Braced Page 6

  ☺☺☺, I write back.

  The garage rumbles, opening and closing, and the door to the house slams shut. Dad is home, I write. GTG.

  “Rachel,” Mom yells. “Dinner.” I need to get downstairs before she comes up here and sees my clothes all over the place.

  The kitchen smells like tomato sauce or soup, something warm and comforting. Whatever Mom made is wrong for a hot summer night, but I don’t mind.

  Dad’s been on call, so I haven’t seen him since before I got the brace. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I see him standing over the counter, sorting through mail. He looks serious—black hair, black suit—and he keeps adjusting his glasses to read the fine print on whatever bill he’s looking at. “Hello, Rachel,” he says, looking up at me.

  I run over and hug him.

  He hugs back. “How was your day?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “Rachel got a lot of beautiful new clothes for school, didn’t you?” Mom answers for me. It’s my cue to show them I’m grateful.

  “Thank you for the clothes,” I say, looking at Mom and then Dad. I walk over to the table and start setting three places.

  “You’re welcome,” Dad says. Then he whispers something to Mom. They look at each other and smile. Dad rests his hand on Mom’s stomach, so I know for sure that they’re talking about the baby. I don’t understand how Dad can be happy right now. Shouldn’t he be worried about me? Shouldn’t he be trying to make me feel better? I guess he assumes Mom is handling that.

  “What did you end up getting?” Dad puts down the paper in his hand and looks ready to give me his full attention.

  “Dresses,” I say.

  “Very nice,” he says. “You like dresses.”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Want to show me after dinner?” he asks. “I don’t have to start my billing right away.”

  I shake my head. I know he’s trying. But I don’t want to put on a fashion show of my new outfits. “They don’t look good. Nothing does. Today when we were in the fitting room, this woman told me that I look lumpy in the middle. And she saw the best outfit I tried on all day.” I put the last fork in its place and sit down.

  “Okaaay,” Dad says. He looks at Mom for help.

  “Don’t look at me.” Mom slams the metal cover on top of the pot.

  “I suggest you give it some time,” Dad says. “Adjustment to the brace can be difficult, but it does become manageable.” He sounds like he’s reading out of an orthopedic journal.

  “I look like a freak. And there’s no way I’m going to be good at soccer now, right?” I look at Mom. “But I have to wear the brace. So basically I can’t really do the only thing I actually want to do. And I don’t see how that will become manageable.”

  Mom and Dad don’t say anything.

  It’s quiet and hot in the kitchen. We sit down at the table and eat in silence. I’m on my first bite of pasta when I realize I was counting on Dad to be on my side. I really need someone to get why I’m so sad, and it’s not going to be Mom.

  After dinner, Mom helps me back into the brace. I put on my soccer clothes, go outside with my ball, and start my regular warm-up.

  Sprints. Every time I swing my arms back and forth, the brace scrapes under my armpit. It hurts. But I don’t stop. I run through the pain until I’m sweating and sticky.

  I put the ball in front of me and try toe taps. The bottom of the brace digs into my legs each time I lift my foot and tap the top of the ball—left, right, left, right.

  After I finish my warm-up, I practice juggling. I keep my feet low and try to stay in control of the ball, but my balance is off because of my brace, and it’s hard to hop from one foot to the other without feeling like I’m going to fall over. I stop and try again. I kick the ball once off my laces and catch it. I go for two taps on the same foot, and then three. I switch feet and practice on the other side. Once I have that down, I go back to juggling from one foot to the other. I’m still wobbly, but I manage to hold on to the ball for a little longer.

  Then I dribble across the yard, accelerate, and change direction, pulling the ball with me. Each time I speed up and turn, the brace rubs against my hips. I don’t care that it hurts. I push through. I’m not giving up. I’m playing, and I’m going to be good, even in the brace.

  THE NEXT DAY, after practice, Mom drives Hazel, Frannie, and me back to our house for a sleepover. The whole way home, I keep trying to think of ways to tell Frannie about the brace, because I’m doing it tonight. I have to wear it for eight hours today and ten tomorrow. There’s no way I could hide it from her, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m ready to talk about it. Also, it’s my first night sleeping with it on. True fact: I did not want to have a sleepover tonight, but Frannie insisted, and when I asked Mom to nix it, she said no, and that I shouldn’t run away from my problems. But she also said I should lean on my friends for support, and I think she might be right about that part.

  The plan for the rest of the day and night is to watch Dirty Dancing. We rotate the same dance classics at every sleepover—Girls Just Want to Have Fun and Footloose. They were Frannie’s mom’s favorite movies, and they would play on repeat in the background of everything, even after she got sick. I’m not sure if that’s the right word to use, but I don’t know what else to call it. “Mental illness” is what Mom called it, but that sounds worse than sick. It sounds like a secret illness hidden away in her head.

  Hazel and I are the only ones who know how Frannie’s mom died—that she took too many pills because she was sad and trying to make herself feel better. It was an accident. Mom told me it wasn’t a regular decision, the kind Frannie’s mom would have made when she was healthy. But Frannie doesn’t like to talk about things that are wrong in her life. Most of the time she pretends they’re not there.

  I personally like watching the same happy dance movies over and over. Sometimes it’s nice to watch a story where I know all the answers, even if none of them are real. Plus, it makes Frannie happy, and we know every word, so we only sort of have to pay attention.

  When we get home, Frannie takes off her soccer stuff and throws it into her gym bag. Frannie is all muscle and curves, and out of nowhere it seems like she’s a B-cup too. I don’t remember Frannie ever going into the bathroom to change. That’s Hazel’s move. She’s in there now.

  Hazel comes out of the bathroom in her pajamas. I used to think having boobs was bad, because Frannie was flat too and I was the one who was different. I’ve always been a little ahead of them. But now Frannie has them too and Hazel is the only one who doesn’t. It’s weird how one minute you can be like everyone else and the next you’re the one who doesn’t fit in.

  “So, I know we have a few days off, but we should still practice. You need to get ready for your first game on offense!” Frannie sounds so excited.

  I look at Hazel. Her shoulders fall, like her whole body is sighing in support of me. It makes me feel better, like I’m not alone in this.

  “I have to tell you something,” I say to Frannie.

  “What’s up?”

  “I have to wear a back brace,” I say. Her face doesn’t change. “All day. Every day. Even during soccer. For the next six months or a year, maybe. It looks bad. And I don’t know how I’m going to play in it like I do now. I mean, I’m allowed to. I tried last night, and I think I can. But I don’t know. It’s going to be hard.”

  “Why do you have to wear it?” she asks.

  “I have scoliosis.”

  “I think my aunt had that. She didn’t have a brace or whatever they did back then, but I’m pretty sure my mom told me about how she had to go to the doctor for it. At least, I think it was my mom who told me that.” Frannie shakes her head. “I’m forgetting everything about her already.” She clenches her jaw like she’s trying not to cry.

  I sit down next to Frannie. I try to figure out the right thing to say, but none of the words in my head sound good enough. Hazel doesn
’t say anything either. No one tries to fill the space by talking. We sit there in the quiet.

  Frannie takes a deep breath. “It will probably help your posture, right?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I nod.

  “So if you think about it, it’s not all bad.”

  “I guess not,” I say. I hadn’t even considered that there might be good things about having a back brace, but posture feels important. Maybe there are other advantages I just can’t think of right now.

  “Can I see your brace?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “Will you help me with it?” I look at Hazel.

  “Wait, when did you find out?” Frannie asks Hazel.

  “A few days ago. It was a total accident. I swear.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Frannie nods, like she’s glad she wasn’t left out for too long or on purpose. “On a scale of one to drama queen, how bad is it?” she asks Hazel.

  “Seven-ish.” Hazel doesn’t look at me. “But Rachel still looks really pretty.”

  “Well, it doesn’t cover her face,” Frannie says. “Wait, does it?”

  “No,” I say, smiling.

  “That would be bad.” She smiles at me. “See, it could always be worse.”

  I know she’s right.

  I don’t go to the bathroom to change, but I don’t take everything off either. I keep myself covered up, slipping my special tank top over my head while sliding my soccer shirt down until I can step out of it. I put on a regular bra and then put the brace around me. I try to ignore the sound of the metal hinges rattling against the plastic.

  Hazel struggles to get the first strap closed. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Mm-hmm.” I keep my eyes shut so she can’t see that they’re starting to water.

  “Let me do that.” Frannie pushes Hazel out of the way. “No offense, but I’m the muscles of this group.” I can’t help but laugh. “Watch and learn.” She pulls the brace shut in what feels like three seconds. It’s even tighter than when Mom did it. And even though it hurts at first, after a few minutes, it’s much more comfortable because there isn’t any extra space between the padding and my skin. It doesn’t rub as much. I’m starting to get used to being enclosed inside of it.

  “Okay. I definitely thought it was going to be way worse. It’s only bad in some places.” Frannie points to my hips.

  I pick up my sweatshirt and cover myself as fast as I can. When I look down, all I can see is fabric. I like being hidden, even from myself.

  “And don’t worry. No one is going to think you have a weird body or anything,” Frannie says. “They’ll think you’re wearing a cast. It doesn’t even look like it’s part of you. It looks totally separate.”

  “How is that a good thing?” I ask.

  “People get casts all the time, and it’s no big deal. It’s a normal thing that happens. If anyone at school asks, say you got hurt, and everyone will feel bad for you.”

  “I guess that’s better than being made fun of.”

  “Definitely,” Hazel says. “Much better. Plus, you’re going to have a really popular BF, so that will definitely help your status.”

  “And you’re still going to be good at soccer,” Frannie says. “You have the best footwork on the field.”

  “Um, hardly,” I say.

  “Okay. Not yet. But you’re going to.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Have you tried kicking the ball with it yet?” Frannie asks.

  “I worked out last night, but I only practiced kicking with my right leg. I can hardly move my left hip.”

  “Yeah. You’re going to need to get really good with your right foot,” she says. “Get dressed.”

  “Now?” Hazel asks.

  Frannie nods. “Now.” She looks at me. “You’re still going to start.”

  I smile and open my dresser to find clean shorts and a T-shirt. Frannie thinks I can be good at soccer, even in my brace. I could have the fastest feet on the team. That could be my thing.

  Frannie and Hazel spend almost an hour helping me practice chipping and pinging. My body is tense inside the brace and my right foot feels floppy and weak, like I’m not fully in control. When I want to give up, they root for me and push me to keep kicking until I feel confident, and like maybe I could still start and play forward. By the time we go back inside, I’m not as nervous about soccer. Plus, I have the best friends ever. So school might not be that bad.

  Two days later, I’m stuck in the brace for fifteen hours. That’s nine hundred minutes. I’ve got seven hundred and eighty-two down, one hundred and eighteen to go.

  It’s weird to wish time away, to count the seconds, waiting for the ones that belong to me. It feels especially wrong because it’s the end of summer, and if everything were normal, I’d want time to slow down.

  Up in my room, I stare at my laptop screen, willing someone, anyone, to sign on to chat and distract me for a few minutes, but it isn’t working. It’s hot and sticky inside the brace. I want to take it off and let my skin breathe for a little while, but Mom already told me I need to practice wearing the brace straight through, because after I finish adjusting, every minute I spend out of the brace gets deducted from my one free hour. And I can never take extra minutes or hours off, because we have to do everything possible to make sure I don’t need surgery. I want to know what makes surgery so bad, so I search “What happens when you have surgery for scoliosis?”

  I scroll through the results looking for answers. First I open “Spinal Fusion Success Stories,” which has profiles of two smiling girls who both had surgery. One runs competitive cross-country now and the other still loves to horseback ride. They’re both healthy and really strong. Also, they’re friends with each other, which is cool. I go back to the results and open a different link about “the complications and potential risks associated with a spinal fusion.” They’re listed in bold: Infection. Nerve damage. Blood clots. Not good. There are no stories or pictures of happy teenagers here. Just big, scary words with short descriptions that make me want to stay in my brace, where it’s safe, and not cut any corners, not even small ones.

  I search again and look through the images this time: x-rays, before-and-after shots, and a diagram of a curved spine. I zoom in on a picture of surgical tools holding open something red. It’s the inside of someone’s spine! I shut my screen.

  “Surprise! I’m here!” Hazel’s voice makes me jump up off the bed a little. She’s standing in the doorway.

  “Hi!” I say. “Wait, what are you doing here?”

  “My mom was coming over to drop off a bunch of baby stuff. You’re not mad that I came over, are you?”

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “Okay, good.” She smiles like she’s relieved. “We’re leaving for Long Island in T minus two hours. I won’t be back until Monday, and we start school on Tuesday. I can’t believe it’s so soon!” Her voice gets way high, like she’s excited about seventh grade and soccer and Kyle and all the same things I’d be squealing about if I wasn’t scared about starting school in the brace. “Um, we need to talk about first-day outfits. How have we waited this long?”

  “I know!” I say. “I’m freaking out. My new clothes are all for fall.”

  “Same with me!” she says. “It’s like, hello, why can’t the weather know that school is starting and respond accordingly?” She claps her hands together, like she’s trying to get excited. “Okay, show me the options.”

  “I don’t even know what I got.” I grab on to the bedpost and pull myself up in one motion. I’m better at maneuvering around without getting jabbed by the brace. As soon as I’m standing in front of the pile of bags and torn tissue paper, I realize there’s a reason everything is still on the ground. I don’t think I can reach down and pick the clothes up. I bend forward and try to ignore the brace digging into the top of my thighs, as well as the feeling that I’m about to topple over.

  “Let me do it,” Hazel says. She picks everything up off the ground. “What’s go
ing to happen when you go out of bounds in a game?” she asks. “You have to be able to pick the ball up really fast and throw it back in.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I say. I’ve been so focused on running and kicking that I completely forgot bending down would be an issue too.

  “I know you will.” She holds up a purple skirt. “This is cute,” she says.

  It’s one of the things I didn’t try on, so in my head I can pretend it looks really good. I pick it up by the elastic waistband and put it next to a black tank top and a very thin gray sweater that looks like the kind of thing I might be able to hide under. “With this?” I ask.

  She tilts her head and her eyebrows scrunch together. “Yeah. That’s a winner.”

  “Not trying too hard?” I ask.

  She shrugs, and I guess I know she’s right. I can’t have everything.

  I change into the outfit, and as soon as I’m done, Hazel says, “I love it.”

  “Yeah? I don’t look weird in the middle?” I ask, because after what happened with that mom in the fitting room, I’m nervous about how I look in clothes.

  “No way,” she says. “Two thumbs up.”

  I open my closet door and look in the mirror. She’s right. I look good. The skirt is a little too short, since I put the elastic part above my fake hips, but no one can see that because of the sweater, which I grabbed on our way out of the store. It’s amazing—long and a little tighter at the bottom, so the middle puffs out enough to almost cover up my hips and straps. And it’s really thin, so I can probably pull it off without anyone saying, “Aren’t you hot in that thing?”

  We piece together a few more outfits before Hazel’s mom knocks and says that they’re leaving in five minutes. I look at the clock: the hundred and eighteen minutes are up. It turns out wearing the brace is a lot less painful when you aren’t counting and you’re with your best friend.

  “Can you help me out of it?” I ask Hazel.

  “Have you tried getting out by yourself?”

  “I can’t.” I take off my sweatshirt, reach around, and grab for the strap. “See?”