It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,52
to stay across the room. Far from me and my hospital funk. I pull my covers up over my chest. It’s then I remember I’m not wearing a bra. I’m not even wearing proper clothes, just a horrible hospital nightgown.
“Hey,” Julian says with a wave. “I just wanted to bring… Oh, it’s your birthday. I used to know that,” he says, making this situation even more awkward, if that’s possible. “Anyway, I won’t stay. I just wanted to say I’m so sorry about—”
“Is that your boyfriend?” Whitney asks, making everyone laugh. She pouts. “Why is everyone laughing at me?”
Julian sidesteps the question and my little cousin and puts the flowers on the dresser across from my bed. He shoots me a look that’s supposed to mean little kids are ridiculous. I return it. “How are you feeling?”
“Let’s let Jenna have a minute with her friend while we go find cups,” Mom says, ushering the crew out into the hall. “I forgot to pack those.”
Kevin reaches into the bag Aunt Betty brought and says, “Mom has some right—”
“She doesn’t have the right ones,” Rena adds, rolling her eyes at me. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Everyone leaves except Dad, who stands next to my bed, arms crossed, as if he’s daring Julian to try something. I couldn’t be more mortified.
“Sir?” Julian extends his hand.
There’s an uncomfortable silence. I want to hit Dad’s arm, but I’m too busy holding my covers over myself.
Finally, he extends his hand. They shake. “Not too long. She needs her rest.”
“Of course, Mr. Cohen.”
The door shuts, and that’s when Julian’s eyes crawl from the floor to my face, which makes my hand fly there. It leaves my chest vulnerable, but dispatching my hand to the covers would make the entire situation even more uncomfortable.
“Hey,” Julian says. “I feel really bad about the other night.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.
“I can’t stop thinking about how it sounded when…” His face gets a little white.
I want to reach my hand out to him, but that seems too intimate. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay. It wasn’t your fault. It’s just my stupid body.”
His face gets red when I mention my body. And that makes me feel good in a weird way. “I was afraid you hated me.” His eyes stay on mine. His voice gets shaky. “Please don’t hate me.”
“I could never hate you, Julian,” I say.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. My friend told me that no girl wants—”
“You to see her in a hospital,” I finish, then realize I’m a total idiot. “People say that all the time,” I add, hoping to fix my major blunder.
His eyes narrow, and I try to read his expression. He might be suspicious. He might be figuring things out, or he might just be uncomfortable, but then there’s a knock, and Mom pops her head in. “Okay to come back?”
And now I blush three shades of tomato because how embarrassing can she be?
Julian says, “I’m just leaving.”
Mom says, “Stay for cake.”
Julian looks to me.
“Sure,” I say. “Stay.”
He smiles and then Eric is back in the room and the two of them replay all the glory of the game. Rena corrals the kids. Mom slices the cake. I get the first piece, but no way am I going to eat chocolate cake in front of the boy.
After I’ve gotten all of my presents—a $50 iTunes card from Eric; a makeup set and cute little purse from Rena; a charm bracelet with books on it from Uncle Steve; and Grimms’ Fairy Tales, a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works, and a collection of Shakespeare from Aunt Betty and crew—the nurse comes in.
Mom offers her a piece of cake, and Dad hands me a little box. Rena helps me open it. It’s a gold necklace with three charms: an oval with my name and birthday, a birthstone gem, and a Jewish star. I love it. Aunt Betty puts it around my neck, forcing me to shift forward so she can do the clasp.
The nurse gives me another dose of pain meds in my IV and they work so fast that soon I can only really think of one thing: sleep.
My eyes close.
I hear everyone pack up and leave. Mom kisses me on my forehead. “I love you, Jenna Cohen. You may be grown up, but you are still my little miracle.”
* * *
Saturday, 8:17 P.M.
This has been a hard week.
I know! How’s your friend?
She’s okay, I think. I’m not.
I’m sorry.
I just can’t stop thinking