Braced Page 3

  There’s no way anyone could get used to this. She should try wearing it. She’d hate it.

  “We’ll have you start with an hour today, while you’re here in the hospital. Then you’ll add a second hour tomorrow. After that, I’d like you to follow the schedule I’ve created for you until you’re wearing it twenty-three hours a day.” She holds up a piece of paper. “In a few weeks you’ll come back, and we’ll take some x-rays to make sure the brace is the right fit.”

  “I can’t even move,” I say. “There’s no way I’ll be able to run.”

  “It will take time to adjust,” Jules says. “But it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “We’ll go shopping this week,” Mom says. “You’ll need new—”

  “Everything,” I finish her sentence.

  “Try to be positive, Rachel.” Mom shakes her head. “It’s just plastic. It’s not permanent. You should be thankful you have a brace. This is your chance to avoid surgery. You’re lucky.”

  “I don’t feel lucky.”

  “Well, you are.”

  The pads inside the brace feel like sharp rocks being pushed against my ribs and back, and the middle of my body aches already from being crushed on all sides. And it’s not getting any easier to breathe. I reach around for the strap, and the brace pinches my skin. I ignore it. The top strap is right there, but I can’t get my hand all the way around it. The Velcro is fresh from the package, and it won’t budge. I twist my arm as far as it will go, until it feels like it might pop out of the socket, but it’s not getting me anywhere. I’m stuck.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asks.

  “It hurts. It really hurts.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “You have to stay in it for an hour now. Give it a chance.”

  “Mom. Please.”

  She doesn’t say anything, again.

  I’m trapped.

  USUALLY AS SOON as we leave the hospital things go back to normal, but with the brace rattling in the backseat, it’s like we took the hospital with us. Mom doesn’t say a word to me the entire drive. It should take only a half hour to get from Boston to Andover, but thanks to traffic, we’ve been in the car for at least twice that long by the time we get to our exit. Mom taps her fingernails against the steering wheel the whole way.

  “Should we get Sal’s?” she asks, breaking the silence.

  I shrug. “Pizza is fine,” I say.

  “Pizza is your favorite food.”

  “I can’t believe you said it was like your knee brace,” I say. “It’s huge. I’m not wearing it. I can’t. It hurts.”

  “You have to. You don’t have a choice,” she says. “And you can’t cut corners on your time in the brace. This is serious. You could end up permanently deformed. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” I say. I am scared of what will happen if my curve keeps getting worse. I don’t want to be hunched over or in pain or anything else. I want Dr. Paul to be able to fix me. I just don’t want to wear the brace.

  She turns the car onto our street and parks in front of the mailbox. “Go inside and rest. It’s been a long day. I’ll pick up a pizza and those garlic knots you love.” She tucks my hair behind my ears. “Any other requests?”

  I get that takeout is her way of trying to make it better. “No, thank you.” I shake my head and open the car door.

  “Rachel.” Mom stops me. “We’ll go shopping this weekend and get you a bigger soccer bag that will fit the brace.”

  “Do you really think I’m going to be able to play soccer?” I ask.

  “I highly doubt Jules would tell you that you could try if it wasn’t possible.”

  “Okay.” I hope she’s right.

  I walk up the driveway and straight into the backyard. I check to make sure no one is watching before I open the hidden door under the deck, crouch a little, and disappear inside. Mom and Dad never think to look for me in the storage space, so it feels like my secret place.

  I sit down on my pink beanbag chair and kick my feet up onto the stack of firewood. It’s been there for a few years, ever since we first moved into this place—Dad’s dream house. At the time, he thought he’d be home enough to build a real fire occasionally. Now the old stacks of wood remind me how much I hate the hospital, and how it seems like Dad loves it more than everything else.

  My eyes cloud with tears. I don’t bother wiping them away. I take a deep breath, letting my nose fill with fresh pine and mulch. I cry until I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. It’s a text from Frannie: Hazel and I are going to dinner at Tortillas with the forwards. Coming?

  Normally seeing Hazel and Frannie would automatically make everything a billion times better. And this is basically my dream: hang out with my best friends, talk about soccer, and eat burritos. But there’s no way I can fake happy and act like everything is fine right now. I have this sinking feeling in my stomach, like the brace is going to get in the way of everything I want.

  Here’s the truth: I call Frannie my best friend, but I have no clue how to talk to her about my brace. Frannie is super confident and basically never does anything embarrassing, and sometimes that makes me feel like she’s inspecting my insides with a magnifying glass, judging me every time I mess up. So she doesn’t know about that one time last year when I got my period in the middle of math, or that I keep deodorant in my backpack because I’m afraid I’ll forget to put it on one morning and have bad B.O. all day. Whenever I tell her a little too much, I end up feeling stupid and saying, “That’s not what I meant,” even if I’ve said exactly what I meant. And that’s just how I feel when I tell her small things. I’ve never had to tell her about anything big until now.

  It’s different with Hazel. She totally gets me. She never says “TMI” or “That’s weird” like Frannie does, because she knows what it’s like to feel super awkward, and to worry about what other people think. I always feel like I can tell her anything. Except right now, I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell her about this.

  I text Frannie back. Food poisoning ☹.

  OMG! What about practice??? You can’t miss it, she writes back.

  I’ll be there! Nothing is going to stop me, I say.

  Okay. Phew. See you at 11:30 tomorrow!

  ☺☺☺

  Two seconds later, I get a text from Hazel: You okay?

  Feeling WAY better, I say.

  K cool. Just checking ☺. We miss you!!! I’m still coming over before practice, right?

  Totes! I say.

  I feel bad for lying to them. We aren’t the kind of friends who keep secrets, but once I say it out loud, scoliosis won’t be this thing that only exists with Mom at the hospital. It will be part of me every day. And the brace won’t be over until I’m done growing. Whenever that is.

  WHEN I GET downstairs the next morning, the kitchen is empty. I make my signature breakfast—cereals mixed together—and pull myself up onto the counter while I wait for the milk to soak in. I pick up one of the mason jars next to me and twist off the top. It’s filled with the seashells Mom and I collected at the start of summer. Inside, it smells perfect, like sand and salt water, like that day at the beach.

  I can hear Mom talking on the phone. She’s in the bathroom down the hall with the door closed and the sink running. I guess I’m supposed to think she’s washing her hands in there, but I keep hearing her say my name. It’s probably Gram or Dad on the other end of the phone, but I still wish she’d stop talking about me, because it feels like she’s opening the door to the little white appointment room and letting everyone look inside. I bet she’d hate it if I did that to her. I should get to tell people about the brace first.

  She turns off the faucet. “It’ll be fine. Really. It will be,” she says, even though she has no clue how it’s going to be. She doesn’t have to start seventh grade in a back brace. “Have a good day, honey,” she says, so now I know for sure she’s talking to Dad. I walk over to the bathroom and knock on the door.

  “David, hold on a second—�
� Mom says. “Come in.”

  “Is that Dad?” I ask, swinging the door open.

  “Rachel wants to talk to you,” Mom says into the phone. “Okay. Love you too.” Then she hands me the phone.

  I turn my head away from her. I’m not talking to her right now, and I want to make that very, very clear.

  She sighs and walks out.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say. “The brace hurts.”

  “It’s supposed to be like that at first. It takes time to break it in,” he says. “It will get easier.”

  “Okay. But when do you think that will happen, because I can’t move in it right now. And I really want to be good at soccer still.”

  “Then you will be. You can do anything,” he says. “Just don’t forget to have fun. Give yourself a break from thinking about all this stuff. It’s important.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I love you,” Dad says.

  “I love you too.” I hang up and walk into the kitchen. I ignore Mom and look down at my bowl of cereal. It’s exactly the way I like it, a little mushy. I take a bite. It’s sweet, sugary perfection.

  Mom walks over to the fridge, and the silver charms dangling from her bracelet clap together, like tiny bells celebrating her every move. She opens the door. Ring. Takes out the yogurt. Ring. Ring. Slices cantaloupe. Ring. Ring. She eats the same breakfast every day, same as me.

  “Rachel,” she says, turning to look at me. “You have to wear it for two hours today. I don’t want you to tell me later that you already forgot about your new responsibility.”

  I can’t forget. I can’t think about anything else. How does she not get that?

  “Okay?” she asks.

  “Okay.” I realize it’s sort of impossible to ignore Mom when I need her to put the brace on me and take it off. “Can you help me with it?”

  “Now?” she asks.

  “Yes. Now.” Hazel is coming over today so we can hang out before practice. I’m not ready to tell her about the brace, which means I have to get into it now so I can be out of it before she gets here. The thought of putting the brace on with anything in my stomach makes me queasy, so I dump my cereal in the sink and put my bowl in the dishwasher.

  “You have to eat something,” Mom says.

  “I will when I’m done wearing it.”

  She doesn’t fight me. I go upstairs and change into the tank top Jules gave me at the hospital. It’s way less cute in the real world.

  Mom walks into my room holding a sweatshirt and looks around like she’s searching for something. Last summer, I finally got rid of all the shiny bows and stuffed animals that were clogging up my shelves. Mom let me pick out a new comforter and curtains. The colors are cranberry, cream, and dusty blue. I think it’s cute and put together, with my own personal antique-y style, but not trying too hard. Just like me, or what I want to be. I don’t have cutouts from magazines taped to the walls like Hazel, but there’s a besties collage on my desk and a stack of journals hidden under the bed.

  Mom gasps when she sees the brace where I left it yesterday: on the floor in a pile of laundry. “You don’t just throw it on the ground, Rachel. You’re lucky to have a brace.”

  I wish she’d stop saying that.

  She leans forward and picks it up. Her spine doesn’t bend when she reaches down. It stays straight and fused together, because of her surgery. I never really noticed that she leans in a straight line before. It’s part of her, one of the things that has been there forever, like the thick white scar along her spine, and the way she says certain words with a Boston accent and smells like home.

  “Ready?” she asks, as if I have a choice. I don’t, so I walk over to her. “It’s easier to put it on if you start with your arms straight up in the air,” she says. “That way it won’t scratch your skin. It’ll rub during the day no matter what we do, but at least we can avoid it first thing in the morning.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “I wore a brace before my surgery. For … I’m not sure how long.” She pauses like she’s thinking. “I know I got it in sixth grade, because I went to a new school that year.”

  “You don’t remember?” I ask.

  Mom shakes her head. I can tell she’s trying to find the answer hidden deep down in the basement of her brain. “Six months. Maybe nine. It was a long time ago.”

  “If you had a brace, then why did you need surgery?” I ask.

  “Bracing doesn’t work for everyone. I don’t know why it didn’t work for me. I followed all the rules, but my curve kept getting bigger. The next time I saw the doctor, it was fifty degrees and I needed surgery.”

  My chest feels tight. “Were you scared?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes turn red and glossy. “Come on, let’s get you into the brace,” she says.

  I follow Mom’s advice and lift my arms up. She takes a deep breath and wraps the plastic around me, resting her hand against my back. She pulls each of the straps shut as quickly as she can—bottom, top, middle. It still clamps down, but it doesn’t scrape or sting this time. It’s a lot less painful than when Jules did it.

  “After you take it off, if you have any blisters, you have to put rubbing alcohol on them,” she says. “It will help your skin toughen up. It stings, but it works, and I don’t want you to have scars. I’ll leave some under the bathroom sink. The rubbing alcohol is Gram’s trick. Did I tell you that already?”

  I shake my head.

  “I could have sworn I did. Well, anyway, it’s worth it. Believe me. I don’t have one mark.” She pauses. “From the brace.”

  “Okay. I can do that,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t want any permanent marks either.

  “Good.” She smiles. “I almost forgot—” She hands me the sweatshirt. “I figured you’d need something to wear around the house.”

  I pull it over my head and slide my arms through the soft sleeves. It’s warm against my neck, and it smells like fabric softener. I’ve never seen Dad wear it before, but I know it’s his, because it hangs down past the brace and touches the tops of my knees. I turn on an old homework playlist, get in bed with my book, and cover myself with a blanket, disappearing under the thick fabric.

  “I’m going downstairs to rest for a little while. Call if you need anything.” Mom sits down next to me and kisses my forehead. She holds on to my face, pressing her cheek against mine. It feels soft and warm and nice not to be alone. She gets up and walks to the other side of the room, then turns back around to look at me. “I know it hurts, but you’ll be used to it soon,” she says. “Just follow the rules.”

  Two hours later, it’s finally time to take the brace off. Mom doesn’t come up to my room, so I get out of bed and go to the top of the staircase. I put my left foot out in front of me and bend my knee like I’m about to start walking, but I can’t find my balance and I can’t move my hips. Not one at a time. They have to go together.

  I hold the banister and lean back. It feels like I’m stuck inside a sweaty rain boot. Every time I step down, the brace digs into my sides, and all I can think about is how impossible and far away playing soccer feels. I force myself to keep going until I make it to the bottom of the stairs.

  Mom isn’t in the kitchen, and Hazel will be here in five minutes. She’s always on time. It’s one of the things I usually love about her, but today I wish she’d show up late.

  I can’t move at my normal pace without feeling like I’m suffocating, so I do the only thing I can think of: I take a deep breath and scream, “Mom!”

  My cry for help bounces off the ceiling and right back at me. I wait for her to say, “In here, Rachel,” but the house is silent.

  I walk through the family room and into her bedroom on the first floor. Sometimes she can’t hear me if she’s taking a bath or curled up in bed. But Mom isn’t in her room or in the tub or outside on the back porch. I’m on my way to check the kitchen again when I see her out the window. She’s at the end of the driveway, talking to Hazel’s mom, leaning into
the driver’s side window of the car. What is she doing? She knows I can’t get out of the brace on my own.

  I hear the back door close and the sound of flip-flops clapping against the floor. “Rachel!” Hazel says.

  I bolt into the bathroom. “Be right there,” I shout, slamming the door shut and tearing off my sweatshirt in one desperate move. I only have a few minutes before she’ll come looking for me. If I can get out of this thing and shove it under the sink, everything will be fine. I twist myself around and grab the strap, digging my fingernails into the Velcro. I ignore the sharp pain under my arm and pull as hard as I can.

  “Tell me you aren’t still sick,” Hazel says at the exact moment I feel the strap slip out from between my fingers. She’s on the other side of the door, snapping her gum. “This practice is going to be huge for you. Frannie thinks Coach Howard might try you at forward. There’s no way I’m letting you miss it.”

  “I’m not sick,” I say, wiping my hands on one of Mom’s fancy, embroidered towels. “I just woke up late.”

  “That’s so un-you,” she says.

  I feel bad for lying again, but I can’t exactly talk about this right now, and even if I could, I don’t want to.

  “What are you doing in there anyway?” she asks.

  “I’ll be out in a sec.” This is the part where I’m supposed to open the door and be like, “Oh, hey, hi. What’s up?” Only I can’t. “We have Snapple in the fridge,” I say.

  “Cool.” Hazel drags out the word so it’s obvious she thinks I’m acting weird. “I’ll get them for both of us.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I reach back around and pull on the strap as hard as I can. My heart is pounding and my neck is sweating, the way it does when I wear my puffy coat in the car and the heat is on full blast. The strap doesn’t budge. This can’t be happening. I can’t be stuck. Not now.

  “Rachel,” Hazel says. She must have taken off her flip-flops because I didn’t hear her this time, and before I have a chance to come up with another excuse, the door swings open and she’s standing there.