Heroine

by Mindy McGinnis

  “You short?” Josie asks.

  I’ve got two choices. I can either admit to Edith that I don’t have it, and try to make it through the rest of the month by cutting pills in half, or I can be honest. It’s the idea of dividing pills that takes my pride down a notch.

  “Yeah,” I say. “By a hundred.”

  Josie peels five twenties off without blinking, and tosses them in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good for it.”

  “So’s my mom,” she says, eyes back on her phone.

  On the counter, the scanner crackles.

  32 to 7300 . . . Go ahead 32 . . . 7300 signal 13 at the gas station.

  “Somebody’s gotta pee,” Josie says.

  “What?”

  “The scanner,” she says without looking up from her phone. “A thirteen means the officer is taking a leak.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask her.

  “I spend a lot of time here.” She shrugs. “Listen long enough, you figure it out.”

  Edith comes back in with two brown bags that she’s written our names on in old-lady cursive, like she’s packed our lunches for us. We pay her and she sends us off with more cookies and a reminder that she’s restocking next Monday, to get ahold of her then. I tell her I should be good, but she just nods and pats my shoulder. Josie walks with me to my car and even opens the door for me, as I do my awkward, stilted dance that’s required to get behind the wheel.

  “You in?” she asks, before she closes the door.

  “Yep,” I say, then roll down my window. “Hey, seriously. I . . . thanks.”

  “No problem,” she says. “It’s on me. You look like you need it more than I do.”

  “I was in a car accident.” It comes out almost apologetic, like I had to have done something wrong in order to be rendered so weak and helpless. “What about you?”

  “I’m just bored.” Josie shrugs. “See you next Monday, Mickey.”

  I want to tell her she won’t, but she’s already gone. I catch a glimpse of her little sports car driving away in my rearview mirror, where I also see that I’ve had a strand of chocolate sitting on my chin this entire time.

  Chapter Ten

  sleep: to take rest by a suspension of the voluntary exercise of the powers of the body and mind

  I drive slow all the way home, and only partly because of the mix of snow and ice falling from the sky. A real fear gripped me at Edith’s when I got behind the wheel, the confidence of the morning gone along with the sun. I’m barely doing thirty when I pull into the driveway, and my hip is starting to burn.

  It’s bearable, but my left crutch slips out from underneath me a little bit at the door and I put more weight on my right foot than I should. Any good feelings I had left from warm cookies and cold milk are driven out of me in a rush, leaving behind a spike of pain.

  I push open the back door with my shoulder and Mom is there in a second, untangling me from my backpack and crutches, then guiding me into a seat at the kitchen table.

  “First day back went that well, huh?” she asks.

  I grit my teeth and nod, deciding not to tell her about my slip on the pavement.

  “There’s potato soup on the stove, and I thought I’d make grilled cheese,” she offers, doing her best not to hover.

  It sounds like the best possible end to my day, if only I didn’t feel like my hip exploded.

  “Cool,” I say. “I’ll just grab a shower.”

  I do, leaning heavily on the suction-cup bar that Mom put in there for me, as I test putting weight on my leg. I’m cautious, starting first with the ball of my foot, then easing back onto the heel, aware of the rubber grip on the shower floor that also showed up right after I got home from the hospital.

  I feel better as my muscles unknot under the hot water, enough so that I try not to think about the pills stuffed in the pocket of my varsity jacket. If I can get through the evening after taking a jolt like I did at the garage door, then maybe I can get through to my next appointment without having to go back to Edith.

  Mom’s got her own approach to pain relief—hot food and a whole bunch of kitchen towels duct-taped to the armpit rests of my crutches.

  “You on call?” I ask her, sitting back from the table after eating.

  She shakes her head. “I know it was potato soup and not chili, but maybe we could do some Netflix?”

  I look at her blankly.

  “You know,” she says, spinning her hand around. “Netflix and chili?”

  “Oh my God, Mom,” I say. “It’s Netflix and chill, not Netflix and chili. And don’t ask just anyone to do that, either. It doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

  Her eyebrows go together. “What does it mean?”

  “Google it,” I tell her. “Or even better, don’t.” I get my crutches under me and am hobbling for the stairs before she can get her phone out.

  “Is this like a sixty-nine thing?” she calls after me. “I know what that is.”

  “GOOD NIGHT, MOM,” I yell.

  Sleep is impossible.

  I thought I could do it, thought after the boost I felt from driving myself, returning to school, and watching my mom get just about everything wrong over dinner, that I could grit my teeth and push through the night.

  I was wrong.

  I probably shouldn’t have put so much weight on my leg during the day. Should have taken a couple people up on their offers to get things for me, rather than doing it myself. Should have gone for a bath instead of a shower, taken some pressure off my pulsating hip. A lot of bad decisions put me where I am right now—standing in front of my varsity jacket and digging for the baggie.

  It’s two in the morning. I made it that far, which should count for something. I rode out waves of pain and told myself that I’d been through worse before. And maybe I had, but before I didn’t have an answer sitting just a few short steps away, a promise that I didn’t have to feel this way if I didn’t want to.

  And maybe taking an Oxy right now isn’t a bad idea, after all. Maybe everything else was a bad choice, and this is a good one. Maybe I need that relief in order to relax, all my muscles going slack and sleep giving my body a chance to rejuvenate. Sleep, that’s another thing. I’ve got to be up in four hours, ready to convince the world that there is nothing wrong with me. And I can’t do that without some solid rest.

  Edith had texted me after I left her place, to tell me that if I needed relief right away I should chew up the pills, eliminating the time-release element to get the full benefit without waiting.

  I do it now, because I might as well be out of pain sooner rather than later, if I’m going to take them anyway. And I take two because one is only going to take the edge off, not send me straight down into unconsciousness, where I need to be in order to be ready to do it all again tomorrow.

  I get back into bed, already warmer, already better.

  I’m only taking medicine that has been prescribed to me, and if I ran out early it’s because Dr. Ferriman went a little light with my dosage in the first place. I know he’s worried about addiction, could see it in his face when I asked about the refill. But I’m not worried about it, because I just lay here for hours with the fires of hell burning in my leg. I’m not worried about it because I didn’t go for the pills as soon as I got out of the shower. I’m not worried about it because I’m not like that Josie girl, who is popping pills out of boredom.

  No, I tell myself as I slide into a sweet, slippery sleep.

  I’m not like that.

  Chapter Eleven

  weight: a ponderous mass; something heavy to be lifted in athletic contest—or—a burden or pressure that is intangible

  The clank of weights echoes down the hallway, along with the low hum of male voices punctuated by the girls’ higher cries. I hear Carolina’s familiar noise, the one she makes at the end of a set when she’s verging on collapse but determined to get one more rep out. There’s a thump of bass as well, and a string of lyrics my
mom wouldn’t approve of fills the air, along with the funk of sweat.

  It’s like coming home.

  When I open the door to the weight room, everyone shouts my name. I get fist bumps and back slaps, hugs from my teammates and a few awkward shoulder squeezes from the guys, my crutches pinched tight in my armpits. My mood was good before; now I’m lifted right through the roof. These are my people; this is my place.

  “Mickey Catalan,” Bella Right yells. “Hoo—fucking—ray!”

  Words come to me easily here, always have. I can talk to anyone because we’re all speaking the same language, asking if they’re done with a piece of equipment, borrowing a weight, lending a towel. We all smell bad and nobody cares. We yell encouragement, push somebody to add another five to their bar, and spot each other.

  The Bellas are here, working out with the basketball team. Our second baseman, Lydia, is also the point guard. She gives me a full-on hug, chest pressing against mine. She’s given a few solid attempts at convincing me I’m a lesbian but hasn’t had any luck. Carolina gives me a smirk from the corner where she’s on the leg press, anyway.

  “What?” I snap my towel at her as she sprays down the equipment.

  “You could get laid by like five people in this room right now,” she says. “Hail the conquering hero, and all that.”

  “Which five?” I ask.

  “Probably your pick, just leave me mine,” she says as Aaron comes over to us.

  “Mick,” Aaron says, putting his fist out for a bump, which I do a little harder than necessary. Aaron’s a good guy, but I still don’t like it when his arm goes around Carolina’s waist. She usually lifts with me, but it’s obvious that they’ve been working out together as he switches the weight on the leg press and takes his turn.

  “How are you going to lift with crutches?” Carolina asks.

  “I’ll only do arms today. And I’ll sit,” I say, avoiding her eyes as I load up the curl bar, aiming for my usual weight even though I haven’t lifted since I got hurt.

  “¿Eso es una buena idea?”

  “Estoy bien. Te lo prometo,” I tell her, and to prove it, I hoist up the curl bar and start doing reps. The truth is that, no, it’s not a good idea, but I sucked down two 30s right after school. I feel great right now, and I’m going to take advantage of it.

  “¿Cómo está tu brazo?” I ask after her arm, ignoring the sweat that starts running down my face when I’m only five reps in.

  “Estoy bien,” she says, bending her elbow where the brace has replaced her cast. “Just like you.”

  “Ha,” I say, ignoring the poke. I’m past the point where I can speak while lifting, anyway. I’m not in pain yet—the Oxy isn’t allowing it—but Edith doesn’t deal in steroids and I’m not anywhere near the shape I was in before.

  I get about an hour in before the assistant basketball coach turns the lights out, telling us to go home and look at our phones like normal teenagers. I’m crossing the parking lot, talking with one of the guys about the latest boxing matchup—Mom sprang for HBO when she found out how long I was going to be laid up—when Carolina yells from the gym doors.

  “Hey, Mickey, can a broki get a ride?”

  I wave her over and she gets in, each of us doing what it takes to make it possible. She has to keep her bad arm straight and pull her gym bag over it carefully before she tosses it in the back seat. I’ve got to do the shimmy-slide behind the wheel and maneuver my crutches into the back.

  It’s the first time Carolina and I have been in a car together since the accident, and it’s awkward. Some things are different, for sure. We’re both slightly crippled, there’s no pizza, and it’s not even the same car because the insurance company decided my old one was a lost cause. Still, there’s enough to remind us both. Our words at first come out a little stilted, the conversation cramped.

  But those few, horrific seconds are balanced against hours of good times sitting this same way—me driving, her giving me shit from the passenger seat. So it doesn’t take long before we’re good again, her music filling the car, both of us talking over it.

  “Not to be all your mom on you or anything, but how is being back at school?” she asks.

  “School sucks,” I tell her honestly. “But being in the weight room did me good.”

  “It definitely did Lydia some good.”

  “Shut your face,” I say. “I’m not into her. Straight girls can be awesome at softball.”

  “Uh, duh,” Carolina shoots back. “You’re talking to a straight girl with a free ride.”

  “You mean on Aaron or to college?”

  “It’s all free,” she says, laughing. I’m behind her just a tick, laughing because I’m supposed to. We’d both agreed a long time ago that having sex wasn’t worth the risk, having seen too many great athletes become mothers, their sports career sidelined while the father carried on uninterrupted. But those conversations were before Aaron, and before this new awkwardness, where I feel like I can’t flat out ask her if they’re doing it.

  I drop her off and she hauls her bag out of the back, pulling it onto her good shoulder. It’s below freezing, ice falling from the sky. She winces as a pellet hits her in the face.

  “You use those crutches going inside back at your place, you hear me? I see you putting more weight on that leg than you’re supposed to.” She gives me a stern look, and I do my best to look innocent.

  “Only toe touch to the ground. I swear.”

  “I’m calling bullshit on that,” she says.

  She’s right and she knows it. I’ve been straightening my knee, trying out a little weight on my heel when I think the Oxy will let me get away with it. If I can shave one week off my recovery time—one week—I can be ready for conditioning.

  Carolina stays by my car despite the ice, teeth gnawing her bottom lip in indecision. “I’m not going to ask you how you’re feeling because you’re just going to tell me you’re fine,” she says. “But I saw what you were benching. Don’t overdo it, okay?”

  “I’m not fine,” I tell her. “I’m awesome.”

  And right now, it’s true.

  Chapter Twelve

  understand: to apprehend the meaning or intention of; to have knowledge of; to comprehend; to know; to have sympathy for

  “Mickey Catalan, I’ll be damned.”

  “Hey, Big Ed,” I say, holding the door of the local market open with one crutch while I swing myself through. Ed stays behind the lunch counter, not offering to help or fussing over me one bit, exactly like he knows I want. Instead, he makes my Monday morning coffee like there hasn’t been a month break between this one and the last one.

  It’s shit coffee, which is why Ed stopped asking me to pay him for it, and it’s not why I come every week, anyway. I’m here because Ed can talk sports—any sport—better than anyone I know. He puts the coffee in front of me as I settle onto a stool at the lunch counter.

  “You hear about the Griffith girl?”

  I sip my coffee, letting the familiarity of bad coffee and Ed’s terrible story introductions settle over me.

  “She’s the shortstop from Left Bank, isn’t she?”

  “Yep,” Ed confirms, then rounds his arms out in front of his belly.

  “Huh, I thought she was smarter than that,” I say.

  “Smart tends to go out the door when sex is involved,” Ed says, pulling his own stool underneath him on the other side of the counter.

  “Yep,” I say, reminding myself that I need to have a conversation with Carolina, whether it’s awkward or not. “So what else is new?”

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, let me think.” Ed sighs, pushing his ball cap up to scratch his balding spot. “The big kid from Baylor Springs, basketball player . . . what’s his name?”

  “Luther Drake,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, the Drake kid. He shattered the backboard over at West Union last weekend, so they’ve got to play in the junior-high gym till it’s fixed.”

  “Screw them an
yway,” I say, having harbored a resentment ever since their point guard broke Lydia’s nose in an intentional foul.

  “Yep,” Ed agrees. We both sip our coffee, and I hear the squawk of a scanner from the back room.

  “Why do old people like those so much?” I ask him.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” he says, fishing a day-old doughnut out of the glass case and putting it in front of me. “It’s our version of you kids with your phones and your head book.”

  “Facebook, Ed.”

  “I’m proud to not know that. Now eat your doughnut, looks like you could use it.”

  It’s the most he’s going to say about my injury, about the thinness of my arms and legs, the absence of muscle. My varsity jacket feels big on me, my shoulders no longer filling it out. I take a bite of doughnut. It’s awful.

  “I don’t know how much healing properties this has, Ed.”

  “Healing is you just being here, talking,” he says.

  I hear the scanner again, and I wonder if he was listening the night of the accident, if he heard the details of how my leg had been separated from my body, my blood strewn across snow.

  “You sign with anyone yet?”

  “Not yet,” I tell him. “Couple Division Three coaches have talked to me, but you know how that is.”

  Ed nods. “Can’t give athletic scholarships.”

  “Nope. So I’ve got to keep my grades up, hope for an academic one that comes with an invite to play D3. So . . . we’ll see.”

  “Carolina still headed to Ohio State?”

  “You bet,” I tell him, pride swelling, even if it’s not for myself. “Division One athletic scholarship. All the way. Free ride.”

  “I didn’t know if . . .” He trails off, letting me put together the rest.

  “If getting hurt ruined things?” I shake my head. “She’s on track, doing fine. She’ll be throwing opening day.”

  Ed doesn’t ask about me. I don’t offer, and the bubble of happiness I felt for my friend deflates a little.

  “Westwood lost a wrestler,” Ed goes on.