by Jaime Reed
“I can’t. Here, you do it.” I handed the note to her.
She held her hands in the air and backed away. “No, no, no. And by the way, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not my letter, not my feelings, and not my crush,” she replied. “If you’re not brave enough to be a secret admirer, then you don’t deserve having a public boyfriend.”
Whoa! Jumping the gun a bit, weren’t we? I’d settle for a simple wave in the hallway. “I’m not asking for one!”
“Yes you are, but you’re too chicken to go after what you want. It’s the perfect way to tell him how you feel without all that goofy stuttering you do. It’s therapeutic.” She scooted behind me and gave me a shove. “You got two minutes before our entire mission goes bust. Now hurry up. I’ll keep a lookout.” Staying close to the wall, she skirted to the end of the hallway and peeked around the corner.
Alyssa made everything a special ops mission: dress shopping for the school dance, raising money for class field trips, getting dirt on some girl she didn’t like. It was all done with high stakes and action movie flair.
I drew in a deep breath and placed one foot in front of the other. I’d memorized his locker number, which stood exactly eighty-two feet and forty-six lockers away from mine. We were practically roommates.
“Ninety seconds,” she whispered.
“I’m going! Gosh!” My hand reached up and aimed the card into the locker’s vent. Then it got stuck. The note was too wide and the ends began to tear when I tried to force it in. Pulling it out would rip it even more. “It won’t go in,” I told her.
“Oh my God! Must I do everything around here?” She stomped to my side and yanked loose the card, causing a sticker to fall by my feet. I folded the ends, then eased the paper through the vent hole, but this time it was too thick. Together, we shoved as much of the note as we could into the slot.
Alyssa checked the time on her phone. “We’ve got ten seconds to clear out.”
I tried to push in the last half inch, but my fingers couldn’t catch a grip. “There’s still some poking out.”
“No time! Let’s go!” She grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall.
Alyssa’s powers of persuasion never worked on me save this one occasion, and I’d be lying by saying I didn’t resent her for making me write the letter in the first place. She saw it as nothing more than a transaction, a means to an end, but inside my weak prose lay real heart, delicate as the paper it had been printed on. That extracted organ would never grow back, and once given away, its fate was out of my control.
“I got it.” I passed my bank card to the cashier, but Mateo ripped it from my fingers.
“No, you don’t. I got this.” He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket.
“No, I do. It’s fine.” I snatched back my property only to have it taken by the wrong person.
Cutting his eyes at me, Mateo grumbled, “I’ve got money, you know.”
“Never said you were broke.” I tried the exchange again with the same result.
This clash of wills was brought to you by the aptly named Brew-Ha-Ha Café, located across the street from Aberdeen Park, where you could get shoddy service and the most childish banter this side of recess.
We’d entered with the other cleanup teams for a late morning pick-me-up when the argument kicked off at the register. I blamed the coffee guy. He mistook our close-standing position for a joint venture.
The cashier watched my bank card triangulate around the counter while our unpurchased items grew cold.
Tired of the roundabout, Mateo blurted, “I’m not letting you pay for my coffee! I’m not that big a mooch.”
“What’s this ‘my’ stuff? I’m getting coffee, too.”
“Wow! Is this a macho male ego thing?” Tabatha Morehouse stood behind us with her arms crossed. “Because she’s a woman, she can’t pay for her own coffee? Does seeing a female in charge emasculate you somehow, Mateo?”
“You should probably ask your boyfriend that question after you buy his coffee.” Mateo slapped his forehead at his deliberate error. “Oh! That’s right. You don’t have one.”
Everyone in line, which ran seven deep and climbing, joined in with a loud, “Ooh.”
With a duck-lip pout, a rolling neck, and blue hair swinging, Tabatha said, “I’ll have you know that I’m single by choice and I don’t need a man to get me through life.”
“No one does! That’s what coffee’s for!” Devon Shapiro’s head jutted from the back of the line to glare at us. “So could y’all hurry up and pay already? You’re holding up progress!”
“Okay! We’re going!” I ripped my card from Mateo’s clutches and passed it to the clerk, while growling through clenched teeth, “Dude, just let me get the drinks.”
Transaction completed, Mateo and I waited outside for the rest of the team. Rocking on the edge of the curb, I watched Mateo sip his latte and lick his wounds. “I know the rumors say we’re an old married couple, but we don’t have to fight like one,” I told him.
He hung his head, shoulders drooping. “Sorry. I’m just not used to handouts, okay?”
“Learn when to pick your battles, man. It’s just coffee. And it’s not even good coffee.” I tipped my chin toward the café doors. “This place is just close to the park and Al CapPacino’s got shut down for repairs.”
“Yeah, well, when you’ve been on your own as long as I have, you tend to see any type of kindness with caution.”
“You’re saying people can’t be nice for the sake of being nice?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s good in theory, but every good deed has a motive.”
I was beginning to understand that. “And you’ve been trying to figure out mine?”
“Not just yours. Everyone’s.” He moved closer and asked, “You ever talk to some of the kids here? They have no idea what’s going on and they couldn’t even spell altruism. When you ask, you’ll hear something like, It looks good on my transcripts. There’s a girl here I really like. The Lord told me to do it. The establishment is dragging the people down, man. Stay woke.”
I almost spat out my coffee. Once again, I’d been caught off guard by Mateo’s humor. Recovering from laughter, I asked, “What kind of talks do you have? Most kids I come across are just doing it for the ’gram.”
“True. And I doubt anyone else in school would have the guts to do what you’re doing for Alyssa. I wish it was for someone else, but it’s good of you to look past all that and see the bigger picture. I respect that.”
Was that a compliment? “Wow, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re starting to like me.”
“Do you want me to?” Eyes trained on me, he sipped his coffee and waited.
No way was I touching that one. This conversation was heading into flirty territory, and I had to stay on task. “It’s not a requirement, but a nice bonus.”
He grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Oh my goodness! We’d officially entered the city limits of flirty territory. Heat spread across my cheeks and my stomach began to quiver. Thankfully, the rest of the team poured out of the shop before I ruined the moment by saying something dumb.
“All right! It’s go time!” Devon rolled his neck and shoulders, ready to jump into the ring of a heavyweight fight. The others cheered and pumped fists in the air.
I was pretty hyped myself, and I quickened my pace across the street toward the park.
The turnout wasn’t as big as the first cleanup party, but two dozen volunteers had made an appearance. After the first week’s fiasco, the school board and the principal had laid down the law and stripped down the shenanigans. There was no band, no stage, no skaters, no car show, no mosh pit, just a group of devoted citizens who weren’t scared to get their hands dirty.
We signed up at the activity table, grabbed our gear, and joined the lighting team at the tree-lined path. The debris had been cleared away, but only the lights on the left side
of the trail had been restored. Since we kids weren’t authorized to do major wiring, lighting detail was idiot-proof for anyone who knew how to decorate a Christmas tree. The only two setbacks were that we had to use a heavy ladder and work in pairs. And guess who my partner was for the day?
On our way to the work site, Mateo asked, “So what’s it like going to all those appointments?”
I took a moment to think of the right word and came up with three. “Tedious. Awkward. Intrusive.” I told him about my first appointment with the nephrologist.
Mateo hefted a tall, metal stepladder under his arm and moved to our approved spot. “What’s a nephrologist?” he asked.
“Just a fancy word for kidney specialist,” I explained, and slipped on thick utility gloves. “See, kidneys aren’t identical twins. One usually works harder than the other. So the nephrologist runs all these tests to point out the bigger, better, faster, stronger twin, so Alyssa can adopt the weaker one.”
Mateo propped the ladder against our tree of choice, then tested its stability. “Did they do X-rays and stuff?”
My laugh came out as a bitter whimper. “Oh, Mateo, my sweet, innocent hombre. You don’t know the half of it.”
In four hours, I’d had my blood taken three times, was forced to pee in a cup twice, had weird fluid pumped through my veins. Then I was made to lie on a floating bed that fed me feet first into the world’s most tricked-out donut. With each pass through the CT scanner, a computerized voice inside the machine would tell me to hold my breath. Add an empty stomach to the mix and a girl was trippin’.
Mateo’s only response to that was, “What kind of fluid did they put in you?”
Really, dude? That’s what you took from my story? Opening the waiting box of Christmas lights, I grumbled, “A few.”
My doctor had explained that the first injection had been saline solution. It’d felt like ice chips were tunneling through my veins, moving up my arm toward my heart. The second fluid they injected into my arm had apparently given my veins and organs a mutant glow that the CT scanner could detect. The warm sensation had played a childish prank on my bladder, like a hand dipped into water while sleeping.
“¡Híjole! ¡Eso suena loco!” Mateo cried after I’d filled him in. “And that’s just one of the doctors you have to see?” When I nodded, Mateo shook his head. He began spooling an extension cord around his arm from elbow to thumb.
He seemed right at home with this type of work or anything that meant using his hands. From cleaning out the spare room at home to changing the oil in his truck, he was a regular Mr. Fix It. I couldn’t see him in a suit and tie, pushing papers in some boring office job. Mateo Alvarez was a rugged, roughin’-it-in-the-wilderness type. I imagined him rocking a flannel shirt, wielding an ax, and chopping firewood for our log cabin home in the mountains—
“Hold on. Aren’t you a flight risk or something?” Mateo’s question brought me back on track. “You and your family traveled to all those places and you’re still allowed to donate a kidney?”
“Yeah, you get tested for everything. But I’m squeaky clean. It just depends on what part of each country you visit. And when you come back, you gotta wait about a year to—”
“You’re donating?” A familiar and distinctly hoarse voice busted through our conversation.
Ryon set down his paint buckets and approached slowly. Awe and trepidation propelled each step, and his hands shielded his eyes from the bright glimmer of hope. Or maybe the sun was in his face. “Is it true? You’re donating a kidney to Alyssa?”
“Bruh! Shh.” I took his arm and dragged him away from the nearby group members. “These trees have ears.”
Not caring one bit, he asked again, “Is it true?”
“I’m trying. I’ve gotta get evaluated, then get approved by the league of extraordinary doctors. I think they gather around a campfire and vote people off the island.”
Mateo eyed me askance. “I’m not a medical professional, but I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“This is so awesome!” Ryon hugged me, kissed my cheek, and squeezed me even tighter. “Thank you.”
“Hey, hey! What’s with all the touchy-feely, Kimura? Go ahead and reel that back in,” I said.
Ryon backed away with his hands in the air. “My bad. I wasn’t trying to move in on your girl,” he told Mateo.
I’m not his girl. That sad truth was set to fly from my mouth, but Ryon’s next question kept it grounded. “Does Alyssa know?”
“No! And don’t you tell her, either.” I pointed a finger in his face. “I need to make sure it’s a done deal.”
“Okay, I won’t.” His nod didn’t look convincing at all.
“I mean it, Ryon.” I pinched his arm hard. “One word and I’m calling off the whole thing.”
“Ow! Okay! I promise I won’t tell!” he whimpered before I let him go. When I did, he scrubbed his face and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Wow. I just … wow. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
We were getting ahead of ourselves. There was one more appointment to make, and I still needed a unanimous vote by the transplant team. Nothing was certain, except the likelihood of Ryon getting a full night’s sleep tonight. Seeing the relief on his face was worth the blowback to follow. Best believe it was coming, and I could almost smell the rain in the air from the impending storm.
This same thing had happened before, in the fall of our freshman year. That, too, had involved Ryon and my inability to stay in my lane and keep my mouth shut.
Relax. Breathe. Just breathe. Oh God, this is bad. So, so bad. Sheree, please hurry up.
My sister had run to the car to get Alyssa’s swim bag and should’ve been back by now. The emergency kit and blood sugar meter were packed in that carrier, so why didn’t Alyssa just bring it inside and store it in a locker? That’s what locker rooms were for.
Wrapped in a beach towel, Alyssa slumped against the tiled wall, shaking like a leaf. “No built-in … locks …” she answered between breaths. “Don’t want stolen … Kate Spade … tote.”
“Are you serious? You can afford a designer bag, but not a five-dollar padlock? Priorities, Lyssa. Have some. They’re free.” I shouldn’t have been snapping at her, but I wasn’t good with medical emergencies. The last one involved my pop-pop lying stretched out on the kitchen floor. Needless to say, I was triggered, and it took all my willpower to keep it together.
“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to call your mom?” I asked for the fifth time. My phone was fired up and ready to go. She only needed to say the word.
Alyssa shook her head. Wet strands clung to her face and pool water dripped down her neck as she stared at the ceiling. “Not yet. Use kit first.”
Lord, give me strength! This girl was stubborn. Even in the middle of diabetic shock, she wanted to save face. But this wasn’t her first rodeo and attacks like these didn’t require a trip to the ER if treated quickly. With that said—where the heck was Sheree?
I pulled back the privacy curtain and peered into the empty locker room. We were at the community pool with a few other kids from school, a final bash before the pool closed its gates for the fall, but things weren’t going the way we’d hoped.
I knew something was up when I caught Alyssa sitting at the lip of the pool, rubbing her head as if she were dizzy. Her legs trembled in the water; her body listed to the side. Red flag. I swam to her side, then tapped her knee. She was breathing too heavy to respond and clutched her chest, indicating a racing heart. Double red flag.
I’d searched the pool area for my sister, our unofficial guardian and chauffeur. Sheree wasn’t going to let a drop of chlorine anywhere near her freshly relaxed hair, so she occupied the lounge chairs with her senior friends. I’d waved her over and with our combined strength, we’d helped Alyssa to the changing room without causing a scene.
It came with the job of being Alyssa’s friend: doing damage control while keeping her alive. I couldn�
��t 100 percent blame Alyssa. Nobody wanted this kind of attention, especially her.
If anyone asked—and they did—we played it off as “female trouble” and kept it moving. Ryon Kimura wasn’t so easy to shake off, though. He followed us through the slippery hallway, offering assistance until the GIRLS ONLY sign outside the locker room held him at bay.
Now, hiding in the private stall, I waited for backup to arrive. The emergency tutorials Mrs. Weaver always gave us upon every outing played in my head. Alyssa was in a relaxed sitting position on the wooden bench. Check. She remained calm and responsive to voices. Check.
“It’s okay. You’re gonna be fine.” I cupped her face in my hands and touched my forehead to hers.
Outside, the locker room door opened, followed by the quick flapping of sandaled feet racing across the floor. The curtain flew back and Sheree appeared with Alyssa’s bag on her arm.
“Okay, I got it. The vending machine outside only has soda, and the juice in her bag got hot in the car.” Sheree knelt next to me in front of Alyssa.
Sighing in relief, I rummaged through the bag and pulled out her emergency stash of sweets. “That’s fine. Get her to open her mouth.”
Alyssa liked the cherry Squeeze Pops because she didn’t have to chew or risk choking. Sheree held Alyssa’s jaw open while I poured the candy into her mouth, pushing the red goo from the tube like toothpaste. Then Sheree chased it down with hot apple juice.
According to the clock on my phone, the whole ordeal lasted fifteen minutes, but I collapsed on the floor like I’d just given birth. With our backs pressed to the opposite wall, Sheree and I watched for any change in Alyssa’s symptoms. We cradled our phones in both of our hands—Mrs. Weaver’s number preset on my dial screen, 911 set on Sheree’s. Our thumbs hovered over the CALL button as we waited. And waited.
