Made For You. Melissa Marr
you study?” Amy asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I shrug.
“I don’t know why I ask. You never do.” She pouts, and I shake my head at her. If I didn’t know that the stories she spread about Eva were true, I might choose her as my message, but those things Amy said were true.
It was good and right that Amy spoke up. It should have helped Eva to see that They don’t respect her; They only pretend to care about her.
I care.
“Hey!” Amy nudges me. She isn’t really one of Them, not anymore. She used to be, but she dated an Undesirable. They aren’t forgiving of that kind of thing. She thought she could ignore the rules, but her parents were already divorced and then she stepped out of line. Now, she’s a girl only worth “dating” in private. She gives it up to anyone she thinks able to redeem her, but it only lowers her further and further from where she wants to be. She wouldn’t be a good first message.
“Hey back,” I say after a long pause.
“I hate exams. They make me feel stupid,” she whines.
“You’re not stupid. Plus, you’re good at lots of other things,” I remind her. She is, too. She has qualities that a lot of people don’t appreciate. Amy isn’t one of Them, not now. With Them I pretend, but Amy is real. I don’t need to pretend with her.
She rewards me with a smile, ducks her head a little, and looks up through her lashes. It’s the sort of coquettish things that all girls do—except Eva, of course. She’s pure. Even though she’s not a virgin, she’s still pure.
“Can I borrow paper?” I pat my pockets and add, “And a pen?”
Amy shakes her head, but she still gives me what I asked for.
Without meaning to, I think of Dream Eva looking up at me much the way Amy is, accepting me even with my flaws, and my body reacts again. I know I can take care of that on my own later, but it’s nicer with a partner so I lower my voice a bit and ask, “Hey, are you free after school?”
There’s no doubt as to why I lowered my voice—this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation—but she doesn’t look at me like I’m dirty. She shakes her head. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe.” I shrug again. “I have a project I’m working on, but if I can’t find what I need for it, I’ll call you.”
The bell rings then, and we go into the classroom. I forget about Amy the moment she walks away. Maybe the one I need for the message is in this room. I slouch into my seat and look around, watching for her.
THE NURSES ARE SUPER-ATTENTIVE the next day. The doctor on call the night of my episode saw no changes or alarming symptoms. Everything looks good. Admittedly, I haven’t mentioned my hallucinations, but I haven’t had any other hallucinations since then, so I opt not to bring it up.
The day nurse mentioned that Nate has stopped by the desk to ask about me. I keep my door closed in case he walks by. It makes me feel like a prisoner, but I’m not sure what to say to him. It feels like there are a lot of things between us right now that we could discuss, but I don’t know if I want to start any of those conversations. I don’t know why he’s in the hospital, and I don’t think I want to ask.
We were never anything other than friends, but he was my best friend for years. I learned to play baseball with him. Our fathers were friends, and we were together after church a lot. Nate was my first kiss. Sure, we were nine, and it was my bloody knee he kissed, but still, he was my first. Then his dad left, and his mom wasn’t big on church—a fact which made me jealous more than once—and then Nate changed. He stopped even looking my way when I saw him at school.
Until now.
By the time Grace arrives to visit that evening, I’m ready to pounce on her. Aside from the obvious—she’s my best friend and I’m bored out of my mind and oh yeah, I saw Nate—I’m excited that she’s here because she walks into my room all but hidden behind a big bag of clothes and snacks. Oreos stick out the top of the bag, and that alone would be reason enough.
“I love you,” I say as soon as I see her.
She laughs. “Me or the cookies?”
“Both.” I hold out a hand. “Gimme.”
“A few days in Pediatrics and you sound like a toddler.”
“Yep. Now gimme.” I wave my arm as if it’ll make the cookies come near.
Shaking her head and smiling at me, Grace relents. She lowers the big bag to the chair, opens the package of cookies, and holds them out to me. Better still, she also pulls out a small cooler from within the giant bag. “Mom thought it was criminal to have Oreos without milk.”
The cookie is halfway to my mouth when I hear her. “Milk? She sent milk for my cookies? I love the General.”
“More than me?” She holds on to the carton of milk.
I gesture to my leg with my cookie. “No taunting the injured!” When she hands me the milk, I add, “Maybe a little more, but it’s too close to call.”
She busies herself unpacking the clothes she brought while I eat Oreos and listen to her tell me how she’ll never get through exams without me to study with her. I know she feels guilty admitting it, but Grace isn’t a big fan of studying solo. My grades went up when I started spending more time with her, mainly because I felt like a loser just messing around online when she was working hard. So I studied instead. In exchange, she has my back when I’m dealing with the cattiness at school or tempted to have the entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Some friendships work because they have so much in common; we work because we have so many differences. We fill in each other’s gaps. That shouldn’t have to stop just because some jerk hit me with his car.
“So why don’t we study here,” I suggest.
“You don’t have to take the exams.”
I shrug. “I could though, and you have to, so why not study together?”
“I could hug you …”
“Rain check. My arms are still tender.”
She nods, and then goes over to the bag of treats. She pulls out a box of one of the sugar-filled, marshmallow-laden cereals that she finds disgusting and I love. She doesn’t even lecture me on just how much exercise I’ll have to do in order to counter the junk I like to eat. It hits me then: I’m going to be in a cast for weeks, possibly months. I can’t exercise.
“Gracie!”
My best friend pauses as she’s pulling out a bag of dried fruit and a box of some sort of sugar-free, preservative-free, flavor-free snack mix. “I’m not leaving you with just junk,” she starts, clearly thinking I was objecting to the healthier snacks she brought.
“You can’t.” I gaze longingly at the cereal, all wrapped up in a bright child-friendly package. “Take it with you. My marshmallow cereal. Take it.”
She tilts her head and gives me a suspicious look. “Take the junk away?”
I hold out my Oreos. “These, too.” I shake the package. “I can’t exercise.”
“Sweetie, you hate exercise.” She comes over to stand beside me. Her expression is clouded. “Remember?”
I feel a twinge of guilt. Personality changes are possible with TBI, and while Grace isn’t making a scene over