It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,42

for years,” Eric tells me in a conspiratorial tone.

“I don’t mind. As long as she takes my place when it comes time for the hospital stays.”

Rena’s smile stretches. “Least I can do, big sister. We’ll use some kind of magic or something to Freaky Friday that shit.”

Mom shakes her head, but we can tell she’s into all of this.

As Rena dresses me up, I sit and think about what’s coming next. The hockey game with my favorite people. I’m excited and also nervous. I want Julian to do well. I want the team to win. I want so many things right now, and it feels so good.

Ready in ten minutes. Ben texts.

I send him a smiley emoji.

Rena paints my lips. “This color is called Lolita,” she says breathily. “It’s perfect for you.”

“You mean for Anna?”

She plops a wig on my head. Then a ski hat with those fuzzy balls on the end. “Of course.”

* * *

Ben’s arrived, and we’re ready to head to the game, but before I go anywhere, I’ve got to do an assessment.

Weather? Rainy and cold. That means extra layers, like everyone else, but it also means Eric has to start the car and warm it up for me. My body doesn’t stay warm once it gets cold, and I have a real risk of respiratory infections. So that also means a blanket for me in the car and one for during the hockey game.

Next assessment? Mobility aids. It’s going to be a long walk from the parking lot, unless we use my handicapped placard for the car.

“I’ll drop the girls and park,” Eric says.

Dad shakes his head. “They probably won’t let you do that. Take this. Just in case.” He hands over the placard, and Eric takes it.

Mom points to my walker and my electric scooter, waiting in the living room. “Which do you think for tonight?”

“Um…neither?” I counter.

“One or the other,” Dad says. I can tell by his stance this is also nonnegotiable.

“Which is easier?” I ask Eric.

He fiddles with his keys. “Whichever one you want. We will make it work, no problem. I just ask that we make the decision and get going.”

And here we are. Me facing down my beast, in the form of mobility aids. Which would be easiest to use? The scooter, definitely. But the walker would make it easier to get into the seats in the stands.

“We can bring your crutches for when we get inside,” Rena offers, clearly reading my mind and my mood.

I think of all the accessibility issues with going to a game at Skate Zone. Over the years, with me attending Eric’s games, the facility has improved its accessibility. Some issues were fixed thanks to my father’s insistence and my uncle’s legal intervention, plus a grant from an anonymous donor to put in ramps in a few different places. Still, it’s a bear to make it work with a crowd and the frenzy. I can picture me tripping in my walker. That would be worse than using my scooter.

“Okay. Scooter.”

Mom smiles, clearly glad I’m being reasonable. “All charged and ready to go.”

As we all load into the car and start the drive to Skate Zone, I think about what this would be like if I was Jennifer—the girl who can race to the car in the cold and shiver as she waits for it to warm up. I’d take my gloves off and blow on my hands. The cold would feel good to me, make me feel alive. I’d look at my phone and see my boyfriend’s texts to me. I’d wear the scarf he gave me for my birthday—delicate, baby-blue faux cashmere because he knows I’m cruelty-free when it comes to my food and my clothes. I’d wear it as our special signal—a reminder of how soft his arms are around me and how we’d celebrate his victory, just the two of us, in his comfy bed.

“Jenna?” Eric calls. “Jenna?”

The scene fades, and I stop being Jennifer and become the girl in the van with Panic! playing in the background. “Death of a Bachelor,” to be precise.

“Yeah?”

“I asked if you were warm enough.”

“I’m fine. Just thinking about the game.”

“I’ll bet,” Ben adds. If I could reach him, I’d smack him silent. “As we all are.”

Rena giggles. “You two are so weird.”

Eric inspects me like people in my family always do—for signs of impending seizures and the like. I stick my tongue out, to which he says, “Real mature,” but he moves the car forward. We’ve