The Guardian (4 page)

“I’m just checking.”
A pause.
“I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, exha
ling a frustrated sigh. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Moments later I hear her retreating footsteps, and so I close my eyes again, feeling unsettled and broken to pieces, and focus on the voice—
You’re
going to be fine, Genesis. I promise
—and try to belie
ve it again.

F
OUR

“Okay, ladies. Today we’re running a mile.”

A collective groan rumbles through the gymnasium. 

Our PE teacher, Mr. Collins, studies the clipboard tucked beneath his arm. “Run. Jog. Skip. I don’t recommend walking.
The longer the
time the lower the grade.”

Selena and Vivian huddle together at the outer edge of the group. Selena catches my eye. She raises an eyebrow, purses her lips, and sneers. Only a few days back at school, and she’s still as hateful as ever. Witch. 

Selena and Vivian are
not
my friends. They’re Carter’s friends. We are connected only by Carter Fleming, by a razor-thin thread that hangs lifelessly between us. In the past, this meant I was someone to be tolerated. Now that we’re broken up . . . on a bre
ak . . . taking things slow . . . whatever, Selena has decided that I’m not even worth tolerating. I can’t say that I’m sorry.

“All right.
Let’s move out!” Mr. Collins shouts. The silver whistle hanging from the cord around his neck meets his lips. He tak
es a deep breath and blows. I cringe.

“Move it!” he repeats.

We travel in a herd toward the double doors.

“I can’t believe he’s making us do this today. It’s freezing out,” someone mutters. 

I step through the steel door frame. A cold wind gnaws at my
b
are
arms and legs. I hold my hand out, feeling tiny sprinkles as they hit my palm.

“It’s a quick shower,” Mr. Collins declares, cutting us off at the argument. “A little rain never killed anyone.” He goes on, explaining which path around the school we’re s
upposed to take. “I’m timing you. . . .” He glances at his watch.
“Starting now.”

A few of my more ambitious classmates immediately start running—these are the soccer players, the volleyball and basketball players, the coordinated, the girls who consider N
ike athletic pants and wristbands couture.

I begin to jog, trying to at least keep up with the girls lagging behind: the awkward, overweight, and out of shape. Within moments my lungs are burning, accompanied by a sharp pain jolting the organs behind my r
ibs: a cramp. I hold my side and continue jogging.
Push through it
, I tell myself
.
But even the ungainly are passing me now. I slow my jog to a quick walk.

With every few steps I take a new breath, each heavier than the last. To my right, further past the
football field, those girls—the athletes—are still running, sticking together. In a different world—in a different time or place—I might have pulled off athletic pants and ponytails as wardrobe staples. I could’ve been jogging with them, leading the way fo
r everyone else. Instead, I’m bringing up the rear, not even halfway done and already cramping—muscles aching—needing oxygen that, for some reason, I can’t find.
Shivering as my bangs drip with cold rainwater.

I am going to catch pneumonia, and I’m going
to die.

With every step forward, I fall further and further behind, until I’m the last person to finish the mile. Mr. Collins has returned to the gymnasium by the time I make it back. I walk past his office without stopping, knowing I’ve failed the run any
way.

Inside the locker rooms, there are only a handful of girls left: showered and fresh, make-up reapplied and hair dry. I walk to an empty shower stall and turn on the hot water, which is lukewarm, at best. I realize, standing there, naked and shivering,
trying to wash the rain and sweat and grime away, that it would’ve been better had I not showered at all. I take a few ragged breaths before shutting off the water. I grab my towel and inhale again as I wrap it around my body. I wait for my heart rate to
slow, but it doesn’t. It continues to race as if I’m outside, sprinting. Something heavy pushes against my chest. I emerge from the shower, alone in the locker room. I dress quickly, but the more I move, the harder it becomes to find air. I
suck
in what I
can until I’m wheezing. My body shakes. My head feels light, and the room begins to swirl, the fluorescent lights sparkling. I stumble to the sink, grabbing on to the porcelain before I fall.

My lungs are on fire.

No matter how hard I try to fill them, I
’m drowning from the inside out. I sway until my body touches the wall. I press my weight into it, sliding to the floor.
Breathing.
Gasping.
Suffocating.
I bury my face in my hands, a wave of panic washing over me. I want to cry, but inhaling alone is taki
ng every ounce of my strength. My skin tingles, vision blurring.

And then, on my shoulder, a gentle touch.

My head jerks up.

There’s a guy.
A strange guy in the girls’ locker room, crouching by my side.

I should scream, but my chest tightens. I gulp, chok
ing.

“Are you okay?” he asks. His dark brown eyes fix on mine, anxious.

I shake my head, unable to speak.

“I didn’t think you had asthma.”

His voice is low and soothing, his words left floating between us.

Another raspy breath.
Another.
I shake my head
again.

“I’m going to get you out of here, okay?” he says. “Do you trust me?”

Do I have another choice?

I nod.

He scoops me in his arms. The motion is effortless, and in a moment he’s on his feet. I wrap my arms tightly around him, burying my face in his
neck, breathing in the smell of wind and pine.

He pulls the door open and moves quickly through the hallway.

“What’s your name?” I ask between breaths.

His jaw tightens as we enter the gymnasium. “Mr. Collins!” he calls out.

I lift my head in time to see my gym teacher jogging toward us.

“Seth,” he whispers into my ear as he carefully lowers me onto the bottom bleacher.

“Seth,” I repeat. “Don’t leave me.” Unexpected tears fill my eyes.

“I won’t,” he replies, tearing my arms
away.

“Genesis?”
Mr. Collins asks, kneeling in front of me. “What happened?”

I shake my head.

“She’s having trouble breathing,” Seth explains.

He lifts my chin, examining my lips. “Go in my office and call for an ambulance,” Mr. Collins orders. Seth jumps
up and sprints across the gymnasium, the motion so fluid he appears to fly.

“Breathe through your nose, okay? Try to take slow, even breaths.”

I obey.

“You shouldn’t have dressed for PE today, Green. I had some papers in my office you could’ve filed for
me instead. Of course, you have to decide which is worse: filing papers or running a mile. Breathe.”

I take another deep breath. “They both sound pretty great,” I choke.

Mr. Collins smiles, his youthful, tan face lighting up. “That’s good. Your sense of sa
rcasm is still intact. Breathe.”

I inhale.

“Hang tight. We’re
gonna
get you checked out, okay?”

I nod.

A few minutes later a paramedic enters the room. That’s when I realize: Seth is gone. He left to make the phone call, but he never came back.

The even
ts following happen in such a rapid succession it leaves me reeling. I’m strapped to a gurney, oxygen mask draped over my mouth and nose. The scene is packed full of melodrama, and I’m thankful that everyone who matters is either in class or at lunch. An a
udience would be overkill.

Outside it’s raining harder. The drops of water pelt my cheeks, my eyes, my hands. I take deep breaths, sucking in the pure air pumping through the mask. Inside the ambulance the fluorescent lights cast a dingy white glow on the
paramedics and their tools. An IV needle slips into my arm, stinging as it pierces my skin. Mr. Collins climbs in and the back door slams shut, blocking out the daylight.

Around me, the paramedics talk in code. I close my eyes. Already the drowning sensat
ion is subsiding. When I open them again, the guy—Seth—he’s here. The monitors register as my pulse quickens. Seth brings a single finger to his lips, urging me not to speak. I watch as the paramedics work around him, as if they don’t even see him. Then I
realize: they
can’t
see him.
Not at all.

His voice . . . it sounded so familiar, but I can’t place it. I’ve never seen him before. He’s not a classmate, or someone I’ve waited on at Ernie’s. . . . Who he is, where he’s from, and why he’s here, I have no i
dea, but part of me sings, grateful just the same.

F
IVE

“Here’s the thing. You are definitely experiencing some lung problems right now,” the doctor says, licking his thumb and flipping through a stack of papers. “As far as a cause, the results
aren’t conclusive. We can’t tell if it’s related to your smoking habit, or
your
recently quitting. The physical exertion may have been a contributing factor, and stress can be a trigger as well. This may very well never happen again, or it could become a r
egular occurrence. Either way, I’m going to talk to your mom and recommend we get you on a temporary treatment plan, just in case. We’ll check you out again in a few weeks to see how you’re doing. You’ll probably be back to take care of that thing, too,” h
e continues, referring to the cast on my arm. “We can do it all at once.”

Even though my breathing was controlled by the time we reached the hospital, the doctor, older and pudgy around the middle, still wanted to run tests. Sounds to me like these “tests”
were a waste of time. But all of this barely registers. I’m more aware of the fact that, at some point between the ambulance and the examination room, Seth disappeared entirely.

“Great,” I reply, forcing my eyes not to roll.
Like I need any more problems
.

He clears his throat. “Your mom is in the lobby,” he goes on. “We can discuss this more in my office, and, of course, I’m happy to answer any questions you may have.”

I slide off the examination table and follow him to the waiting area. In an instant, my
mom is by my side.
“Genesis?
What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

“I’m Dr. Brookshire,” the doctor says, shaking her hand. “I’d like to talk to you in my office for a few minutes if that’s all right.”

Mom adjusts her purse strap on her sho
ulder, eyeing me warily. “Yes, that’s fine.”

We leave Dr. Brookshire’s office, keeping pace as we move briskly down the hallway.

“I need to get you home fast,” Mom says. “My shift starts in half an hour. Ernie is harassing me about getting you back to work
, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.”

“He can put me back on whenever,” I tell her, shrugging my shoulders.
“The sooner the better.”
If nothing else, we need the money.

“Are you kidding me?
After today?”

“I’m fine,” I reaffirm. “It was ju
st a stupid thing.”

She sighs. “You’ve got to stop scaring me like this.”

“Like I’m doing it on purpose,” I grumble.

Mom pushes through the waiting room door, and I’m surprised, when I enter, to find Carter.

“Hey,” he says, scrambling anxiously toward us.
“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

He scratches the corner of his eyebrow. “When you didn’t come to lunch I got worried. Then I heard someone talking about an ambulance taking you away. I came straight here and found Mr. Collins.”

“That’s sweet of
you, Carter,” Mom says, checking her watch. “And I hate to break this up, but I’ve
got
to get to work. If we’re going to get this prescription filled. . . .”

“If you’re in a hurry, I can take her home,” Carter suggests.