Alive (6 page)

I dig out the lab sheet from my backpack while Lydia doles out toothpicks for the two of us. I’m not sure what they’re for, but they’re on the supply list, so I set mine aside
in a neat pile. “‘Step one: Locate the aorta,’” I read from the sheet. That should be easy enough, I think, remembering what it looks like from our textbook.
“‘Step two: Locate the veins.’” Okay, slightly more difficult. “‘Step three: Cut the heart in half to expose the chamber.…’ Shall we?”

She shrugs and we both remove the lids from our containers, revealing the sad, limp, yellowed hearts. I wrinkle my nose at the smell and pull plastic gloves over my hands.

Gently, I poke my finger against what I think must be the aorta and then walk my fingertips over to the different veins, making chicken-scratch notes in my black-and-white-speckled composition
book about each of their locations—
interventricular
,
sulcus
,
brachiocephalic
. They’re embedded in the fleshy heart like shallow grooves in a shriveled-up brain.

Pinching the scalpel between two fingers, I roll the heart onto its side and pick the spot closest to the center. “‘Cut the heart down the center to reveal the
chambers,’” I read under my breath. The scalpel sinks into the organ. There’s a glitch in my vision and the world in front of me rocks, knocking me off balance. The blade narrowly
misses my fingers as it slices vertically all the way through. Cradling my forehead, I shake my wrist out, alarmed at what a close call it’d been.

That’s when I notice slick, red liquid leaking onto my gloved hands.

I choke once. This time the lab table in front of me seems to jump sideways. I stumble right, then stagger back. It’s like trying to walk in a fun house.

As I hold onto the black countertop for balance, my head swims. I rub my eyes. It’s fine. Totally fine. Deep breath. The scalpel sinks deeper. Metal through puffy flesh.

Blood sprays up at my face. Several droplets dangle in my line of vision. They cling to my hair. Gagging, I cover my mouth.

Only, my wet fingers slip across my skin, leaving warm patches of blood on my face. Blood that pours out onto the table.

Quickly, I flip the pages of my textbook to the diagram. Bloody fingerprints appear on the white pages. My ears fill with a singular, high-pitched ringing. At the beginning of the chapter is an
illustration of a pig heart side by side with a human’s. The shape of the human organ is abstract, odd, irregularly contoured, like an asymmetrical trapezoid. But the pig heart has the
familiar curves of a valentine.

I look from the page to the flimsy tray, then back again. Even though the textbook has only a drawing, the scholarly version bears no resemblance to the gaping organ in front of me.

My chest contracts like a little kid has slapped his hands on either side of a blown-up plastic baggie causing the air to burst out in one loud clap. Impulsively, my hand clutches at the spot
over my heart.

As if in return, the bleeding arteries throb. Another round of hoarse gasps. The classroom’s spinning so fast now, I’m certain I’ll hurl.

Pain shoots through me like tree branches. I double over. “No,” I mutter. Not my heart.

Light flashes off the lethal point clutched tight in my plastic-gloved hand. The heart sputters for life out of every open orifice. Gushing and burbling, droplets cascade to the floor. Bile
burns at the back of my throat.

I hear a scream.

Spots sneak up around the edges of my vision.

I try pressing my nails into my wrist, but my head’s floating, high over my shoulders, and the screaming won’t stop. It pushes through into a splitting headache and I’m
horizontal now. How did I get this way? Down on the floor, I see faces converge around me.

Hands reach for me. Reach into me. I try blinking. The spots multiply.

More screaming. The sounds stretches out, spirals.

“Stella?” The voice is Auto-Tuned, fake. “Stella?”

It’s only at the last second that I realize where the screaming is coming from.

Me.

And by then, it’s too late.

I nearly stabbed myself. All those years of Mom telling me not to run with scissors and I narrowly miss puncturing a lung when I fall on top of a scalpel. Thankfully, the only
thing punctured was the right side of my shirt, which I can confirm firsthand is much easier to replace than vital organs.

“I’m going,” I say.

“You’re not.” Mom flattens her palm against the kitchen table and leans toward me. The breakfast nook in our home has morphed into the negotiating room, and I’ve been
told that, back in the day, my mother was a force to be reckoned with when it came to closing a deal. Good thing I’ve brought my A-game.

My dad, who shaved his scruffy beard since his return to work, wraps his arm around her. “Your mother’s right, Stella.”

I lean back in the stiff wooden chair. “Why?”

Mom scoffs. “Do we really have to explain this to you? Two hours ago you were writhing in pain. And this afternoon? What about this afternoon?”

“What about it?”
What about it?
I can barely say this with a straight face. If topics could trend at Duwamish High, this would top the list. Headline news.

What happened, Stella? I thought you were better, Stella?
I can still feel the twenty-six pairs of eyes on me as I was led, red-faced, out of the classroom.

Dad casts a nervous glance toward Elsie’s room, where she’s supposed to be taking an unscheduled nap. “You fainted.” His voice rasps.

“So? That could happen to anyone. I hear nineteenth-century girls fainted whenever a hot guy walked into the room.”

He scratches at the stubble on his neck. “And did a hot guy enter the vicinity that we don’t know about?” Annoyed. Clearly annoyed.

“Unfortunately no, but—”

“Well, then do you honestly think that’s healthy?” The last time I saw my dad this flustered was diagnosis day.

“I’m breathing, aren’t I? It’s all relative.” The key is to come off calm, nonchalant.
Healthy.

My phone vibrates again. This time it’s Henry. It’s his turn to relay the message:
We can do this another time. No big deal.

No,
I type once more, while my parents pass exasperated looks between them.
I told you. I’m fine
. It’s not as if I haven’t already had this conversation with
Brynn and Lydia. Passing out in school is embarrassing enough without everyone rushing to treat me with kid gloves.

“That’s not funny,” Mom says through her teeth.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” I’d been sent home from school in a rush after the incident in Anatomy. Nobody wants a girl dying on campus. Not that I was in danger of dying.
Not really. My heart just went a little wonky.

And now, according to Brynn, anyone who was in the classroom during my breakdown is being grilled for details, including Lydia. “I had a
heart transplant.
Given the circumstances, I
think things have gone pretty smoothly, don’t you?”

“Dr. Belkin’s worried about you. And the psychiatrist.”

“No.” I puff my cheeks out. “The shrink said my teacher was an idiot—okay, unwise—for letting me do a heart dissection weeks after my own transplant. Of course I
had a freak-out. It was too close to my own personal circumstances. Pure mental anxiety. There’s nothing wrong with me physically.” I repeat the doctor’s words in my most sensible
tone. “I was in the doctor’s office. I
know
what he said.”

Major life stressor. I guess that’s what you call it when you almost die then are saved by somebody else’s vital organ. Things are bound to get a little freaky.

My parents’ lips press into matching straight lines.

I light the screen on my phone to check the time. My friends should be here any minute and I’m starting to worry that negotiations are breaking down.

“I’m the one who has to live with this stupid condition.” I hate to do it, but I reach for the trump card. “You guys can’t put me in a freaking glass box. Otherwise
what was the point?”

“Watch your tone,” Mom snaps.

Dad removes his arm from around her shoulder, which sends my heart skipping with hope. He puts his hand over hers. “Maybe she’s right, Donna.” I knew it.

Her eyes threaten to burn crop circles into his forehead.

“What?” He shrinks back, pulling his hand with him.

There’s a long silence. Followed by an equally long honk coming from our driveway. I hold my breath.

When Mom peels her glare off Dad, her jaw is stiff. “If you and your father have decided…” She trails off.

My chair screeches across the tile. “Thanks,” I say. And before she can change her mind, I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and head for the front door.

Outside, Brynn’s behind the wheel of her silver Jeep Cherokee. The heel of her hand is still jammed against the horn. I make out the heads of Lydia and Henry in back. Shotgun’s
reserved for me.

I cover my ears the rest of the way to the car. She doesn’t quit until my seat belt’s buckled.

“Was that necessary?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Thought there might be some parental tension to diffuse.”

I slump against the headrest. “You’re right about that.”

Lydia pops her head between the two front seats. Her hair has been pulled into two French braids that weave down either side of her part. “How are you feeling?” Her braids smell like
mango. She witnessed my entire meltdown. I cringe and pray that I didn’t do anything more humiliating than scream. As if that’s not mortifying enough.

I try to offer a smile. “Fine. A little shaky maybe, but mainly I wish everyone would quit asking me.”

She disappears into the backseat, muttering something about being sorry, and I feel a stab of guilt for brushing her off, especially since Brynn told me she’d been tight-lipped when anyone
asked her what happened in anatomy today.

I look back at Henry. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Hey,” he says. But instead of looking happy to see me, he shakes his head—almost imperceptibly—and stares out the window.

Who made it his job to worry about me?

“So, where are we going?” I ask. My first big outing since my surgery. And, if we’re being honest, since quite awhile before that.

Brynn drives too fast along the neighborhood’s roads. “You’ll see.”

I sit on my hands in the front seat and try not to get carsick while everyone talks over each other about the quarterback on the Huskies this year and whether his girlfriend is hot enough for
him. Henry thinks definitely yes, while Brynn thinks no way, and I’m not sure until Lydia pulls up an image on her cell phone and I agree with Brynn that he could do better. Sure, I know
it’s shallow, but I can’t remember the last time I had something utterly frivolous to gossip about. Next, I wouldn’t mind going for a long, detailed discussion about the merits of
the sock bun.

I’m distracted enough to be surprised when Brynn finally pulls into a parking lot near the waterfront. There’s a single car, but otherwise, the lot is empty.

The Cherokee’s headlights reflect off the black water as we all scramble out of the car, our shoes crunching on gravel and dirt. A short distance over, a pier looms out over the water,
marked at intervals with glowing industrial lanterns.

“What is this place?”

Henry appears at my elbow, a tall, lanky shadow in the darkness. Together, we follow Brynn and Lydia down to the water. “An old fisherman’s pier. It’s abandoned now. Except for
a few old folks who still like to cast for catfish up here.”

Speaking of, the air reeks of dead fish and garbage. “Okay, but why are
we
here?”

We trudge after Lydia and Brynn down a set of soggy stairs made out of railroad ties.

“Police never check around here.” Henry’s fingers lightly graze the small of my back as he guides me down the dark path.

“It’s like a scene out of
Duma Key
,” I whisper. Our favorite Stephen King novel, one of his most obscure, is set alongside a creepy, forgotten shore. In one chapter that
particularly terrified me, a red-hooded woman lures twin girls into the ocean surf to drown. I can still picture vividly the whitecaps foaming over the tops of their blond heads until the pair are
so filled with water that they sink in unison down to the sandy seafloor.

“Only with less murder and mayhem,” he replies.

“Fingers crossed.”

We curve around. Underneath the pier I see a flicker of light. Then a full campfire swarming with bodies comes into view. The glow of the flames flicker across the faces of several kids I know
from Duwamish. Three of them I recognize immediately from Henry’s lacrosse team—Ty, Connor, and Brandon—I wonder why he didn’t ride with them. Tess, a diehard devotee of
Burberry headbands and tabloids, is draped over Brandon’s lap, suggestively sucking on a lollipop while he watches, mesmerized.

I tense at the sight of her. She and Henry used to date and I swear she’s never liked me since. Not that the feeling isn’t mutual.

A bass thumps softly from a portable stereo. Near the water’s edge other kids skip rocks onto the glassy surface. I have to kick through scattered beer bottles to reach the bonfire at the
center.