It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,14

life. We would be inseparable. If only I had a body that worked and a doctor who hadn’t screwed up. Even when I was in the AP classes with them, before I dropped down to classes that don’t take any effort, I was never truly one of them. I am so into my fantasy, the one where I’m an able-bodied AP girl, that in real life, I can’t make myself move forward. I’m not in my wheelchair today but have a brace on my knee and my elbow crutches, and I’m stuck like my chair when it runs out of battery.

Mom gets out of the car. “You okay, honey?”

Rena says, “I’ll walk her in.”

“No. I’m fine.”

I collect myself, put my crutches squarely on the ground. The sound they make is so loud to me, but a quick glance around tells me that no one else seems to notice.

“Jenna?” Mom asks, demanding my attention. Mom leans forward, her face in front of mine. She whispers, “Jenna?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Listen, Mrs. Wilson is going to walk you around today.”

My face automatically sets into resting pissed face.

“Give me a break, Jenna. It’s just for today.”

“One break coming up.” Eric’s joke.

Mom waves one hand over her head as if to say “good one” as she heads back to her car. I watch her drive away, a tiny speck of regret in my stomach. I should give her a break. I want to. It’s just I can’t help thinking that she gave Dr. Jerkoby too many breaks. I often fantasize about how the entire thing played out. Like maybe he was out playing pool with his buddies and pounding shots of Bacardi the night before I was born. Or maybe he’d spent all night playing video games like a huge dork. Who knows? The point is, he didn’t bring his A game for me, did he?

Our high school consists of four buildings, all connected by a courtyard. I’m stopped in front of the one hundred building. Mrs. Wilson opens the door for me.

All of a sudden, there’s an influx of bodies. Hockey players, throwing their arms around the AP girls’ shoulders. One girl says, “Watch it! Don’t spill the coffee. Respect the coffee.”

My stomach tightens. I hope Julian isn’t in that crowd, his arm around another girl. Please.

But now I’m staring at the guys’ backs. Their butts, really, and I’m relieved because none of them are Julian. And just like that I’ve become a total stalker.

But who could blame me? Julian’s back.

Maybe that does means something in my story. I’m not saying he’s going to see me, drop to his knees, and profess his love for me—although that would be cool if he did. I mean, maybe we can go back to being friends. Of the close variety.

Mrs. Wilson walks me to my first-period English III class. She opens the door as I approach, and a bunch of the other kids in my class say, “Thank you,” as they scooch under her arm into the classroom, which makes her scowl. One of them, Tommy Luca, turns around and flashes me a grin. Solidarity. They get how annoying Mrs. Wilson can be, and this is one way to be on my side.

So I’m smiling a little as I make my way into the room. I walk to my desk—the special one they have for me in all of my classes, the one that can be adjusted to suit my wheelchair as needed—and put my backpack on my chair, all while Mrs. Wilson stands by, ready to help me. My backpack falls, and Mrs. Wilson makes a face and goes to retrieve it—but not before Tommy gets there.

He rehangs it on my chair. “Glad you’re back, Jenna,” he says. I shoot him a very grateful smile.

But as I do, something happens that illustrates the presence of a divine power: The door opens, and Julian strolls into my English class. My English class. Mine. He walks with his head down, red wavy curls trailing over his eyes the tiniest bit. Hockey players get to wear their hair long and outrageous. I am definitely a fan.

I’m surprised to see him at first. The hockey players here are part jock, all student. Most of them are in AP classes. That makes their team even sexier than some of the meathead jocks, I’ve heard girls say before—they’re athletic and smart to boot.

But then I remember that Julian’s always had trouble in school. His intensity on the ice is absent in all academic pursuits,