Dear Isaac Newton, You're Ruining My Life

by Rachel Hruza

  I got along with pretty much everyone in my Gym class, but I just didn’t want to tell them about my brace. If even one of them found out about it, they all would (and I wouldn’t blame them—if one of them asked me to keep a secret, it’d be all I could do to not tell Megan), and soon the whole school would know. And everyone would officially see me as different. So I continued sneaking out of the locker room.

  This day was no different than all the others. I put the brace on under my baggy t-shirt at the end of Gym and headed for the door.

  My hand touched the knob, and I could smell sweet victory—fresh air from the hall through the stench of a million body sprays and lotions in the locker room.

  “What’s that?”

  Slowly I turned around. Jenny Henderson was pointing at my rear.

  “It doesn’t pay to be jealous, Jenny,” I said. “Some of us are just born with junk in the trunk.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, what’s that white thing hanging there?” She lifted her eyebrows together into a judgmental line. Other girls appeared from behind the separating wall. I reached behind my back and felt for what Jenny was talking about. The bottom Velcro piece was hanging out. Oh my gerunds.

  I thought quickly. Stupidly, but quickly. “Football pads.”

  “What?”

  A few girls laughed.

  “Yeah, I’m stretching out some of the new pads for Coach Ericson this week. Extra credit for Gym. It’s kind of a secret—the smaller boys are embarrassed a girl is doing the dirty work for them. So keep it hush-hush. We could get in big trouble for talking about it.” I really emphasized “big trouble.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I wouldn’t want to be caught in the hallway with it showing!” I shoved the Velcro up under my shirt. I heard some girls murmuring.

  “Lucky. I need extra credit.”

  “Football sucks.”

  “Yeah, I would never do that.”

  I ran out the door. In the bathroom, Megan was waiting in the third stall.

  “What took you so long?” she whispered. “I have to get this pass back before the bell rings or I’ll get detention.”

  “I’m in trouble,” I said.

  “What now?”

  “You know Jenny Henderson? Can’t play the trumpet, meanly nice, kinda pretty?”

  Even though Megan was behind me, I knew she was nodding. “Wants your man—yes, I know her. Who doesn’t?”

  “Jenny and the other girls saw part of the Velcro. I think they’re on to me.”

  “I doubt it.”

  I started to laugh. “I told them I was wearing football pads—that I’m ‘stretching them out’ for the freshman players.”

  Megan snorted as she pulled the final piece of Velcro through its loop and strapped it down. “You are too special. You couldn’t come up with anything else? You could have said it was a tag or something.”

  “See? That’s why I need you in Gym with me. You’re a quick thinker.”

  “Not really. You always come up with something, at least.”

  Megan pushed the Velcro into place and pulled the back of my shirt down for me.

  The bell rang.

  “Noooo!” Megan moaned. “Now I’ll have to stay after school!”

  I knew it was my fault. I grabbed the pass. “I’ll tell Landers you’re having stomach trouble.”

  “Eww. No.” Megan took the pass back and sighed. “I can take my lumps, Truth.”

  She left the bathroom with her shoulders slumped and her head down. I felt terrible. It was my fault she was in trouble, but I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid if I told any teachers, they would say something about it in front of my classmates, even if by accident. And I had to keep my brace hidden. Megan understood that.

  I hoped.

  Stupid Isaac Newton! Now he was causing my best friend to get in trouble.

  My next meeting with Oliver was during study hall that day. I already felt more comfortable with him—after talking to him last week and earlier this week, I realized it actually was a relief to spend time with someone who understood being different.

  Today, he jokingly welcomed me into his office as if he were a psychiatrist. I was still feeling bad about Megan, and afraid she was annoyed at having to help me, so I told him about it. It was easy to talk to him, and he kept up his joke-psychiatrist act, asking, “And how does that make you feel?” in an uninterested voice, which actually made me even more comfortable telling him. It went without saying he wouldn’t disclose my secret to anyone. I didn’t even have to ask.

  “Also, I may have inadvertently joined the football team,” I said.

  Oliver raised his eyebrows, and I told him about that morning’s brace escapade.

  “You’d probably be a better lineman than a lot of the guys on the team,” he grinned.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Aren’t the linemen the big ones?”

  Oliver laughed. “It’s not my fault they’re scrawny.”

  “Well, with this, I could probably take ’em on.” I tapped the plastic covering my belly.

  “Can I see this plastic clamp that’s ruining your life?” Oliver asked.

  “I, um … I’d have to take off my shirt, and that’s a little too PG-13 for me.”

  He laughed. “Fine. Just when I was hoping the special ed room could become the sex-ed room.”

  I blushed, but that just made him laugh more.

  “You know, a lot of people would say scoliosis is not that big of a deal,” he said.

  “By ‘a lot of people’ do you mean you?”

  “No, I get it. Now you’re different from everyone else.”

  I nodded, and suddenly I found myself telling him how in fifth grade, the school nurse came to talk to my class about scoliosis tests. She showed us how she would conduct them, by bending forward with her hands pointed at her toes. She was on the plump side and, when she bent over, we could all see her granny-panties through her white pants. A few kids snickered, and I knew they were laughing about the poor woman’s underwear, but part of me worried they were laughing about scoliosis. I already knew I had it, but all of the kids in my class laughed and made fun of the nurse after she left.

  It was amazing how Oliver just listened. He nudged me along in my stories by just widening his large dark eyes. His mouth stayed neutral, but his eyes seemed poised to be delighted.

  When I finished my story, he told me about a time a few years after he discovered he had MD. Trying to acclimate to his new wheelchair, he didn’t know how to stop. He was downtown with his mother and they needed to cross the street, but he’d picked up speed more quickly than expected and he shot off across the street before he meant to, narrowly missing a Ford pickup with a panting Labrador hanging out of its window.

  “I didn’t care about my mom screaming at me or the driver of the pickup stopping to yell at me. The wind rushing in my face and whipping back my hair felt so good—I knew exactly how that smiling dog felt.”

  “Dogs don’t smile.”

  “You’re not a dog, so you can’t know that for sure.”

  “Were you grounded, or what?”

  He laughed at the memory. “No. My mom set the locks on my wheels, sat on my lap, and nearly broke my neck as she hugged me and made me promise I’d never accidently kill myself again.”

  Suddenly, Oliver fell quiet. “I think about that story a lot, actually.”

  “Because of the dog?” I asked, knowing he wasn’t thinking about the Labrador.

  “No.” He paused. “You may not understand this, but I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, not even my parents.”

  I felt myself growing warm. I didn’t like him calling himself a burden. “You’re not a burden,” I said. “You can’t think that. You might have to work harder than most people to—to be independent. But that doesn’t mean your family doesn’t love you exactly how you are.”

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. I suspected he was angry, and I’d overstepped my bounds. He was supposed to be the life coach i
n this partnership, not the other way around. I was surprised when his face softened.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said.

  I waited for Megan after school. She had to go to Mr. Landers’ classroom for a ten-minute seminar. It was the punishment that came before detention: four seminars in one week, and then you had to stay for an hour’s detention. I was sitting outside the History classroom, reading Great Expectations, when I heard familiar footsteps. If you could give “cool” a sound, it would be Brendan Matthews walking.

  “Whoa, Trendon. That book’s big enough to make my brain explode,” he said.

  I tried to flash a nonchalant smile, to show I thought reading was cool. “Well, I guess it’s good I’m reading it, and not you, then.”

  “Yes. Yes it is.” Brendan sat next to me. “Just can’t get enough knowledge for one day, or what?”

  I sighed. “Megan got a seminar. I’m waiting for her.”

  Brendan nodded. “You’re a good friend. I don’t think I’d wait for anyone.”

  I wanted to say “Not even me?” But I didn’t. Instead, I played the hero. “It was sort of my fault.”

  “Oh really? I didn’t realize you were a rule-breaker, Trendon.”

  He grinned at me.

  “I’m not. We were just in the bathroom at the end of third period and she didn’t get back to class before the bell rang. I was in Gym, so it didn’t matter.”

  “That’s a lame excuse for a seminar.”

  “Yeah.”

  We were both quiet for a moment. I felt awkward, so I brushed my finger over the gilded title of my book’s front cover.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” Brendan asked me.

  “I have to babysit my younger brother, Harold, tomorrow. My sister, Charity, has a volleyball tournament, and I’d like to go to it, but Harold has a class project I said I’d help with. He and I are going to do that while my parents go watch the games.”

  “Oh. Hey, you know that sentence structure worksheet due on Monday for English? You wanna work on it together? I could come over tomorrow.”

  Yes, yes! A thousand times yes! But I couldn’t say that aloud. I wanted my response to sound cool, yet pleased.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Cool.”

  Nailed it, I thought. I stared at the cover of my book, and suddenly the words gained much more importance. Brendan was coming over tomorrow—and my expectations for that were pretty great.

  The door opened next to me and Megan plodded out of the classroom, a frown plastered across her pretty face. I stood up and peeked through the open door. Mr. Landers sat at his desk, grading papers.

  Brendan stood up beside me and walked with us down the hall.

  “How was it?” I asked Megan, once we were out of Mr. Landers’ earshot.

  “All he said was ‘Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much water before study hall,’ and then he had me work on homework for ten minutes.”

  I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t. Megan was obviously upset.

  “Megan Borowitz, delinquent student,” Brendan said.

  “I guess,” Megan said. She didn’t sound happy, but she blushed, so I knew she was enjoying this new attention.

  “I’m so sorry, Megs,” I said, for about the fortieth time.

  “I guess when you’re a troublemaker like me, a seminar is bound to happen.” She was smiling now. Brendan smiled too.

  I laughed loudly. “Yeah, what risky business, going to the bathroom. Landers was right. Don’t drink so much water next time.”

  Brendan laughed. Megan glared at me. I gave her a sheepish look, and squeezed her hand between my fingers. I was trying to pretend that I just didn’t want Brendan to find out about my brace, but Megan could probably see right through me—I was jealous he was paying attention to her.

  Since we missed the bus, Brendan offered to see if his mother could drive us home. When she drove up, Brendan opened the car door and asked if we could catch a ride. I smiled and offered a little wave, but she didn’t even smile in response.

  “We have your equipment to pick up. Hurry up and get in. Be quick about it,” his mom said, without looking back at us again.

  Megan and I climbed into the back of the car and listened as Mrs. Matthews rattled off information about some football camp Brendan was attending. She seemed to look more at him than at the road. Megan kept her eyebrows raised and her hand gripping the door handle the entire time, glancing at me every so often. I tried to keep a pleasant look on my face.

  Both Megan and I got out at my house.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said.

  “Uhnnn,” Mrs. Matthews said (or something like that).

  “Bye, Megan,” Brendan said. He looked at me. “See you around, Trendon.”

  I smiled and said “Bye” as the car pulled away from the curb.

  My heart was aflutter as we walked to my house. Brendan had only said “Bye” to Megan, but he’d saved a whole sentence for me. I realized I actually had my hand resting on top of my heart.

  “You don’t have to worry,” Megan said. “I’m not going to swoop in and go ‘Boom, I got your boyfriend.’”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said. I felt my face growing hot, even though I usually never blushed in front of Megan. “And I know you wouldn’t.”

  “It just sucks getting in trouble when I didn’t do anything wrong,” Megan said.

  “I know. I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you?” I asked sincerely. I stopped walking, grabbed Megan’s hands, and pleaded until she looked me in the eye. I tried sticking my bottom lip out to look pitiful, but I’ve always been afraid of contracting an underbite, so the expression has no effect on any onlooker. If anything, it looks like I’m attempting to pucker up for a kiss.

  “Get your puppy-fish face out of here!” Megan laughed.

  “I’m serious! How about I treat you to popcorn and a movie at my house tomorrow evening after my parents get back?”

  “Fine. But I want to watch a scary movie.”

  “Noooo!” I cried. “You know I had nightmares after watching the last one!”

  “That’s what you can do,” Megan said with a stubborn smile. “Mummy nightmares or no.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “Maybe this time I’ll dream that I defeat the mummies instead of the other way around.”

  “Or maybe you’ll dream about Brendan running in to save your life.” Megan winked and headed for her house. “Call me!” she yelled over her shoulder. And we were back to normal.

  “Okay, now we put in one-third of a cup of cocoa,” I said. I reached for the cup over Harold’s head and handed it to him.

  “Let me,” he said. That’s all he’d been saying for the past half hour. I was teaching him how to make homemade cupcakes from scratch, and he seemed to think I wouldn’t let him do anything unless he blurted out “Let me” in a loud voice.

  Harold’s project for school was to bring something for show-and-tell that he’d made. He liked to eat, so he decided to make cupcakes. My family is completely opposed to making anything from a box, so when Harold said he wanted to make cupcakes for school, my parents looked at me. They’d taught me years ago, and I wasn’t afraid to admit I enjoyed baking.

  “Cooking and baking are not signs of domestication,” my father said the first time he showed me how to cut shortening into the mixing bowl for pie crust. “Sometimes, cooking is a work of art. But mostly, it is a sign that one can live on his or her own.” Both of my parents enjoyed cooking, and it often became a family affair, with everyone pitching in something. I usually helped—that way, if I wanted to eat something in particular, I could make it. I could have my cake and eat it too. Bada bing, bada boom.

  “Okay, you don’t want too much,” I said. I showed Harold how to scrape off the excess cocoa with the flat side of a bread knife. “I like to guess, but you’re a beginner, Prince Harry. Use the exact amounts.”

  “Okay,” he said. He dumped the cocoa into the bowl.

&nb
sp; The doorbell rang. I dusted off my floured hands on my colorful frilly apron that my grandma sewed for me last Christmas. I didn’t mind the colors, but I wasn’t huge on the frills. I’d never tell my Nana that though.

  “Don’t touch anything else,” I yelled back at Harold as I pulled the door open. “Hi!” I said, smiling. Brendan was here, and he was smiling at me with his backpack slung over one shoulder. I had the worksheet he wanted to work on together sitting out on the kitchen table, far away from our cooking mess.

  “Nice dress.”

  “It’s an apron that my grandma made, and thank you.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked, looking past me at Harold, who was trying to find the vanilla extract in the pile of ingredients on the counter.

  “Baking cupcakes.”

  “Cool,” Brendan said. “Can I help?”

  “Sure,” I said, while at the same time Harold shouted from the kitchen, “No!”

  Brendan looked taken aback by my brother’s assertive negativity, but I laughed. “It’s Harold’s school project, so he’s doing the work. I’m the supervisor. You can help me.”

  Brendan smiled. “So this is Harold?”

  “Yes,” Harold said. “I’m in kindergarten and I’m not a guinea pig.”

  “Perfect,” Brendan said. “Me neither.”

  He leaned on the counter. He looked cute and composed in his plain t-shirt and athletic shorts, and I immediately thought about what I looked like. I knew I might have bits of flour on my face and I hadn’t really thought about my hair. The apron was tied loosely around my waist—which was cinched tightly in my brace. Trying to stay focused, I glanced at the cupcake recipe, written in my mother’s smooth scrawl:

  1 cup flour

  1¾ cups sugar

  ⅓ cup cocoa powder

  1 cup butter

  4 eggs

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  No call for “hot guy,” I thought. Yet here he was, twisting off the cap of the unopened bottle of vanilla for my brother. Harold took the bottle with a pert “Let me” and tried to pour the vanilla into the tiny teaspoon. In his overzealousness, he tipped the bottle and much of the liquid fell to the floor. Dark drops spattered our legs.