Under My Skin by Laura Diamond Page B

cot. “Looks like you’re working on some homework?”
    I stick a pen in the book and shut it. “Yes.”
    “What subject?”
    “History.”
    “What part?”
    “Um … ” I shrug. “You really want to talk about my reading assignment?”
    “Ah, don’t like your studies?” She joins me on the windowsill and crosses her legs. Her pencil skirt stretches taught around her slight hips and her black leather knee-high boots cover her calves. She clutches something small in her hand, but I don’t ask what it is.
    “I don’t really like the subject. Makes us Brits looks bad.”
    She chuckles. “Fair enough. We can talk about something else. How are things going?”
    I scrunch into a ball, wincing at the pulling sensation across my chest that any movement makes. “Fine.”
    The corners of her mouth turn down like she smells something rancid. “We’ve discussed not using words like ‘fine.’ Describe how you’re really feeling.”
    Thoughts bubble and churn, but none emerge fully formed or coherent.
    “Come on. Spit it out. It doesn’t matter how stupid you think it sounds.” She nudges my toe with a manicured fingernail. Blood-red polish. “We have to break you out of this. You’re parents are worried and frankly, I am too.”
    I chew on my lip ring. Cars congest the street below, along with a steady stream of pedestrians, filing in and out of a corner café. “I feel … caged, like I’m locked away in a tower. I don’t remember what fresh air is like. Food tastes bland. If I’m supposed to start acting normal, I need to get out of here.”
    She hops to the floor. “All right, then. Let’s go outside.”
    I turn my gaze to her, wide-eyed. Hadn’t expected that twist. “Yeah?”
    “I’ll get you a mask. You have a coat and shoes?”
    I nod.
    “Get dressed.”
    Five minutes later—and with the permission of the nursing staff—I walk through the main doors of the hospital with Dr. Shaw by my side.
    She slides on a pair of designer sunglasses while I adjust the surgical mask that I have to wear in public. At least it provides a small barrier against the biting November cold. My pajama pants, on the other hand, don’t.
    Since the transplant, I’ve started a new regimen of immunosuppressant drugs that prevent my body from rejecting my new heart. Wearing the mask blocks airborne germs. Touching things is potentially dangerous too. Microscopic bugs are everywhere. Hell, the common cold could kill me. Maybe I should wear a biohazard bodysuit or spend the rest of my life in a bubble.
    I press the mask’s bendable nose piece tighter over the bridge of my nose, stuffing the idea of how unnatural it is to have someone else’s heart pumping inside and how taking a handful of pills twice a day confirms it.
    It’s hard to believe my ribcage was splayed open and someone rifled their hands through my internal organs. It’s also hard to believe how much stronger I feel. I have a heart that can adequately pump blood through my system. Despite the soreness in my breastbone from the wires and stitches, I can take a breath and be refreshed from it.
    I don’t have to worry about the lift being broken or passing out in class or dropping dead in the shower anymore.
    We descend the front stairs and step off the curb to cross the street. At the corner, we turn left, heading downhill past the same café I’d watched from my window. I’m tempted to slip inside for a cup of coffee but I’m still not supposed to have caffeine. If my heart is so strong, I’m not sure why I can’t, but I don’t have money so the point is moot.
    Shaw must sense my hesitation by the door. “Want to go in?”
    “Nah.” I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and speed up, wishing I’d worn a hat. My ears are prickling from the cold.
    She keeps pace with me—it’s not like I’m rocketing down the street, but I’m definitely walking faster than I have in months. Her boot heels click with each step, confident and self-assured. “You