Chapter Four


Petrichor / Ludovico Einaudi


Try to make the best of it?

Is that what you say to someone who you think has plenty of time to enjoy themselves?

"Mia? Earth to Mia!" a hand waved in front of my face. "Hey, Space Cadet, you there?"

"W-what?" I jerked my head back, blinking in surprise. My eyes refocused on the textbook in front of me, the papers scattered around on the carpet. Peter leaned into my line of sight, raising his eyebrows at me, and I rubbed my face, embarrassed. "Oh, uh, sorry. Just...thinking."

"Again?" Peter sniffed, pulling back and typing something on his calculator, then writing the answer down on his worksheet. "You know, if you keep doing that, people might think you're one of those crazy independent thinkers. Had this been two hundred years ago, you'd be put in a mental asylum."

I frowned at him. That was not one of Peter's better jokes. "...Thanks. I-I guess."

Peter seemed to realize I wasn't taking to his humor, and set down his pencil, the smile sliding off his face. "Is something wrong?"

"N-no."

"Was it that doctor's visit?"

"No." I repeated, getting annoyed. "I'm f-fine. Stop asking."

Peter looked unconvinced, and I just knew he was going to persist. I flinched when he opened his mouth to argue the point, but before he could say anything, a voice called from the kitchen: "Peter! Can you come help me with the casserole?"

"Coming, Aunt May!" he got up with a huff, trotting out of the living room and into the kitchen, brightly lit and alive with chatter. Mom and Uncle Ben were catching up around some beers as Aunt May added her own two cents while wielding a sauce-laden spatula.

I didn't know what started the tradition of going to Peter's apartment in Queens, but up until right about now I really liked it. And this was a nice neighborhood (and, subjectively, miles away from Frederick Douglass), not filled with gunshots and police sirens like Hell's Kitchen was.

Peter and I always camped out in the living room, usually watching TV when we did our homework, our stuff scattered across the couch, coffee table, and floor. We agreed that after we finished, we'd used Peter's computer — an ancient Commodore 68 — and try to see who got further on The Oregon Trail. Ben said he'd give five dollars to the winner, and even if he was just joking, there was a little tension now between me and Peter.

Uncle Ben was just your ordinary auto mechanic at the local repair shop. It meant his hands were nearly always covered in grease, and he wasn't allowed to wear work pants on the nice couch, or Aunt May would complain. So instead he'd sit at the table and share horror stories from work with my mom, who had plenty of her own. He was a few years older than her, blond hair just starting to gray at the temples.

Aunt May was the type of woman who'd fit in perfectly with socialites, had she been given the chance. She always looked her best, dark hair coiffed and lipstick applied just right, even after hours working as a bank teller downtown. Her never-ending font of optimism seemed to have rubbed off on Peter over the years, as well as the cleanliness; something I'd probably appreciate more if my mood wasn't as dark as it was right now.

The smell of dinner cooking made me salivate, and I battled with my own resentment to get up and join the rest of them. My pride won out, and I remained seated, glowering at this history essay that just did not want to work itself out. Maybe it'd be better if I tried typing it; surely Peter would let me use his computer for this, if I could temper through the 'are you okay' questions a few more times.

Dr. Kane's words still rang in my head, and I gripped my pencil, frustrated. It just felt all wrong, and yet here everyone was, talking, laughing, having a good time. Like everything was going to be all right. Why couldn't I see that, too?

Like I wasn't already distracted enough. The talk with Mr. Barchard earlier this week still bugged me, although he hadn't broached the subject with me again…although now Michelle kept poking at the subject, like the time she sat with me during lunch (a surprise, since I usually sat on my own if Peter wasn't there), and we had a lively discussion about the recent political scandal with President Ellis before I realized what she was doing.

Michelle never said such a thing out loud, of course. And I wasn't dumb enough to point it out.

I wasn't sure if I was even angry at this point, because at the time, it had been fun. Michelle Jones had just walked right up to me, sat down, and started talking like it was just so normal. I felt normal. Like she wasn't abandoning her usual habit for me that day, that she was there because she enjoyed it, too.

I didn't know what to feel. I wanted to talk to someone about it, Mom maybe, but I was pretty sure I already knew what her answer was. Go join a club, then — it might be fun! Besides, you need to get out more, or something along those lines. I didn't have time to join clubs. What if I got sick again? What if I didn't get into Midtown? I needed to focus on that more.

"Hey, kiddo," a voice brought me out of my reverie, and I looked up to see Uncle Ben standing over me, hands in his pockets and a kind smile on his face. He was tall, had a day's worth of beard, and wore wire-frame spectacles — I think it was a Parker staple to wear glasses. "We called you for dinner. Aren't you hungry?"

"Um, n-not really," I said, biting my lip. Doctor's visits tended to kill my appetite. I didn't want to make him concerned, though, so I added, "I j-just want to get this, uh, essay f-finished first."

"Well, I can't see how you can work on an empty stomach," Ben pointed out, that mischievous sparkle in his eye just like Peter did when they knew I was bluffing. Peter may not be Uncle Ben's son, but he might as well be, since I had no idea where else he got it from. "Come on, I promise you the casserole's good. It's got the Official Parker Seal of Guaranteed Taste." He put his thumb and index finger together and winked at me.

I smiled weakly at that, but just looked down on my homework again. Uncle Ben must've known it wasn't just the food, because he sighed and sat down next to me, grunting with the effort. "Your mom told me about the doctor's visit. She's optimistic, but from the sound of it, you're…not."

I just sniffed, keeping my gaze on my homework. I considered lying again, but instead what came out was: "It just feels kind of, um, p-pointless, really. N-nothing's happening. Nothing's g-going to happen."

"Really? Because your mom talked about that 3-D-organ-whatever stuff. I dunno, I think Peter understood it better than I did, but then again, he's decades ahead of us quadragenarians — Peter said that earlier, four-dollar word right there — but I think it'll work out. Just you wait."

Yeah, if I had that kind of time. I was going to say something, maybe sarcastic because I was feeling particularly bitter this evening, or maybe go the better route and just agree for the sake of ending this conversation, but Uncle Ben surprised me when he reached for my notebook, which I had cast aside so I wouldn't get distracted. "What the heck is this? An evil Latin chant?"

I let out a startled laugh despite myself. Picking up my head, I glanced over at the pages and pages of writing, in ink and pencil, that I had scrawled in endless lines through the notebook Uncle Ben was now flipping through. His eyebrows climbed up on his head, and I said, "It's j-just coding. You know, for, uh, computers?"

"Oh, pff," Ben just shook his head, putting the notebook back down. "Looks like a bunch of baloney to me. I don't know how you kids get this kind of stuff. At least you're following in old Rick's footsteps instead of mine or your mother's…you've got a lot of potential, you two. You and Peter are going to change the world, I just know it."

Rick. Richard Parker. Pete's dad. A man I've never met, but the only person in our family (so far) who graduated university, had a Ph.D. Sometimes Mom or Ben talked about him and Peter's mom sometimes, so I knew a little about them. A perfectly normal family before they died in a plane crash. Peter never really talked about it, either. Maybe it bothered him, or maybe it didn't and he just never felt the need to discuss them. Either way, I didn't go out of my way to bring them up in a conversation.

That made me smile, though, a genuine one this time, even if it felt short-lived. I'd be happy if I achieved half as much as Richard Parker with what time I had left.

About an hour later, I found myself sitting at Peter's computer, transcribing the latest additions of my notebook onto the black screen. Peter's room was a mess, as per usual, stepping over clothes scattered across the floor, textbooks and loose paper just lying everywhere. Even his bed was a mess, like he'd been doing homework there earlier.

The room was cramped, not much room aside from the desk and bed, and whatever shelving could fit on the walls. A single, narrow window occasionally shed light in the morning before the Sun passed to the other side of the building. There was, however, a little hatch in the ceiling — an attic of sorts, that no one else used. Inside was maybe a small space, four square feet of storage space, since not much else could fit in there besides boxes. It was handy, considering Peter's closet was full no matter how clean the room was.

I didn't think he'd mind me breaking into his room. It's not a crime if it's family, right?

Right now, I just wanted to get away from the chatter for a little bit. Mom, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben were talking grown-up things like bills and coworkers and politics, none of which I was particularly interested in. And okay, I was kind of avoiding Peter, too, mostly because I was afraid he'd press the issue of my current emotional state.

…Which, obviously, wasn't that great at the moment.

But the task of putting my handwritten work into a processor was relaxing — even if it took forever for the Commodore to boot up — and set my mind in a meditative state where all I saw were numbers and commands, green letters on a black screen. No other thought could invade or distract me when I was coding. It was entirely self-taught and honestly not very good; I knew basic Linux and HTML and not much else. I could barely make a functioning webpage.

But it was fun; learning and typing the little lines of numbers and symbols and phrases made me feel like I was a spy writing in secret messages. It actually didn't interfere with my dyslexia too much; reading code wasn't the same as reading regular English, and copying down what I'd already written streamlined the process. And besides, I was only going to get better with practice.

In fact, I was so focused that I hadn't heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and was caught completely off guard when something bumped in next to me.

"Watcha doin', platypus?" Peter asked, sliding in on his swivel chair and spinning around. He was eating a banana, as if he didn't just have a massive plate of food for dinner.

"I dunno, what does it look like?" I muttered, glancing at him in irritation. I had to pull on the edge of the desk to bring myself back, and slapped Peter's hand away when he tried to type something in. My hands were small, and Peter's keyboard looked ginormous in comparison. It seemed like I had to move twice as much just to get the same amount of work done. "No touch! How are you st-still hungry?"

"Hey, I'm a growing boy, I'm allowed to eat," he said around a mouthful, throwing me a disgruntled look. "And you put in a colon instead of a semi-colon. Just sayin'."

"Oh." I flushed, embarrassed, and made the edit. "T-thanks."

"You know, you could always take this one, if you want," Peter offered. "I've been saving up for another computer, a better one, you know, something made after the 90's."

I paused, frowned, then said, "Th-thanks, but I-I don't need you to h-help me. What I've g-got is fine."

"Well, if you say so," Peter said, although he didn't sound convinced. I didn't say that I would totally die to have a computer of my own — I just didn't want one from him. I didn't want a pity gift. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Ben wants us in his office."

"Oh?" I frowned, then lifted myself out of his computer seat. "I-Is something wrong?"

"I dunno," Peter shrugged, then gestured with his head. "C'mon, let's find out."

In the office just off the hallway, Uncle Ben was waiting for us at his desk. Aunt May and Mom were in the living room, chatting over glasses of wine. If there was something wrong, they didn't seem concerned.

Uncle Ben's office was small but neat. On the wall near the window were shelves of perfectly crafted model airplanes, next to some family photos. May, Peter, Ben and his siblings when they were young. Offhand, I wondered, had I been healthy, if I would've looked more like my mom when she was thirteen. But her eyes weren't gray, her jawline was softer, and her nose stronger. Maybe those things came from my dad.

His desk was littered with thick car manuals, spreadsheets, bills. Yellow wood shavings were everywhere. Uncle Ben liked do things by hand, with a calculator and a #2 pencil. His math was always right, and the bills always paid on time. I admired that part about Uncle Ben. He didn't rely on technology or computer programs to do the work for him. He trusted himself to get everything right on his own.

"Hey, you two," Ben looked up when we entered, smiling. That's when I noticed one of his model airplanes, a B-12, in pieces across his desk. Following my gaze, Ben chuckled, "I was, uh, wondering if you could help me with this. I need your small hands — my fingers are too big and slow for all these little pieces…"

Building model airplanes was a hobby of Uncle Ben's, something he often did with Peter ever since he was small. He didn't really need an excuse for our help, I knew Peter would jump at the chance to play with the pieces. I'd never been invited, though. I always figured it was just their thing. Besides, my fingers trembled too much to be of use.

But I put on a brave face and smiled, as the three of us hunkered down on the floor, desk lamp angled overhead, blue instruction sheets spread out between us as Uncle Ben passed the plastic frameworks around.

I did what I could with what fine motor skills I had. Of the three of us, Peter was the best, putting together the tiny pieces without messing up. Ben cursed under his breath and shook his hand when he accidentally superglued two fingers together. I remained very still as I held two pieces of the hull and Peter joined them together.

Meanwhile, we talked amiably — Uncle Ben leading the conversation. I didn't think much of this; mostly it was just about how school was going, if band practice was interesting, or an update on Ned's latest shenanigans.

"So, Peter, care to regale us with how you got that black eye?" Uncle Ben asked, eyebrows raised. He had a half-smile, to show he wasn't accusing or angry.

Peter's first reaction was to look at me — an unspoken question: did I tell Uncle Ben? But I just shrugged and shook my head helplessly. I had no idea what Uncle Ben knew, or how he caught on that Peter's original excuse (dodgeball to the face) was a lie.

Peter, still embarrassed, ducked his head, scratched behind his ear. "Oh, uh, it was just a stupid fight with Flash. We both got detention for two days. That's all."

"Uh-huh," Ben said, a combination of amused and unconvinced. He glanced at me and winked. "Just a stupid fight. Is that the same fight that broke your glasses?"

"What?" Peter's hand flew to his face. His glasses were unmarked.

"You think I can't tell when you're wearing your back-up glasses?" Uncle Ben said, cocking an eyebrow. Even I was impressed. All of Peter's glasses looked the same. I hadn't noticed he switched them out. "Sounds like this kid Flash owes you a new pair of glasses."

"I'm sure he can afford it," Peter shrugged, but his expression was downcast. "His ego, though, probably not."

"S-Strickland also t-took his camera," I added.

"What?" Uncle Ben eyes went wide with surprise.

"Goose!" Peter hissed, jabbing me with his heel. "Not cool!"

"How did that happen?" Uncle Ben demanded, now focusing Peter with a more concerned look, peering at him over his glasses. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Flash grabbed it. Strickland saw us fighting and took it away," Peter admitted, giving me one last disgruntled look before facing Uncle Ben. I knew he didn't want to tell Ben because that meant Ben would get too involved. "It's not a big deal, I swear. I'll get it back."

"When?"

Peter paused. "Uh...sooner or later."

"Hm," Uncle Ben sat back, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe I should have a talk with this Mr. Strickland. Has he always picked on you?"

"Who? Flash or Strickland?"

"Strickland," Ben clarified. "Don't tell me he's that bald son of a bitch who cancelled that band recital one time over spilled soda?"

Peter and I burst into astonished giggles at the unexpected slander, and it took Peter a second to recover. "Uh, yeah, that's him."

"Maybe I should try talking to him," Uncle Ben said. "You know, smooth things over. Stupid fight or not, that man has no right taking your property, Peter."

"Please, don't," Peter winced, shaking his head. "Strickland hates me enough as it is. I already tried asking for it back and he almost gave me another detention. I-I don't want to make things worse…"

"Well, what else are you going to do, Peter?" Uncle Ben asked, frowning. "Sounds to me like Strickland's either keeping your camera, or he's going to forget. I know he's a teacher, but it's worth it to try and stand up to him. Stand up for yourself. Don't worry if he threatens you with detention — I'm here, and I've got your back in case that man does anything unreasonable."

"I don't know…" Peter still seemed unconvinced.

Perhaps sensing that he needed back-up, Uncle Ben turned to me. "Well, what do you think, Mia?"

I blinked, caught off guard. I didn't realize my opinion was important here. "I, uh, I g-guess it's worth a-a t-try. Strickland's a j-jerk. He's n-not even a real t-t-teacher. Although, I th-think going to Principal R-Rooney would b-be less sc-scary…"

"See? Look at that," Uncle Ben held out his hand to me as he spoke to Peter. "A reasonable suggestion. The Principal's a good guy, right? He's saner than Strickland at least. Maybe you should go talk to him about your camera."

The thought of approaching the Principal seemed to be even more intimidating than Strickland, if the look on Peter's face was anything to go by. He just twiddled with one of the plane's little wheels, muttering to himself. "Maybe, I don't know…"

"Well, whatever you choose to do, I'll support you, champ," Uncle Ben said, clapping Peter on the shoulder. "You're a good kid, you'll figure this out."

Peter nodded sullenly, then glanced at me. I saw that sparkle of mischief and knew something bad was going to happen, right before he said, "Mia's made a new friend. Michelle, right?"

I glared at him. Wow, excellent way to both change the conversation and divert attention off him. This was probably payback for bringing up the camera.

"Really?" Uncle Ben fell for it, turning to me with an expression akin to impressed. "Who's Michelle? I didn't know you hung out with anyone besides this chucklehead." He added with a thumb to Peter, who ducked his head, eyes hidden behind his glasses.

"Y-yeah," I answered, trying not to sound like I wanted to kill Peter. Why did he bring that up? "I mean, m-maybe, I don't know. We only really t-talked…twice. But she's n-nice. I guess. We b-both like History a lot. She's b-better a-at art, though."

"Well, that's interesting," Uncle Ben said, nodding. "Not gonna lie, I think your mom will be relieved to know you're not just hanging out with boys all the time."

I groaned inwardly. "Only two. And she's not worried about Ned."

Uncle Ben chuckled. "Well, maybe not in the way you're thinking of. So, is this Michelle also going to Midtown?"

"I d-don't know. We haven't talked about it. I don't think she did early testing like we did." I left out the part where she seemed like the person who'd probably drop out of school to backpack in the mountains of Peru. High school absolutely did not seem like Michelle's style. "Probably w-won't know her th-that l-long, anyways."

"Ah," Ben raised his chin. He knew, without asking, that I meant my stutter, how embarrassed I was by it. "Well, you'll never know until you try. Maybe this Michelle is a great friend. Just give her a chance."

"M-maybe," I said, staying noncommittal. I didn't want to get his hopes up. I didn't want to fool myself into thinking it was a good idea; did I really want to be friends with Michelle? If anything, I'd be doing it for them, and not myself.

I wasn't sure if that was enough.


~o~


The trip home was a silent one.

Well, not silent silent. The subway was a cacophony of noises; chattering passerby, clacking footsteps, churning machinery, street musicians and their shrill instruments, unintelligible PA voice, the screeching of train wheels, all echoing off the concrete walls, filling the space between me and Mom as we sat on the bench, waiting for the H-Train. We were dripping from the dash to the station, and Mom tapped her yellow umbrella against her foot.

Minutes passed, and I pretended nothing was wrong.

Then we both spoke at the same time.

Mom said, "It's going to be okay —"

"Why didn't you graduate college?" I blurted.

Mom blinked at me, surprised. "— What?"

"W-why…" I stuttered, nearly lost my gumption when I realized how rude I sounded. Like I was blaming her. What kind of horrible person said something like that? I winced, then muttered, "Oh, n-never mind. For-Forget it."

"No, no, it's fine," Mom sighed, just waving her hand. I couldn't believe it when I saw her smile a little. "I always wondered when we'd talk about this — although I thought I'd be the one bringing it up, not you."

"What? Why?"

"Well, you know. You're always so quiet. You don't like prying into other people's business," Mom said, then paused, and cast me a mildly suspicious look. "As far as I know." She nudged me on the arm, smiling again to show she was teasing. "Anyways. I was in a bad place at the time. I was young, pregnant, working, and in nursing school at the same time. It was just…I did my best. I wanted to graduate. I certainly didn't want to turn waitressing into a career. It all changed —"

"When I was b-born, I know."

"Honey bee," Mom gave me a sympathetic look, reaching to pet my head and tuck a stray lock behind my ear. "I don't blame you for this. Honestly, the worst thing that could've happened is if I lost you. That was the only thing I could think of at the time. I was scared. Imagine waking up in the middle of the night, your water broke and bleeding everywhere. I knew it was too soon. Babies born before thirty weeks rarely survived.

"But you did," Mom added, peering down at me. She tapped the frames of my glasses with her fingernail. "You came into this world fighting, Mia. You were born with barely enough blood to fill a wine glass, but you made it through, against all odds. You're always going to be my brave little girl, you know that?"

"B-but I'm so…so small. I-I get sick all the time." My voice shook. My birth had only been a small hint of how much of my life I'd be really spending in hospitals. "How does that make me — make me brave?"

"Because you're a fighter, Mia. You've got that spirit in you." Mom chuckled a little, looking more tired than ever. "Hell knows I needed it, too. I remember when you got pneumonia the first time, when you were seven, and instead of sleeping or watching TV, you just asked me if you missed anything at school. You wanted your homework! I couldn't believe it at the time. I lied to you, said I didn't have any."

"Mom! I missed a month of school because of that! I was so behind!"

She laughed when I punched her, but there was no ire in it. She raised her hands in surrender, admitting, "I know, I know! And it still didn't stop you! I had to buy the new Harry Potter book to keep you busy, because you didn't want to do anything else. I wanted to read it to you, I didn't think you were ready for chapter books on your own — but then I came back from the cafeteria and I found you already half-way through Chapter One."

"I d-didn't like you r-reading it. You k-kept saying Hermione's n-name wrong."

"What? No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did! Y-you kept saying Her-Me-Oh-Nee, w-when it's Her-My-Oh-Nee."

"Oh, please. Like you would've known that at seven years old."

We fell into laughter as a distant whirring filled the air, quickly getting louder and louder before rising to a shriek. A blast of wind swept over us, making me cough a little, and Mom wrapped her arm around me, bringing close in a one-sided hug. "Come on, honey bee, let's get you home before you get another one of those nasty colds, okay?"

Mom didn't let go of me when she escorted me onto the subway, as if she was afraid I might freeze to death, or maybe even float away if she didn't hold me down. I didn't mind so much, since I was feeling a little sleepy anyways. It had been a long day, and my stomach was full from casserole. It was Mom's recipe, and by far one of the best things I've ever had. Maybe I was a little biased, but Mom's cooking skills were an undiscovered wonder of the world. My own love of honey on waffles inspired her favorite term of endearment for me. I guess food was a big thing for us.

Her favorite yellow umbrella provided cover from the shower as we exited the station fifteen minutes later. It was a bit of a long walk to our apartment in Hell's Kitchen; it was five blocks away, and I wasn't exactly a fast walker. Mom was brisk, though, as the night got darker and the rain got colder.

I kept falling behind, and cold water kept slipping in under the collar of my coat. Mom reached back, linking her arm with mine, and tucked me under the shield of the umbrella. It seemed to glow above us, a neon halo that provided the only warm color in streets filled with dark, unfriendly brick buildings and lonely cars rumbling by.

I was a little more than wet by the time we finally reached our building; it was run-down, with a peeling façade, bars on the lower windows, and a front light that never stopped flickering even when you changed the bulb. And although we were safe from the rain once inside, we still had a ten-floor climb to make — the elevator stopped working last December, and the landlord, Mr. Manfredi, hadn't found anyone to fix it yet. Or perhaps decided it was cheaper not to.

I had to take it easy on those steps. As tired as I was already, I had to take it even slower. Mom didn't complain, not once, when I had to take a break for the third time, on the seventh floor, so my heart could stop pounding and I didn't feel like I was going to pass out at any second, before we could keep going. Instead, she promised me hot chocolate and a warm bath, before heading me off straight to bed. I should get as much rest as I could.

Only I couldn't.

I found myself lying awake, staring at my ceiling what was maybe an hour later, long after Mom herself had tucked me into bed (despite my complaints) and gone to sleep herself.

Dim light filtered in through my window. It pattered with rain, a soft drone that was both incessant yet soothing. At least it muffled out the more annoying sounds of the city, like the car honking and the drunken ruckus from the bar down the street.

Pale yellowish-green light filtered into my room, casting stark shadows across the walls. My room was small, but packed. I had a bookshelf filled to the brim, books crammed in every which way until there was no more room left. On top of it were even more books, a quaint white jewelry box (with a ballerina that spun around to music you opened the lid), and a spelling bee trophy from Fifth Grade. There were doodles of stars on the walls, and a small shelf of Mom's 80's and 90's mixtapes I found a few years ago. They were old and a little scratchy, but I liked listening to them, thinking of a time before I was born.

My desk was neatly organized, aside from the pile of notebooks on and around it. School notes, homework, and personal projects, all categorized by color so I could find it again if I had to. I didn't have much choice, since we didn't own a computer to do the organizing for us.

I stared at the black velvet sky outside my window, my mind filled with nothing, yet unable to rest. Buried under four blankets and more comfortable than I could ever imagine, I felt like I should do something, but anything I did would be inappropriate at this time of night. I didn't want to wake Mom up, and I didn't want to be tired for the next morning.

Still, I was restless.

I turned my gaze up at the fairy lights that hung over my bed, that I once found in a dollar store. Not terribly pretty, they were just pieces of colored fabric around Christmas lights, but at night they gave my room a sense of whimsy. They made me feel comfortable when the weather was unforgiving, and were thus my favorite part about my room.

This time, unfortunately, it wasn't working.

My bones ached, yet my muscles were numb. I couldn't make myself move even if I wanted to. I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep, to ignore this strange urge of need. I felt too big in a body too small, skin stretched so tight it itched sometimes.

To be honest, it was probably the doctor's visit that was doing this to me. Hell, who could get over that sort of thing so soon? Dr. Kane's words still rang in my head. I couldn't help but wonder how much time I had left. Whether or not Mom will outlive me, on the simple fact alone that she didn't get sick as much as I did. That the odds weren't totally stacked against her.

But the concept itself was so terrifying, so incomprehensible to me, that I couldn't cling to it. Maybe it was because I was a teenager, and like all teenagers I thought I was invincible. And yet, it didn't feel true. I didn't feel invincible. I got hurt plenty. I was highly aware that the wrong gust of wind blowing in just the right direction might do me in, once and for all.

Starting to regret even considering the subject, I reached out from under the warmth of my covers to grab Stitch, and pulled him under. The air in the apartment was always cold, due to the building's faulty heating system and Mr. Manfredi's laziness, and even in the springtime I was shivering at night.

Was I too old to be cuddling with a stuffed animal? Maybe. Did I care? No. Stitch was my favorite, a present from Peter when I was nine (Lilo & Stitch was our favorite movie growing up), and the little blue alien always made me feel better, especially when I was feeling particularly irrational, like right now. So I was going to hug him until my arms hurt.

But there was nothing I could do about that.

Still, I felt something change in me that night. Eventually, I drifted to sleep, still wondering on the notion of what it could mean.


~o~


The next morning, I found out what it meant.

I woke up with a sniffle, which in three days evolved into repeated sneezing and a stuffed nose, before a full-on cough and sore throat that made me feel like I want to die.

So far, Mom couldn't call it anything more than a bug, which was lucky. I hadn't been too sick aside from mild nausea, hadn't thrown up, and hadn't broken out in hives or anything else nasty. For the next week and a half, I just felt gross and a nuisance to everyone else, spreading germs and disease everywhere.

Apparently, my body had been trying to tell me I was just being sick again. Surprise, surprise.

"All right, class, can you tell me what these four figures have in common?" Mrs. Burges' voice broke me out of my Dayquil-induced reverie, and I had to refocus my eyes on the bright images of the projector, nearly painful in the dark classroom.

On the slide were four different paintings, all dated somewhere between 1800 and 1900; two were landscapes, the other half Civil War propaganda, and each featured a woman: fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, with variations of the Phrygian cap and chiton, seemingly made of the American flag. I hadn't been paying attention up until this point, so the best I could do was look like I was really interested — which probably did the exactly opposite of me blending in, since the kid to my right was sleeping.

No one raised their hand or spoke up. This wasn't unusual — U.S. Art History was kind of a niche topic, and we were nowhere near the post-modern age, or post-post-modern or whatever the hell art period Millennials were in now.

I was only in here because I needed the art credit, since actual art class was already full before I could join. Another lovely side effect of missing random weeks of school.

If anyone thought it was a problem, they didn't say anything. Michelle had chatted with me in History class as if I'd been there the whole time (she got an A on her essay about Werner Von Braun, Nazi-rocket-scientist-turned-NASA-architect — I did equally well on my topic, Virginia Hall, American spy behind German lines). She didn't ask how I was doing, and a part of me wanted to be a little offended, but at the same time, I was grateful. She was the only person who didn't ask "Are you feeling okay?" every goddamn hour. It was a relief not to lie and make excuses around her.

The only real problem was that I still hadn't gotten any letter from Midtown yet. Every day after school I'd ask mom if anything came in the mail. Everyday she'd just shake her head and tell me "Maybe tomorrow, honey."

Ned got his yesterday. I was starting to get nervous.

Mrs. Burges sighed. I wondered if she hated her job, or maybe just this class in particular. She didn't even bother calling on someone and making them suffer through an answer they didn't know. "These women were dressed like this because they're the personification of America, as noted by the Stars and Stripes pattern of their robes, and the Phrygian cap, which as we learned from last chapter, is a symbol of freedom borrowed from other cultures in Europe. Can anyone supply a modern example of Columbia, one you might see every day?" Mrs. Burges paused for a second, like this was supposed to be an obvious question. When she got no answers, Mrs. Burges prompted encouragingly: "Like, say, when you take the ferry to a certain island?"

"Oh!" a boy shot his hand in the air. "Statue of Liberty!"

"Correct, Jason!" Mrs. Burges said, for the first time sounding pleased. "Of course, our lady Columbia fell out of favor after the 1800s, and her male counterpart, Uncle Sam, is better known. He came into being during the War of 1812…"

I started to drift again, although not on purpose. Honestly, the cough medicine I was on just made me want to keel over and fall asleep for a month; instead, I figured I'd just close my eyes, only to come to again to find myself starting at a different slide — this time staring at what I assumed was another image of Columbia, this time alongside a poster of Uncle Sam.

"Now, can someone tell me the thematic differences of these two images? What they represent to Americans today?" Mrs. Burges asked.

"Uncle Sam's kind of like the government, right?" a girl said.

"Nowadays, yes — Uncle Sam, in common parlance, is synonymous with America's military and government force, while Columbia is seen much more as a mythical being, a sort of 'goddess' of liberty, an embodiment of the spirit of America as a whole. While images of her vary, sometimes bearing a flag, or a shield, or even weaponry, she is depicted as a more protective, defensive figure, a voice of the people, than the aggressive Uncle Sam, a symbol of the government. What are some propaganda symbols that we use today?"

Someone suggested: "Does Captain America count?"

"Well, now, that's a different topic all together," Mrs. Burges said. "Captain America is an interesting case; you see, the Super Soldier project that he originated from was only meant to be used as propaganda, to strike fear in the Axis, but of course, Captain America used his mantle and his abilities in a more proactive way, and became not just a symbol, but an active fighting force for the Allies during World War Two…"

I could feel the fog clouding my mind again, and didn't try to fight it. I slumped in my seat, propping my chin on one hand and hoping the glare of the projector's light on my glasses would hide the fact that my eyes were closed. I didn't open them again until the bell shocked me out of a soft, fuzzy dream.

I once more made the perilous journey between classroom and locker — mine was a floor up from Mrs. Burges class, and I nearly got wiped out by a stampede of kids heading to lunch. That would've been my first destination, too, had I not been carrying a bag full of heavy textbooks I no longer needed.

I tried to be quick about it. My movements were sluggish thanks to the cold, and not only was I tired, but I was hungry, and I was hoping there wasn't something nausea-inducing at lunch; I'd hate to have to skip a meal, but I wanted to at least put some mashed potatoes or some juice into my stomach.

On the way to the cafeteria, I once more paused in front of the acceptance board, noticing a new name on the list.

Michelle Jones. Midtown School of Science and Technology.

My heart skipped a beat. Holy shit, Michelle got into Midtown? I had no idea she even applied. Or that she was — well, I knew she was smart enough, but for Midtown?

"Hey, Mia!" And like the Devil Himself, Michelle appeared out of the crowd, standing next to me by the board. She glanced at the names before meeting my gaze. "You get your letter yet? That loser kept talking about how all three of you were going to Midtown."

"No, n-not yet," I said, mood instantly soured at the reminder. Still, my curiosity beat my bitterness, and I tilted my head. "I d-didn't know you w-were interested in Midtown. Seems less…I dunno, artsy th-than you'd w-want, Michelle."

"I passed the audition for LaGuardia, too, but I don't know if I want to put all my chips in that," Michelle shrugged, nonchalant as ever. She puffed a curl out of her face, looking utterly bored. "Midtown has science and art, and I think I'll get a more well-rounded experience from it. I think my mom is disappointed, though. Wants me to be the next Picasso or something. I hate painting."

I didn't know that but I nodded along, pretending I completely understood.

"Also," Michelle opened her sketchbook and flipped a page to me. I stared at the drawing. "I thought I'd immortalize the expression of existential dread you had on your face in History class today."

"Oh my God why."

Michelle just shrugged, closing the notebook again. I was still reeling from the realistic impression of my gaunt face in charcoal. "I dunno. You have an especially dead inside look when you're dying of the cold."

"Oh. Thanks."

"You're welcome!" she gave me a wicked grin, tucking the sketchbook under her arm and skipping off. "I'll save you a seat at lunch!"