It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,18

even though Mr. S. made a point of saying I’m the one who should be helping him. Me. Not her.

So…why don’t I? I mean, I could anonymously text him. He doesn’t have my number, because I didn’t get my phone until after he moved away, but I have his.

I stare at my cell.

I’ve always been good at memorizing things; it’s how my brain works. So when Eric was team captain for the rec hockey team, he tacked the team list to the front of the refrigerator in case he had to call someone after practice or get them to volunteer for a car wash fund-raiser or something.

And I’d play this game. I’d make my eyes linger on the shapes of the names of the boys as if Julian, teammate number six, was just a part of a group. Like his number meant nothing to me. But each time my gaze landed on his listing, my face would burn with the knowledge that I was singling him out.

At the hockey games I pretended to watch the entire team, but from my perch in the box, I stared at him. I may have tolerated their strong, musky athlete smell and endured their awful jokes—but I was there for the eye candy.

I always tried to laugh or say something smart back, but around the team my tongue knotted, and the air I desperately tried to control, a small part of the incoordination of CP, raced through my nose just at the same time our team scored. So maybe there was a God after all, because he didn’t want me to snort in front of Julian.

I think about Julian’s number stored on my phone, just waiting for me to use it. The knowledge lights a fire inside me. I think of all the ways texting would be to my advantage.

First of all, there’s wait time. I am almost always able to get a message out of my mouth, in the right order, pronouncing each word separately and like a pearl strung on a beautiful necklace. Most times, that’s exactly how it works. Most times, I’m pretty clear. But sometimes, like when Julian was getting rid of Simon earlier, the electric wiring in my brain goes all loopy, and my muscles tense and slack, or slack and tense, and that means I’d sound like I was talking around a bunch of marbles, drooling, and choking as I tried to speak. Also there are the things I want to say to him but can’t. That, of course, has nothing to do with motor control.

At the hockey table, Chip puts his arm around Julian and brings him into the impromptu huddle that’s happening at his table. Hockey talk. Grades talk. This is how the year starts. Most hockey teams don’t even start practicing until November—it’s a winter sport. But our hockey players are all in for just the one sport. No fall ball for them. It’s hockey, or it’s nothing. So they start early, which means Julian’s already behind. I wonder if that’s weighing on him. I bet it is.

Julian nods to whatever they are saying. He’s taking the vow, but his shoulders are still slumped. I want so much to reach out to him and tell him not to worry. It’s like I can hear him feeling how he’s not smart enough or fast enough or good enough. And I wish I could find a way to show him he’s more than enough.

For me.

Seven

Bedtime means I’m perched in my bed, surrounded by pillows, and with the head of the bed raised. I remember how as a little girl I used to feel like a princess as Mom and Dad kissed me good night and I slowly lowered my bed to the perfect position. Now, years later, still propped and surrounded by fluffy bedding, I feel trapped. It’s weird how that happens.

I take my iPad that’s set up next to my bed and swipe through a few messages from Ben, some random emails, and finally, the latest email from Uncle Steve.

I put together emancipation documents for you to look at and see what they’re all about. We can talk soon.

Dread creeps into me, followed by guilt and, finally, sadness. I picture how Mom and Dad will feel when Uncle Steve and I make our big stand. Do I really want to do this?

I write back to Uncle Steve.

Ok. Thanks.

Mom’s knock on the door makes me jump. My cheeks heat. Guilt-ridden and unsure, I face Mom, who doesn’t