Made For You

“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.

DAY 7: “THE BEST FRIEND” (#ulink_07330eff-272d-5d6c-8ae9-fc371d68f35b)

Eva (#ulink_07330eff-272d-5d6c-8ae9-fc371d68f35b)

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 worrying about me, she is still aware of the possibilities. It makes me glad I didn’t tell her about the hallucination thing.

“I remember. I just know I’ll get fat if you can’t make me run,” I explain.

Clarity dawns on her, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. She also takes my Oreos. We’re both quiet while she repacks some of the junk food she brought for me.

I break the silence by saying, “Thanks for bringing clothes.”

Grace pulls out the skirts she and her mother bought for me. The first one is the sort of loud pattern that makes me wince visibly. It’s the brightest piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. “Still think my mom is perfect? She picked this one.”

I tilt my head. “It’s not that bad. The General has fine taste.”

Grace rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. We’ve been having the same discussion over her mother for at least eighteen months. She thinks her mom is overbearing; I think she should be grateful for having an attentive mother. Mrs. Yeung is awesome, and I’d wear a sack if that’s what it took to back my stance.

“I picked this one.” She holds up a solid brown skirt with a subtle peacock feather line drawing that starts at the hem and stretches over the bottom quarter of the skirt. The lines are in the same sky blue as the first skirt, but here, they’re a burst of bright on a dark palate. It’s exactly what I’d pick for myself.

She pulls out two more skirts, both more like the one she’d selected for me, and I know that she was responsible for keeping Mrs. Yeung’s appreciation for bolder colors in check. “Thank you.”

At the bottom of the bag are five short-sleeved T-shirts in various colors: pink, blue, black, gray, and brown. Grace doesn’t unfold them, just puts them to the side. “These are pretty basic, but I figured you could use a few clean shirts so you aren’t living in pajamas. Mom said she’d wash everything you have here now.”

I hadn’t thought about the state of my laundry until now. I had wanted some skirts because of the cast, but as Grace mentions my clothes, I realize that I’d have had to re-wear things if not for them. My parents are due back soon, but as usual when they’re away, it’s Mrs. Yeung to the rescue.

After a quiet moment, I blurt, “I saw Nathaniel Bouchet yesterday.”