Beast(22)

“You should’ve told me as soon as your leg started hurting,” Mom says.

“Your mom’s right,” the nurse says. He logs into the computer and types some stuff. “Growth plates could get messed up, if they haven’t already.”

Mom inhales sharply, like she’s the one in pain.

“You need to strip,” he says to me, and then gives my mom a look.

“I’ll step out.” She slips out of the exam room and shuts the door behind her so the metal knob clicks.

The nurse’s head turns toward me. “Anything you want to ask while your mom’s gone?”

I shake my head.

“Now’s the chance,” he coaxes.

What does he think I need to ask him, where’s the nearest whorehouse? I tilt my baseball hat and look up at him from my wheelchair. “I’m good.”

“All right. Skivvies and a gown.” He tosses a threadbare green number in my lap.

He’s joking, right? That thing is as small as a Kleenex. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll be in the hall with your mom,” he says, taking the clipboard with him.

A full-length mirror beckons on the back of the closed door, and I pivot my wheels away from it. Being anywhere near naked is one of my least favorite hobbies. Especially when I always hope to see someone else looking back at me.

But not today. I have to go into surgery, get these stupid pins removed and replaced, and get a new cast. Hooray. This is why I’m here when I’d rather be in trig.

Everyone’s in a tizzy about my leg healing in a confined space. The bone will bunch up and I’ll be all lopsided. To which I say, I don’t care. It’ll give me an excuse to slouch.

A knock at the door and the nurse is inside before I’m finished. “I’m not done yet,” I say as I struggle with my jeans. They’re stuck.

“Here, let me help,” he says, reaching for my jeans before I get a chance to say whether or not I am cool with that. But I sit there like a mute as he wrestles off my pants over the cast. When he’s done, he re-hands me the gown and the obvious dawns on him. “Whoa, dude, this isn’t gonna fit.” Nurse Ryan, as per his name tag, digs under the counter and pulls out one that’s more my size.

He stands above me. “You sure you’re only fifteen?” He makes something that could be confused for a laugh.

I push off the wheelchair and now I’m the one to stand over him. He’s a good half foot shorter than me. I put on the gown, but why I don’t know. Modesty? Pride? I doubt there’s much left. “Yeah, I’m fifteen.”

“All right, show-off.” He points to the scale. “We should weigh you first. Hop up.”

Easy for him to say.

He fiddles with the sliders. His eyes bug. “Two hundred and seventy-two pounds.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. It’s solid muscle,” he says, squeezing my bicep as a prop. The nurse steers me toward the clean white sheet of paper covering the flat hospital bed. “Get on there and lie down.”

Two knocks on the door and Mom pops her head through the crack. “Can I come in now?”

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. The nurse motions for her to take the empty chair next to my clothes. I swing my bad leg up and it hits the paper with a crunch.

“You’re wincing.” Mom wrings her hands. “Be careful—go slow.”

“He’s fine.” Ryan slaps his hand on my back so hard it feels like a million hornets. “He can take it; don’t worry about him.”

You’re right, I only notice pain when a mastodon’s goring me.

“Let’s get the tape measure. Lie flat and still.” He takes a yellow roll from his pocket and hands the end to my mother. “Pin this down by his heel.” The nurse walks toward my head, the tape unwinding. He presses it by the side of my head. “Six foot five and a half. No wonder your leg hurts: you’ve grown almost two inches,” the nurse says. He takes the measuring tape and wraps it around my upper arm. “Flex.”

“Huh?”

“Make a muscle.”

I squeeze it tight.

“What does this have to do with his leg?” Mom asks.

“Nothing. I was just curious.” He takes the tape back and clamps it between two fingers, running the length with a stupid grin on his face. “Jesus…twenty and three-quarter inches! What do you bench?”

I put my hat back on. “Nothing.”

“Not buying it. Schwarzenegger’s arms were twenty-two and a half inches when he was competing. There’s no way you’re at twenty and three-quarter inches by doing nothing.”

“We’re here for my leg,” I say, dropping the bass in my throat as low as it goes. So low, my chest rumbles as I speak. “Get to it.”

Ryan backs away. “Hey, man, no problem.” He raises his hands up, soft palms facing me.

Mom and I lock eyes and she turns to him. “We’d appreciate it if this could be wrapped up as quickly as possible,” she says. “Dylan wants to get back to school. He loves school—he’s very smart.”

The nurse smiles but I can almost smell the drops of piss I alphaed out of him trickling down his leg. “It’s just guy talk,” he mumbles. He clicks the mouse and snaps the computer to life, bringing up my X-rays, and whips his little pointer all around the screen. “All right, so here we are. It’s the pins that are causing the problem because they’re screwed into your bones, and as you’ve grown, they’re pulling against the body of the cast. Hence, the pain. So Dr. Jensen wants to move up the schedule, install some new plates, and redo a cast so it’s smooth. No pins.”