by Syms, Carly
"I'll meet you in there," Dad tells us as he hops back behind the wheel and drives off to park.
Mom wheels me right up to the admission stand in the emergency room -- at least, I think that's what it's called. This is my first trip to the hospital, so I'm kind of a newbie. She gives the triage nurse a run down of what happened and I guess it's not all that exciting because we're told to have a seat in the waiting room.
Fantastic.
"Oh, God," I blurt out as I study my wrist with the same kind of sick fascination I remember feeling when we dissected fetal pegs in eighth grade. "Marybeth."
Mom looks over at me hopefully. "Yes! You remember?"
I nod as a sense of queasiness floods through me. My stomach starts to clench, a sweat breaks out across my forehead and I feel like I'm going to hurl all over the squeaky linoleum floor as I relive my collision on the court with Marybeth Sanders for the first time: the serve, the set, the spike, Stella's warning shout.
Maybe if I puke, the doctor will see me faster.
How could this happen?
"Yeah," I say. "Oh, this isn't going to be good news."
Mom smiles. "You'll heal," she says at last. "We're just glad you're awake. You weren't passed out for very long."
"It's broken."
"We don't know that, Emma," Mom says, but I know that voice. It's the one she uses when she doesn't want us to worry about something, even if she's concerned herself. It's Mom voice. "Let's wait for the doctor."
I shake my head. "I don't need a doctor to tell me what I already know. How long does it take to recover from a broken wrist? Months? I can't lose the season. I just got the scholarship!"
"Emma Thompson?"
Before Mom can scold me for thinking of the worst case scenario without any real information, someone in green scrubs comes out of the swinging doors and glances up from a file folder, calling my name.
"That's us!" Mom jumps to her feet, pushing her purse back up her shoulder and swinging the wheelchair around toward the doors. I slump over, burying my head in my good hand as we go.
"This way."
The lady turns and holds open the doors and Mom wheels me through them into a world of crazy blinking machines and hospital beds and strange noises.
We go right into a room with an X-ray machine, and the nurse gets me loaded up onto the table, covered in that heavy bib to keep all the radiation out and scans my wrist.
"It's bad, right?" I ask her.
She shakes her head. "The doctor will see you soon. He'll go over your X-rays with you then."
"But you can tell," I press her. "I mean, I'm sure you know how to read an X-ray, right? Why do you work here if you don't?"
"Emma." Mom tries to silence me with a look and harsh whisper.
I roll my eyes. Don't these people know this is my future we're talking about? A wrist sprain versus a wrist break is a pretty big deal right now and it'd be nice if this nurse chick would figure it out and toss me a bone.
"All done," she says, and I search her face for some kind of clue as to what she saw, but it's blank and boring. Together, she and Mom help me down into the chair and I'm taken into a small room near the exit with a bed, two hard plastic chairs, and an old 13-inch TV crammed against the wall bolted in a corner.
Swell.
It feels like I'm waiting for hours flicking from cartoon to soap opera to nightly news and back to cartoon when the door to the hospital room opens and an older man in a white coat with salt and pepper hair and a stethoscope wrapped around his neck walks in.
"Emma Thompson?" he asks, and I nod. "Great. Dr. Marsh." He shakes Mom's hand. "How are you feeling?"
I shrug. "It hurts. How soon can I get back on the court?"
Dr. Marsh smiles but it looks more like a grimace. "Ah you're an athlete." He glances down at the papers in his hand. "Sport injury?"
"Yep."
"Well, it's broken," he says, and all the wind rushes out of my gut. It had been okay, for the last half an hour, while Mom talked me into having hope. But when you take away hope, what's left? Reality, and sometimes reality blows. "You'll need a cast."
"When can I play?"
Dr. Marsh shakes his head. "It varies, honestly, but you'll be in plaster for six weeks. After that, we'll see how long it takes to get it up to strength. You'll need to do some special exercises and all that. Could be weeks, could be months. But you're lucky. You won't need surgery."
My mouth hangs open. "Months? Doc, you're killing me. I don't have months. I just got offered a college scholarship."
"Take the season off," the graying doctor advises. "Come back stronger in the fall."
"I can't do that!"
Dr. Marsh eyes me. "Your wrist isn't going to give you a lot of wiggle room here, Emma." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but you're sidelined."
CHAPTER FOUR
Getting dressed the next morning is about as much fun as I imagine a one-way trip to h-e-double-hockey-sticks would be.
I can't move my right wrist at all thanks to this ridiculous cast so Mom has to come in -- before she's even had her morning cup of coffee -- and help me wriggle into my clothes.
All of my clothes.
Because having your mommy dress you when you're three months shy of your eighteenth birthday isn't embarrassing or anything.
Not at all.
Even better? Dad drives me to school since he's convinced I can't manage the steering wheel one-handed. I tell him I'm pretty good at driving with my knees if I'm running late and need to finish my makeup but he sticks his hands in his ears and whistles, pretending he doesn't hear me.
Marybeth Sanders is the first person to greet me by my locker the next morning. By now, I'm sure word has spread throughout the school about what happened to me, and I'm not looking forward to answering the same questions all day.
This might actually be the first time in my life where I'm dreading attention.
Go figure.
"Emma!" Marybeth careens around the corner as soon as I put my left hand on the lock and begin spinning the dial. Something tells me she's been waiting anxiously for me to arrive and I'm surprised I don't find her camped out in front of my locker. "Oh, God, you have a cast! I'm so sorry."
I smile tightly. "It's just as much my fault as it is yours. Don't worry about it."
"Yeah, but I'm easy to replace," she protests. "You're the whole team! It's just a strain, right? The cast is precautionary? You'll be back in a week?"
"It's broken," I say, jiggling the handle on my locker. It doesn't budge and I sigh, spinning the dial again. "I'm toast."
Marybeth gasps. "Oh no! No! That can't be right."
"Yeah, well it is," I snap. I don't mean to, but I don't want to be reminded about what I've already lost because of some stupid collision. It's bad enough that I can't actually play anymore. I don't need to hear about it and how horrible it is every five seconds, too. "I'm done."
"Who knows?" Marybeth's voice is breathy like she's been entrusted with a top government secret.
I shrug and pull at the locker handle one more time. Nothing. "Me, coach, Stella, Blaine." I pause. "Actually, probably everyone."
"What are you gonna do?"
"Is there anything I can do?"
Marybeth goes quiet. "I guess not. Sorry, Emma. Can I help?"
"Yeah," I mutter, ready to punch a hole through my locker, but the idea of ending up with two hands in casts sends the fear of God through me. "You can open this joke of a locker."
I give her the combination and she opens it with ease. I let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Thanks."
"Let me know if I can help again."
I shake my head. "I'll be fine," I lie. "I just have to move on."
I stuff my math books into my backpack for first period and slam the locker shut. I have to get out of here before she can say anything else. I can't believe this is happening.
I turn and hurry down the hall, keeping my head down, shoulders slumped and eyes on the ground, not want
ing to look at or talk to anyone, for the first time in what feels like my whole life.
***
When the bell rings after math, I head back out into the hall, ready to go to English without my usual pit stop in front of my locker. I'm just not in the mood today. Mr. Bleeker had sent me a few strange looks during class this morning when I hadn't bothered to raise my hand to answer his questions.
Okay, so I might hate Chemistry and be a terrible science student, but there's something about math that I just get. I love how reliable the numbers are. They're never wrong. If something isn't working, it's my fault, and there's always a solution.
I guess it's kind of comforting to think about, especially now.
I'm all set to covertly make my way to my next class when a familiar face pops up down the hall and smiles at me.
"What are you doing here?" I ask. "Don't you have gym?"
Blaine shrugs. "So I'll be late."
"I'm sure Coach Pepp won't be okay with that," I shoot back with something that might resemble a smile. Coach Pepp, like Coach Morris, is one of Ashland's gym teachers when he isn't leading his team -- the same team that Blaine is a star on.
So, yeah, sometimes he gets a little extra slack. He deserves it.
We both do.
Or is it did now, at least for me?
"How's the wrist?" he asks, draping an arm across my shoulder and slowly walking with me. There are a ton of people crowding the halls right now, normal for between periods, and Blaine takes extra care to make sure none of them can jostle me and hurt my wrist worse.
"It's okay."
"Emma." His voice is like steel. He knows me well enough to know when I'm BS'ing him.
"Okay, okay, you want to know the truth? It hurts. A lot. But probably not as much as knowing I'm off the team does."
Blaine stops walking and pulls me into the stairwell. "What? You got cut? That's ridiculous! Forget class, I'll go talk to Coach Morris right now. Just because you're hurt doesn't mean you're not the only thing that team has going for it. I can't -- "
"Blaine! Blaine, wait. Calm down, that's not right. I didn't mean I got kicked off the team. I just can't play, like I told you last night."
"Maybe it will heal fast."
I shake my head. "Maybe not. Face it. It's over for me."
"Only until UMT," he says with a smile. "It's just a break, Em. You'll be fine."
I press my lips together. Part of me -- and I'm not sure why -- just wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake (not that I could, given the current state of my wrist, but still). "It doesn't feel fine."
Blaine offers a small shrug. "It's gonna have to."
"You don't get it," I say, already feeling a pool of tears welling up behind my eyes, and I fight to keep my voice from cracking. I give an angry, determined shake of the head. Of course Blaine doesn't understand -- how could he? He's the star, he's always been the star, and he always will be the star.
Up until, oh, fourteen hours ago, I'd thought the same thing about myself.
But then my star went ahead and burnt out.
And until it actually happens to you, you never think it will, because you're young, you're cute, you've got everything going for you and life is good and you're invincible.
Fate, I'm quickly learning to realize, doesn't care if you're pretty and popular.
"Em, hey," he says, his voice softer and gentler this time. "What can I do?"
But I'm not in the mood for his kindness. I'm not even sure he's being real, or if he just feels like he's gotta say all this. Honestly, I'm not sure about much right now.
"Nothing," I tell him, pushing him back a step away from me. "You can't do anything. Nobody can."
"Don't be like that."
"This is me now, Blaine! All me. I'm not being like anything. This is who I am now."
"You're not different 'cause you're not playing."
"Doesn't feel like it." I cross my arms in front of my chest, which isn't all that easy and probably doesn't look all that smooth with this stupid chunk of plaster covering my wrist.
The bell rings before Blaine gets a chance to respond.
"Great, now I'm late. Mrs. Piller is going to be pissed," I mutter, picking up my backpack from the floor. "See you later."
"Come to the game tonight!" he calls out to my retreating back. I don't answer.
I turn and hurry down the hall, and by the time I'm around the corner, the tears that had been piling up a few minutes ago are starting to leak out. I try to wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt but end up with a face full of cast.
"Crap!" I exclaim to the empty hallway. "Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!"
I slump against the lockers and slide down to the floor, burying my face in my good arm, trying to get control of the tears. Mrs. Piller's just gonna have to deal with it later. I'm not walking into English late looking like this. People are already starting to think I'm crazy. No need to throw more wood on that fire.
I'm alone out here in the hallway for the first time I can ever remember.
And it feels like more change than any one person should be asked to deal with.
CHAPTER FIVE
"There you are!"
I hear Stella before I see her. She's waving to me from a spot in the bleachers about three rows back from the fifty-yard line. I climb over and around several different laps to get to her and almost take out an old man and his jumbo bucket of popcorn before I make it.
"Hey." I drop down into the open space next to her on the cool metal bench and brush some hair out of my eyes. I'd only lifted my right arm about two inches before remembering the cast and switching to use my left.
Woo, progress.
Stella smiles at me, but it doesn't reach her eyes, which are definitely worried. "How'd it go?"
I shake my head. "You don't wanna know."
She raises an eyebrow. "That good, huh?"
"Better." I sigh. "It's my fault. I expected too much."
"What did Blaine say?"
I glance out at the field where the football team is lazily going through warm-ups about twenty minutes before kick-off and sigh. "Everything he knew how to."
Stella frowns, but waits for me to continue.
"It's not important. He's doing his best, but he doesn't know what it's like. It's not his fault his season never ended with a soul-crushing injury."
"Soul-crushing? Dramatic much?" Stella smiles.
I shrug and wave her off. "Might as well be."
"You'll be fine, Em."
A shrill whistle blasts and I inadvertently look out over the field. Warm-ups and drills are over, and the team is trickling slowly back toward the locker room for last-minute prep before they'll come bursting out of the tunnel and jack up the crowd to start the game.
I scan the guys, most of them without their helmets on, for Blaine, and I'm surprised to see he isn't heading back into the locker room with Richie, who's walking in alone.
My eyes finally land on a familiar mop of blonde hair just off to the left of the visiting team's sideline. Blaine is standing with his back to me, talking to a blonde girl who looks vaguely familiar, but I can't place her. It's like I know I've seen her before, but it was such an insignificant meeting that it barely registered on my scale.
I watch as they talk and wish I could see Blaine's face. I lean over and nudge Stella. "Hey," I murmur, nodding in their direction. "Do you know who that is?"
"I don't know, a cheerleader?" Stella suggests, and I glare at her. She smiles and shakes her head. "Lighten up, Em. I don't know, I think her name might be Candace or Candy or Cameron. Something with a C like that. Why, you jealous?"
I look over at Stella and roll my eyes. "Yeah, okay."
She shrugs. "Probably wants to know what the team's favorite cheer is so they can do it during the game."
I purse my lips, wishing I could feel as uninterested by all of this as Stella sounds.
"So what's the damage?" she asks, changing the subject.
/>
"I can't drive. I can't get dressed. I obviously can't play volleyball." I shake my head and sigh in disgust. "I can barely even feed myself. This is going to be the worst six weeks ever."
"You still have the team behind you," Stella says. "Even if you can't play."
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing. Thinking about volleyball is too hard right now, but it's like I can't get it out of my head. We sit in silence as the minutes to kick-off tick by and the bleachers slowly start to fill up.
Finally, the band starts to play, and a minute or two later, the team gathers in the tunnel and the crowd climbs to its feet. Coach Pepp leads his guys out onto the field in a slow trot as cheers erupt in the stands.
I start to put my hands together to clap when Stella reaches out and catches my left hand.
"That would probably hurt," she says, and I look down and realize what I've done.
"Jeez," I mutter under my breath. "I can't even clap right."
"You'll get used to it. My brother broke his foot three years ago and eventually it was harder for him to move around without crutches than it was to walk normally."
"Sounds like fun."
I stuff my good hand in the pocket of my sweatshirt so I don't try to add a few extra weeks to my cast time and instead, I just watch the events on the field unfold in silence.
Ashland loses the coin toss, which means Blaine won't be out on the field right away. After the kick-off, Ashland's defense trots on to go up against Waverley's halfway decent, or so I've been told, offense.
I watch them complete a ten-yard pass, run for four and throw for another three before it brings up the first third down of the game.
"This isn't so bad," I say to Stella, relieved that watching them play isn't as painful as I've been afraid it'd be.
I've been worried that I won't like watching other people get to do what I've just had ripped away from me, even if football obviously isn't my game.
Our defense gets the third down stop and forces Waverely off the field and now it's Blaine's turn to come out and try to score some points.
"Let's go, Eagles!" I shout out as he lines up behind the line of scrimmage. The center snaps the ball to the quarterback, who hands it off to Blaine. He takes it up the field for about four yards.
