None of the Above(44)

“Do you have any idea where else you’d like to volunteer?”

Wherever Vee wasn’t. Or Sam, or Bruce, or . . . anybody.

I shook my head, scrunching my Kleenex into a tight little ball.

“A number of organizations are still looking for students to help out.” She handed me a stapled list. “Why don’t you look at that and get back to me? I’ll start the paperwork for your home instruction. We’ll need to have a formal meeting with your father present, and a doctor’s note as well.”

“We have an appointment in a few days,” I said.

“Well, then.” Ms. Diaz stood up and put on her coat. “Take care, Kristin. Give yourself some time to heal. We hope to have you back at school soon.”

As I showed her out, I wondered who “we” was.





CHAPTER 24


“So, um, have you been checking your email?” Faith asked a couple nights later. She was trying to be casual and all, but even over the phone I could sense an undercurrent of anxiety.

“No, why?”

“Well, Vee wanted me to tell you she sent you an email,” she said. “About Big Brothers Big Sisters, now that you’re not doing it. She just needed to know about some logistics, but hasn’t heard from you.”

“Why didn’t she just call me herself?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Probably because she thought you wouldn’t pick up?”

“I would’ve,” I said. Just to see if she said she was sorry.

“Well, anyway, she wanted me to tell you.”

When I opened my email I ignored the Facebook notifications, and scrolled down to Vee’s message, sent the day after Ms. Diaz’s visit. It was four measly lines:



Subject: BBBS



Hey.

Faith said you had surgery. Hope you’re okay.

So, I hear from Ms. Diaz that you’re not doing BBBS anymore. Can you email me all the info on the sponsors you’ve gotten so far?

-V



The absence of an apology hit me as hard as any blow. I read the email twice, as if I could’ve missed something. It was almost worse that she had asked if I was okay, because that implied that she cared. Except if she had given a rat’s ass about me, she would’ve said she was sorry.

I searched through my files to find my sponsor spreadsheet, and sent it to her without bothering to write anything in the message field. Then I slammed my laptop shut, hands trembling.

“You okay?” my dad asked. He put his palm on my forehead. “You look flushed.”

I felt flushed, and vaguely sick to my stomach. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingers.

“Well then,” I said, “good thing we made that appointment for tomorrow.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you,” Dr. Cheng said.

“Oh, thank God,” said my dad.

Unlike my dad, I wasn’t relieved. “Then why do I always feel like I have a fever?”

Dr. Cheng sighed. “It’s not clear. Your temp’s normal today. Your incisions are healing perfectly well, and you’re having bowel movements.” That had been the highlight of my visit so far, having to talk about what my poops looked like—and how often I had them—in front of my father. “How’s your energy level been? Have you been sleeping?”

My father snorted. “A little too well.”

“I’ve been really tired,” I said defensively. “Yeah, I’ve been sleeping a lot, but that’s because I’ve been tossing and turning because of the fevers.”

“Hmm.” I could feel Dr. Cheng’s eyes on me, could hear the wheels turning in her head.

“And how are you doing with the hormones?” Dr. Cheng asked.

I stared at my boots. After my surgery, I’d gotten a prescription for some estrogen pills. Dr. Cheng had said that I needed to take them for my bone health, now that my body—my testicles—didn’t produce hormones naturally anymore.

At my silence, Dr. Cheng raised her eyebrows. “I guess you haven’t gotten a chance to pick them up yet. In fact, that might account for your fatigue. It certainly could explain hot flashes. If you’re not taking your estrogen, you’re essentially menopausal.”

As if my body wasn’t enough of a yard sale.

“It slipped my mind,” I told Dr. Cheng.

Dr. Cheng sighed. “I’ll print you out a new prescription. How about the support group? Have you contacted them yet?” She smiled in what I supposed she thought was an encouraging way.

“I talked to one girl,” I said.

“Good. You know, they have meetings too, and a mailing list. It’s a terrific resource as you go forward with your diagnosis.”

Dr. Cheng fiddled on her laptop, and I fixated on what she had said. Go forward with your diagnosis. It was nicer than saying “learn to cope with being a freak.”

“I’m ordering labs and an X-ray since you’ve had recent surgery. But you need to take your hormones. And I really want you to think about your fatigue, and whether there may be a psychosomatic element to it.”

“What, do you think this is all in her head?” my father asked.

Dr. Cheng held out her hand like she was trying to stop traffic. “I’m not saying anything for sure. But if the X-ray is negative, I would like to refer you to a therapist who specializes in adolescent psychiatry.”