Dear Isaac Newton, You're Ruining My Life

by Rachel Hruza

  It was Megan who I truly missed. But I would never tell her that.

  “Megan, I miss you!” I said. It seemed my resolve was not as strong as I’d thought. I finally caught Megan alone beside our locker before History, and bombarded her with questions and compliments.

  Megan ignored me for a while, but finally, after I told her I even missed watching nightmare-creating scary movies with her, she pivoted on her foot mid-book-grab, with a smile developing on her lips. “I miss y—”

  She cut herself off when a piece of paper fell out from between her books. Since her hands were full, I picked it up for her. It was crinkled, obviously a note that had once been folded. Megan reached out for it, but I pulled it back.

  I saw my name, written in blocky, chunky letters—Brendan’s tell-tale handwriting.

  “‘Kissing Truth Trendon is like kissing a dry lumpy toad,’” I read out loud.

  If it had said “Megan is actually Truth’s mother” I wouldn’t have been more shocked. I slowly handed the note back to Megan. Then I unloaded.

  “Are you kidding me, Megan? You abandon me and take the boy I liked and now you’re spreading rumors about me?”

  Inside I was thinking: How could he say that? He was the crappy kisser! His lips were dry!

  She didn’t say anything. She just looked up at me with big, sad eyes. “I didn’t write it,” she said.

  “But you kept it! And you probably laughed hysterically when he gave it to you.”

  “I didn’t! I kind of smiled, but that was just to—to—I don’t know. It’s mean! I’ll throw it away. I’ll burn it. But please don’t be mad.”

  I felt my heart begin to melt, its stone exterior converting to ash. Then a boy whose name I didn’t know walked by and ribbited at me. Actually ribbited, like a frog. I felt my frown furrow deeper into my face and then I looked at Megan. She looked like she’d just seen Medusa and was about to die.

  My heart turned to stone. I slammed the locker shut and stormed off to History, as several other people joined in with the frog-guy and his awful throaty sound bites.

  As I ducked into the classroom, I heard Megan say in a disgusted voice, “Toads don’t ribbit, they croak.”

  This just created a duet of sorts, with several kids croaking along to the ribbits. I tried to drop my head onto my desk, but there wasn’t enough space for me to lean forward with my brace on, since my chair was connected to my desk with a metal bar. I wanted to scream. My legs were shaking with anger, and I’d never wanted to choke someone as much as I did Brendan Matthews.

  I didn’t know if I could fit my hands around Brendan’s chiseled neck, but I was willing to try. What I didn’t understand was why he’d do something like this. I knew his secret; I could tell everyone he couldn’t read. Obviously he had gotten better—I mean, he did write that note—but still, he was a cheater, and I had the power to bring him down. The difference between the two of us was that I wouldn’t do that to him.

  By the end of the class, I was so anxious to dash out of there my desk shook as if I were the only one in an earthquake. The skin on my hands was white from my death grip on the wooden desktop. Spreading a rumor that I was a bad kisser—or actually, that I was ugly and had a gargantuan mouth, humongous eyes, and protruding skin bumps, so it was a trial to have to kiss me—was one thing, but I worried Brendan had prepared to save the best for last, and tell everyone what a hunchbacked, brace-wearing loser I was.

  When the bell rang, I sprinted to my locker, tossed in my books, and ran to the locker room in record time.

  Rumors spread quickly, especially in a small Midwest school. People call us the “Bread Basket” (hearth and homey) or the “Heart of America” (then where’s the brain?), but people are just as mean here as anywhere else.

  Charity did her best to quash all the “Prince Charming” and wart jokes over at the high school, calling Brendan and Megan immature and lame—and for the most part, none of the high schoolers cared anyway. But in junior high, “the Kiss of Truth” became known as the equivalent of the kiss of death in a matter of days.

  Apparently, so did talking to me. Even girls stared at me, worried that if they approached, they too would be branded as inadequate kissers.

  I still did my best to appear happy. At first, I figured everyone would see that their teasing and taunting didn’t bother me in the least; however, the more I smiled and cheerfully said “Hello!” after a hateful croak, the more they responded with additional amphibious sounds. Some of them became almost fluent in a combination of English and toad-speak; creating a messy, throaty Toad-lish that made teachers angry. It had become an epidemic.

  “Can we ra-get extra ra-credit?” Jimmy Wyate, his voice croaking like crazy, asked Mr. Landers about an upcoming test.

  “Everyone else can, but since you asked in that voice, you may not. And that goes for anyone else should they decide to talk like an imbecile.” I thought I saw Landers look in my direction, but I probably just imagined it. I assumed most teachers had heard about my toadish smooching, but they acted unaware.

  Things really got out of hand in Algebra. Since Brendan and Megan were in the class with me, everyone else seemed to think their frog impressions suddenly had more significance. Miss Peters, however, didn’t put up with their bullfroggy-ness. “Anyone who imitates a frog or toad, or makes any type of noise unrelated to common human decency, will be sent to reside on a lily pad for the afternoon. It’s a lovely lily pad, with all kinds of time to work on assignments; you know it better as detention.”

  Several people raised their hands.

  “Accidental burps are unwelcome but acceptable,” Miss Peters said. All the hands except one dropped. “And whether or not it is an accident will be up to me.” She smiled as the last hand dropped. “Now, let’s get down and dirty with decimals, shall we?”

  I swore someone whispered a ribbit under his breath, but I let Miss Peters stare down the culprit. If I’d gotten that stare, I think I would have willed myself to completely disappear.

  After working by myself for most of class, I heaved a sigh of relief when the bell finally rang.

  “Brendan, could I talk to you for a second?” Miss Peters said.

  I piled my books up slowly, to see what she wanted to talk to him about. Megan did the same. I was a bit disappointed when I saw Miss Peters point to her math book. I exited the room quickly, glad to no longer be sitting next to the two lovebirds. I felt like a creepy vulture, sitting on the edge of the same branch, waiting for their love to die so I could sweep in and scavenge the remains, or at least wallow in their devastation for a while instead of my own.

  That day, during study hall, I perked up my courage. It had been nearly three weeks since I’d talked to Oliver, and I missed him. Though he’d probably think I was stupid and silly, I knew he’d still listen to my problems. What he thought about me and Brendan didn’t matter now. And if he didn’t want to talk to me, what did I have to lose? No one else would talk to me either.

  Though, if I were being completely honest, I feared that his rejection on top of everyone else’s would actually break my heart for good, crushing it into tiny, irreparable pieces.

  I walked into the Resource Room and began to say “I’m sorry,” but then I closed my mouth. There was Oliver, standing between two newly installed rails, his arms holding his body up and his feet flat on the ground. Then he lifted his hands off the bars.

  I had to sit down. “Am I witnessing a miracle?” I asked.

  Oliver grinned. “I just wanted some relief,” he said, tilting his head at his wheelchair. I nodded, knowing he was quoting me. He needed to get out of the chair. “I know that someday I probably won’t have any leg-strength left. But until that happens, I’m going to keep trying to get a break from sitting all day. This is what I wanted your help with before, but I found out I could do it on my own.”

  I started trying to come up with the words to even begin to apologize, but he smiled. “Sometimes, it feels good to work things out by
ourselves, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded, and he smiled again, and I knew he forgave me. By the end of his therapy, my face hurt from smiling so much.

  Oliver took twenty small steps that day, and I almost tackled him as I threw my arms around his neck in a hug at the end of the period. The physical therapist who was there watching chastised me, but I didn’t care, and Oliver was laughing. I was so proud of my friend.

  It was only after Oliver was back in his chair and the physical therapist had left for the day that I was able to actually apologize. “I really needed to see you,” I said. I looked at the ground and slowly met his gaze when I spoke again. “My life gradually got worse without you in it. I’m so sorry I avoided you.”

  “Why did you?” Oliver asked. His voice was softer than normal, and his eyes looked the same as they had that night weeks before.

  My face warmed, and I worried I might cry. “I saw you outside the movie theater that night, in the pickup, and you looked so sad. I couldn’t shake the thought that you were mad at me—that you resented me. I couldn’t come to see you knowing you might hate me.”

  “Hate you? Are you crazy? I’ll admit, when I saw you running—without your brace on—and then that football flounder grabbed you, I couldn’t help but feel jealous.”

  I sat up at this admission.

  “You just looked so happy,” he said. “And then I thought about it: if there was one thing I wished I could do that would make me as happy as that, what would it be? I wanted to walk. And I realized there was something I could do about it.” He paused. “You and I are alike, you know. We both need to get away from the things that are keeping us upright.”

  “I know. But—” I stopped.

  “But what if I can’t stand up tomorrow?” I looked at the floor as he continued. “Then at least I tried today, Truth.”

  I nodded. We were trying, both of us. Maybe it was true that my spine would always be crooked. But I was doing something about it, and putting up a good fight (if I do say so myself, Sir Isaac).

  Then Oliver leaned forward and grinned crookedly. “Is it true if I kiss you I’ll turn to stone?” he asked.

  I laughed because I knew he was joking, but it made me wonder if people actually said that.

  “Yep. Then I eat your firstborn.”

  “And that’s how rumors get started.”

  We laughed. It felt good to laugh with someone.

  The bell rang, but I barely noticed it.

  I looked at Oliver. He was smiling so wide. I leaned forward and gave him a tight hug, and when I let go, he held my gaze.

  Suddenly, the door opened and I leaped back. Mrs. Werth walked in. “About time you two got to class, isn’t it?” she asked.

  I stood up, too embarrassed to make eye contact with Oliver. “Bye,” I said quickly, and I left the room before either of us could say another word.

  For the next few days, I rallied against my classmates’ continuous croaking. After seeing what Oliver could do after only a few weeks of therapy, I realized that I had worn my brace for five months. I had survived five months of battling Isaac Newton, and I was still here. Still fighting. Brace-Wearing Truth was just as strong and resilient as Before-Brace Truth—maybe more so—and I could get through another five months, a whole year even, as long as I pushed myself.

  Thanks to Oliver, with a renewed spirit and newfound confidence, I finally began to prepare for my upcoming presentation. I would allow enough time for people to ribbit and croak all they wanted and still hit my eight-minute time limit. I planned to play a short song on my trumpet and then talk about what it meant to me and why. It was the first solo song I’d learned to play, and the song itself wasn’t very long or difficult, but I thought I’d be more comfortable playing it than having to talk the entire time. It also came parent-approved, and Charity said I’d be less likely to say something stupid if I didn’t have as much time to talk. Harold told me that instead I should put Hairy the guinea pig in the end of my trumpet and try to shoot him to the moon. There’s nothing like the undying support of my siblings.

  Megan’s dad, life coach extraordinaire, was hosting the production, and would be giving a talk about living life to its fullest. Forget that—if I’d learned anything so far in junior high, it was that everyone was just trying to get by without getting thrown under the social bus. I’d basically been thrown between the wheels a few times already, shattering my world into what felt like a billion microscopic pieces. Lucky for me, I was patient enough to pick them all up and put them back together, even if the glue took forever to hold.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Final Discovery

  The day before the big presentation, my nerves were roiling inside my belly, and I was certain I was going to spill my lunch, dinner, or breakfast at some point. However, on my way out of school, I ran into Oliver; or rather, he almost ran over me. He rolled toward the door wearing a dark corduroy coat, his head down as he stared at his cell phone, and his brow furrowed in consternation.

  “Heads up!” I shouted, jumping out of the way at the last minute.

  “Hey, Frog-face,” Oliver said, without any semblance of apology.

  “Oh, so you can see me!” I said. I playfully swatted at his phone. “No texting and driving. It’s dangerous.”

  “I could drive better than you with my eyes closed.”

  I stepped back and raised my eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

  He grinned. I grinned back. “Yep,” he said.

  “Well then, we just have to find someone stupid enough to lend us their car.”

  Oliver laughed and pushed himself out the door. I followed.

  “My mom’s going to be late,” he said. “I hate having to wait for her.”

  “We could walk,” I said. I was supposed to ride the bus, but I didn’t feel like dealing with all my ribbiting peers, especially without adult supervision to control them. It was a farther walk than I preferred to make in my brace, but the pain in my butt from my brace was less annoying than the constant croaking in my ears.

  He thought about it for a minute, and then he nodded. “All right.”

  We took to the sidewalk. I told him about my grumbling gut of nerves, and he told me about a math test he’d aced. I had yet to hear Oliver complain about his daily life like I did. I told him that and he shrugged.

  “Seems pointless,” he said.

  “But that’s all I talk about with you. My lame, day-to-day battles that are about as important as a fart.”

  He laughed so hard I could see all his straight white teeth. No cavities from what I could see (I wasn’t an expert dentist, but I’d pulled teeth; I got the gist of it). “I like hearing about your day. It makes my life seem way less tragic.”

  I sighed. “Glad to be a martyr for your ego.”

  About a block away from my house, we approached the top of a rather steep downhill; it was so steep that I had always been afraid to roller-skate down because I thought I would lose control at the bottom and go sailing into a curb or, worse, a passing car. Oliver hesitated.

  “We can go a different way. The sidewalk is less steep two blocks down.” I pointed and began to turn in that direction, but Oliver grabbed my arm.

  “No,” he said. He gripped both wheels and stared straight ahead. “Can you run in that thing?”

  My hands went instinctively to my brace. “I don’t know—”

  Before I could answer, he had taken off, whooping at the top of his lungs. I flung my backpack down and chased after him, wondering how I was going to stop him. I ran, my legs pumping and my butt skin pinching with every plastic jab. My chest ached where my brace bit into my rib cage, my stride was ungainly, and my coat flopped open with each step. But I chased after Oliver, watching his dark curls lift from the breeze, and as he slowed and I got closer, I could hear him laughing. There was enough sidewalk that he was able to slow to a stop before the street.

  I shoved him gently when I caught up. “You—you could have—” It was hard to ca
tch my breath after running with my brace on.

  “Is that what you felt that night in the parking lot? When you were running?”

  I straightened up, feeling my lungs expand in their constricted plastic lining. “No. You were faster.”

  He laughed at my fatigue. “That was fun. I don’t usually get to do that.”

  I was about to chastise him—I remembered that story he’d told me about his mother sitting on his lap after he was almost hit by a car. But then he smiled up at me.

  “Well, I left my backpack at the top,” I said, “So … wanna do it again?”

  He beamed, and began to wheel himself back up the hill. “You read my mind.”

  We raced up and down the hill again and again, Oliver in his chair and me in my brace. The third time, Oliver’s mother showed up and yelled out the window of her car at him to stop, and met us at the bottom. Once she saw how happy he was, her worried expression lifted.

  “Hop in, Truth,” Mrs. Nelson said. “We’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Thanks, but it’s just a block. I’m almost there.”

  “You need running practice, Frog-face. I won every time,” Oliver said, taking my hand and squeezing it. I was surprised, but my heart warmed at his touch. I smiled at him.

  “I know,” I said, squeezing his hand back. “What do you say, Mrs. Nelson? One more rematch?”

  Instead of racing, Oliver pulled me onto his lap and we rolled down the hill together. I was both surprised and terrified. That wheelchair went fast! The rush of cold air bit at my skin. Did this physical contact mean anything? Was my brace hurting Oliver? I didn’t have time to think about it as we sped downhill. I screamed, and Oliver laughed. Mrs. Nelson bit her fingernails at the end of the sidewalk, ready to throw herself in front of us should a car come.

  “You know, your brace is actually really soft,” Oliver said, as I climbed out of his chair.

  “And you’re actually not funny at all.”

  “No, really, you hit my arm a few times and I don’t think it’s even broken.” He waggled his arm at me.