Beast(7)

“And…I might’ve gotten you one too.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“It’s yours. But hey, you know Adam Michaels?”

“The senior? Yeah.”

“Next time you see him, remind him he owes me that thing, will you? He’ll know what you’re talking about.”

And I know exactly what JP is talking about. I bob my head, delirious with Wormhole dreams. “Yeah, yeah, sure. You got it.”

“Anyway, later.” JP claps me on the back and runs off toward his homeroom, bobbing away into the scrum.

Holy crap, the Wormhole. If I didn’t want to go to therapy before, I absolutely do not want to go now.

Mom, Mom, do it for Mom. One and done. Deal with epic bullshit today, play with new Wormhole until my corneas dissolve tomorrow.

I open my locker, only to have it clang into my cast. “Ow, ow, ow, ow…,” I mutter. That freaking hurts. I swivel the chair in another direction so I can actually spread the door wide; but then once it’s ajar, I can’t reach my books. They’re too high.

There is something humbling about being unable to do things for yourself because your body simply can’t. I briefly consider asking someone for help but immediately squash it down.

So I hitch myself up on my good leg and ignore the rush of pain as I stretch my arm high to get my books and cram them into my backpack. Hey, look at me coping and using skills to go on! I don’t need therapy this afternoon. Pretty pointless: I can do this by myself, but whatever. I’m only going for one day to make Mom happy, and that’s it.

I have all the time in the world to get wherever the hell I want. While everyone else races to beat the clock, I get an extra ten minutes to wheel my furry ass down the halls.

Perhaps sophomore year is going to rule after all.

Trundling all around in a wheelchair kinda makes me feel bionic, and in homeroom everyone makes a huge to-do over my leg. I get tons of signatures on my cast. Except most of them are like: Get better, Fuzzball! Feel better, Beast! Hey, Sasquatch—Next time stick to the woods!

JP was right: it is a pity magnet. All the girls in homeroom go, “Aww…!!” in that cute, high-pitched way. They touch me. Pat my shoulder and give me quick little side hugs and stuff. Nina gives me a piece of gum. I save the wrapper in my pocket.

The bell rings for first period and I take a breath.

Even though we have this stupid rotating schedule that I can’t remember for shit, I know someone else’s schedule better than my own. If I stall a little before going to my class, there will be someone coming in with her books and sitting down in the seat in front of mine.

I waste some time and lo and behold, Fern Chapman.

She comes into the room and it’s like time stands still. St. Lawrence gives girls an option between navy blue pants or a skirt and today she chose the skirt. I’m almost positive she did it for me, to make me and my broken leg feel better. She comes closer and I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. My rib cage might be the size of a small bathtub, but that doesn’t stop everything inside from bubbling and quaking like jelly.

I will pretend body hair directly correlates to confidence.

“Hey, Fern,” I say, mushing my books and papers in a pile.

“Hey,” she says. And then she sends me the tiniest of smiles. I think I might pass out.

When it comes to girls, I want to be a gentleman because if you break it down, you’re a gentle man. That’s what I want to be. A gentle man. Figure if I’m polite and nice and not manbearpigboy, everything will go well. So here goes nothing. “H-how are you?” Wonderful. A stutter. I clear my throat and cough. She frowns. Great, now I can’t speak or breathe right. Course correction and proceed to do-over. “What’s up? How’s things?”

Fern sits down and swings an elbow around the back of her chair. “Going better than for you.” She laughs.

I laugh.

We share a laugh! Time to buy prom tickets. “Yeah, I…I fell off…ah…the roof.”

“I heard,” she says.

Fern turns to her homework from the night before and underlines a few answers. No tea and sympathy? I fall off the frigging roof and that’s all I get from my future wife? Cold, Fern. So cold. I check the clock. I should go, except I don’t want to. But she’s not even looking at me anymore. “Um,” I say.

She looks up, in a “What the hell does this troglodyte want now?” way.

“You want to sign my cast?”

“M’kay,” she says.

“I have a Sharpie,” I say, and hold it out.

She hesitates before she takes it. “Why do you have a Sharpie?”

“Um…” Because I’ve been waiting for you to sign my cast since I woke up from surgery. “It was JP’s idea. The marker. He said pen works like crap on casts. He’s always looking out for me.”

“JP’s so smart,” she says.

No, he’s not. He’s always “checking” his homework with me from the night before because he’s a lazy dumbass. Let’s leave my far more appealing best friend who’s already hooked up with half the class, okay? Bending over to make her mark on my ankle, she finishes and I read: Poor Beast. —Fern

Time to get a refund on those prom tickets. I take the Sharpie and put my books on my lap. Wheeling backward, I knock into the desk behind me. Her eyes snap up at the loud bang. My chin stiffens. I’m down but not out. Prom’s two years away, I still got time. “See you in study hall,” I say.