by Bibi Belford
“Yep. We rotate jobs. I can cook, too. Life coping skills. One of the eight core components we have to master to graduate.”
“Ooh. Bet all the girls want to go out with you.”
Danny punches me, not even hard, but I’m so unsteady I fall into a chair.
“You okay?” He looks at me. “Whoa. You don’t look good.”
The washers chug around and around and the detergent smell is flowery and soapy. It’s moisty-warm and I’m sweating. My legs are sooo tired. Everything is foggy with Cristiano Ronaldo cologne. “I’m thirsty.”
Danny buys me an orange soda and sits down next to me.
“I’m not friends with Freddie anymore. I have new friends now,” he says. “Friends from NGYCP. Good friends.”
“Oh,” I say. “I met some girls at my school.”
“Friends?”
“I don’t know. One of them is really nice. Yari.” I don’t tell Danny that Yari is my peer tutor. Kids can be friends with their peer tutors, can’t they? “And one of them is sort of mean.”
Danny says, “Remember how Papi always said ‘el que anda con lobos, aprende aullar,’ one who walks with wolves, learns to howl?”
“Uh-huh.” I remember, but I never understood.
“He was right. Stick up for yourself. Don’t follow along and let the other wolves change who you are.” He pats my hand and goes to switch the laundry to the dryer.
I doze off watching the swishing, rainbow-colored clothes, and Llena de Amor, an old telenovela, which if you don’t know is about a girl whose mother dies and she goes to live with her relatives. She dresses cute, has tons of friends, and she’s on the plump side, which I guess is fine for TV stars, but not for regular ten-year-olds. And not for Mami either. She always worries about her masitas. Papi says he loves her just the way she is, but does she wonder if that’s still true now that Papi went away?
I sigh. I don’t want tons of friends. Just one or two who don’t care whether I speak Spanish or not and if my belly is too porky. I think about River. The Star Trek Weirdo next door. Is that what he wants too? One or two friends who don’t care if he’s a little weird?
As the show is ending, I decide to go on a diet and dress cute. It seems to be working for Marianela, star of Llena de Amor, and Yari too. But not until after lunch, which Danny brings me from Burger King.
“Feel better?” he asks as I polish off the very last little scrap of a french fry.
“Don’t you have to go to work?”
“In a while. Mami says you can stay alone until Danita gets home.”
The laundry takes us two hours, start to finish, which is not too bad, but still a waste of time. If I ruled the world, I’d invent spot-disappearing spray so clothes would never get dirty. It could work on dog poop, too. Spray and poof! Gone. It might work on bossy sisters, and Noodlenoses, but it’s not been tested. LOL. Laugh Out Loud not Land O’Lakes.
We trudge home, our neat little stacked bundles of clothes and sheets bouncing up and down in the wheelie cart. I feel dizzy.
Danny gets to the apartment door just as a yellow bus pulls up and River jumps out.
“So we meet again, DeeDee,” he says as he rushes to open the door for us.
My vision is blurry, but it looks like his fingers are fused together, with a split down the middle in a permanent Vulcan salute. No, that can’t be. It’s just my eyes.
“Thanks,” Danny says. “I’m Daniel Diaz, Danny.”
“I’m River.”
Suddenly River goes all black and blurry and I start to tilt. I’m not like a character in a movie that faints gracefully and melts slowly to a crumply heap on the ground. Nuh-uh. Not me. Crash. There goes the wheelie cart. Whoosh. There goes the laundry. Splat. There goes River. Thud. There goes me. And just before my head hits the concrete step I have a thought: River will never ask me to come over again.
CHAPTER FIVE
D IS FOR DISEASE
I wake up lying in bed with a long, plastic bendy straw in my arm, still worrying about the laundry. Did Danny clean everything up? Does River think I’m weird? Is there blood on the sidewalk? Gross. I can hear voices outside my door. Not really my door. The door to this room. The room where people who drop dead go. This is probably the waiting room for heaven. And I’m disappointed. I imagined heaven would be more colorful and smell better.
And what am I wearing? No angel wings, that’s for sure. Some sort of apron that opens in the back. A nightgown without any buttons to keep it shut. I guess heaven doesn’t have my size wings. They probably don’t get a lot of kids. I peek under the sheet and see my pudgy tummy, but no blood. That’s when I figure I’m not in heaven but a hospital.
The voices are clearer. I hear Mami speaking in fast Spanish with lots of ¡Ayes! Then Danny in English. Then another voice. Then Danny in Spanish. Arguing, I realize. Arguing about what? Me. That’s what. They’re arguing about me. I hear the letter K, over and over. Then I can pick out three letters: DKA. The door opens.
“Gordita!” Mami rushes to my side and slobbers me with kisses.
A tall lady with very curly black hair piled up on her head like a fountain spray squeezes my toes. “Glad you decided to join us,” she says.
“I don’t remember deciding,” I say back. “What happened?” I’m not sure if she’s a nurse or a doctor, but I kind of like the way she talks straight to me.
“I’m Dr. Ferreyra. And I’m very glad to see you awake. We think you passed out because of diabetic ketoacidosis. Big word. Means too much sugar in your blood, not enough insulin.”
Mami blows her nose. Is she crying? Will I die? Is that what those big words mean?
“Es mi culpa, mija.” She pats me. “My fault. I should know you sick.”
“No, no. It’s no one’s fault.” Dr. Ferreyra puts her hand on Mami’s shoulder. “Diabetes is a sneaky disease. The body tries really hard to fix itself, and that can fool moms, and doctors, too. But you’ll get better and learn to boss this disease around,” she says, turning back to me.
My brain is spinning, spinning, spinning. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Stop. I have a disease? I probably caught it at Robert Frost. I knew I didn’t like that new school. I pull away from Mami and put both hands over my mouth. I might be contagious. Did I give it to Danny? He hasn’t moved an inch. Only his jaw muscle is twitching. What’s wrong with everybody?
Dr. Ferreyra walks around the bed and sits on the window ledge. Sunlight pours through the window and I squint at her. “Oh, sorry,” she says and pulls the blinds down. Now there are stripes of sunlight across her face, giving her a zebra-face. And it’s very distracting.
“So, DeeDee, first of all, most people with diabetes live perfectly normal lives once they take control of the disease. Second, it’s not something that’s contagious. It will help me a lot if you can tell me about any change in the way you’ve been feeling lately.” Dr. Zebra-Face crosses her arms and waits for me to talk.
How does she know I didn’t catch it? In fact how does she know I have some disease? It might be the flu. Maybe an allergic reaction to Danny’s cologne. I try mind control on Danny. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. But he stares out the window with his hands in his pockets.
“Danny,” I yell.
He jumps and turns his head.
“Danny, tell her I’m fine. I just got tired. That’s all.”
Danny turns and his face is a thunderstorm. “And that’s my fault, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have made you walk. Shouldn’t have taken you out.”
“Oh My Gatos! What is wrong with everybody? I just caught the flu. I’ll be fine. I feel fine.” But I am thirsty. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed to go find a drinking fountain, then remember I have a big window on my backside and a plastic snake in my arm.
“Mija. Descansa, rest.” Mami pushes me gently and pulls the sheet up over me.
“Tome agua, drink water,” I whisper to her. I forget all about not speaking Spanish until Papi comes home.
“Thirsty?”
Dr. Zebra-Face pushes a button on the side of my bed and a man bustles in, wearing a bright flowered shirt and pants the same periwinkle blue as my weird apron, as if he’s a Hawaiian surfer dude.
“Well, my goodness. You’re awake!” he says and checks the bag attached to my IV.
“I’m Seigan, your nurse.” Mr. Hawaii slaps a black band on my arm and pumps it up. “Look, I can pump you up.” I know he’s making a joke, but I don’t laugh. I don’t like people doing stuff to me before they tell me, including taking my blood pressure and putting plastic tubes in my arm. And poking me with needles is off limits. You can ask every nurse who ever tried it.
“Seigan, could we get a meal brought up? Diabetic Diet-Consistent CHO? And some water?” says Dr. Zebra-Face.
“As you wiiissshhhhh,” he says. “Let me get a quick reading before dinner. Just a tiny prick on your finger, my lady.” And he moves so fast I don’t even respond. He squeezes my finger so tightly I hardly feel the poke. My mind is like a dull pencil, blurry and muddled. But my family’s sad faces make me want to pretend I’m okay. Mr. Hawaii grabs a few things off the tray table next to my bed and slips them into his pocket. Then he’s off.
“I hope dinner is gorditas!” I whisper to Mami to make her smile.
“Nope, I’m pretty sure it will be chicken.” The doctor wrinkles her nose. “At least, the first meal usually is.”
Chicken. Chicken makes me think of Papi. He loves pollo al carbon. On the grill. Or from El Pollo Hermanos. And when my chicken comes, I wish it was Papi’s juicy, crunchy, charcoal chicken instead of the dry, stick-in-my-throat, Styrofoam chicken on my tray.
•
Mami never leaves me all afternoon, dozing in a chair with a footrest. Danny goes home and comes back with Danita. The Queen Bee brings me a new teddy bear from the hospital gift shop. I pretend it’s the cutest thing since Shawn Mendes, since I know she’s trying to be nice, but it’s very stiff with pink fur so thin I can see bare skin. That’s a joke. Bare skin, bearskin. Get it?
I don’t say anything to Danita about the ugly bear because I don’t want to make trouble. I’ve already caused enough today. And her being nice to me isn’t going to change my mind about her quinceañera. Especially if Papi isn’t going to be there.
We all sit and watch the TV that’s mounted to my ceiling, and pretend the interrupting nurses and strange beeping noises are perfectly normal and we’re having more fun than a barrel of monkeys. And I pretend to be cheery and brave, even though I’d rather be going over Niagara Falls in a barrel with a monkey. When Danita stands up, her Passion-Pink lip gloss falls from her pocket and I quickly cover it with my hand.
“Did you call my teacher?” I’m worried. I’m already behind according to Mrs. Cruella. And I hope they don’t assign a different kid for Yari to work with. I slide the Passion-Pink lip gloss under my sheet.
“Mañana,” Mami says. “Your homework?”
“Can one of your friends bring it to the apartment or to the hospital?” Danny asks.
“I’m not sure if anyone lives near me.” The truth is I’m not sure I have any friends. And especially not the kind of friends you’d expect to visit you in the hospital. Not best friends.
Maybe if I had had a little more time with Yari … I know she’s the kind of person who’d visit a friend in the hospital. And so am I. If I had a best friend I’d climb two hundred mountains and cross a wild river to bring them homework.
River’s face flashes in my memory. I hope I never see him again. Talk about embarrassing. And he probably feels the same way after I catapulted him over. I don’t just have a disease. I may as well be a disease.
Before Mr. Hawaii’s shift is over, he tells me if I’m lucky I might get a visit from one of the student nurses doing their clinicals. Whatever that means. Sure enough, a nurse who looks like she’s Danita’s age comes to check on me, smiling a lot at Danny. She changes the bag of saltwater that’s attached to my arm and checks my blood pressure again.
I pay attention when she whips out a baby remote control like the one that turns our ceiling fan on and off and puts it on the table next to me, along with a little round container. So that’s what Mr. Hawaii put in his pocket before he left. She reaches for my finger, wipes it off, and holds what looks like a flash drive up to it. I wonder if she’s hooking me up to a computer or something. All of a sudden the flash drive pokes me. I scream bloody murder. It didn’t hurt like this when Mr. Hawaii poked me.
“DeeDee, DeeDee, cálmate,” begs Mami.
I scream louder and the student nurse looks scared. I hope she starts crying. I hope she quits nursing school. I hope she gets fired.
“I’m so sorry, I must have hit a nerve ending. I thought she knew what to expect. I’m so sorry,” says the nurse.
“She’s such a baby,” Danita tells Mama. “Make her stop.”
“Well, how’d you like it? Maybe we should stick you,” Danny lashes out at Danita.
I keep screaming.
Suddenly nurses are filling up my room. Shushing me. Offering me popsicles. And peppermints. Books and balloons.
Danny sits on my bed and takes my hand. “Where does it hurt, mija?” He bends his head closer and places my finger on his lips.
I stop screaming. I’m shaking and my throat hurts.
The student nurse holds up the remote control. “I didn’t know. I thought …”
“She has fear for needles,” Mami explains.
It turns out the remote control is a blood glucose monitor—a glucometer—and the flash drive is a finger poker. Inside the little round container are the test strips. And now I remember Mr. Hawaii using it, but he was so fast and I was so woozy, I didn’t pay attention.
And it turns out, the nurses tell me, that the thing that I hate most is the thing that will save my life. That little drop of blood is like weather radar, watching for activity that might cause my body to have a diabetic crash. Blink. Blink. Warning, the numbers say, bad storm glucose reading. Or blink, blink, all is calm, all is well. And that’s why they stick me three more times in the night. I scream every time. Mami gets up from her recliner chair to calm me down.
In the morning one more nurse pops in, takes my blood pressure, and says, “So, you’re the screamer,” as if I’m famous all over the hospital. I should be embarrassed, making such a scene over a little finger prick. But I hate blood. I hate needles. I hate people messing with me. So I don’t even care.
Mami doesn’t want to leave me, but when Mr. Hawaii starts his shift he promises to take good care of me. “My precious,” he jokes in a weird voice. I think from Lord of the Rings.
“Be good, Dinora,” says Mami.
“Tell Danny to pick me up. I’m coming home. And that’s the truth.”
“Maybe tomorrow or the next day,” says Mr. Hawaii. “Your readings are all over the place. We need to watch your diet and get you stable. And you have a lot to learn before you go home.” He reaches for my finger and I wrench my hands away and stuff them under the sheet.
I glare at Mami. She looks so tired. I almost say I love you, Mami, but I’m too mad. I know she’s thinking about calling in sick to stay with me, but then she gives a sad little wave and deserts me. Just like Papi. Leaving me all alone in the hospital with Mr. Hawaii.
CHAPTER SIX
D IS FOR DISTINCTION
Mr. Hawaii puts his face close to mine. “You can’t handle the truth.” I know he’s doing one of his movie quotes. I ignore him. He doesn’t move. “But I’m going to tell you the truth. Diabetes is no fun.” He gets even closer and his voice gets louder. “But, we all want you to live so we’re going to keep trying to take care of you. Will that be okay?”
“Yes,” I say in a tiny voice.
“Okay.” He stands up. “So, now that you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, I’m going to train you to survive.” Mr. Hawaii puts the flash drive to his own finger and explains how it works. A tiny drop of blood pops out at the end of his finger.
He puts
the flash drive on my bedside table and pulls an orange from his pocket. “Here. Practice on my friend Orlando Orange first. Whenever you’re ready. I’m not just the greatest—I’m the double greatest glucose-monitoring trainer this side of the Mississippi. And don’t make a liar out of me.”
You have got to be kidding me. He wants me to stab my own finger? I can’t stand needles. I can’t stand pain. And I can’t stand blood. Three important reasons why I can’t have diabetes. Diabetes can just pick somebody else—somebody who enjoys watching their diet and poking themselves with needles. Mr. Hawaii waits for me to take the orange. Oh all right. I take it and aim the device into its dimply peel. Click. No juice comes pouring out like I expected.
I’m just about to stab it again when there’s a knock. Another nurse, probably, to pick up my tray, check if I peed, or take my blood pressure.
“Speak, friend, and enter,” Mr. Hawaii says in a different movie voice. I roll my eyes. “What?” he says. “You don’t like Lord of the Rings?”
A skinny kid slides into the room. “I can speak friend,” he says. “Mellon. That’s friend in Sindarin. It’s from Lord of the Rings.” It’s River. He’s the color of the Tumbleweed crayon in the set of 120. A little darker than me when I’m outside a lot.
“Friend of yours?” asks Mr. Hawaii.
River holds up his hand and greets me with the Vulcan salute. “Remember me?” he asks.
“Star Trek,” says Mr. Hawaii. “Live long and prosper.”
Good Gatos. They’re both weirdos. And of course I remember River. It’s not easy to forget smashing someone onto the concrete. I stare at the hand that saluted me. No wonder it’s easy for River to copy the Vulcan salute. His fingers are stuck together, like I thought I imagined before I fainted, with a split between fingers number three and four.
“If you don’t mind, Dr. Spock, Diva Dee is just about to show off her new talent for checking her glucose to manage her diabetes.” He puts a new lancet in the device and hands it to me. “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.”
And I’m trapped.
