Hidden Truths, page 13
“I guess,” she says. “But it also makes her untrustworthy.”
I lean forward. “How?”
She puts the comic back onto the stack. “If she can turn into anyone, then she’s true to no one.”
I never thought of it that way.
“I mean, who is she, really?”
My glazed donut sticks in my throat. Because I realize I can’t answer that anymore.
34
Not My Fault
Casey lies next to me on Gigi’s bedspread. We like it in here. I can still kind of smell her hairspray. It’s the same and different all at once.
Feels like so much is different. Eric’s mad and ignoring me. I spied him staring at me at school the other day when Meadow was helping me get to class. Part of me felt bad. He looked my way, caught my eye, then turned around and said nothing. I don’t totally blame him.
The loser thing is still out there. I did apologize.
But only in my head.
Not sure that counts.
But the party wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have a birthday thing and not invite him. Meadow did. That’s on her. And the related-to-Leo thing, I mean, that’s not my fault either.
If I’m being in-my-heart honest, though, there’s a lot on me, too. The truth is, I miss him. I just don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to make things right. And for now Waylan says I need to focus all my energy on getting my body stronger.
What’s left over has to deal with the giant scary thoughts swirling in my brain. The ones I keep tucked away. Like how any of this really ends. What if I do all the stuff Waylan says and I still can’t play baseball? What if I never get all the feeling back in my hand? What if all the grown-ups are wrong and time doesn’t magically fix everything?
All of it terrifies all of me.
“You ready?”
It’s Mom, standing just outside the door of Gigi’s room. She never comes in here.
“Yep,” I say, stuffing my big, messy, confusing feelings away.
Mom drives me to physical therapy. The ride is quiet. I stare out the window and wonder about epic baseball players like Lizzie Murphy and Mo’ne Davis and if they ever felt the kind of scared that floods you with doubt.
When we get to PT, I grab my walker. I mostly just need the wheelchair at school now. Waylan doesn’t want kids bumping into me. Yesterday I had an X-ray and other imaging, and Dr. Jeffries said the bone in my leg is healing well. Even my hand and arm are getting stronger. Less tingling, more listening to my brain.
Mom heads to the coffee shop to work while I go into the room that smells like feet.
Waylan’s setting up the PT table. “Hello, my friend. I’m feeling optimistic about today,” he says, smiling.
His happiness and hope are almost contagious, but the throbbing that slides down my leg is getting in the way.
Waylan helps me onto the table and counts my leg raises, telling me what a great job I’m doing. “If you couldn’t be a physical therapist, what would you do?” I ask, trying to ignore how hard it still feels to raise and lower my right leg.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Did Waylan always want to be a physical therapist? Did Coach Levi always want to be a baseball coach? And Dr. Jeffries and the guy at the grocery store. Is what they’re doing now what they’ve always wanted to be? Or was there some other version?
Waylan laughs. “Being a physical therapist was not my first love.”
I’m surprised, because I can’t imagine him doing anything else. This job fits him.
“I ran hurdles in college and had big dreams. Then I tore my ACL playing basketball with some friends. That was it. There was no way I could still run hurdles competitively. It just hurt too much. I had a choice: pain or pivot. I chose pivot. Do what I could to help others.”
“Like me.”
He nods. “Chin up, my young friend,” he says. “It all turns out okay in the end, I promise. Look at me, I’m happy.”
I nod and swallow. “Do you ever get mad that you can’t run hurdles anymore?”
“Sure. Tearing my ACL took something away from me. Something that was important to me. But now I look around and see where I ended up. If I’d run hurdles, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have met you. I wouldn’t have found this part of me.”
We move to the parallel bars, and I clench my teeth.
“You’ve got this, Dani. Remember, you get to choose. Life is not happening to you.”
“Sometimes it feels that way, though. Like these bad things happened and I was powerless.”
Waylan leans in. “But you’re not. You may not get to choose what sport you play or when you get to play it, but you get to choose who you are. And in the end, that’s what matters most.”
I ready myself on the parallel bars and walk. It’s hard, but I’m doing it. My hand grips in a way it hasn’t, and my leg feels stronger. I don’t make it all the way across, but I go farther than I’ve gone before.
And that’s a win.
I look at my empty bangle bracelet and wonder what part of me I’ll find.
35
Radio Silence
Feels weird going so long without talking to Dani. Even when she was at baseball camp, we texted. The last text I sent said, One More Day! She replied with a happy face, a thumbs-up, and a goat.
Now there’s nothing. No texts. No emojis. Just silence.
After school I lace up my sneakers and go for a run. The blue skies follow me down the path. My breath quickens. I don’t stop. My frustration pounds my chest as my sneakers slap the pavement.
Dani’s wrong about me.
I don’t forget everything.
I’m not a loser.
That’s my truth.
I stop for a minute and look up. Thanks, God. I know you’re with me on this one.
I cut across the park and through the winding streets of the neighborhood. The sweat burns my eyes. My legs shake. I rest on the curb.
My head’s in my hands when I feel a dog’s cold nose nudge me. It’s Oscar, Jade Zhang’s gray-and-white mutt. When Oscar was a puppy, he’d escape to our house every morning. Mom said it was because he loved us. I think it was because Zoe left half her breakfast for him in our backyard.
“Hey, Eric,” Jade says.
“Hi.”
“I heard Dani’s improving,” she says. “That’s great.” Her wire-rim glasses reflect the sun, and she moves over to the shady part of the street.
“Yep.”
Jade sits on the curb next to me. “That’s the face your dad makes when our softball team is down by five in the bottom of the ninth with two outs. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say.
She raises her right eyebrow.
“Well, sort of everything.”
She gives Oscar a treat from her pocket and listens.
“I tried doing this thing to help Dani, but it didn’t work. Then I tried doing this other thing to, you know, do something good, but that also didn’t work. Now it’s all messed up.”
It doesn’t take long for me to unload my horribly unsuccessful plan. I think getting people to talk like this is some kind of investigative-reporter thing. She nods as I tell her about the email the remote-control-car company ignored, Ms. Suarez’s refusal to do the story, and the request through the Freedom of Information Act that will take forever. The words pour out like a kicked-over bucket of water.
She listens, pets Oscar, and says nothing.
I fidget, crack my knuckles, and try to find my hangnail.
I said too much. I’m an idiot.
“When I was a kid, I camped in East Mapleville with my parents, just like you guys do,” Jade says. “It’s a special place.”
“That’s cool,” I say. “So you get it.”
She nods, and as I sit there, an idea zips into my brain. Then I draw in a giant breath to find my courage. “Um, maybe you could help,” I say. “I mean, you make that podcast my dad listens to, right?”
“I do.”
“Maybe you could do, like, a story or something about what happened.”
“Hmm. Interesting idea.”
“Would you?” I ask as possibility replaces the stench of failure attached to me.
She nods. “We do that a lot. Tell stories that impact the people who live in our community.” She stands. “I’ll run it by my producer and talk to Dani and her family. But if I get permission from everyone, then we’ve got a story.”
“We?” I ask.
“Yeah, why don’t you help me out?”
I wipe my sticky forehead. “Are you serious?”
“As long as your parents say it’s okay, who better to help tell this story than Dani’s best friend?”
Definitely not Dani’s best friend anymore.
She gives Oscar another treat. “But, full disclosure, there’s a stack of papers on my desk, and I’m behind on everything.” She laughs. “While you’re too young to officially intern, you’re free to come by the office and pitch in, and I’ll show you around. How does that sound?”
“Great!”
“All right. I’ll reach out to my producer. You talk to your parents and let the Meyers know I’ll be in touch to see if they’re interested.”
My mind spins with the thought of talking to Dani about another plan or, really, anything.
But as I head toward the path by Cutter Park to finish my run, hope slides in, and I break into my victory dance.
Then I take a left instead of a right and run to Rachel’s. I knock and am thinking maybe I should have showered first when the front door opens.
Rachel smiles and I forget about the sweat rolling down my back.
The good news rushes out of me. “You’re not going to believe this, but Jade Zhang agreed, or almost agreed, to tell Dani’s story on her podcast. Or at least she offered to if her producer person and Dani and her mom say it’s okay.”
“That’s amazing, Eric.”
“What’s amazing?” her dad asks, walking into the hallway.
“Eric got Jade Zhang to talk on her podcast about what happened to Dani this summer,” Rachel says.
Mr. Kent rests his arm on his daughter’s shoulder. “Honey, this is fantastic news. I’m happy Dani’s story will be out there.” He snaps his fingers. “Rachel, you should have Eric read your essay.”
“What essay?” I ask Rachel.
She looks away.
“You said you weren’t going to write about it,” I say, a bad feeling crawling across my chest. I thought she got it. I thought she understood that this wasn’t just some story to use to get into private school.
“Rachel, you really should have Eric read it.”
Rachel’s face turns crimson.
Then, standing there in the hallway with Rachel begging him not to, Mr. Kent pulls up Rachel’s private school application essay on his phone and hands it to me to read. “I mean, she writes so beautifully, and there’s so much detail. You would have thought she was there that day.”
He’s right, it is well written and filled with all the details I shared with her in private.
It is like she was there. At the explosion. That morning.
But she wasn’t.
I was.
36
My Old Life
Meadow comes back to my house after school. She kicks off her sneakers with the pink stars and sits next to me on the ugly couch. I’m doing my hand exercises with the harder, stronger red band.
“What did Millie mean when she said that stuff at my birthday party?” I ask her for like the fifth time. She’s been avoiding answering me. She keeps saying that she’s too tired to talk about it, not in the mood, I’m making a big deal about nothing, too much homework.
“Can’t we just eat your mom’s blueberry muffins and drop it?” She puts one on her napkin.
“We can eat the muffins, but…” I sigh. Maybe it isn’t anything, but the more she avoids it, the more I want to know. “All I want to know is what your sister meant when she said that she wasn’t mad at you anymore.”
For a long minute all I hear is the hum of the dishwasher as I open and close my fingers. Then Meadow says, “It was nothing, really.”
“So stop dodging the question and just answer it,” I say, removing the band.
“Siblings fight about dumb stuff. You’re lucky you’re an only child.”
I grab the putty and start the next exercise.
“She was mad at me and now she’s not. It happens with sisters.”
“But why was she mad? You were totally there for her.” This is so confusing to me. I 100 percent don’t get siblings.
“She’s little. Not everything she does makes sense.”
I squeeze the putty as Casey tries to nose it out of my hand. “But that’s not fair. If she was mad at anyone, I’d think it’d be your brother. It was his fault.”
Meadow doesn’t respond.
I put the putty down. It takes me a few slow minutes to grab my phone and turn on the camera. “Time for another edition of Say It or Do It with Dani and Meadow.”
“What are you doing?” Meadow asks in a nervous whisper.
“Trust me,” I say.
Her chestnut-brown eyes widen as I hit Record.
“Okay, friends, here we go. No worries, Meadow, I promise I won’t cut your hair. But I have a Say It for you, so you can sort something out for all of us.” I take in a deep, nervous breath. “What was your brother doing when he accidentally slammed your sister’s hand in the car door? Texting? Eating chips? Talking to his girlfriend?”
“Don’t, Dani,” she says.
“Come on, Meadow. It’s time to set the record straight.” I wink and whisper to her, “You can thank me later.” Casey yawns and stretches by my feet.
“I can’t do this,” Meadow says.
“Sure, you can. Just be honest. It’s okay.” I nod to my friend.
“Dani, turn it off. Turn it off!” she yells.
I stare at her.
“Okay, more later,” I say as I stop recording.
“Why would you do that?” Meadow’s voice is accusing.
“I was trying to help.”
Meadow doesn’t move or say anything. Then, “He didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes brim with tears. “I did it, Dani. It was me.”
I stare at her. “But you said he slammed Millie’s hand in the car door. That he should feel bad for what he did.” My mind races. I knew her sister said she wasn’t mad at Meadow anymore, but I never thought this was what she was talking about. I never thought Meadow would lie to me like that.
“The accident was my fault. Not my brother’s.” She pauses and stands. “Now you know. And it doesn’t matter if Millie forgives me, because I don’t forgive me.” Tears roll down her cheeks. I’ve never seen Meadow cry. Her face looks different.
“I get that you’re upset, and I’m sorry for that. But you lied to me and then said all that horrible stuff about Eric, the explosion, and my injuries being his fault. Him being a terrible person. Him lying. Why did you do that?”
She’s quiet.
The pieces come together in a bad way. I believed her. I listened to her. I followed her like a shadow down an alley. I was so desperate to be friends with one of the most popular girls in school, I’d believe anything. Do anything. Say anything.
My heart sinks.
“I’m sorry, Dani.” She puts the half-eaten muffin and napkin on the table and walks out the door.
I hug Betty, my baseball glove.
My brain spins. Everything’s so confusing. Meadow’s not the person I thought she was. She’s the person Eric knew she was.
My eyes sting.
I miss my old life.
Tears hit my lap.
I miss me.
I spin my lucky coin in my hands and realize I miss Eric, too. His skinny arms. His scary stories. Even his hands-down wrong opinion that Iron Man is the best superhero to ever live.
“Want some?” It’s Mom with two glasses of iced tea.
I nod.
She sits next to me. “You okay?”
I shake my head and lean into her. She smells like vanilla.
“How much did you hear?” I ask.
“All of it,” she says. “I was baking, not eavesdropping, but the house is small and voices carry through the archway.”
I know that’s true, because I used to hear her and Gigi talking in the kitchen long after I was supposed to be sleeping.
“I’m sorry this is all so hard,” she says, staring out the window.
I look at my mom and remember the last time we just sat and talked. Gigi was sick. Like, puking and rambling kind of sick. Mom sat me down with a plate of gingerbread cookies and told me that Gigi wasn’t getting better. That’s the first time I realized that not everything can be fixed with cookies and love.
“Why would Meadow lie?”
“I don’t know. People do things for all sorts of reasons.”
“Like they’re jerks.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe there’s something else going on that you don’t know about. Something she’s working through.” She looks at me. “No one gets it right all the time. We all make mistakes.”
I think about Eric and me and the things I did and didn’t do.
“It’s what we do after those mistakes that counts.” Mom leans in. “I love you, Dani.”
I nod, because I’m afraid words will stop her from talking.
“I know I don’t say it enough, but I do. The truth is, ever since Gigi got sick, I’ve had a hard time with things I can’t control. Like losing her, your accident, and all the worries and fears attached to those circumstances.” She exhales. “But I’m working on it. I promise.”
