Neuropathy

When the bell had finally rung, the pestering spot in my back wasn’t feeling any better, but it wasn’t doing any worse. I had to keep my bag on my right shoulder instead of left, though. The weight and pressure was too much for the spot.

I met up with Jane by my locker like I did every day before walking out to the car. Every week, we traded off driving each other; this was her week.

I saw the curly haired brunette leaning against my locker when I walked up. She pushed herself away from the walls when I came up alongside her.

“Hey, bud.” Her voice was like a rose—calm and sweet, but it had some prickle in it, like she was almost annoyed.

“Hello, Miss,” I smiled at her before turning to my locker combination—06-39-41. I pulled the metal latch and swung the door open, beginning to trade out books.

“Did you get your English paper back?” she asked sharply.

“Yeah; I got a 92 on it. How’d you do?” My history book fell onto the floor. Great.

“You got a 92? Why?” I bent down to pick up my book, hissing as I stood up. The spot on my back was like an alarm—going off at the simplest of things.

“Sadie?” Jane’s eyes were strained as I held myself against the metal locker to pull myself upright. I shook my head.

“Mrs. Rucci didn’t like my grammar, which I think isn’t fair. Spell Check obviously didn’t have a problem with it.” I twisted a little to stretch out my shoulder. The pinching feeling was still there, gnawing at my nerves and pulling me down. Why wasn’t it going away?

“Yeah, well. She gave me a 78.” So this is what was bothering her. Jane watched me literally squirm for a second before I zipped up my bag and closed my locker door. “Okay, what in hell are you doing?” she asked.

“Pinched a nerve—that’s all,” I tried to explain. My only response was a blank stare. “My shoulder hurts,” I said, beginning to walk out to the parking lot. “So what happened in English?”

“She didn’t like my analysis on how history related to the story. She said that I missed the ‘deeper points’ and all this shit. It’s so frustrating—the entire essay, “how do you think the story showed the author’s viewpoints on specific events taking place in the time period’ asked for an opinion. I said what I thought—opinions can’t be wrong!” She nearly screeched the last part and I could tell how much this was bothering her just by looking. Jane always had this thing when she was upset about tapping her thumb and middle finger together. I don’t know what it was about that motion and its repetition, but it always seemed to calm her down and keep her in line. It was her way of pacing, I had always assumed, but instead of walking back and forth, counting her steps, she counted the taps—one after the other.

“I’m sorry, bud,” I said, “You could probably fight that, y’know. Just ask her about it tomorrow.”

“Maybe I will…” her voice drifted off as we turned into the main hallway.

People all around us were buzzing in all directions, pushing us around like droplets of water in the ocean. Somehow, we all moved together as we parted ways. Some people went to the buses, others went up the stairs. People like Jane and I were heading to the parking lot while others pushed their way to the office. The chaotic mess had some regular flow that couldn’t be messed with. On a normal day, I wouldn’t have minded it, seeing as I always managed to make my way through everything in one piece, but today I was extra paranoid about my back and shoulder. I took extra care not to be shoved around like a ragdoll. The unusual pain going through me was something I wasn’t used to dealing with and I didn’t want to provoke it.

Eventually, Jane and I pushed our way to the doors leading out to the parking lot. The September air was refreshing after being cooped up inside all day. It’s fresh, cleanliness was sharp and sweet. A light breeze greeted us by flipping our hair playfully.

Students and teachers flitted around us like hummingbirds as we walked across the asphalt to Jane’s navy blue 1998 pickup. She had gotten “Mildred”, as she named it, as a hand-me-down from her older brother, Jason, when he bought himself a shiny new SUV before heading off to Oklahoma State University a couple years prior. It was rough and beaten—obviously scarred from its strenuous years carrying around a teenage boy—but it ran, and that’s all that mattered.

The sharp click was audible as Jane popped the locks. Of course, the passenger door was so worn down that Jane had to climb in and lean over to manually open it herself; the lock wasn’t in synch with the mechanical lock-opener.

Once able, I pulled up on the handle and swung the door open. I was mindful of my physical state as I got myself inside. Trying to sit back, it was like pressing your bare skin against pure ice—it stung and burned in an unnatural way. It was like a cannon was fired inside you, wrecking havoc throughout your body; your nerves. The pain wasn’t localized anymore. No, walking out to the car, I was afraid of something like this happening. I was afraid that if anything touched my shoulder, it would set off the bomb, and that’s exactly what happened.

I simply sat back in the car seat and sat my bag on my lap, like any normal person would do, and I ended up shooting forward, cursing. I leaned down so that my chest was resting on my backpack, saying words my parents wouldn’t approve of.

Jane panicked—well, spazzed for a second, then panicked. I remember hearing a loud flamp as she smacked her arm against the steering wheel as she whipped halfway around in the seat to face me. “Sadie!” she shrieked, reaching over and grabbing the top of my arm. I shook it off and pulled it back, remaining in my curled up position.

After a couple deep breaths, the initial burn began to slowly fade away. I carefully sat up, but only enough so that my back wasn’t touching the seat. “I’ll be alright; let’s just go home,” I told Jane, who was looking at me with wide eyes.

I watched as she turned back and shut her door, putting the key into the ignition to start the engine. “What is wrong with you today?”

I didn’t answer her, though. All I could think about was staying stiff as a board, and that was how the ride home remained—silent and tense.

I was in pain.