Broken (3 page)

One thing living in a hospital has taught me is that you can survive anything, even the worst news imaginable. Once you know what you’re up against, you can start to fight.

It’s uncertainty that will kill you.

The not knowing.

Is this a symptom or not? Am I imagining that twinge or is it a harbinger of worse to come?

Is this real or am I crazy?

That’s why I—we, Mom and Dad and I—embraced my broken heart.

Long QT Syndrome is the real name. The calcium pumps in my heart are genetically faulty, letting my heart hop, skip, and run headlong off a cliff like Wile E. Coyote, legs still pumping hard even as he plummets into the abyss.

These abnormal rhythms will kill me. Twenty percent chance of dying at any moment in any day. Just like that, dropping dead.

Nothing I can do about it—except fight to have a normal life. At least until my crazy, broken heart decides to spaz out on me.

I’d much rather fight against the Long QT than put up with frustrated doctors ordering yet another test or pill or surgery, like they did before we found it. They’d look at me like I was playing some kind of game, making things up just to annoy them or get attention or because I’m nuts.

Finally getting my death sentence freed me from those labels. I’m no longer the crazy sick girl, looking for attention. Now I’m the dying girl, certain—unlike almost everyone else—of exactly how I’ll go. I might not know when, but I know how.

And I know how I want to live until the end. I’m not letting the odds or jerks like Mitch Kowlaski stand in my way.

Wrestling with fog, that’s what it felt like all those years of not knowing.

Now I’ve got something to push back against. And it feels good.

Kids fill the hall from wall to wall. Despite the unfamiliar press of bodies, I don’t panic. Instead, I let them steer me, like running with a herd of wild, untamed horses. At the end of the corridor, the herd separates into two, leaving me alone in front of a high glass wall.

The library.

Footsteps and lockers banging and voices colliding barrage me. Then I open the door, cross over, and step inside. I’m greeted not by silence, but instead by a hushed burble, relaxing, like the sound of a water fountain. I stand, enjoying the sensations, and take a breath.

School smells so much better than the hospital. And the library smells the best of all. To me, a good book is hot cocoa on a stormy winter day, sleet battering the window while you sit inside, nestled in a quilt.

A room filled with books?

I inhale deeply, a junkie taking her first hit. Sweet, musty paper. Ebony ink so crisp it threatens to rise off the pages and singe my nostrils. Glue and leather and cloth all mixed together in a
ménage à trois
of decadence.

Another breath and I’m drunk with possibilities. Words and stories and people and places so far from here that Planet Earth is a mere dust mote dancing in my rearview mirror.

Hugging myself, containing my glee, I pivot, taking in books stacked two stories high, couches and chairs strategically positioned to catch the light from tall windows lining both sides of the corner, like the bridge of a battle cruiser, broad, high, supremely confident, and comforting. In here, I dare to imagine that I might just survive high school after all.

“Can I help you?” the student manning the desk asks.

“I’m supposed to meet Mr. Thorne here?”

“Upstairs, first room on the left.”

“Thanks.” I follow her finger to where she points to two flights of lovely wooden steps, Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired. Not too steep—but that meant there were more of them. “Can I leave my bag down here for you to watch?”

She pushes her glasses up with an ink-smeared thumb. “No. I’m not allowed. But there’s a handicap elevator behind the stacks.”

“Thanks, I’m fine.” I haul my bag to the base of the steps, eager to meet my peers who also have “special needs.” I’ve never mentored anyone before. I hope I’m good at it, can help them.

Tugging my bag up the first step, there’s a loud thump as the wheels hit the riser. So much for doing things the easy way. Collapsing the handle, I grab on tight and haul it up. I barely clear each step, but my gasping is quieter than the thumping.

C’mon, I try to psych myself up. This is what you’ve been training for, sneaking into the kitchen and lifting those water jugs when Mom wasn’t looking.

Mom doesn’t approve of physical therapy—in the hospital she always refused PT, worried they’d push me too far and give me one of my dreaded Set Backs. But I knew the more I lay around, the weaker I’d feel and I’d never make it through a school day, so I started doing stuff on my own. Push-ups, sit-ups, hauling gallon jugs, going up and down the steps even though I’m not supposed to.

It paid off, because before I know it, I’m standing in the doorway of a small conference room, winded but alive.

Three kids sitting at the table look up when I arrive. A black girl with the figure of a fashion model and clothes to match. The girl beside her is kind of plump, with long, dark hair caught in a simple braid curled up in the hood of her gray sweatshirt like a cat napping. And Jordan Summers.

I’m surprised to see him. Guess it must’ve shown, either that or I was more out of breath than I thought, because next thing I know, Jordan is guiding me into a chair, while the plump girl is taking Phil from me, and the black girl jumps up and skitters back and forth, watching but not really doing anything to help.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jordan asks. My heart is tap-dancing his name again.

“I’m fine.” I manage a smile. At least I hope it’s a smile. Maybe not, because he looks panicked.

“I’ll grab you some water.” He rushes out of the room.

The second girl hauls my backpack over to me. “What’s in this?” she asks as she takes the chair beside me. “You on the bowling team?”

Up close, I see that, if you look past the layers of gray clothing, she’s actually beautiful. Exotic-looking. Hers is a true tropical golden complexion, unlike my sun-neglected sallow one. High cheekbones, gorgeous deep-brown eyes.

She catches my stare and turns her face away, dropping Phil between our chairs, hunching her shoulders like a turtle pulling into its shell. “Sorry, shouldn’t be touching your stuff.”

“No,” I protest. “It’s fine. Thank you.” Didn’t I just say that? A blush singes my face. Hoards of doctors and nurses I can deal with. But I am totally unprepared for small-group dynamics or, even worse, small talk. I try again. “Hi. I’m Scarlet. Scarlet Killian.”

“We know.” The black girl bounces into her chair. “You’re late. Like weeks late. Gonna upset our balance of power.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. Jordan returns with water in a paper cup and presses it into my palm. Reveling in his touch, I gulp it down, just to fill the silence as everyone stares at me.

“This is Nessa Woodring,” he introduces the black girl who waggles her fingers at me. Each fingernail is a good half-inch long and adorned with a different color, jewel, or picture. Watching her wave them is like watching a Pixar animation. “And Celina Price. They’re sophomores, like you.”

Celina just nods, still not making eye contact.

“Hi,” I say again, totally lame, but I have no idea what else to say.

Nessa flounces the top half of her body across the narrow table as if prostrating herself on an altar. “So, Scarlet.” She draws out my name into three syllables. “What’s it like to die?”

Nessa flattens her hand on top of mine, pinning me to the table. “Seriously. What was it like? Was there a bright light? Did it hurt?”

“Nessa!” Jordan snaps. “Leave her alone.”

The intensity of Nessa’s gaze pushes me back. If we had swords, she would have won the duel. I have the feeling Nessa doesn’t often lose.

Finally, she blinks and releases me. She settles back in her chair, pulling her knees up and balancing her chin on them, suddenly smiling, a smile that would be at home on a portrait of an angel. The light brushes her hair, sparking off it as if she wears a halo. “Sorry. My mom says I have problems with being too bold and brash, or is it brusque? Probably all three. And my dad, well, he tosses around words like ‘oppositional’ and ‘defiant’ and ‘impulse control,’ but he’s a shrink, so who really listens anyway?”

I find myself nodding in agreement, but I’m not sure who I’m agreeing with: her mom, her dad, or her dismissal of them both. It’s easy to see why she might need a little mentoring and support. Something about her feels bright yet jagged, a broken mirror glinting in the sun. But her smile is genuine and I can’t help but smile in return.

“Anyway,” Nessa continues, turning a palm up as if offering a gift, “since you’re starting late, let me fill you in. Jordan, he’s supposed to be our mentor—the M in PMS, if you will—but mainly he sits around and says nothing. That’s probably because I do all the talking, but I’ve got a lot to process—you’ll hear all about that later.” She pauses as if expecting me to interrupt and tell her I already know who she is, but all I can do is sit there and nod as the words pour out of her faster than a freight train.

I’m thinking her dad was right on all three accounts, but I can’t help but like Nessa. When she smiles at you, it’s with her whole body, like you’re the most important person in the world—except herself, of course. Still, there’s just this spark to her. Charisma, that’s the word for it.

Jordan slides his hand along the tabletop. Trying to distract her long enough to get a word in. “How about if we give her some practical info instead of the
Gossip Girl
sound bite?”

Nessa doesn’t even take a breath as she makes a conversational 180. “Sure. You should know that Celina here is the smartest kid in our grade. She can help you catch up. Last year, she held the ninth-grade academic achievement honor.”

“Not for the whole year,” Celina murmurs, retreating from my nod and smile of appreciation. “Besides, things are different now, especially with my mom gone so much.”

“But you can help, can’t you?” Nessa bounds from her chair again. Even gravity can’t restrain her for long. “And we can all introduce Scarlet to all the right folks, get her on track. Peer mentoring, support, isn’t that what we’re all here for?”

She sounds ready to leap onto the table and lead us all in a cheer.

Jordan sighs. He’s obviously used to having to rein her in. “I’m meant to be the mentor, remember?”

Nessa freezes in midstride. Slowly she pivots to face Jordan. From the look she gives him, it’s clear they know each other well. Jealousy stabs my gut as I wonder exactly how well.

“Well, Mr. Junior-big-shot-mentor, if you’re so smart, then why didn’t you save—”

Celina jumps up, slapping her palm down between the two of them. “Stop it, both of you. Just stop it.”

Nessa heaves in a breath as if the air in the room is suddenly too heavy. Jordan doesn’t look so good either, blinking furiously like he has something in his eyes, but he doesn’t take his gaze off Nessa, as if he’s worried she’ll vanish.

I have no idea what they’re talking about, but it’s clear that it’s painful and very, very personal. Just as it’s obvious that beneath Nessa’s incessant chatter lies a deep well of anger and sadness. Suddenly I wonder if I have any support to offer that would be helpful. Not like I have much experience with, well, anything outside of hospitals.

Celina sits back down and says in a calm voice, “It’s Scarlet’s first day. We should be focused on her, not on—not on things we can’t change.”

Jordan pulls his gaze away from Nessa and gives Celina a small nod and even smaller smile, which surprises me because she’s doing his job, taking control of the situation and playing the peacekeeper. But it works. Nessa relaxes and beams at Celina in another abrupt shift of emotion.

Me, I just sit there, clueless. And fascinated.

As I take them all in, practically seeing the delicate threads of power and pain connecting and interlacing in an intricate web, I realize how woefully unprepared the hospital has left me for the drama that is high school.

Forget algebra and chemistry. I need a remedial course on people.

Before anyone can move or say anything, the door opens and a man enters. He’s thirty-something, cute in an older-guy kinda way, reminds me of one of my consultants, a specialist in cardiac electrophysiology. Genius but so caught up in his life of chaotic cardiac electrical impulses that he walked around oblivious to the rest of the world. His hands were the coldest and clammiest of them all—he never looked me in the eyes once. If he could have cut out my heart and taken it with him to study, not bothering with the inconvenient body surrounding it, he would have.

“Oh good, you got started without me,” the man says with a wide smile, plopping himself down in the chair at the head of the narrow table and leaning it so far back I’m worried it’s about to tip.

He wears a dress shirt, tie, suit trousers, but has red socks and a pair of canvas sneakers on, also red. Like he’s watched too many
Dr. Who
reruns. His accent isn’t English, but it’s not ragged central Pennsylvania either. Instead it’s flat, like he’s washed it clean of any trace evidence. “And, Scarlet, welcome, welcome! Have you all introduced yourselves?”

The others nod. The man doesn’t seem to realize that he hasn’t introduced himself to me, but I’m not dumb. This must be Mr. Thorne, the counselor who’s meant to guide me through the labyrinth of my sophomore year.

Thorne fiddles with his pen, clicking it and twirling it, beaming his smile at each of us in turn as if assessing the weather.

Cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms is my assessment. Thorne bounces his chair, tipping ever farther back, making me catch my breath as I wonder if I should say something, and his smile grows wider. Cocky, even.

“Let me catch you up, Scarlet,” he says, and I realize that although I was clueless, Nessa had actually been mimicking him earlier. And doing a pretty good job of it. “These groups are carefully composed, members chosen to help address certain strengths and weaknesses that came to light when I reviewed the incoming sophomores’ records. Our job here, together, is to bolster those strengths and work on those weaknesses. Bring everything out in the open, explore them, together, in a nonjudgmental, honest fashion.”

I stare at him, certain he’s joking. His expression is the same as the nurses who’d tell me shoving a honking feeding tube down my nose “won’t hurt a bit” while they pin me down and force it in.

“From your record, I see that you’ve been homeschooled since third grade—most recently via the cyber academy. Your grades are excellent, your test scores very impressive.” Celina glances up at that. “But,” Mr. Thorne continues, “given all the time spent in the hospital—oh, did you have a chance to tell the others about your unfortunate condition?” He pauses dramatically, waiting for me.

I shift in my seat, one hand going to Phil’s handle. Giving it a squeeze, just in case my heart needs a jumpstart anytime soon.

“No,” Nessa answers for me. I have the feeling she answers for everyone. A lot. “She hasn’t.”

They all swivel to stare at me.

Talking about everything that’s wrong with me is my mom’s job. She has it down to a science—can fill in a new doctor or nurse in less time than it takes for a commercial break on TV. And I’m damn sure everything Mr. Thorne needs to know is right there in my records. Besides, half the school saw what happened this morning when the security guard unveiled Phil for the world. By now they would have texted or told the other half. There might even be videos up on YouTube, who knew?

Yet still Mr. Thorne waits. “Go on, Scarlet. This is a safe environment. You can talk about anything.”

Why don’t I believe him? Probably because of the way none of the others have looked him in the eye since he arrived.

I’d much rather talk about more interesting things—like what the hell was going on between Nessa and Jordan—but I nod and give them the CliffsNotes version. “I’ve been pretty sick all my life, but the doctors finally figured out it’s a genetic defect that makes my heart not beat right, so sometimes parts of my body don’t get enough oxygen. No big deal.”

There’s a long and awkward moment of silence. Great. Been here ten minutes and I’ve already blown it.

Then Celina leans forward and covers my hand with hers. “But it is a big deal. Scarlet, it could kill you someday.”

Nessa adds her hand on top of Celina’s. Like we’re the three musketeers or something. Their touch spreads warmth through my body—I’m used to being poked and prodded with cold hands and colder stethoscopes, not this. “We’re here to help, Scarlet.”

Jordan watches from across the table, gives me a small smile and nod. Accepting me into the fold. The moment passes and the girls lean back, but I can still feel their touch, as if they’ve left something behind.

Is this what friendship feels like? But they don’t know me, not at all.

Mr. Thorne clears his throat. “Thank you for sharing, Scarlet.” He pulls some papers from a folder and distributes them. “I’ve updated everyone’s class schedule and contact info to include Scarlet’s. I think there’s enough overlap that we should be able to act as a safety net if she needs anything. And of course, Scarlet, feel free to come see me anytime.”

I glance at each of them while they’re studying the schedules and programming my number into their phones. Just like that, these people are now part of my life. My safety net. Like I’m walking some kind of death-defying high wire.

The way Mom talks about me coming to school, trying to have a normal life, maybe I am. Defying death.

I smile. I like the idea.