It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,28
job. And I don’t exactly want to get into it with her in front of everyone, so yeah. I’m stuck.
“Remember to stick to the schedule, people. Do not fall behind.” Mr. S. pauses to scan the class. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s just a few pages. But trust me. You don’t want to have to play catch up.”
“Do you want me to copy down your assignments?” Mrs. Wilson reaches for my backpack, which must really annoy Mr. S., because he shoots her one hell of a withering look. Then he scratches the area over his eyebrow, and I can practically hear him sigh heavily.
“It’ll be in Google Classroom for everyone to access later. You should all do that.” He points to the class. “Now would be good.”
Mrs. Wilson withdraws her hand from my chair.
He winks at me again, and I know for sure Mr. S. is trying to help me. I’m reminded why Mr. S. is just about everyone’s favorite teacher.
I steal a look at Julian, who must feel my eyes on him, because he turns to face me. He nods at Mr. Stechshulte like he’s a good guy. Like he’s glad that our teacher was nice to me. Julian’s always been a little protective. I smile back. Then I look at my computer and pretend I’m typing something important when really I’m just biding time until the classroom door opens and some aide brings in a wheelchair for me to borrow. Luckily the bell rings just as the chair gets here. Life is good.
* * *
My strategy for going to lunch in a wheelchair is to hang back and let everyone else get there first. I pack my lunch and have a seat at Ben’s table guaranteed, so there’s no point in taking on the crowds. But Mrs. Wilson doesn’t like to wait. After the bell rings, she wheels over my small electric wheelchair, the one they keep at school for me in case of things like this.
“Just for the rest of today,” she says, and I forget that most of the time she’s a condescending pain in the butt. Maybe I’m projecting my feelings on her, a concept of transference—something they’re learning about in Ben’s AP Psych class, which I know because I read his AP textbook online using his PIN. I’m that dorky.
I start to work the toggle and maneuver through the masses, a feat that would be way easier if I had my better chair or even my electric scooter. That thing can pivot on a dime, but this old thing feels clunky.
“Can I drive for you, Jenna?” Mrs. Wilson checks her watch. “I’ve got a call to make.”
“I’ve got it,” I say as I jerk forward a few more feet.
She stops and looks at the path being forged to the cafeteria. “You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
“Okay.” She smiles at me, hesitates, and looks at her watch, which is flashing a bunch of messages that she must feel compelled to answer.
She nods one last time and turns around.
A breeze blows, too cold for middle of October. I shiver and pause my movement, not ready to go forward. I feel almost like I’m a little seasick. But then some kids open the cafeteria door for me, and I let them give me that courtesy. Another cold wind blows, and suddenly I can’t manage moving my chair and holding my coat around me. The cafeteria is blindingly bright and buzzing. There’s so much talking. Laughing. It’s all too much for my senses. I push forward some more, trying to avoid knocking someone over, but the round tables look like they are spinning. I start to get panicked.
Hands come down on my armrests. I can’t see who it is.
“May I help you?”
It’s Julian.
My heart melts. In the melee, his question sounds so gallant that I almost forget he’s just being kind.
“You usually sit over here, right?” he asks.
I don’t even answer, my voice locked in my throat from the fugue-like feeling I’m working through right now. But I clock that Julian knows where I sit. He wheels me up to Ben, who jumps up to move the cafeteria chair out of the way and make room.
“It’s about damn time, girl.” Ben gives me a side-eye, taking in the wheelchair situation, but he knows better than to ask why I’m using it with all of these people around. He’s got his fake glasses on, the ones he wears when he’s trying to look especially smart. “You’re missing everything.”
“Mostly I’m missing