gray cabinets and stainless steel appliances. I imagine what paints I’d need to create the exact same colors onto a canvas.

The front door creaks open. It slams shut a second later. Mom’s measured steps make their way from the foyer to the kitchen. She drops her purse on the counter next to me and shrugs out of her pea coat. “Oh, wasn’t expecting anyone to be home.”