It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,23

moving to for years—his name. Julian. Julian. Julian. But then I think about what I’m doing. I mean, what am I thinking? And I backspace, erasing one letter at a time until I’m left with an empty message box.

So now there’s this sad-looking blank space where my heart just was.

Another message from Julian comes through.

You there?

Oh yeah. Julian. He’s waiting. What can I say to him that wouldn’t seem too pushy or sketchy?

So instead I write. Going to sleep. I chew on my finger, deciding if this next part is too much, but then I type it anyway. Good night.

Friends can say good night to each other. It’s totally fine.

But then my phone lights up with his message back.

Sweet Dreams.

And I know that I’ll be up half the night thinking of him.

* * *

7:00 A.M.

whose bright idea was it to make school start so early.

No idea. Idiots.

Ha! I didn’t know you could be so salty.

Me before coffee.

Me before hockey.

lol.

Hey, what’s your hockey?

Hmmm. I guess books. I’m a pretty big book nerd.

You’re a smarty-pants. Cool.

12:02 P.M.

Do you eat in the cafeteria?

That’s not an allowable question.

You’re tough.

You know it!

2:34 P.M.

Do you text in school?

I guess that’s a no.

Eight

Two days later. Two days of delicious texts from the boy. Two English classes. Two lunchtimes of catching glimpses of him in the cafeteria. I’m staring at my phone, specifically at his texts, as Mom drives us to my doctor’s appointment. This time I’m riding shotgun, but when I’m not looking at my texts, I’m staring out the window.

“Put on what you want.” Mom points to the radio as if I need permission. As if Rena and I don’t usually take over the minute we get in the car. I consider scrolling through my phone for a good playlist, but I’m just not feeling it.

Mom drums her fingers on the steering wheel.

I stare at the world passing by around me and think about how all the time, I feel separate from everyone else. Okay, so I’m giving into a moody little spiral. I think about Dr. Jacoby. About all the things I imagine he did wrong the night before I was born. Was he up all night shooting darts and listening to a Rolling Stones tribute band? Is that why he didn’t pay attention when my poor little body went into distress?

I’ll never know. But I do know some things. I know that it’s time for me to get right with all of this. Somehow. Will that happen today during my doctor’s visit? Don’t think so, but it’s not like that will stop the train wreck that’s about to happen. The one I set in motion.

So here I sit in Dr. Rodriguez’s office with Mom and Dad, going over this very serious situation: my pain-in-the-ass body and what we are going to do about it.

“According to the films, Jenna’s at baseline. No changes.” Dr. Rodriguez stares at my chart as if he didn’t know off the top of his head that I’m just as afflicted as I used to be. What did he think? I’d suddenly grow out of my CP? That’s not really a thing. “As for trying the baclofen pump, I don’t love that she’s had some bad reactions to medications in general.”

“She has?” I can’t resist a little sarcasm.

Dad throws me a look. “Like?” He knows the answers, but he likes to be kept up-to-date on what everyone’s thinking.

“Well, last year when we tried the oral version of the meds we’d put in her pump, she experienced extreme nausea, dizziness, seizures, and—”

“You make it sound like the Ten Plagues or something. Seriously, someone pass the wine,” I say, cutting in, which makes Dr. Rodriguez smile and Dad scowl slightly.

“Honestly, Jenna, can we hear what the doctor has to say?”

Who am I to interject a little humor into the situation? I guess Dad’s used to me being his obedient little daughter in matters and appointments like this. Times change, dude. People change. I definitely have.

Dr. Rodriguez clears his throat and looks back in my chart. “I think it’s worth trying out the baclofen pump anyway. We can schedule a screening test for her. Take it slow and easy.”

Mom’s hand tightens around the chair while she stretches the other one out toward me. I give her a look and she withdraws it. Not trying to be mean, but I can’t do this. I just can’t. And yet, here I am in another doctor’s visit with Mom crying. Everyone is making plans for me that