Wish You Weren't Here, page 8
He sends a piece arcing in my direction. I track it in the dark and twist my body slightly to the left, catching the popcorn neatly on my tongue. It gives a satisfying crunch when I bite down, releasing a burst of salty, buttery goodness.
“Me next!” Priya calls, raising her hand like Gia wouldn’t know who said it otherwise.
He throws one. It bounces off her eye and into her lap.
“Bad throw!” She picks the popcorn up delicately and places it in her mouth.
“That was a great throw,” Lucy and I protest in unison.
“Again,” Priya demands. This time, the popcorn hits her forehead, then the ground. “Wind,” she declares with kingly authority.
“What wind?” Tessa laughs.
Gia goes around the circle, lobbing popcorn into open mouths. Each person tries to one-up the person before. Lucy catches hers in a leapfrog jump over Dom’s back. Charina covers her eyes and lets Tessa direct her.
At least half of the bag is wasted on Priya’s insistence that “this is gonna be the time I catch it. I feel it in my bones.” She misses every single one.
When Gia says, “Last piece! Who wants it?” the entire group is cracking up.
“Gia, let’s go!” I call through my laughter, running backward.
He points skyward like a boastful sportsball coach, fighting giggles. “C’mon, Juliette!”
I’m wondering if I have time to complete a standing back tuck when it happens.
My heel catches on something unyielding, and in the space of a minute, I ruin my summer. My right foot lands on uneven ground, then all my weight crashes down on it.
I don’t know if the shock, the pain, or the fear is worse. It all weaves together into the same heavy quilt of devastation, pinning me to the ground. I can’t do anything but gasp and clutch at my ankle, trying to compress everything back to where it’s supposed to be.
There’s yelling, I think, but it sounds like I’m listening through a seashell. It makes me so dizzy. I roll onto my back, trying to find strength and solidity somewhere inside me, something that isn’t broken or crying or nauseous.
But—in silent confirmation that I was indeed cursed at birth—the piece of popcorn Gia threw lands in my sobbing mouth, and I choke.
12
Not Dead
Lucy reaches me first. I’m coughing from forcing down the popcorn, and she slides a hand under my head to help prop me up. Priya drops to her knees like she’s about to do CPR. Gia yells something, but I don’t know what.
I flinch as flashlight beams move over me, then quickly disappear toward the cabins. Oh. He was telling them to leave. I want to apologize to Tessa for ending her birthday party this way, but I can only whimper.
Priya curses quietly, grabs my hand, and squeezes it. Meanwhile, Lucy calls my name like she’s trying to stop me from going into the light.
“I’m not dead!” I wail through tears.
Lucy swears, straightening my leg to judge the state of my ankle.
Gia appears above us, trying to catch Lucy’s eye. He runs a hand through his hair. “I think we need to get you to the nurse.”
I squeeze my eyes shut so hard they hurt. He’s right, but I don’t want him to be.
Lucy rests a hand on my calf. To the other two, she says, “You can go if you want.”
Gia’s voice is firm. “I’m staying.”
Lucy tsks. “Priya, you go, then.”
“Screw that,” Priya says, her hand tightening around mine.
“At least one of you should go. We don’t all need to get in trouble,” Lucy says.
Nobody speaks. I almost volunteer as a joke. It would be so funny, but I can’t bring myself to speak over the pain.
Gia huffs. “Okay, whatever. We can’t stand here debating this while Juliette is dying.”
I squint one eye open. “I’m not dying.”
“Well, your face is killing me!” Gia quips, wincing. “Sorry, sorry. Not the time.”
Priya whispers, “Terrible timing. Excellent delivery.”
Lucy, the only one trying to fix the situation, suggests, “I guess we carry her?”
“Will we cause brain damage if we move her?” Gia asks.
“That’s a spinal injury,” I say, lolling my head to the side and narrowing one open eye at Gia. I follow it up with a quiet but forceful “doofus.”
He makes an indignant noise, but Lucy interrupts, staying on task. “Let’s pick her up.”
“Don’t pick me up,” I command, but nobody seems to hear me. I repeat myself, “Don’t pick me up. Do not pick me up.”
“I’ll grab her shoulders,” Priya says. “Lucy, you take her torso, and Gia can get the legs.”
I’m still protesting when they lift me off the ground. The movement sends a shooting pain up to my hip. They try not to look at my tear-streaked face as they clamber up the path to Medical, where Nurse Mari instantly ushers us to a padded exam table. The disposable paper liner crinkles when Gia, Lucy, and Priya set me down on top of it.
“What happened?” she asks, pulling up a stool and gingerly removing my shoe.
I grit my teeth, bracing myself. “I tripped.”
“Over a tree root. Backward,” Gia adds unhelpfully.
My sock comes off next. Nurse Mari is all business, poking and prodding. “Can you feel this?”
My sharp inhale answers for me.
She lifts my left shoe, causing Lucy to say, “She didn’t hurt the other foot.”
Nurse Mari continues fiddling with my shoelaces. “Anyone who doesn’t have their nursing license can head to bed now.” At their protests, she brandishes her walkie-talkie threateningly. “Before I call for Pat to come take her to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” I squeak. I’ve spent my fair share of Take Your Daughter to Work Days there, and, I have to say, I’m not a huge fan.
“You need X-rays.” To my friends she says, “You can’t do anything else to help, so go. Before I start remembering names.” She fixes Lucy with a look. “Miss Swen—”
“We’re going!” Lucy blurts, grabbing Priya and Gia by the shoulders. “We’ll remember you, Juliette.”
“And plan a really nice funeral,” Gia calls.
“Nicer than Priyatopia! You like Hozier? He’ll come if my mom asks; he loves her.”
“Funeraltopia,” Lucy proclaims, steering them out of the building.
“I’m not dead!” I bellow after them, just as the door slams shut.
* * *
—
“I’ll be honest,” Pat says, striding into the medical center. Despite the late hour, he wears a long-sleeved white sun shirt and khaki shorts. Does he sleep in that? “I didn’t think it would be Juliette causing problems after hours.”
He holds the door open for the person behind him. I hear her before I see her.
“Well, who else would it have been?” asks Galahad pointedly.
That tree root should have killed me. It would be more painless than watching my plaid-pajama-clad counselor judge me so thoroughly.
Pat pulls a pair of blue gloves out of the box on the wall and slides them on. “I would’ve put money on Lucy Swentek.” He takes Nurse Mari’s vacant stool, examining my ankle.
“Swentek brought her in,” Nurse Mari comments, typing away on her computer.
“Of course she did.” Pushing off, Pat wheels the stool backward and drops his gloves into a trash can next to Nurse Mari. “EMS is en route. Did we call her parents already?”
“What?” I snap my head up from the exam table. “Why?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “What do the words ‘legal liability’ mean to you, Juliette?”
“I’ll call,” Nurse Mari says, grabbing a Post-it and scribbling down a note.
“I can call,” Galahad offers.
I draw in a sharp breath to protest, but Pat replies first, “No, let’s have Mari do it. They’re doctors, so they’ll want a nurse’s assessment. We can also have Mari fill out the incident form, since you weren’t there when it happened, Galahad.”
He says it casually. Factually. While looking at his phone, even. She wasn’t there when it happened, so it doesn’t make sense for her to fill out the form. But Galahad reacts…weirdly. She blinks so intentionally that I almost wonder if it’s Morse code. Her cheeks go berry-colored as she just stares at the back of Pat’s head.
Exaggeratedly beleaguered, Nurse Mari says, “Oh, let’s make Mari do everything.”
“It’s what I pay you for,” Pat chirps. “Here’s the number.”
Watching Nurse Mari take Pat’s phone, something occurs to me. “You aren’t going to send me home, are you?” I look frantically between them.
Pat and Galahad begin speaking at the same time.
“Rules ar—”
“We’ll see what the doctors say.”
Galahad freezes, tension incarnate. Pat doesn’t notice, too busy taking his phone back.
“Juliette, you’re not the first camper to sneak out after curfew, and more importantly, your parents aren’t the kind to sue.” He nods benevolently. “You’re a good kid. We’d all love for you to stay.” I purposefully don’t look at Galahad so I can pretend he’s right. “But let’s be realistic. Fogridge isn’t safe for mobility issues right now. Depending on the diagnosis, it might make more sense for you to go home.”
I want to say something, anything cogent that might convince them that doctors are quacks who know nothing about camp, but what comes out of my mouth is more of a “wuh!” followed by a “buh!” and then a sort of weird gurgling sound.
Pat disregards my attempt at speech and soldiers on. “Someone has to go with you, though,” he says, frowning at his phone as he scrolls.
I cringe. The humiliation of Galahad hearing my personal medical details is unbearable.
“I’d prefer not to go,” Galahad asserts.
“I wasn’t going to send you.” Pat stabs at his phone screen like he wants revenge against it. “You need to watch your cabin. And yesterday’s backpacking group has a crisis that rhymes with bexplosive piarrhea, so I can’t go. If this darn phone starts working, I’ll ask a specialist.”
Before technology can get it together, two sharply dressed paramedics breeze through the door, escorting a stretcher between them. Very dramatic.
I let them guide me onto it. One asks me questions while the other one talks with Pat. They boost the stretcher, wheeling me out the door and into the back of a bright ambulance.
In the only pleasant twist of fate today, TK’s messy red hair pops up between the open bay doors. She wears a faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt and a dazed expression that makes it clear she was in the middle of a REM cycle when she was woken up. However, she doesn’t seem annoyed as she takes a folder from Pat and hops into the ambulance.
“Rough summer, huh, champ?” she asks, falling onto the little folding bench beside me.
I let the full weight of my head fall back on the stretcher. “The roughest.”
“It’s all part of the camp experience,” she reassures me through a yawn.
“I wish it wasn’t.” I turn my head to grimace at her, but TK is KO’d. Her head droops forward onto her chest, mouth hanging slightly open. The folder Pat handed her starts to slip out of her grasp. I take it before it can spill (assumedly) the insurance information all over the floor.
Over the next few hours, I grow increasingly jealous of her ability to sleep—especially after we reach the emergency room. Pain, constant beeping, and the fluctuating volume of the world’s oldest TV keep me awake long past midnight.
Between repeating infomercials, a doctor pulls my curtain back and enters. He doesn’t introduce himself, but I know he’s Charles Harbour, Orthopedic Surgery Resident because it’s embroidered right there, over the breast pocket of his white coat.
He looks between TK, slumped in the corner, and the white blanket over my leg, not once making eye contact. “Hi, Ms. Barrera. How are you feeling?”
I don’t correct him. That’s how tired I am. “Okay.”
“Good,” he says to the sheet ghost of my foot. “Well, the results of your X-ray are back, and it appears to be a simple sprain. So, good news and bad news. The good news is that it’s not broken.” He smiles like he just made a joke. “The bad news is that we can’t do much for you except wait for the ankle to heal itself. I recommend restricted activity for four to six weeks.”
Four to six weeks? There are only three weeks left of camp. My head spins as I think of the upcoming activities. Water Day. Color War. I feel all the blood drain from my face when Senior Twilight flashes in my mind like a neon sign.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Harbour is asking my foot when I tune back in.
I stare, helpless. He has to stay. He can’t just leave me like this. He’s supposed to fix me.
He observes my foot impatiently, so I blurt out, “Can I get it wet?”
His head twitches in my direction and I think he’s going to look at me, finally, but he doesn’t. “Can you get…your ankle…wet? Well, we’re not—Yes. Yes, you can get it wet, but I’d stay away from water activities. Swimming could make the injury worse.” He demonstrates with his hand, flapping it up and down.
So, I can’t run on it? Can I do a straddle whip on the trapeze? Can I jump on the lake trampoline if I only land on my left foot? “Can I walk on it?”
The doctor nods, smiling. “Yes, in fact, research shows that may help it heal faster. But I do advise that you take breaks if it feels unstable. I’ll have the nurse show you how to wrap it.”
I don’t know what else to say, and Charles Harbour, Orthopedic Surgery Resident, takes this as his cue to leave. At the curtain, he glances back at my foot. “Good luck, Ms. Barrera.”
“Wright,” I finish automatically.
“Right,” he replies, clearly misunderstanding.
The curtain swings shut behind him, metal rings squeaking on their track.
Despite the ever-present noise of the hospital, despite TK within arm’s reach, and despite the call bell in my lap that would bring a nurse running in within seconds, I feel completely and utterly alone.
13
Not Broken
“Good morning, sunshine,” a cloyingly sweet voice chirps. My eyes drift open to see TK standing over me in her Mickey Mouse T-shirt, a stack of papers in hand. “Time to go home.”
I don’t remember falling asleep, but the clock on the wall tells me it’s almost noon. I sit up, body achy from lying on the stretcher. TK pulls me to my feet and all but carries me to an old brown car parked right outside the ER entrance.
At my questioning look, she says, “My mom and dad dropped it off last night. They knew they’d be too busy to come get us during the day.”
With her help, I climb into the passenger side of the Zimmermans’ ancient car. TK has to turn the key several times before it catches in the ignition and the car finally shudders to life. The air-conditioning doesn’t work, so I roll the window down with a hand crank. The drive back to camp is long, made longer by twisting mountain roads with low speed limits.
“Will your dad make me leave camp?”
She drums on the steering wheel, tilting her head. “I don’t think so. The doctor said it wasn’t broken, so as long as you’re not doing backflips off the zip line, you should be fine.”
I know she’s right, but her answer does little to quell the feeling of my life collapsing around me. My mind spins. My ankle throbs. My thoughts race. And the soundtrack to the end of my world is a nonstop stream of samey-sounding country songs blaring from the car’s speakers.
We pull up to camp’s main office in the late afternoon.
It could be worse, I tell myself.
I could be dead. At least I’m not dead.
It could be broken. At least it’s not broken.
The path down to Polaris stretches endlessly ahead of us. We make it about halfway when a little Black girl pops up out of nowhere, the beads in her Fulani braids clinking. She headbutts TK in the leg, then grabs her hand urgently.
“TK, TK! Guess what?” she asks in a tiny voice.
“Margo, Margo!” TK says back, swinging their clasped hands between them. “What?”
Margo glares at me like I’m intruding. “You had a ’mergency last night.”
TK chuckles. “I know, kiddo. I was there.”
“Your daddy telled us ’bout it.” Margo places a bead in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
TK expertly hooks a finger around the braid and extricates it from between Margo’s teeth. “Oh yeah? What did he say?”
“Um.” The little girl halts in her tracks, causing both TK and me to stop, too. She screws her face up in concentration, then shrugs, a big smile lighting up her face. Margo hums an “I don’t know.” “I was—” She clamps two hands over her mouth.
“You were what?” TK asks cautiously.
“Mmm?” The little girl is all innocence.
“Were you putting bugs in the cabin?”
Margo pulls free of TK’s grip and twists her arms behind her back, giggling. “No!”
TK scoops her up, cradling her tiny body like a baby. “Are you lying, silly goose?” she asks in a fake-gruff voice. “Is the cabin full of bugs?”
Margo squirms wildly, still laughing. “Not full!”
TK shoots me a worried look. “Margo, are there bugs in the cabin?”
The smile Margo gives right before she wiggles out of TK’s arms is wicked. The little girl takes off running, her arms flailing behind her like two scarves caught in the wind.
