A Shot at Normal

by Marisa Reichardt

  “Do you know someone who will do it?” I ask.

  “You can certainly go office to office, doctor to doctor, and state your case. You might find someone willing. They’ll want to bring in their office’s malpractice attorney, I’m sure.” He thinks for a moment. “What I will say is that if you had your own legal paperwork in hand, I might consider it.”

  I look at Laurel. “Like the petition?” I ask her and she nods. I look back at Dr. Villapando and say, “I can do that.”

  “Come see me when you get it.”

  “We’re working on it,” Laurel tells him. “This was good information today. Thank you.”

  Dr. Villapando stands and shakes my hand, then Laurel’s. “You two have a good day.”

  I lean back and bang my head against the wall behind me as soon as the door shuts. “Another day and still no shots.”

  Laurel shakes her head. “Don’t get discouraged. We’re on the right path. A petition is the way to go.”

  “So my parents will definitely have to know.”

  “I don’t see any way around it. We’re not going to be able to find a doctor willing to take on the risk of vaccinating you without an okay from them, even if your age is legal for consent with some vaccines. I can sympathize with that. So we’ll take a more official route. A legal one. If we take the mature-minor angle, that’ll give you medical emancipation, allowing you to make your own medical choices, while still living with your parents.” She looks around the room, at the cabinets and the posters and the jars of cotton balls, then back at me. “We’ll get this done, Juniper. I’m sure of it.”

  “It sounds like it’s going to be a lot of work.”

  “It’s the kind of work I like to do.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I kneel down to plunge my gardening shovel into the soft dirt at the base of a shady tree to unearth another wild mushroom. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and my mom probably wants me helping back at the house, but I had to get out of there. I can’t be with my family without feeling guilty. Laurel has been working on putting our case together for the last two weeks, and I don’t want my parents to know anything about the petition until it happens. So I shrugged into my warmest flannel, grabbed my field guide, and set off to get mushrooms for tomorrow’s meal. A customer at the farmers market once mentioned that this spot on the cliffs overlooking the ocean was a jackpot for chanterelle mushrooms—one of my favorites for cooking—in November. Their peppery taste will give a kick to our Thanksgiving stuffing.

  Someone suddenly taps my shoulder from behind me. I startle, drop my shovel, and tumble to the side to see Nico standing there with his backpack sliding off his shoulders.

  He scrambles away with his hands up as I stand. “Oh, man, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that when you were lost in a nature trance,” he says.

  “Or ever.” I stand up and point my shovel at him. “Rule of thumb: don’t sneak up on people.”

  “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.” He runs his hand through his hair, making it flop all over. “I wanted to surprise you. Your mom told me I could find you here.”

  “Well, I am glad to see you.” Even though I’ve seen Nico almost every day since I went to his house to meet Laurel, not seeing him yesterday made it feel like I hadn’t seen him in weeks.

  He glances at my bucket. “How many mushrooms can one family even eat?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I kneel again, and Nico squats next to me. He sifts through my bucket.

  “So how do you even know how to do this?” he asks. “Aren’t most mushrooms poisonous? How do you know which ones are which?”

  “I literally took a class.” I gently lift the last chanterelle into my hand and place it in the bucket. “Only about twenty percent of mushrooms are actually toxic.” I tap the lip of the bucket with my shovel. “Those are real chanterelles, but there are false ones out here, too. You can tell the difference by the gills and coloring.”

  “Will I die if I eat a fake one?”

  “The fake ones aren’t poisonous, exactly. But they don’t taste good. And eating them will make you sick to your stomach.”

  He shudders. “No thanks.” He picks up a mushroom, studies it, and drops it back into the bucket. “I think I’d be afraid to risk it. I only trust the produce section at the grocery store.”

  I glare at him. “You can trust me. I know what I’m doing. I’m a legit member of a mycological society.”

  Nico squints at me. Smiles. “I don’t know what that secret club is, but your confidence is superhot.”

  I don’t like that it sounds like he’s making fun of me. “I’m serious. I know the difference.”

  He puts his hands up in defense. “Okay. I believe you.”

  “Then eat one.”

  “What?”

  “If you believe me, eat one.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leans in, glances inside the bucket. “They’re dirty.” He holds one up to me. Twirls it around. “It has actual dirt on it. See?”

  I shrug. “So brush it off with your shirt. Or we can go down and rinse it off in the ocean.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “If you are.”

  “Fine.” He twists the mushroom in his hand. Studies it. Sniffs. He gently rubs it against the hem of his shirt to brush off the dirt. He looks at me. Opens his mouth.

  I yank his hand back. “Stop.”

  “What?” He drops the mushroom. “Why?”

  “It won’t make you sick, but it tastes gross if it isn’t cooked. I just wanted to see if you would really do it.”

  “That’s kind of mean.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I sift through my mushrooms. “I was just annoyed that you didn’t trust me.” We stand and brush off the knees of our jeans. I pick up my bucket and push my shovel into my back pocket. “Ready?”

  “Yep.” Nico takes the bucket from me. Looks inside again. “Very impressive haul, by the way. What’re you gonna make with these?”

  “Stuffing.”

  “Less impressive.”

  We head down the dirt path toward the parking lot. There are scrubby bushes on both sides of us. Shady trees. The winking waves of the ocean to the right. The pale blue lifeguard tower below. A small boat in the distance.

  “So my family is obviously eating mushrooms for Thanksgiving. What’re you doing?”

  “We’re going to my aunt’s house. Always do. She has four kids, all younger, so I’ll babysit and man the kids’ table with a napkin tucked into my shirt like a bib.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Nah, it’s fine. Someone in the family needs to introduce them to the good video games and the best movies. I’m thinking Planes, Trains and Automobiles this year. A Thanksgiving classic. I prefer The Ice Storm. But my cousins are still too young for that.”

  Nico’s phone dings with a text. He pulls it out. Reads. Groans. “Ugh, leave me alone,” he says to his phone, shaking it.

  “Who’s that?”

  “This group chat thing. My friends keep trying to convince me to go to winter formal.”

  “Oh.” My chest stings a little. “With who?”

  “With you, obviously.” He looks at me seriously. “But I don’t do dances. Plus, they scheduled it for the weekend before winter break, which is the worst timing when you have finals the next week.” He types out a text with his free hand and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Can you believe it’s called the Snow Ball? Who comes up with this shit?”

  “Aw, I think that’s kind of cute.”

  He winces. “It doesn’t even snow here. It’s stupid. Dances are stupid.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to one.” I want to go, but I don’t want to sound desperate.

  “Trust me, you’re not missing out.”

  “So even if I wanted to go, you wouldn’t take me?”

  “Even then.” I try not to frown, but I can feel the corne
rs of my mouth drop when he looks at me. “What? I have to draw the line somewhere.”

  “Draw the line? You make it sound like I force you to do stuff.”

  “No. School dances are the only hard pass for me. I don’t like dressing up. I’m fine taking you to do things you’ve never done as long as they don’t require wearing a suit.”

  “Being fine isn’t the same as enjoying it.”

  He turns to me, his fingers searching for my hand. “I enjoy showing you new things.”

  I push his hand away. “Now you sound like my babysitter or my teacher or something. Sorry it’s so annoying to have to do all those dumb things with me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He runs his hand through his hair. Kicks at the dirt. “This isn’t coming out right.”

  “No, it’s not.” I cross my arms. “This whole conversation is making me feel pathetic. Let’s just go.”

  I reach for the bucket.

  Nico suddenly swats at the air with it. I assume it’s a game. Like he’s trying to be cute and wrestle me for it. But I don’t feel like playing.

  He swats again. Ducks.

  I maneuver my way underneath his arm and grab the bucket before he spills all the mushrooms.

  And then he looks at me with his eyes bugged out.

  “What?” I say, hoisting the bucket above my head like a trophy. “You’re mad I won?”

  He shakes the hand that was just holding the mushrooms. “I think I got stung.”

  I drop the bucket. “By a bee?”

  “Yes. Oh, fuck.” His voice has a tone of disbelief. “I shouldn’t have risked coming out here.”

  “Are you messing with me?”

  He snaps his mouth open and shut. Coughs. I grab his hand, looking for the stinger. His fingers are already swelling. He coughs again. He’s not kidding.

  I shake his hand. “Where’s your EpiPen?” I shout.

  He shoves his swollen hand into his pocket, fishes out the EpiPen, and drops to his knees. Coughs. His hand is too swollen to uncap the pen. I kneel down next to him to grab it. I yank the cap off with my teeth. Spit it into the dirt.

  “What do I do?” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s a high-pitched screech. Desperate. Trembling. “Nico! Help me!” I shake him. “What do I do?”

  His mouth is swelling. His lips. His eyes. It’s hard for him to talk. I wrestle with the EpiPen and try to remember what he showed me that night in his kitchen. The way he swung it like a softball pitch into his leg. I hold my arm up high, ready to swing. I hear Nico’s voice from that night. No hesitation, he said. I plunge the EpiPen straight through his jeans and into his thigh. There’s a clicking sound. I keep my wrist steady, holding the needle in place for at least ten seconds, then pull it out and drop it to the ground.

  I lean over him. Grab his cheeks between my hands. “Are you okay?”

  “Call 911,” he gasps.

  I scramble for his phone. Dial.

  “This is 911. What’s your emergency?” an operator asks. She sounds too calm.

  “My friend got stung by a bee,” I pant. “He’s allergic.” Nico locks his panicked eyes on mine. My own eyes are tearing up, I know it, but I focus on him. Make sure he sees me looking right at him. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell him.

  “Is he experiencing anaphylaxis?”

  “Yes. Yeah.” I prop Nico up against me. He leans into my lap like a baby. I want to comfort him, but I don’t know how. And I don’t want to hold him too tight if he’s having trouble breathing. I unzip his sweatshirt, hoping that will help. “I need him to be okay. He has an EpiPen.”

  “And he used it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Right before I called you.” Nico coughs again, and my heart thunders. I can’t control my shaking. “We’re out on a trail.” My eyes dart left and right. “There might be more bees. Please send someone soon.” I explain exactly where we are and look over my shoulder for the ambulance. Anything. Anyone.

  “They’re on the way. Would you like me to stay on the line with you until they arrive?”

  “Yes.” My hands tremble so hard I drop the phone. I scramble to pick it up again. “Are you still there? I don’t know what I’m doing. Should I try to get him to the parking lot?”

  “You’re doing great,” she says on the other end of the line. Her voice is like a warm blanket. Comforting. Calm. “I’m going to help you help your friend, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She asks me questions about Nico’s physical state and how old he is. After what feels like forever, I hear sirens nearing. I hang up when the paramedics run toward us with their equipment. They tell me to step away as they check Nico’s vitals and ask him more questions. He seems to be breathing better, but they still strap an oxygen mask over his face. I can’t decide if he looks more or less swollen. Less, I think. Maybe I want to convince myself.

  More people come. Police officers. Firefighters.

  It all seems like so much.

  “Is he going to be okay?” My voice sounds panicked. I am snot and tears. I wipe both away on the sleeve of my shirt.

  “You did everything right,” a firefighter tells me gently. “But we need to take your friend to the hospital to get checked out, okay?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “Call my mom,” Nico says to me as they prep him for the ambulance. “But tell her I’m okay. I don’t want to scare her.”

  I run down the path behind them. I’m so technologically inept that I don’t even know how to find Nico’s mom’s number, and I have to ask one of the police officers standing away from the ambulance how to do it, because I can’t exactly ask Nico right now. The officer helps me find Mrs. Noble in his contacts list, and I walk closer to the cliffs so I can hear her. I do my best to sound as calm as the 911 operator when Mrs. Noble picks up. But I’m not calm. My voice wobbles. And my heart thumps through my chest and into my throat. I tell her we’ll meet her at the hospital. But before I can run back to the ambulance and climb inside, it pulls out of the parking lot with the siren blaring.

  A police officer asks me if I’ll be okay to get home. I nod.

  And then I’m left standing alone in the middle of the parking lot with Nico’s phone and my skateboard and a bucket of mushrooms I couldn’t care less about anymore. Because Nico drove away and we were arguing before he got stung. It doesn’t matter if we don’t go to the dance. He just has to be okay. For me. For his mom. For his cousins at the kids’ table. I want to go straight to the hospital, but I have to go home first because it’s too far away and I need a ride. I’ll have to leave Nico’s bike locked to the rack, because I don’t know his combo.

  I skate home as fast as I can. I bust through the front door, sweating and out of breath, and race to the kitchen, where my mom is slicing carrots and celery at the counter.

  “I need you to take me to the hospital!” I shout.

  She drops her knife to the sink with a clatter and rushes to me, grabbing my face in her hands the same way I did with Nico.

  “Why? What’s going on? What’s wrong with you?” She rakes her eyes over my body, looking for injury.

  “It’s not me. It’s Nico. He got stung by a bee and he’s allergic. The ambulance took him to the hospital.” My voice trembles. Tears prick. “Please, will you take me to him? Right away.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She calls out to my dad to tell him where we’re going and why as she snatches up the keys to Bessie from the table by the front door.

  He rushes down the stairs, his hair falling loose from its elastic ponytail holder. “Hang in there, Junebug.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head before we go. “I’ve got everything taken care of here,” he tells my mom.

  We scramble into Bessie, and I wrestle with my tangled seat belt as we back out of the driveway. As soon as we get on the freeway, I want to scream. There are too many cars, too many people traveling out of town for Thanksgiving, and
it slows us to a crawl.

  I wring my hands in the passenger seat until we exit.

  And when we finally do, I swear we hit every red light on the surface streets all the way to the hospital.

  Meanwhile, my mom keeps asking me question after question about what happened. She can’t believe I was there and had to inject Nico with the EpiPen myself.

  “That shot saved his life.”

  “He’s very lucky,” she says.

  “Yes, he’s lucky there’s a lifesaving shot that exists in the world. Who’d have ever thought it?”

  She nods.

  I can’t believe she can’t see the irony here. The connection I’m trying to make. Things exist in the world to save people. Antibiotics and defibrillators. Oxygen tanks and chemotherapy. Mammograms and blood tests.

  EpiPens and vaccines.

  It’s not that hard to see. It’s not that hard to understand.

  “Mom, a shot saved Nico’s life.” I want to make her look at me. To see me. But her eyes are on the road. “A shot saved his life, just like an MMR shot or a Tdap shot or a meningitis shot saves people’s lives every day.”

  “That’s not the same, Juniper.”

  “But it is the same.” I pound my fist against my knee. “How can you not see that?”

  “You’re comparing apples and oranges.”

  “Okay. So what if I had a bee allergy? Would you get me an EpiPen?”

  She turns into the parking lot of the hospital. “We’re not having this conversation right now. I’m parking and you need to see Nico.”

  She pulls into a spot and I jump out of Bessie before she even manages to set the emergency brake.