“She’s lying!”
“If nobody’s bleeding, I don’t want to know,” Mom calls from the second floor. Got to love her parenting style. She thinks conflict is character building.
I write
Elise’s Stupid Dance Thing
on the calendar in the kitchen. We’ll do some character building tonight when she sees it.
Wednesday
Lunch is always pretty boring. I sit with Elise most days, on the edge of her little group of friends. I don’t talk much. We didn’t move to Smiths Falls long before I got sick, and I didn’t meet a lot of people before treatment kept me out of school and I became the elephant in the room.
For the moment, I survive on water, fruit juice, yogurt and Jell-O. Everything else upsets my stomach and tastes like bitter cough syrup. Food tasted like metal during chemo, and now that it’s over everything tastes too bitter or too sweet, so I can’t eat much without feeling nauseated. Dad keeps nagging me to eat according to the plan the hospital dietician made for me, so every few days I force down something ‘real’ to appease him. Then I puke it right back up.
Which brings me to my current conundrum of which Jell-O cup to open first: cherry or lime?
“Just eat the cherry first, you know you want to,” Elise says.
“Not hungry.”
She tries to swipe my cherry Jell-O and I snatch it back. Her bullshit radar is entirely too good.
“I’ll make milkshakes when we get home,” she says. That makes me smile and takes the bitter edge off the Jell-O. Elise figured out a kick-ass mix for fruit and frozen yogurt milkshakes during my second round of napalm, and made an addict out of me. She uses them to bargain with me like I’m an unruly child. And I’m stupid enough to keep falling for it.
*
“I don’t mind doing most of the work,” the Newfie says. We’re divvying up the workload for our term project. “But you’re not allowed to be a jerk.”
“Oh, anything but that.” I really shouldn’t push my luck with sarcasm. I’m fortunate not to have a grade-grubbing partner who would complain about me not pulling my weight. She’s compassionate enough to take my fatigue into account, but it still feels lousy to be given an easy ride because she feels sorry for me.
“You’re doing it again.”
“You’d be in a bad mood too if you felt like shit.”
“You have the worst attitude.” I hate it when strangers pretend to know me. It’s so easy to be high and mighty about pain that isn’t your own. I start to write stuff down on our proposal sheet as she flips through the textbook for project ideas. I don’t believe she’s really from Newfoundland. She doesn’t even have an accent.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“Does it bother you?”
“Depends why you’re staring.”
“You’re not really from Newfoundland, are you?”
“You don’t really have cancer, do you?” That makes me smile, which throws her off.
“Actually, I don’t.”
She sizes me up like she thinks I’m full of it. I can’t tell by her face if she decides I am or not, but she smirks and tells me she likes my hat.
“I like your hair.” I’m lying. She’s blonde and will sooner or later prove to be a total ditz.
“You’re trying to make this awkward on purpose, aren’t you?”
“What gave you that idea?”
Newfie turns back to the textbook and tells me to start brainstorming. Why’d I have to get stuck in this stupid class? Why couldn’t I have gotten into Chemistry, learned cool things about combustion? Making bombs could be a good use of my limited energy.
Thursday
Social Studies is starting to become a weird part of my day. I still feel tired and sick and cranky at the end of lunch, but my project partner is the only person besides Elise who talks to me at school. It’s kind of nice, except for the fact that I can’t stand her.
“You look better today.”
“Do I?” Like I give a damn what she thinks. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re sitting up, for one.”
“Har har.”
Bitch
.
Newfie starts to set up the equipment for today’s practical. We’re making enchiladas for our study of proper nutrition, since yesterday we learned all about making grocery lists and meal planning—a curriculum designed for glue-eaters. I just sit there and let her do all the work of setting up. She doesn’t ask for help.
I’ve started to notice patterns with the Newfie. She never fails to show up to school in black and dark grey clothes, except for her gloves. This weirdo apparently owns an endless supply of fingerless gloves in any and all colors. I can’t tell if she’s trying to make a statement or just be ridiculous.
“I dare you to eat raw beef.”
“After you.” She pinches a piece of ground beef off the corner of our portion and holds it out to me. I want to do it just to be a smartass, but anything more solid than yogurt will cause serious pain. My stomach hurts just thinking about it.
“Maybe later.”
She smirks and turns back to the practical setup. Damn it, she thinks she won. I’m sulking a bit as I write our information at the top of the worksheet. My normally dry hands are sweaty and the Newfie is stirring up odors by measuring out ingredients. I can already feel my stomach turning and we’re not even cooking yet.
“I don’t know if I’m gonna make it through class today.”
“Will I get to guess what you had for lunch again?”
I don’t have a good enough comeback for that one, so I just fold my arms on the table and lay my head down. But the surface of the worktable smells like whatever they were using last period, and I sit right back up again. I just prop my head in my hands and lean my elbows on the tabletop. Breathe in—breathe out. Don’t puke. Don’t give her anything to guess at, like misery is a game.
The Newfie puts a hand on my back. “I can walk you to the nurse’s office if you want.”
“I’m alright.” Actually, I don’t trust myself to stand up right now. The Newfie opens the adjacent window to relieve some of the smell, which helps. She rubs little circles on my back with one hand and does our assignment with the other. It’s just seasoning the meat in a frying pan and scooping it into the store-bought shells.
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” I say of her hand.
“Do you want me to knock it off?” I don’t answer, because asking her to keep going sounds pathetic. I miss being touched—at least in a way that doesn’t involve needles or examinations. It gives me something to focus on besides the queasiness.
She takes her hand off me when Mrs. Hudson comes around to check our progress. She can see I’m not doing anything and suggests I go to the nurse’s office.
“Maybe later.”
I last through the rest of the day without retreating to the nurse’s office, but I don’t last the entire car ride home without getting sick. Thankfully I haven’t got a big evening planned. Just three hours in a clinic recliner, hooked up to dialysis. Yes, I know, I lead a gripping life.
Friday
Thank God it’s Friday, and thank Elise for delicious milkshakes. She made me a thermos-full for lunch today. It’s worth noting that she only did it to apologize, though. I passed out on the couch last night and she drew eyebrows on me.
Is it pathetic that the high point of my day is a mango milkshake?
All of you is pathetic, idiot.
Elise’s friends are all on the social planning committee. Lunch talk these days consists of the same things that go on in their official meetings: the upcoming dance, themes, budget, dress code, blah, blah, blah. Twenty minutes of this and I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere,
Mom
.”
I go out to the parking lot end up sitting in the car with the heat running to avoid the cold.
Some walk.
Shut up.
Fuck you.
My iPod comes out and the earphones go in to tune out the world. I’d blast the radio, but Eric is very protective of the tuner in his car and earphones are much better for what I need right now: Tchaikovsky, the musical cure for deep-seeded bitterness. I hear the bell ring through my earbuds but make no move to get out of the car. The warning bell rings, and there’s an annoying rap on the passenger window. I crack an eyelid and sure enough, it’s Elise. She opens the door and looks down on me with a hand on her hip.
“Are you going to class or what?”
“But
Mom
.”
She tugs at my sleeve. “Come on. You’ll fail senior year and end up in my classes. Please, spare me the humiliation.”
“I’m tired.”
“No milkshakes for a week.”
So I drag my ass out of the car. I really should hold her down one of these days and torture the recipe out of her—when I have the strength…six or seven months from now.
*
The Social Studies room smells like floor cleaner. It’s the same industrial brand they use at the hospital, which, unfortunately, smells like home to me. I hate that.
I dump my books on the worktable and take my seat. I’m one of the last ones to arrive, but the Newfie isn’t here yet. She’d better not be absent. Ripping on her is the only thing that makes this class worthwhile.
I should really stop thinking of her as
the Newfie.
I heard Chris I-am-such-a-twat Elwood call her ‘St. Johnny’ the other day like some sort of pet name. One: I will not sink to Elwood’s level of wit. Two: if I think it, I might accidentally call her that one of these days, thereby violating my first reason for not thinking of her by her place of origin.
Do you ever think you might be over-thinking?
Willa makes it past the threshold at the exact moment the bell rings. Our assignment today is the write-up for yesterday’s nutrition practical. I’ll just fall asleep now and save the time, thanks.
Willa, as usual, takes the initiative. She opens her book and scribbles a few notes before asking, “So what are you doing this weekend?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m being friendly.”
“Well knock it off.”
“Fuck you and your bad mood, Harper.” I hate to admit it, but that response has a nice ring to it.
“So what are
you
doing this weekend?”
She looks at me with that I-am-so-not-impressed expression. “Entertaining some friends. There’s a basketball game on.”
“Bullshit you’re into basketball.”
“No. But my brother is.” She smirks at me. I don’t like it. “Nice hat.”
“Nice tits.”
“You’re such a shit.”
“Are you going to buckle down and do our homework or what?” I nod to the open book on the table.
“I think a brain-damaged monkey could do this, so you definitely can too.” She drops the textbook in front of me. “It’s my turn to do nothing.” Willa slouches down in her seat and begins to doodle on her notebook.
“You trust me with your grade?”
“No. I just relish the thought of your smug face twisted up in concentration.”
“I’m not dumb, you know.” She gives me a skeptical look. I pull the book closer and take out a pen. I used to get straight A’s, damn it. I can pull off another one and show this cow.
Willa: January 25 to 30
Monday
It’s even easier to live with Frank than I’d anticipated. It’s pretty much status quo from when we were growing up, given the seven-year age gap between us. I eat breakfast alone because he’s already at work by the time I get up—Frank is a paramedic—and when he comes home we stay out of each other’s way. I like this new arrangement. I can’t tell if Frank does; he’s hard to read.
Frank’s home is exactly what you’d expect of a twenty-five-year-old man. He only moved out when Mom and Dad moved away to St. John’s, and he bought this little Cape Cod house for himself. It’s sparsely furnished, completely unpainted except for white primer, and the only attempt at personalized décor is a Habs magnet on the fridge. Our parents are paying him to take me off their hands for a few months, on the condition that I behave myself and pull my weight around the house.
My life here feels about as nondescript as Frank’s walls. I did my freshman year in Smiths Falls before we moved away. I came back for a change from St. John’s, only to find that everything is completely, depressingly, the same as when I left it. The people who I used to hang out with seem unevolved and extremely insipid. There’s Paige, still trying to be Miss Popularity—I’ll admit that I was once an enthusiastic member of her entourage. Diane the bully and Hannah the sweetheart are still among her faithful followers. Chris Elwood, the guy I knew as a pudgy dweeb in grade nine, has lost the baby fat and turned into a generically popular pretty-boy. Joey, who we all thought would grow up to discover the cure for cancer, has discovered his penis instead. At least Brian with the puppy eyes and Hannah the sweetheart are good people, so I can still have faith in my generation.
A little bit of that faith dies when I enter the school parking lot. Frank is letting me borrow his bike until I can find a car at a decent price—the sooner the better, in this weather—and I pull up just in time to see a group of boys throw that kid from my math class into one of the trash cans. They roll him down the sidewalk and drop him off the curb, much to everyone’s delight. I share oxygen with these morons.
Mother Nature is in on the conspiracy to make this a bad day. Telling myself that it’s better than Newfoundland weather doesn’t do much to improve my outlook. I lock Frank’s bike up and tread through the mush toward the school. Twenty meters ahead, a short girl is skating on a patch of black ice. She’s spinning and hopping along like the ice poses no danger, only to get hit in the face by a snowball. She gives a little shriek of indignation. “Jem!”
I didn’t notice him, but now that she’s yelled at him, I see my project partner walking along the line of cars. He’s clearly the snowball culprit; he’s still wiping snow off his gloves. And the bastard doesn’t look a bit sorry, either. He’s grinning like an idiot.
Holy shit, he can
smile
?