into the small bowl on the countertop beside the door. “We’ve discussed this before, Scarlet. I know you feel like you’re all grown up now that you’re in high school, but there are things you’re not ready for.”
Same old story. When it comes to me and anything to do with my health, I instantly revert to patient. With Mom as decision maker, controller of knowledge, dispenser of wisdom and prescriptions.
We’ve butted heads over this before. This summer Mom wanted the doctors to implant the internal defibrillator into my heart and I refused. I’d just turned fifteen and knew more about the pathophysiology of my disease than the intern taking care of me, so the doctors agreed. Plus, Dad was on my side. He couldn’t bear the thought of me having yet another surgery.
Mom was livid. Didn’t speak to me for a week, barely acknowledged my existence other than to hold her hand out with my medicine right on schedule. She gave Dad the cold shoulder as well. Living in the same house with her was like walking around, holding your breath, peeking around corners to make sure you didn’t wake the monster.
Not that my mom’s a monster; she just knows how to hold a grudge, that’s all. The stress was so bad that I had a Set Back—that’s why I was three weeks late starting school—and then things went right back to normal. Me in bed, Mom taking care of me, and Dad letting her run the show.
29
“You said yourself that I have a responsibility to Tony. It’s not fair that he be penalized.”
“I also told Anthony to get another partner. This is too much stress on you,” she argues.
We stare at each other across the kitchen island.
“This means a lot to you,” she finally says with a sigh.
“Part of being a normal student is working with other kids. Besides, there’s nothing in those files I haven’t lived through.”
Her lips tighten and I realize that reminding her of all my Near Misses and the times they Almost Lost me was exactly the wrong thing to say.
“I said no, Scarlet. End of discussion. I’ll talk with Ms. Blakely and ask her to assign Tony a new partner and you another project. One that won’t require you snooping around sensitive records.”
“But they’re my records,” I protest. I can’t lose Tony—despite what he said in Spanish, would he ever talk to me again after I ruined his bio grade?
“I think you’ve had a long day. Time for bed. Good night, Scarlet.” Her tone is one of command.
As always, I surrender. What choice do I have? But as I pass the bowl sitting near the door on the way to my room, I can’t help but give the key chain a second glance. I could do it. I could go behind her back, defy her.
But I don’t. Instead I creep through the living room and into my room. Sent to bed without my supper. Just like a little kid.
I curl up on my paradise of pinkness bed and sulk. What have I done to deserve this? Being sick my whole life, never making any friends, spending most of my days either in a hospital getting poked and prodded or alone at home, miserable.
The worst thing I’ve ever done is to hide the vitamins Mom is always giving me—they’re really to make her feel better, not me, so I figure I’m not really hurting anyone, right? Except I hate having to do it because I hate lies. Really, really hate them.
Everyone lies. Even my mom lies. A lot. To me.
They aren’t nice lies, like “you look good today.” Instead she says things like, “this is the last time, I promise,” when the nurses are poking me for veins that have collapsed, sticking needles into me over and over, tying the tourniquet so tight and gritting their teeth like they take it personally that I’m a “hard stick.”
Or “it’s almost done, you’re fine, they’re almost done,” when really they’ve just begun to shove a tube up or down or inside-out and the real pain is still to come.
Mom’s lies are more dangerous than any doctor’s dull needle, fat tube, or sharp knife.
My
Same old story. When it comes to me and anything to do with my health, I instantly revert to patient. With Mom as decision maker, controller of knowledge, dispenser of wisdom and prescriptions.
We’ve butted heads over this before. This summer Mom wanted the doctors to implant the internal defibrillator into my heart and I refused. I’d just turned fifteen and knew more about the pathophysiology of my disease than the intern taking care of me, so the doctors agreed. Plus, Dad was on my side. He couldn’t bear the thought of me having yet another surgery.
Mom was livid. Didn’t speak to me for a week, barely acknowledged my existence other than to hold her hand out with my medicine right on schedule. She gave Dad the cold shoulder as well. Living in the same house with her was like walking around, holding your breath, peeking around corners to make sure you didn’t wake the monster.
Not that my mom’s a monster; she just knows how to hold a grudge, that’s all. The stress was so bad that I had a Set Back—that’s why I was three weeks late starting school—and then things went right back to normal. Me in bed, Mom taking care of me, and Dad letting her run the show.
29
“You said yourself that I have a responsibility to Tony. It’s not fair that he be penalized.”
“I also told Anthony to get another partner. This is too much stress on you,” she argues.
We stare at each other across the kitchen island.
“This means a lot to you,” she finally says with a sigh.
“Part of being a normal student is working with other kids. Besides, there’s nothing in those files I haven’t lived through.”
Her lips tighten and I realize that reminding her of all my Near Misses and the times they Almost Lost me was exactly the wrong thing to say.
“I said no, Scarlet. End of discussion. I’ll talk with Ms. Blakely and ask her to assign Tony a new partner and you another project. One that won’t require you snooping around sensitive records.”
“But they’re my records,” I protest. I can’t lose Tony—despite what he said in Spanish, would he ever talk to me again after I ruined his bio grade?
“I think you’ve had a long day. Time for bed. Good night, Scarlet.” Her tone is one of command.
As always, I surrender. What choice do I have? But as I pass the bowl sitting near the door on the way to my room, I can’t help but give the key chain a second glance. I could do it. I could go behind her back, defy her.
But I don’t. Instead I creep through the living room and into my room. Sent to bed without my supper. Just like a little kid.
I curl up on my paradise of pinkness bed and sulk. What have I done to deserve this? Being sick my whole life, never making any friends, spending most of my days either in a hospital getting poked and prodded or alone at home, miserable.
The worst thing I’ve ever done is to hide the vitamins Mom is always giving me—they’re really to make her feel better, not me, so I figure I’m not really hurting anyone, right? Except I hate having to do it because I hate lies. Really, really hate them.
Everyone lies. Even my mom lies. A lot. To me.
They aren’t nice lies, like “you look good today.” Instead she says things like, “this is the last time, I promise,” when the nurses are poking me for veins that have collapsed, sticking needles into me over and over, tying the tourniquet so tight and gritting their teeth like they take it personally that I’m a “hard stick.”
Or “it’s almost done, you’re fine, they’re almost done,” when really they’ve just begun to shove a tube up or down or inside-out and the real pain is still to come.
Mom’s lies are more dangerous than any doctor’s dull needle, fat tube, or sharp knife.
My
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