It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,31

numbers three and four. Sometimes I can work that out by laying on a tennis ball where the point of biggest pain is and holding it there for two to three minutes.

“Mom?” I call.

“Hmm.” She doesn’t look up from the book she’s reading.

“I’m going to bed.”

Mom doesn’t ask to finish the next part in the book. She doesn’t sigh or anything. She simply closes the book and lowers the recliner and smiles at me. How come she doesn’t resent me? I mean, my body, my needs, me. I am way too much. I wish it were different, but it isn’t. Shouldn’t it bother her? Isn’t she as tired of my body as I am?

Mom’s by my side in seconds. She pushes my soup to the side and closes my computer.

Her smile is the only indication that she saw I was watching a baclofen video, but she knows better than to say anything. “You need help?” she asks.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

“Okay if I just stand by?”

Mom knows that when I get like this it doesn’t take much for me to teeter and fall or twist something the wrong way.

“Maybe just turndown service,” I say jokingly.

“So fancy.” Mom’s voice is all sweetness and light, as if it’s her dream to wait on me.

She follows me to my room and busies herself as I change, wash up, go to the bathroom, and finally brush my teeth. Mom helps me into bed. I reach over my head to the shelf that holds a single tennis ball.

“Your back?”

I nod.

“You want a pain pill? Or a muscle relaxer?”

“I think I’m okay.”

She opens my night table drawer and spills two pills into a little cup we keep there. “In case you change your mind later.” She puts my water bottle next to my bed.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“As you wish,” she says. It’s one of our things, and I’m glad she still wants to say such things to me after our arguments this week. After all of my defiance—whether warranted or not.

I push the tennis ball against my lower back, the right side, since that’s the part that hurts the most. I settle under the covers. Mom hands me my computer and my phone, which beeps the minute I have it in my hands.

“Anybody interesting?”

“Just Ben. He’s all pissy about some school store thing gone wrong.”

“I like that Ben, though.” She walks to the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She means text her. So much more civilized than screaming or ringing a bell, like Colin in The Secret Garden. Mom actually got me a little bell one time, because I was fascinated with the concept. But now, technology.

Speaking of which, I guess I should answer my bestie. Only when I look at my phone, I see that it’s not Ben who has been texting me. It’s Julian.

6:58

Hey.

7:15

You there?

7:23

Oh. Was hoping you could help me.

My heart rate accelerates. Back when I participated in physical therapy, the therapist would always say “Make your heart beat as fast as someone who’s in love,” and there was a heart sticker on the monitor that he wanted me to shoot for. I’d laugh and think, “How would I ever know about love?” But here I am, texting the boy I adore. Adoration isn’t love exactly. Also, he doesn’t know it’s me. But those are small details. Miniscule even.

I text back a very articulate, hey.

Oh, awesome. I was just going to give up on you.

I rush to type back.

Don’t do that!

I won’t.

Man, Julian’s gotten flirty. Not that I’m complaining. Even though part of me is annoyed he’s flirting with someone else, even when that someone else is me.

So what do you need?

You ever read The Great Gatsby?

Of course! It’s a classic!

It’s probably going to kill me.

Yeah, but what a way to go!

Wow. You’re really into this stuff, huh. Ok that settles it, I’m going to try to look at it through your eyes.

Good. Then you’ll see it as an incredible love story.

What color are they anyway?

I’m so confused. Is he talking about Daisy and Gatsby? Why would that even matter? Then his next text comes in.

Your eyes, I mean?

I giggle. Yes. I actually giggle out loud. But I type back.

Better keep to the book, right?

Yeah. Just thought if I was going to look through your eyes I’d need to know what color they are.

Brown.

My fave.

You lie.

Yes. But never to you.

And for some reason it feels like he means it. Like he knows it’s me and he’s sending me a message, like that time