Status: Active. (Based on the novel by Laurie Halse Anderson.)
Twisted
Thirty-Three
On the last day of September, we had to attend a senior assembly about college. I sat next to Hardy, who slept. She had already filed her applications. Now it was just a matter of seeing who wanted to throw more financial aid at her.
Kelsey Caine and her minions were sitting two rows behind us. I stayed alert in case they decided to lob hand grenades. Kelsey hadn’t retaliated yet, and that made things worse.
The speaker said that college deadlines were firm, correct spelling was important, and choosing a college was a serious decision.
---
After the assembly, I walked with Hardy to Aaron’s Lacrosse game. His team had sort of adopted her as a community-service project after she’d quit cheerleading. They thought her glasses were cute. Whenever she kissed my brother (horrifying, yes) the team would all say, “Oooooooh!” the way guys do whenever they see motorcycles, a new post on 4chan, or a bright, shiny guitar.
The coach liked his ability to spot weaknesses in the opposing team. They hadn’t lost a game since Hardy sat at the end of the bench, stat tracker in hand.
Aaron was playing center forward with astounding brutality. The referees didn’t care, and the other team quickly learned it was less painful to stay out of his way. By halftime he had taken four shots and scored twice.
The second half opened with yet another lightning-fast breakaway by Aaron and Mike Vogl, giving-and-going all the way to their enemy’s goal. Mike caught a stick to the shin just above the pad and crumpled, but the play continued, with Aaron sprinting across the field just as a defender wound up to fire the ball as hard as he could.
He shot a fraction of a second before Aaron’s stick made contact. The ball lifted off the field and traveled in a direct line to my brother’s face.
Hardy was off the bench before the ref blew the whistle. I was right behind her.
He was only knocked out for a second. He demanded to be put back in the game, even though the ball had snapped the frame of his goggles. The coach ignored him and told us to take him to the trainer’s office.
---
The office was like an emergency room, with a moaning soccer player bleeding from the mouth on one table and a shivering football player whose foot was stuck in a bucket of ice on another. We laid Aaron down on an empty table. I left messages for my parents at their offices and on their cell phones while the trainer, a short woman with red-rimmed glasses, checked out Aaron’s head.
When she finished poking and asking questions, she washed her hands.
“Well?” I asked.
“Nothing critical, but he does need to be seen by a doctor.”
Aaron tried to sit up. “It’s just a little headache. I have to get back.”
Hardy gently pushed him down. “Forget it.”
The trainer finished drying her hands. “She’s right. Your doctor will order an X-Ray of the skull to rule out fractures. He might want an MRI, too, if he suspects bleeding on the brain.”
“His brain is bleeding?” Hardy asked, the color draining from her face.
“Shhh, not so loud,” Aaron said.
“I doubt it,” the trainer said. “But doctors like to order tests, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. So no more Lacrosse today. Are you eighteen yet, Elise?”
“In November,” I said. “Why?”
She glanced at the clock. “If you were eighteen I would release him to you. We’ll keep trying to get ahold of your parents.”
---
To say I was shocked when my father showed up an hour later doesn’t come close.
Dad never showed up for emergencies, not ever. Not when I fell off my bike and needed stitches, not when I fell off my skateboard and needed pins in my arm. Not when Aaron had pneumonia so bad that after they saw the X-rays they put him in intensive care and Mom sobbed in the plastic chair and there was nobody to take me home because I was only five.
But it was Dad standing over Aaron, brushing the hair off his forehead and talking to the trainer about what he should do next.
“Where’s Mom?” Aaron asked, as confused as I was.
“Her van broke down outside Pueblo.” Dad said.
Aaron’s good eye found me and asked, WTF? I shrugged. Dad was looking even rougher than usual, like he was in training for a marathon or was on chemotherapy. But he was there and that counted for something. Half a point, maybe.
Then his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number.
“I’ll be right back,” he told the trainer. “Have to take this call.”
He stepped outside and closed the door, but we could hear him when he started yelling.
“Is he talking to Mom?” Aaron whispered.
I listened. “No, somebody named Stuart. It’s work.”
He closed his eyes.
When he came back in, the trainer gave Dad a piece of paper with instructions on it. We helped Aaron to his feet. He batted our hands away and grumbled.
Aaron rode with Dad to the ER so a doctor could check him out, just in case. Hardy wanted to go, too, but Dad gave her the evil eye and said this was a family matter.
I wound up driving Hardy home in her car because she was so freaked out. Getting suspended from TNA was one thing; watching your boyfriend get knocked out cold was another.
---
Kelsey Caine and her minions were sitting two rows behind us. I stayed alert in case they decided to lob hand grenades. Kelsey hadn’t retaliated yet, and that made things worse.
The speaker said that college deadlines were firm, correct spelling was important, and choosing a college was a serious decision.
---
After the assembly, I walked with Hardy to Aaron’s Lacrosse game. His team had sort of adopted her as a community-service project after she’d quit cheerleading. They thought her glasses were cute. Whenever she kissed my brother (horrifying, yes) the team would all say, “Oooooooh!” the way guys do whenever they see motorcycles, a new post on 4chan, or a bright, shiny guitar.
The coach liked his ability to spot weaknesses in the opposing team. They hadn’t lost a game since Hardy sat at the end of the bench, stat tracker in hand.
Aaron was playing center forward with astounding brutality. The referees didn’t care, and the other team quickly learned it was less painful to stay out of his way. By halftime he had taken four shots and scored twice.
The second half opened with yet another lightning-fast breakaway by Aaron and Mike Vogl, giving-and-going all the way to their enemy’s goal. Mike caught a stick to the shin just above the pad and crumpled, but the play continued, with Aaron sprinting across the field just as a defender wound up to fire the ball as hard as he could.
He shot a fraction of a second before Aaron’s stick made contact. The ball lifted off the field and traveled in a direct line to my brother’s face.
Hardy was off the bench before the ref blew the whistle. I was right behind her.
He was only knocked out for a second. He demanded to be put back in the game, even though the ball had snapped the frame of his goggles. The coach ignored him and told us to take him to the trainer’s office.
---
The office was like an emergency room, with a moaning soccer player bleeding from the mouth on one table and a shivering football player whose foot was stuck in a bucket of ice on another. We laid Aaron down on an empty table. I left messages for my parents at their offices and on their cell phones while the trainer, a short woman with red-rimmed glasses, checked out Aaron’s head.
When she finished poking and asking questions, she washed her hands.
“Well?” I asked.
“Nothing critical, but he does need to be seen by a doctor.”
Aaron tried to sit up. “It’s just a little headache. I have to get back.”
Hardy gently pushed him down. “Forget it.”
The trainer finished drying her hands. “She’s right. Your doctor will order an X-Ray of the skull to rule out fractures. He might want an MRI, too, if he suspects bleeding on the brain.”
“His brain is bleeding?” Hardy asked, the color draining from her face.
“Shhh, not so loud,” Aaron said.
“I doubt it,” the trainer said. “But doctors like to order tests, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. So no more Lacrosse today. Are you eighteen yet, Elise?”
“In November,” I said. “Why?”
She glanced at the clock. “If you were eighteen I would release him to you. We’ll keep trying to get ahold of your parents.”
---
To say I was shocked when my father showed up an hour later doesn’t come close.
Dad never showed up for emergencies, not ever. Not when I fell off my bike and needed stitches, not when I fell off my skateboard and needed pins in my arm. Not when Aaron had pneumonia so bad that after they saw the X-rays they put him in intensive care and Mom sobbed in the plastic chair and there was nobody to take me home because I was only five.
But it was Dad standing over Aaron, brushing the hair off his forehead and talking to the trainer about what he should do next.
“Where’s Mom?” Aaron asked, as confused as I was.
“Her van broke down outside Pueblo.” Dad said.
Aaron’s good eye found me and asked, WTF? I shrugged. Dad was looking even rougher than usual, like he was in training for a marathon or was on chemotherapy. But he was there and that counted for something. Half a point, maybe.
Then his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number.
“I’ll be right back,” he told the trainer. “Have to take this call.”
He stepped outside and closed the door, but we could hear him when he started yelling.
“Is he talking to Mom?” Aaron whispered.
I listened. “No, somebody named Stuart. It’s work.”
He closed his eyes.
When he came back in, the trainer gave Dad a piece of paper with instructions on it. We helped Aaron to his feet. He batted our hands away and grumbled.
Aaron rode with Dad to the ER so a doctor could check him out, just in case. Hardy wanted to go, too, but Dad gave her the evil eye and said this was a family matter.
I wound up driving Hardy home in her car because she was so freaked out. Getting suspended from TNA was one thing; watching your boyfriend get knocked out cold was another.
---
♠ ♠ ♠
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