Braced Page 17

  TO: Coach Howard

  SUBJECT: Tomorrow

  Hi Coach Howard,

  I just found out that I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow for my back, and even though it starts in the morning, they always go really, really late, because we have to wait forever! So there’s pretty much no chance I’m going to be at tryouts tomorrow, unless there’s some kind of miracle. Also, I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. I would have, but I just found out. I promise I’m going to do everything I can to get there.

  Also, I wanted to tell you, in case you didn’t already know, that I really, really, really (x one million) want to make the A Team. If there’s anything I can do to make up for missing tryouts tomorrow, I will. I hope you get this email before tryouts start, and that there is something I can do.

  Thank you,

  Rachel (Brooks)

  WHEN I GET downstairs the next morning, Dad is sitting at the kitchen table in a suit drinking a cup of coffee. The newspaper is unfolded in front of him, but he isn’t reading it. He’s talking to Mom about one of the headlines. He keeps saying the name of some politician who I only sort of recognize. Neither of them notices me.

  It’s Tuesday. I’m pretty sure Dad should have left for work hours ago. The only other time I can remember him being home on a weekday was before Grandma’s funeral.

  “Who died?” I ask.

  Mom and Dad both stop everything. Dad looks at Mom, like he’s waiting for her to speak on their behalf. He isn’t sure how to talk to me without her help.

  “No one,” she says. “Stop being so dramatic. Dad is coming to the doctor with us.” Mom is acting as if everything is totally normal and we didn’t fight last night. We’re the kind of family where everything is fine in the morning even if it’s not.

  “Oh.” I try not to sound too surprised, but I don’t get it. Dad always has to work, but today, on a random Tuesday, when we’re doing this, he’s free. “Why?” I ask.

  “Don’t sound so excited.” I can’t tell if Dad is offended or kidding or something else entirely.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m confused.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” Dad says to me.

  “Yes, she does,” Mom says to Dad, but she’s looking at me. I wonder if Mom asked Dad to come because of what I said last night and he actually made it happen.

  “Amy,” he says. “Rachel has probably never seen me at home on a weekday morning before.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything else. We both know that Dad is the only one who can talk about the fact that he’s never around.

  “Come over here.” He waves his paper at me. “Sit down and eat something before we have to get going. I cooked.” He points to the two cereal boxes on the table and puts a bowl in front of me. “I’m going with you because I’m your father and I want to be there.” He pours me a bowl of cereals mixed together. “I know how badly you want to make it to tryouts. We’re going to do everything we can to get you there, okay?”

  I nod. “Why haven’t you ever come with us before?” I ask.

  “Work,” he says. “You know that.”

  “Why do you have to work so much?”

  He shakes his head like he’s surprised by my question. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just want to know,” I say.

  Dad crosses his arms and looks around the room, then back at me. “I’m trying my best to take care of everyone who needs me.”

  I nod. “So why don’t you have to work today?”

  “Mom told me you really wanted me to be here. She said you told her it was important to you. I took that seriously.”

  “Thank you,” I say and hug him. “I’m glad you’re coming with us.”

  “Me too,” he says.

  Dad walks up to the desk in the hospital and checks us in while Mom and I stake out three seats in the far corner of the waiting room. We’re usually in the main waiting area for an hour, sometimes two, before we’re told to go anywhere, so we always bring plenty to do. Mom takes out the blue cotton yarn and knitting pattern she was working on in the car, and I open my science notes and put in my headphones. I’m doing this new thing where I only listen to one playlist on repeat. I don’t feel like mixing it up. I guess I want something to feel the same. I try to zone out, except the only thing I can think about from the minute I sit down is getting out of here in time to make tryouts.

  Dad sits down next to Mom and yawns loudly. It sounds like a lion roaring.

  “Rachel Brooks,” a nurse calls out over the speaker. She looks down at my chart and says, “Please head to x-ray.”

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  Dad laughs. Mom rolls her eyes like she knows something I’m supposed to know too.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “What did I miss?”

  “Get used to it,” she says, packing up her knitting. “Your dad is here. Everything is going to go much faster today.”

  I cross my fingers. I really hope she’s right about that.

  We follow the signs for the x-ray department down an endless white corridor. I want to sprint down the hall, but Mom can’t move very fast these days. The baby really slows her down. We finally get in the elevator, and I hold my breath as the red numbers flash above us. I hope no one with a hospital badge recognizes either of my parents. I’m never in the mood to smile and pretend I care about someone who hasn’t seen me since I was “this big,” but especially not today.

  Dad walks up to the counter and says something to one of the x-ray techs. She looks at her screen and then at me. “Come right this way,” she says, as if Dad has some magical power that lets us skip to the front of every line.

  After they’re finished taking my x-rays, I change back into my clothes, all of them, even though I’m not supposed to. I don’t want to walk down the halls or sit in the waiting room in just a gown. I walk as fast as I can down the long hallway toward the waiting area. “You’re supposed to keep your gown on,” the x-ray tech shouts from behind me.

  I don’t stop or turn around. I say, “Thank you,” and keep walking.

  “Please put your gown back on.” Her sneakers squeak against the floor.

  I push through the doors and walk into the waiting room before she can catch me. It’s the first time I’ve ever broken one of the hospital rules. I keep waiting for her to grab my shoulder and drag me back in there. But she doesn’t. Nothing happens.

  I look around for my parents. Nearly all of the seats are full now with rows of people waiting to be x-rayed. After I sit down next to Mom and Dad, I check my phone. No emails. No texts. No missed calls. No reply from Coach Howard.

  We only wait an hour before my name is called again, and we’re back in the little white examining room, waiting to see the doctor.

  The door opens and Dr. Paul walks in, followed by his flock of residents, flooding in behind him like pigeons. They fill every inch of extra space, sucking up the oxygen.

  Dr. Paul’s face lights up when he sees Dad sitting between Mom and me. I’ve never seen him smile before. “David, it’s been too long,” he says.

  Dad stands up and shakes his hand.

  “I haven’t seen you since … well, since you were standing here.” He points to the residents. That’s when I realize that Dr. Paul was Dad’s teacher.

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done for Rachel.” Dad sounds sincere.

  I bite my tongue hard. I’ve never seen Dad look at anyone the way he’s gazing at Dr. Paul. He’s wide-eyed. Dad is always the most important doctor in the room—at least, any room I’ve ever been in—and right now there’s someone whose opinion matters more. It’s weird.

  Dr. Paul pulls up two x-rays on the computer monitor and measures the curve in my spine on both, the one from my last appointment and the one from today. The room is silent. I watch the clock and try to ignore Dr. Paul’s loafer tap, tap, tapping against the floor. I’m getting worried that something is wrong, because it’s been almost five minutes since anyone said a word.
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  Dr. Paul takes a deep breath. “From the x-ray, it appears that the curve has moved to thirty-three degrees.”

  I look at Dad. His face has the same composed look it usually does. Mom’s head is hanging in front of her, limp and wilted like a half-dead flower.

  “It’s worse than before,” Dr. Paul translates.

  No. No. No. I don’t want to have surgery. I never should have gone to the stupid dance. I didn’t mean to make it worse.

  “Amy, I assume Rachel has been compliant.” He looks at Mom.

  She lifts her head up. “Rachel has been the perfect patient. I don’t understand how this is happening. She’s done everything right.”

  “Mom, I haven’t.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Yes. You have.” Mom’s voice comes out sharp and defensive.

  I shake my head. “One time I took an extra long shower after practice so I could have a few more minutes out of the brace. And the dance … I’m so sorry.”

  “Rachel. Honey.” She rubs my shoulder. “It’s okay. That’s a very small amount of time. It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

  “You’re right, Amy,” Dr. Paul says to Mom. “But this time is very critical, so between now and when she’s done growing, let’s aim for perfection. We want to make sure Rachel does everything she can to avoid having her curve progress.”

  I can still feel Mom’s hand on my shoulder. She’s ready to protect me.

  Dr. Paul looks at my chart and then up at his students. “There are two indicators that the patient will be done growing soon. She hasn’t grown since she was here for her last visit about four months ago. And she’s had her period for two years.”

  I look at the ground and then at the ceiling and try to pretend no one is talking about my period right now.

  “Rachel, why don’t you come on up here so we can have a look at your back?”

  Everyone looks at me. I can’t believe I have to do this with Dad in the room.

  “Excuse me.” Dad looks down at his phone. It’s been silent all day. “I need to follow up with a few patients.”

  Dad leaves and Mom stands up. She walks over and whispers something in Dr. Paul’s ear. He thinks about whatever she said for a few seconds, then says something to the resident standing next to him, and they all file out, like it was that easy the whole time.

  Mom sits down, and even though her mouth is closed, she’s smiling. I know they’re gone for good.

  “Thank you,” I whisper in her ear.

  Mom rests her hand on the back of my neck and pulls me close to her. “I love you,” she says.

  “How’s school?” Dr. Paul asks me. I have a feeling that Mom asked him to talk directly to me. It makes me extra glad I told her everything.

  “Not great,” I say.

  “Rachel,” Mom says.

  “What? I’m telling the truth.” I look at her. She doesn’t say anything, but she lets go of my hand. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.

  I look at the clock. 2:30 p.m. One hour until tryouts start. “I’m probably going to miss my huge, really important soccer tryouts,” I say to Dr. Paul. “And if I were there, if I got my chance to play, I’d probably make the A Team.”

  “I understand,” he says. “Why don’t I write you a note explaining that this appointment was very important?”

  I think about his offer for a minute. It probably can’t hurt to have a doctor’s note, especially if I get to tryouts late. I might need something extra to convince Coach Howard I really do deserve a shot. “That might help,” I say.

  “Good,” Dr. Paul says. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

  Mom clears her throat and stares at me like I’m forgetting something.

  “Thank you very much for writing the note.” I try to be very specific, because I’m only thankful for that part.

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “Now, if you could change back into your gown, I’ll do my best to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”

  After I change, I stand in front of Dr. Paul like usual. He takes out the measuring device, and Mom stands up. She walks over to me and grabs both sides of my gown. When I bend forward, it doesn’t fall at all. For the most part, everything that should stay covered does. Dr. Paul runs the Scoliometer over my back and hmms like always.

  “All right,” he says at last. “You’re all set.”

  I stand up. “Is thirty-three bad?” I ask, because in my head it sounds a lot bigger than thirty.

  Dr. Paul looks surprised. “It’s a good thing you’ve been wearing the brace. It’s working hard to keep your curve from moving. I don’t think you’ll be growing anymore. That’s what I was explaining earlier. I’m hoping that when you come back in about two months, you’ll be finished.”

  “With the brace?” I ask.

  “Based on when you got your first period and the fact that you haven’t grown since our last appointment, yes. We’ll take an x-ray of your wrist at your next visit.”

  “Why would you take an x-ray of my wrist?” I ask. Since I’ve actually gotten Dr. Paul to talk to me for once, I’m going to keep it going and get all the answers.

  “It’ll show the growth plates of the individual bones in your hand. As you reach skeletal maturity, these bones start to close, and they have a pattern of closure that we’ve found to be reliable in determining if you’re done growing.”

  “Wait. Hold up,” I say. “You’re telling me that the next time I’m here, I could be done with the brace.”

  He nods.

  OMG! OMG! OMG! YES! Best day ever! Two months is not even that long. I can totally handle two months. It will still be indoor soccer season, and the baby won’t be able to walk or talk or even hold his head up. There are fireworks going off inside of me, and the air tastes sweet and sugary, like blue cotton candy, every time I breathe.

  I look at the clock. 2:45 p.m. Tryouts start in forty-five minutes. It will be tight, but I might actually make it.

  Dad is waiting by the elevators. “Let’s go.” He waves us over.

  “Wait,” Mom says. “Don’t we have to—” She points to the main desk.

  “I took care of it.” Dad hands each of us a business card with the date and time of my next appointment, aka the day I’m getting my brace off! Tuesday, February 10 at 10 a.m.

  I think about texting Hazel and Frannie my news. I wish I wasn’t in a fight with my best friends so they could be excited for me too.

  In the car, I make a list of things I can’t do right now that I will be able to do on Tuesday, February 10:

  1. Play soccer without my brace.

  2. Wear just a white cotton shirt.

  3. Not feel itchy.

  4. Forget to count time.

  5. Eat an entire box of macaroni and cheese.

  We get stuck in traffic on the way out of the city, and I spend the rest of the ride to school switching between watching the road and watching the clock. We pull into the visitors’ parking lot at 3:30 p.m. exactly, which means tryouts are starting right now.

  I grab my bag and run as fast as I can toward the gym. Dad is running right behind me. It’s dismissal time, so everyone is standing outside waiting for buses or parents to take them home. I don’t stop until we make it to the gym.

  Everyone is already dressed and starting to stretch. I walk right up to Coach Howard, and Dad follows me. “Rachel,” Coach says, like she’s surprised to see me.

  “I made it!” I say, catching my breath.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Go change,” she says, smiling.

  “Thank you!”

  Coach shakes her head. “Thank yourself. It was very responsible of you to let me know about your appointment as soon as you found out. It shows me you’re dedicated to soccer and capable of handling your commitments.”

  “I’m really, really dedicated to soccer!” I say. Then I turn around and grin at Dad.

  “A Team, here you come,” he says.

  Once we’re
done warming up, Coach Howard has us run two-on-three drills. I start on defense.

  Frannie and I both sprint out from the goal line. She runs to cover Hazel, who has the ball, and I rush to cover the area between Ladan and Josie. Hazel passes the ball to Ladan. Ladan dribbles forward, and I can tell she is going for the goal, because she’s setting up to shoot with her right foot, which is the only one she ever uses. I put my right leg up and block the shot with my shin. I get control of the ball. Ladan sprints over to me and tries to get the ball back, but I dribble away from her, bend forward, and box her out with my brace. Then I ping the ball to Frannie and she clears it.

  “Where did that come from?” Ladan says under her breath.

  I smile.

  We switch positions, and I get a chance on offense. I’m in the middle, Frannie is on my right, and Josie is on my left with the ball. If Frannie and I weren’t in a fight, this would be perfect. She’d try extra hard to make me look good. Still, I can do this. I know I can. I just need to use my right foot. Focus.

  Coach Howard blows the whistle and Hazel runs to cover Josie, so tightly that Josie can hardly move. She doesn’t have a choice but to pass the ball to me.

  I tap the ball to Frannie and then run between the two defenders just in time for her to slide the ball back to me. I aim for the corner of the net with my right foot. Shoot, and follow through. The ball goes into the goal. YES!

  Josie looks at me like she just bit into a lemon.

  Frannie puts her hand in the air. I slap it and grin. We both jog to the back of the line. “That rocked,” she says to me. “I can’t believe how much stronger you’re getting on your right side.”

  “I know, right?” I smile at her. “Thank you, brace.”

  “Seriously,” she says. “I hope you know you’re crushing tryouts.”

  “I do.” I nod. I want to keep talking, to tell her I miss her and I’m sorry for what I said, but before I have a chance, Coach Howard blows the whistle and says, “Huddle up.” And we both jog over to the rest of the team.

  At the end of day two, I know deep down in my gut that I gave it my all. I hope my all is enough to make the A Team.