I could walk away. Dr. Brainguy’s office was on the edge of campus. The Blanton wasn’t far. I could sit by the pennies and bones. Breathe. I closed my eyes and leaned against the door.
Alone, my brain always circled around to Abelard. What was he doing now? Building robots with the funny girl from his floor? Hanging out at the student union playing pool, laughing? Damn college websites! Heartbreak shouldn’t have glossy pictorial spreads.
I couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. I opened the heavy door slowly, unsure of whether my feet would take me out into the bright May sunshine or lead me back to the testing room. I needed to run.
I peeked around the door, hoping to avoid bumping into one of the nurses or his office staff.
Dr. Brainguy stood in the hall, sucking on an e-cigarette. When he saw me, he slipped the cigarette into his pocket.
“You caught me,” he said.
I sighed. What Dr. Brainguy meant was that he’d caught me trying to make a run for it. We both knew he wasn’t talking about his suppressed smoking habit.
“Aren’t all these tests redundant?” I asked. “I’m beginning to think this is some kind of prank. Maybe this is some meta-test of my emotional lability?”
I paused to make air quotes. I was sick of emotional lability. The idea of it, the reality of it, the embarrassment of it.
“No, Lily, we wouldn’t do that,” he said. “But when it comes to the brain, we like to be redundant.”
I leaned against the wall, like we were just hanging out in the hall between classes. I was tired, even though it was morning.
“So how was the visit with your dad?” Dr. Brainguy asked.
“Good,” I replied. “He has a new family now. He’s going to try very hard not to run away from them. You wouldn’t know this, but apparently relationships are hard work.”
Dr. Brainguy laughed. There was a weird, bitter edge to his laugh, and I realized suddenly that I knew absolutely nothing about his personal life. He could be an axe murderer or four times divorced for all I knew. I’d come to trust him because he was the most honest adult I’d ever met, aside from my father. But what did that mean, really?
“I miss Abelard,” I blurted out. Random.
“Ah, the young man with the poetry.” Dr. Brainguy inhaled between two fingers. “How is he liking the Isaac Institute?”
“He loves it.”
“Good,” Dr. Brainguy murmured. He pulled his e-cig out of his pocket. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No. What does ‘good’ mean?”
“Good means good. So, have you been in touch with him?”
“Not recently.” I rubbed the toe of my shoe across the carpet, wishing for something to kick. “I broke up with him.”
“Really?” Dr. Brainguy seemed genuinely surprised. “Why?”
“I don’t know why. I mean, I told him that I was in Portland, and then I wasn’t in Portland, and his school has an amazing robotics lab, and Abelard is taking college courses, and what am I doing? I mean, other than having surgery? And who am I going to be after surgery, aside from a girl with a totally attractive one-sided head shave and a weird scar? Not that Abelard cares about that, but will I be the same person? I just feel . . .”
I stopped. I was babbling again.
“Overwhelmed?” Dr. Brainguy said.
“Yes.” That was it. Overwhelmed.
“It’s natural to feel that way before any surgery, but especially brain surgery. Trust me when I say that you will be the same person.”
“Do you think I should tell Abelard about the surgery?”
He tapped the e-cig in the palm of his hand like it was a pipe or something and slipped it into his coat pocket.
“I can’t tell you what to do, Lily. You have to decide for yourself.”
“I should text him.”
“Later,” Dr. Brainguy said. “We need to get back to work.”
“Do I have to go back in there?” I glanced down the hall toward the room full of doctors, the last place on Earth I wanted to be right now.
“Here’s my problem, Lily. Someone has to teach those monsters how to be human.”
“Is that my job?”
“No, it’s mine. But I could use your help.”
I could face Dr. Golden again, if Dr. Brainguy needed me to. Dr. Brainguy—real human material. Soon he’d plant electrodes in my brain, and he’d be off to the next patient. And I’d miss him. Not follow-him-to-his-Swiss-mountain-home-and-threaten-to-destroy-everything-he-ever-loved-unless-he-revealed-to-me-the-deeper-truth-and-meaning-to-life miss him. But still. Very few people are worth hunting down for the general life secrets in their possession.
Chapter 34
Dr. Golden’s test took a long time, and lunch period was half over by the time I walked out to the courtyard. Montana Jordan or Jordan Montana and her emo boyfriend had taken up residence at Abelard’s place under the crepe myrtle.
Rosalind was at our normal spot, hands folded in her lap, a frown of concentration on her face. She moved her lips slightly, as though memorizing dialogue, which was odd because she wasn’t in a play at the moment. I remembered that we were supposed to be having a serious talk about suicide watch. I did not want to talk about suicide watch. No, I did not.
I dropped my lunch bag and sat down beside her.
“Well, here I am,” I said. “I guess we should talk.”
Rosalind didn’t look at me. My stomach lurched as she began her prepared speech.
“So I’m used to you being bleak about school, but last semester you changed. You were flat, and you weren’t interested in anything. And you started saying some pretty disturbing things, which is why I went to your counselor.”
“You could have talked to me,” I blurted out. “You didn’t have to put me on suicide watch.”
“Actually, I did have to put you on suicide watch. I couldn’t talk to you. You aren’t yourself when you are on drugs.”
“Isn’t that the point of the drugs?” I replied, a little more bitterly than I should have.
“To be someone else?” Her voice rose. “Even if it makes you unhappy?”
Happy. It’s the stupidest word in the English language. It’s a sprinkles-on-your-ice-cream, My-Little-Pony kind of a word, and yet we are all expected to be happy about everything, including that which makes us miserable, like school. It’s a bully of a word, happy. Not only am I required to suck up all the misery and injustice of the scholastic world, I have to pretend to enjoy it. Mais, je refuse.
“So now you’re going to have the surgery. And you’re going to be someone else—permanently. That’s just great, Lily.”
I shrugged. I wanted to talk about my surgery even less than I wanted to talk about suicide watch. “If you really want to know, I’m going to have the surgery because being me is an unmitigated disaster. Clearly.”
“Listen to yourself,” Rosalind said. “What if Abelard wanted to have brain surgery? What would you say to him?”
“It’s different for Abelard.”
A blast of hot air rolled across the teachers’ parking lot and sent a dusty breeze over the courtyard. Somewhere, hundreds of miles to the west, a storm descended. Maybe it was raining in the mountains of New Mexico on pine tree forests, the Isaac Institute, and Abelard.
I’d never really thought about the difference between us before. I’m sure it sucked to be Abelard in middle school in ways I couldn’t begin to imagine. Of course, it was no picnic for me either. Middle school is where I truly began my career as an academic failure. Up until then, I’d just been dabbling. But Abelard had it worse. He’d been bullied in middle school. Physically, in the hall, in front of everyone. And Abelard had been desperately lonely—his mother had told me as much.
Honestly, though, I was a little jealous of Abelard. I couldn’t escape the feeling that high school was easier for him than it was for me. No one expected Abelard to be normal. His issues were accepted by the school because he’s a genius, and he rocks all his
classes. You can talk all you want about age-appropriate socialization and sensory integration, but if you’re good at school, no one cares. Making good grades earns you a pass on everything else.
“So how would it be different if Abelard decided to have brain surgery?” Rosalind demanded.
“It’s different because he doesn’t need it.”
Rosalind shook her head.
“That makes no sense, Lily. Abelard is, well, he’s not normal. You can tell just by talking to him. You seem like everyone else.”
“That’s my problem—I seem just like everyone else. If Abelard leaves class suddenly because he can’t stand to be there anymore, everyone worries about him. If I leave, I’m skipping class.”
“Maybe you should try not skipping class.”
I glared at her.
“Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say,” she said. “But you could a better job of asking for help. What about your 504 accommodations and—”
“I don’t want to ask for help—ever,” I said. Even the idea of asking for help made my skin itch. “Having to ask for help with directions makes me angry. I’d rather have electrodes in my brain than spend the rest of my life asking for help.”
“Asking for help makes you angry? I don’t understand.” Rosalind shook her head. It was too much for her. She’d never understand what it was like to be me because the world loves her. The world loves her quiet thoughtfulness and her insistence on showing up fifteen minutes early to everything. Her stubborn refusal to need further instructions. She’s clearly never heard the deep, long-suffering sigh that says, Everyone else gets this. Why don’t you?
The first bell rang. Rosalind picked up her lunchbox and hesitated for a moment. She looked like she had more to say. But in the end, the thought of being late to class was just too much for her. She can’t stop being on time, any more than I can stop being late.
“That looks good,” Mom said, peering into a pot filled with some sort of chickpea, kale, and onion thing Iris was making to go over brown rice. We’d been eating a lot of brown rice since Dad’s visit. I was kind of done with brown rice. I couldn’t wait until Iris discovered the paleo diet and decided all grains were evil.
“We didn’t have a chance to talk earlier,” Mom said, dropping her tragic purse on the dining room table next to where I was absently playing a game on my phone. “How was your appointment today?”
“Fine.”
Hours at the doctor’s office and my lunchtime conversation about suicide with Rosalind had left me feeling spent. I didn’t want to talk about my stupid brain.
“What did they have you do today?”
“Tests,” I said, not looking up.
“Care to elaborate?” Mom asked.
Fireworks and explosions on my phone signaled that I’d won a level. I slapped my phone face-down on the table. “What else do you want to know?”
Mom slid into the chair across from me. “Who did you work with?”
“I worked with Dr. Golden,” I said, feeling the monster rise again. “We did the same tests I’ve been doing for weeks now.”
“Dr. Golden? I don’t remember meeting a Dr. Golden.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Tall, blond, kind of a douche.”
“Lily, language,” Mom said.
Iris dumped a pile of sliced carrots into the pot and hovered nearby, attracted by the undeniable lure of conflict and forbidden words.
“I think you mean Dr. Jarrell,” Mom said. “Actually, I found him quite charming. And handsome.”
“For a douche,” I replied.
“Can I go to Lily’s next appointment with her?” Iris leaned over the kitchen counter, spoon in hand.
“No,” Mom and I answered in unison. At least we agreed on something.
“Even Dr. Brainguy thinks he’s a douche.”
“I have a hard time believing Dr. Brillstein referred to a colleague in that way,” she said. I couldn’t tell whether the word bothered Mom or if it was my assessment of Dr. Jarrell.
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I knew what he meant.”
“I could tell Ms. Arbeth I was researching brain surgery,” Iris said. “She’d let me out of class if—”
“Why would you even want to go to my appointment?” I asked. “What do you think we’re doing over there, holding TED Talks about the exciting future of brain research? It’s just a lot of blank people with laptops asking me the same stupid questions over and over. It’s worse than school, and probably just as futile, and I . . .”
Mom stared at me with a look of concern. Iris caught it too. She turned back to the stove and pretended to be absorbed in stirring her chickpea concoction.
“Are you having second thoughts about the surgery?” Mom leaned across the table and put her hand on my arm.
“No, I’m not having second thoughts,” I lied.
Mom did not look convinced. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t really have anything to say.”
I had more to say about surgery, a lot more. My best friend thought the surgery was a nightmare mistake that would kill my remaining joy in life. Maybe my problem wasn’t my brain, it was school. If we had the money for a place like the Isaac Institute, things would be different. And there was no guarantee the surgery would even work. It was experimental, after all.
There was no point in talking to Mom. She’d made up her mind. So had Rosalind. Neither one of them could understand me. They weren’t broken.
There was only one person I wanted to talk to. Abelard.
Chapter 35
I am broken because I have a disability. I am broken because I am incapable of sitting still for hours at a time and performing the mind-numbing, repetitive tasks that I am required to do. Abelard is broken because he can’t smile and say hello, and he doesn’t like crowds, which is basically what high school is—one giant, swirling, chaotic crowd.
Still, if the warp drive on the starship Enterprise was set to go critical in thirty-nine minutes, you’d want Abelard in a quiet room working on the problem. And you wouldn’t dare call Abelard disabled. For thirty-nine minutes, he’d be your hero. The dividing line between broken and brilliant is the slim margin of context. Perhaps I’m not disabled, I’m just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I don’t know. But maybe Abelard does.
“Abelard.”
“Lily,” he responded almost instantly.
I clutched the phone, not quite believing it was him. It was as though he’d been waiting by the phone.
“I need to talk to you,” I texted.
He didn’t answer back right away. I waited impatiently for his next word.
“Why?”
There was an icy eternity in that word, a distance of more than just miles. I’d thought of Abelard as a beautiful shiny object, and I’d thought of Abelard as my secret text admirer, and then as my boyfriend. But he had been so much more than that. Abelard had been my friend. He’d understood me in a way no one else had, except maybe Rosalind. I’d thrown it all away.
“Never mind,” I texted back. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Sorry.”
I dropped the phone in my purse and slumped back on the bed. In my rush to offload geography assignments like spent fuel canisters, I’d mistakenly jettisoned Abelard as well. Stupid, impulsive, rocket brain.
My phone whirred softly. I fished it out of my purse.
“Why?” Abelard texted.
“Everything is wrong,” I texted.
“It’s statistically improbable that absolutely everything is wrong,” Abelard texted. “Some things, but not everything.”
Funny. Or maybe Abelard wasn’t being funny; maybe he was being very, very direct. Strange how often these two things collided.
“My mom wanted me to have this surgery. Mom said I could go visit my dad if I talked to the surgeon, but now my whole life is upside down.”
I stopped. It was too complicated to make sense of in a text.
“Visit
your dad? I thought you were living with your dad in Portland.”
“No, I’m still in Austin.”
His answer came back faster than I expected.
“You said you were moving to Portland. You broke up with me.”
“You needed to go to the Isaac Institute,” I texted.
“I only agreed to go to the Isaac Institute because you moved to Portland,” he said. “I wouldn’t have gone if you’d stayed.”
“Which is why I lied to you,” I texted. “I’m in Austin. I never left.”
Abelard didn’t answer for a very long time. So long I became convinced that he’d turned off his phone. So long I had plenty of time to contemplate the wisdom of telling someone you love over a text that you lied to change the course of their life. I still believed Abelard belonged at the Isaac Institute, but my methods for getting him there were as impulsive and destructive as pulling up hard on a handle just because you see it moving. I hadn’t thought it through.
“You could have let me make my own choice,” he texted eventually.
“Are you angry?” I said.
“Yes,” he replied.
Another long pause, long enough to make me wonder if we were done.
“What kind of surgery?” he asked.
I’d forgotten that I’d even mentioned the surgery.
“Brain surgery. It’s not that big a deal. It’s an electrode implantation to make me less impulsive.”
“When are you having surgery?”
“As soon as finals are over.”
Abelard didn’t reply for a long time. I couldn’t blame him. It was a lot to process—brain surgery, lying. Complexity. A whole pile of crazy-girlfriend drama. I sat staring at my phone.
“I’m coming back,” he texted finally.
“You don’t have to do that. What about school?”
“The summer semester hasn’t started. I’m in orientation right now. I won’t miss classes.”
The Love Letters of Abelard and Lily Page 20
