Beast(6)

“Mom, no, it’s really not that big a deal.”

“It kind of is,” Dr. Jensen chimes in. Smug bastard. “But Dr. Burns is great; she’ll help you learn some usable coping skills so the roof is less tempting in the future.”

“Actually—”

“He’ll be there,” Mom butts in. “With bells on.”

“Good.” Dr. Jensen gives my mom a white card. “I’ll have her call you later today with the information.” He goes off to harass his next patient.

Once we’re alone, Mom whirls around to face me and taps the card stiff in her palm.

“Hey—” I try to cut her off.

“Don’t even try to talk your way out of it, buddy,” she says. “You’re going to therapy.”





THREE


“The Beast is mobile!” JP hollers when he sees me wheel down the hall on my first day back. My right leg clears the way. “Everyone make a path—there’s a tank coming.”

Fair comparison since I feel like a bulldozer. I can barely walk on two legs without knocking over anywhere from one to a dozen things, but a wheelchair? Forget it. Wheels are definitely not my friend. Too round. Since my mom dropped me off at the front door, I’ve managed to bang into the trophy case, one fire extinguisher, and a bucket of dirty water left behind by the art kids painting a mural over the principal’s office. At the end of the day, this poor wheelchair is going to cry itself to sleep.

But I’m slowly discovering I love being in it. In the chair, I’m normal-sized. The Beast is contained. I don’t have to duck under doorways and I can make eye contact with the girls instead of towering over them.

“Hey, hey, make way,” JP says, and the group of guys loitering in a semicircle around him step aside for me. “How are you? Does it hurt? Did you get the pizza I sent? I wasn’t sure if the hospital accepted pizza.”

“They did! It was awesome, one large pepperoni and—”

“Mushrooms,” he finishes for me, and we both nod because that’s our favorite. “Cool, because I was like, shoot, I can’t go visit but I know what’s good.”

JP can’t just get rides on a whim. His parents aren’t good with that sort of thing. We might not be able to drive yet, but pizza makes everything better. “Nailed it,” I tell him.

This kid Whatshisface hangs on the outside of our gathering group, angling his way in because him and JP were on the same baseball team last summer. JP doesn’t acknowledge Whatshisface so I don’t either. This kid sends out ping after ping to JP’s radar. Like, What gives, JP? We were teammates—we talked about girls and shared a laugh. Why are you ignoring me now? Just want to tell him, Sorry, man. If JP says you’re not in, you’re not in.

“You’re finally the shortest one,” JP says.

“Yeah.” For the first time, I don’t have to stoop over and hunch down to hear what they’re saying.

“What’s up, man? How do you feel?” Bryce asks.

“Beats rotting in the hospital. Can’t believe I was there for a whole frigging week.” I peer up at my friends and blink.

“How long are you in the chair?” Bryce asks.

“For the next few weeks, until I can get the side pins out,” I say, looking him in the eye as I answer his question. This is so bizarre. “Then I move on to crutches.” Truth be told, I don’t want to get rid of the chair anytime soon. So many times, people just throw words up at me. I wonder if since I’m smaller, maybe they’ll actually listen to what I have to say.

“You guys, Dylan is a total badass,” JP says, thumping my shoulder. Everyone in a twelve-block radius nods in agreement with him, and I eat it up. Can’t help it. I’m filled with toasty warm kittens right now.

“Yeah, well, it was me against the roof, and the roof won.”

“Liking the dome,” JP says, cupping his hand over my shorn skull. I hate this stupid buzz cut, but it feels like he’s anointing me in front of the whole school, and it feels good. Here is my first mate, my best man. Here is the one I choose to stand beside me. Or in this case, sit.

The bell rings and I wheel off to my locker.

JP walks with me. With me in the chair, I can’t bump his heels like I used to and he can’t back-kick me in the ass. But we’ll figure something out. “Don’t forget to use that thing for all it’s worth. It’s a pity magnet,” he says.

A scenario and device that spark sympathy from the female population? Golly, what desperate loser would stoop that low? Answer: Me. And how. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Lucky bastard. Your house good after school?”

Ordinarily, yes. We play video games almost every day at my house until our eyes bleed, but today I can’t. Stupid therapy awaits. “Can’t,” I say. “Doctor’s appointment.”

His shoulders slump. “Cold shit on toast, Beast, because I just got this new controller. Maybe you heard about it? Like, only the most amazing one ever?”

“No way, nuh-uh, the Wormhole? You got a Wormhole?”

“Oh yes. Oh so very yes.”

“Are you serious?” That thing costs four hundred dollars and has a five-month wait because it has to get shipped over from Korea on a bed of angel-driven clouds. It is insane. It’s pulse sensitive and auto-responds in time with your heartbeat, so if you get all amped up and your heart beats fast, it will adjust precision time. I would fall off another roof to have one.