A Messy, Beautiful Life

by Sara Jade Alan

“For one, we know you’re all into Colorado and the West and we couldn’t find a pendant of horses or mountains last minute, and figured there’re probably bulls there, too,” Hana said.

  Quinn took the necklace and clasped it around my neck. “More importantly, the bull stands for cosmic order and strength. Things you could use in life, no matter what this turns out to be.”

  I liked the feel of the cool silver and the weight of the pendant against my chest. It did seem like it could bring strength and cosmic goodness.

  “It also stands for stubbornness and male virility, but we chose to focus on the other stuff,” Hana added.

  I laughed. “It’s perfect.”

  They gave me the play-by-play of rehearsal, which included Hana reenacting the dove flying choreography they decided on. She loped around our living room and flapped her arms.

  “No. You’re forgetting. We decided on this move,” Quinn protested, flapping her arms with an exaggerated shoulder roll. “And this part.” She did a funny shimmy-kick with her feet and bobbled her head every time she moved.

  “Oh, you’re right.” Hana flapped again and added the little kick and headshake. Now there were two arm-flapping, head-waggling birds hopping around the living room making the most obnoxious noises. Jason stood with his hands in his pockets, a stiff smile on his face. What is he thinking?

  Mom came out of her room, looking bewildered at Hana and Quinn.

  “You two are too much.” She laughed until she glanced at me and stopped, her expression changing as if she could see I was getting tired. “Thank you, our dear court jesters, for coming over, but I think the queen needs her rest now.”

  “C’mon, Mrs. Hartwood, get your dancin’ disco dove on,” Hana said, putting her hands under her armpits and flapping right over to Mom. Mom was considering it, a glimmer of a smile on her face. Hana had that effect on parents, having some sixth sense of how to push them enough to budge, but not so far they would get all parental.

  Mom paused for a second and then said, “Well, okay,” as she started lunging around the room, waving her arms and doing some odd elbow-jerk thing all her own. I hated to not be part of the game, but I loved having my friends come over and laughing together. Even if they were making so much noise I was sure the neighbors would knock and complain.

  Jason sat next to me on the floor. “It looks even better with the music.”

  I tilted my head, doubtful. “That’s the beauty of comedy. Even if it doesn’t look good, it still works.”

  He gave a weak laugh. “Yeah.” He scraped at nothing on the knee of his jeans. “So, you had a biopsy?”

  My chest deflated. Oh God. I sucked in air, scrambling for an explanation that didn’t sound pathetic. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I had to get a biopsy, that I said it was nothing. I still think it will be nothing, but until then, it’s obviously kinda something. Anyway, they’re being overly cautious. Doctors.”

  He clamped his lips and nodded, his focus still on anything but me. “I get it…I—”

  Not sure if it was how badly this conversation was going, or all the spinning and jumping happening around us, or the medication, but I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence because the room swayed.

  Mom immediately stopped her shenanigans. The others got the hint too and—poof—no more disco doves.

  “Ellie, are you okay?” Jason steadied me by the shoulders and handed me my glass of water. I took a sip and a deep breath. “Thank you.” The room evened out, but the loopiness ramped up a notch.

  There was a flush from down the hall and everyone turned to watch Craig walk out of the bathroom. “I don’t know what was going on out here while I was laying some pipe, but I feel like I should either clap or bow.” He bowed.

  “Gross.” I stuck out my tongue. I took another sip of water and tried to keep my eyelids from drooping.

  “Hi, Craig,” Hana said. Her eyes bugged out at his bare chest.

  Without meaning to, I laughed and said, “Hana, your face. You got it bad.” Then I clapped a hand over my mouth.

  Hana shot me death glares.

  I scrambled to get up on my crutches and try to stand, which was painful and awkward and slow and not worth it. Jason stood with me, arms at the ready like he might have to catch me, which wasn’t a bad idea. When I finally got my balance, I said, “Hana, I…I’m sorry, it just came out.”

  “What?” Craig asked. “What’s she got b—?” Then he looked at Hana, realization dawning.

  “I gotta go.” Hana fled our apartment.

  When the door shut behind her, Craig stammered then said, “Should I go after her?” He paused for a moment. “Yeah, I’m gonna go talk to her.”

  He put his shirt on and left, the door slamming for a second time.

  Quinn hugged me close, as close as she could around two crutches. “It’s okay, I’ll talk to her. We shouldn’t have surprised you like this.” Quinn headed out, too. Slam. Can’t anyone gently close the door as they run away from my horrible company?

  Now I was even more embarrassed about my mental and hygienic state as I faced Jason, who was playing the part of a mannequin with his eyes wide and arms stiff by his sides.

  “Sorry for all that,” I said. “And I’m sorry again about not telling you everything earlier.”

  Shut up.

  “Seriously, I get it. Don’t worry about it. I’m really sorry you’re going through all this. Can I help? My family has made a lot of connections since…” He trailed off.

  “No, no. Thank you. Like I said, they’re just being annoyingly thorough. I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded. “Of course, yeah. Well, I’ll call you, okay? I should get going, too.” He gave a wave of his hand and moved to leave, as I stepped forward like we were going to hug. We did this shuffle hug that was all elbows and crutches and obligation.

  That was the triple threat of terrible.

  The door shut behind him. A punch of silence. Mom patted my shoulder as I hobbled past her to my room. I threw the crutches on the floor and flopped on the bed, my head spinning with painkillers, ways to apologize to Hana, and tremors of panic that I’d scared Jason away forever.

  Chapter Nine

  The next day my leg still hurt, but I had to get to school to apologize to Hana in person. And also, you know, not get hopelessly behind in my classes. I searched Mom’s closet to find something that would fit over my swollen leg, and grabbed a pair of baggy cargo pants.

  My crutches made my normal getting-to-school routine exponentially longer. No one would suspect the decades it took to brush one’s teeth and make a lunch when one was essentially a human set of tongs.

  Late to school, I missed catching Hana backstage and went straight to my first class, which was alternative gym—yoga—this quarter. I started getting out my books, assuming Mrs. Lahiri would let me spend class in the back catching up on homework, since I could barely walk, let alone do yoga.

  When Mrs. Lahiri saw me, she smiled wide and said, “Ellie, it is so good to see you.” She instructed the class to continue with their sun salutations and squatted next to my mat. “How are you feeling?” I brightened a little. She was like an angel on earth or something—something beyond us mortals, at least.

  “Not so good. It hurts when I try to bend my leg.”

  “Ellie, give yourself a break. Let me see.” She had me sit on a chair and roll up my cargo pants so she could see the site of the biopsy, right above my left knee.

  “It’s better, but it still doesn’t want to bend much.”

  “Do you stretch it to the edge of your pain?” She looked at me quizzically with her big almond eyes. I didn’t know which answer was right.

  “I thought it was bad to push it too far—I didn’t want to make it hurt more.”

  She gazed out the windows of the gym to the parking lot and didn’t say anything for a while. Finally, she turned to me. “Yes and no. As with all things in life, you must find the balance. Even though bending it to the edge of pain seems to cau
se more discomfort in the moment, after it is over, your body feels a release. Like in yoga with those twists I make you hold longer than you want—once you start focusing on your breath instead of the intensity of the stretch—”

  “It gets easier, and then everything opens up,” I finished.

  She nodded. “Pain is sacred. It can be our greatest teacher and our greatest protector. That is why you must respect it and listen to it so closely.”

  I chewed my lower lip, not sure about this pain theory.

  She took another stare-out-the-window pause. Did everyone who’d found inner peace do everything so slowly? If so, it wasn’t the path for me.

  “Most people are so scared of the pain in their life, they do anything they can to avoid it, to not feel what is really there. Ignoring it merely causes a different kind of hurt.”

  My skin went goose-bumpy. It seemed like she wasn’t just talking about my leg anymore…but why?

  For the rest of class, she led everyone else through the regular sequences and had me on the yoga mat doing “restorative” poses, which were kind of like napping while in an easy stretch. I couldn’t get settled. I lay on my back, eyes wide open, biting down hard on the inside of my cheeks, waiting for the bell to ring, realizing I sucked at “letting go” and “going with the flow.”

  There’s a lesson for you: don’t do yoga.

  You’ll find crap out about yourself you don’t want to know.

  Crutching through the halls between classes, I caught snippets of conversation. It was only mid-September, but everyone was talking about homecoming next month. I’d forgotten about it.

  By midday my body was done. Arms aching. Left leg swollen. Right leg wobbly from doing all the walking. And none of Mrs. Lahiri’s advice to breathe deep or make pain my BFF was working.

  “Hey, Ellie.” It was Annabelle, a girl that used to live down the street before we moved. She put down her phone for a second. “Crutches are the worst. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks.” I repeated almost the same exchange with four more people, keeping up a smile that might as well have been plastic.

  Fine, fine, fine. When, really, I had no idea what I was.

  Their best sympathy faces sucked—like they knew they were supposed to express something, but didn’t know how to actually feel it. I was doing the same thing. At least they were looking up from their phones and saying “hey” and trying. That was nice.

  Instead of going to Statistics, I stepped into the bathroom, making sure I was alone, and maneuvered into the last stall.

  I stared at the toilet seat, exhausted, debating. Gross. But the two darts lodged in my shoulders throbbed again so I sat down.

  I could just burn these pants.

  I shook out my arms and leg.

  I let out a long sigh, needing a second to rally myself.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  A fly was in the stall with me. It was shockingly loud for being such a tiny insect, its two wings like furious little chainsaws.

  “Agh!” I pounded my fists against the bathroom wall.

  The clamp around my lungs tightened.

  Some weird muscle in my chest near my heart clenched.

  Buzz, buzz.

  That fly had to be destroyed. My fingers splayed and shook. I pounded my fist harder against the stall wall.

  Buzz.

  I gulped air, forgetting how to breathe.

  Breathe, just breathe. It’s okay, it’s nothing, it’s going to be nothing. You’ll be okay.

  Buzz.

  Finally, I put all my focus on pulling air into my nostrils, long and slow, cooling them.

  Buzz.

  Breathe.

  Buzz.

  Breathe.

  I found a rhythm with the fly.

  The tears poured down my cheeks. Air in, air out. Again and again.

  It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.

  Chapter Ten

  The next day I woke up determined to stop with the pain meds and get to school early so I could make sure to find Hana. She was backstage with Quinn where we usually met up before class. Quinn was gathering her backpack, and Hana was stacking a can on her can pyramid by the stage door.

  “Hana, I’m so incredibly sorry about the other night. Can you please forgive me? There’s no excuse, but I was so—”

  Hana gave me a Jedi wave to make me stop talking. “Didn’t you get my email?”

  “Email? Since when do you email me?”

  “Since I acted like a baby and stormed out on you. And since your stepbrother asked me on a date. I needed to write all the best words, which I now see was a huge waste of time. Figures.”

  Relief. Plus, a lumpy mix of confusion. “So, you and Craig went on date? You’re dating? Are you boyfriend and girlfriend? Did you make out?”

  “Hold up. No to all the above. I was asked on a date, for tomorrow, after our second show at the Mash-Up. The rest, we shall see. Really, you should ask Quinn about her news.”

  Quinn clicked her tongue and gave Hana a shove.

  “What is it? I want to know.”

  “I was going to tell you when we were at your apartment before everything got chaotic, but Owen asked me out after sketch rehearsal, and I said yes.” She did the clappy-hands she did when she was excited. “He’s about the funniest guy I’ve met, I mean, except for the puns, and he’s so goofy and blunt and cute and—”

  “What? Are you two kidding me?” I went to throw my arms up in the air, but since they were attached to metal, they kind of flopped to the side like lazy albatross wings as I balanced on one foot. “Are you four going on a double date?”

  Quinn said, “Oh, weird, no,” as Hana stared at me like that was the worst idea in the history of humankind.

  I plopped down on the couch, adjusting to these epic, overnight changes. “What is going on? Don’t get me wrong, I’m super happy for you both and want every detail. I’m just kind of shocked. I mean, is Cupid on a rampage?”

  Quinn twisted her lips and narrowed her eyes. “When you put it that way, it does sound crazy. But let’s not kid ourselves about why we all decided to form the sketch group together. I mean, it’s not like Las Palomas del Disco is high art. It’s fun, sure, but mostly an excuse, don’t you think? To hangout? And you’re the one who has already kissed Jason.”

  “Once.” I let out an exasperated breath. “And after Tuesday night, I’m pretty sure he’ll never want anything to do with me again.”

  I waited. They both stared at me, their mouths turning to unhelpful lines.

  “Uh, why aren’t you two reassuring me that I wasn’t a deranged and frightening beast, and that any boy who had just lost his mom to cancer would jump at the chance to get involved with a girl on crutches boasting a suspicious tumor and an unknown future?”

  Blinking eyes. Unhelpful mouth lines.

  My phone pinged. “It’s Jason,” I announced, like it was a victory, and they let out sighs of relief that made me even more annoyed with them…and my life.

  Jason: Important question…

  I sat up, full alert.

  Me: Okay…

  Jason: You’re still coming to the Mash-Up, right?

  All the exhales.

  Me: I think no…kind of hard to do improv on crutches.

  Jason: But I haven’t given anyone a piggyback on stage in so long.

  I laughed thinking about the last show.

  “Yo, Ellie, bated breath over here—what’s he saying?” Hana asked.

  “He’s asking if I’m still going to perform in the show tomorrow.”

  “On crutches?” Quinn crinkled her nose.

  “It’d be insane. But it’s a good sign he’s asking, right?”

  “Right,” they answered in unison.

  Me: Hmm…tempting. But I’m gonna go with crutches = no improv for me.

  Jason: Nonsense. Crutches = automatic props.

  My smile spread. The second bel
l rang. “You two should head to class. I’m going to be late, but I have an excuse.” I motioned my head to my crutches.

  “We could make the improvising on crutches work. You should do it,” Quinn said.

  “I vote for it for the spectacle alone,” Hana said as the two walked out to the bustle of the hallway.

  I waved bye, focused back on my phone and typed,

  Dynamics of crutch-prov… Go.

  Crutch-prov. Nice.

  Different rules?

  Same commandments of improv, plus a bonus: Thou shalt not bludgeon thy scene partner with a crutch.

  :) Or, thou shalt not use thy crutch to force thy scene partner to do the limbo.

  Never. :)

  We riffed back and forth before we typed our good-byes, and my corset of worry loosened.

  Chapter Eleven

  I stood backstage at Porter Township High School and listened to murmurs of the audience fill the theater. Unhooking the loop of the large water bottle lid from between my middle finger and crutch handle, I gently set Harold on the table, though the water still sloshed back and forth. I undid the lid to give him air again. “Sorry for the whirlpool adventure, lil’ guy. Maybe I should have skipped my new policy about you for this show.”

  It had only been two weeks since our first show here, but—look at me—so much had changed. A wave of weepiness consumed me. Why had I agreed to this?

  Scared Scriptless had asked Spontaneous Combustion if we wouldn’t mind sticking to the short-form, game style we’d done at the first show, since they did long form and it gave the audience a nice mix. We agreed, and this time they started off the show.

  I mostly fixated on Jason, the perfect distraction to get over myself. When he was on the sidelines, his eyes darted around, taking everything in. He kind of bounced on the balls of his feet with his arms crossed, ready to pounce in for a scene edit at any second. When he was onstage, I focused on the way his thigh muscles moved under his jeans, how his shoulder and chest muscles slid under his Scared Scriptless T-shirt as he morphed from regular Jason to his different characters—douchebag CEO, crass old Scottish man, sober pirate who found plundering distasteful. How his thick brown hair had a life of its own. How his lips moved when he spoke, begging to be kissed.