Tell Me Something Real Read online

  “How’s that?”

  “Always looking for something bigger, something more. Never really satisfied.”

  Those words make me shift, uncomfortable with how familiar they sound. “And Colt?” I ask. “Who’s he like?”

  When she doesn’t answer, I look at her. “What?”

  “Colt’s a lot like his mom before she gave in to the pain and started using. She wasn’t always like this,” Lincoln explains. “My mom, Lisa—she’s always been an addict, always been a user of people and substances. But Colt’s mom, she was a mom for a few years, and Colt remembers that. That’s why he takes it so hard when she falls off the wagon, and why he won’t live with Beau and Maggie full time, even though they want him to.” She sighs. “So, I guess in some aspect, he’s like his dad, too. He hangs onto things—things that give him some heavy days, things he has no control over.”

  There’s more—something she isn’t saying, but I don’t push her. “Is that why he’s so protective of you? Makes him feel in control?”

  She shrugs. “We’re protective of each other, though his way is a lot more stifling. I was diagnosed when we were ten, and it quickly became clear that my mother was not up to the task of helping me learn how to manage my diabetes, or taking care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself, which was a lot in the beginning. Colt became the person who did, teaching me how to prick my finger when I wanted to pass out just at the thought—staying over to wake me up in the middle of the night and give me insulin. I mean, how many other ten-year-olds do you know who would do that?”

  “I’m having a hard time thinking of an eighteen-year-old who would do that.”

  She laughs. “Exactly. So, now, when I get burned out or just angry, and stop taking care of myself, Colt’s the one who brings me back. He’s the one who keeps me going, because I remember what he did for me when no one else would.”

  Something shifts inside of me, something a lot like envy. I swallow and ignore it, staring out into the increasing darkness.

  “Now, you— why the crash and the move to Albany when everything tells me you were quite the golden boy of Seattle Prep?”

  “More tarnished than anything,” I say. Then, I blow out a breath. “The crash wasn’t on purpose, just a byproduct of too much speed and not enough attention to the road. The move… it’s just easier for my parents to not see me. Out of sight means no questions and explanations.”

  Lincoln stays silent, and I’m grateful. There’s not much to say, and I don’t want pity or more questions. I just want to be here, right here, in the dark with a girl who seems to want the same thing.

  It’s a terrifying thought, like the one earlier, but it’s also… liberating. Like maybe I’m not a cutout of my father—maybe I’m not the soulless guy who drove too fast and hurt the girl who would never tell him no, because he was too goddamn arrogant and self-absorbed to see past his own demons.

  We sit while dusk turns to night, and, in the silence, I process everything Lincoln’s told me. I wonder about Beau and Maggie, and how two people who seem so simple could raise such complicated sons. I think of my own parents, and wonder if the reason their marriage has always appeared to be a sham is because my dad loved someone else first.

  Then, I look at Lincoln and wonder if Colt and I are following in our dad’s footsteps, helpless to keep from handing our hearts to the same girl, no matter how hard we try.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I look up from staring at my homework. Colt and Evie are sliding into their seats at the table next to me, opening bags up for lunch. Mine’s sitting on the table already, still closed, because the turkey sandwich and chips inside were about as appealing as eating dirt.

  “Nothing. What’s wrong with you?”

  Colt doesn’t buy my attitude in the least. “Are you running low?”

  “No,” I snap, not just out of instinct, but because I’m not running low.

  I was, however, running high all night, and have been every night this week. Only the devil known as diabetes can answer why, and, because I’ve been tired after work each night, my body hasn’t been waking me up so I can administer insulin. As a result, I wake up exhausted, nauseous, desperately thirsty, and unable to think clearly until I get enough insulin in me. Even then, it’s taking me a good two hours to get myself feeling any kind of normal each morning.

  Which is why I did something I never do: I abused the diabetes trump card today, so I could skip out of the last twenty minutes of math and go to lunch early. I have a cross country meet this afternoon, and just the thought of it makes me tired.

  “Hey, Linc—are you sure you’re okay? You look really pale.”

  This time it’s Evie who speaks, and I just nod. “Fine, I promise. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

  Before Colt can ask why, I take out my kit and go through my process, glad to have something that keeps my attention for a while so I don’t have to answer their stares. Once I finish, I pull out my lunch. It still doesn’t look good, but I’ve only had a little cereal today, and it’s not nearly enough to sustain me until after my meet.

  “Who do you guys play this week?” I ask, working to find focus—any focus that tells me I’m readjusting and my body is coming back to me.

  “Which one of us are you asking?”

  The fact that the question annoys me because it requires a response tells me I’m most definitely not in control yet. “Both,” I grit out.

  “Sprague,” Evie says.

  “West Salem,” Colt responds directly after. “You coming?”

  “Can’t. I work until eleven. Next Friday, I don’t work. I’ll come to that one.”

  Colt stares at me a little longer, and, though I would give anything to break eye-contact and lay my head down on the table, I stare right back. Finally, he shakes his head and looks away. “What about you, Evie girl?”

  “What about me?”

  Colt shovels half his sandwich into his mouth and talks around it. “You coming to the game Friday?”

  She uncaps her water, sipping before she answers. “Depends. You coming to my game tomorrow?”

  “Volleyball?” Colt wiggles his eyebrows like an asshole. “Nowhere I’d rather be. Make sure to dig the ball a lot, okay? Really slide around on those knees.”

  Evie throws a chip at Colt’s head, but she laughs, and so does he. The sound relaxes me a little, and I take a deep breath, willing the food and insulin to do the rest.

  For the rest of lunch, Colt and Evie banter back and forth, teasing each other and offering their opinion about everyone and everything before going back to teasing. I’m free to watch and smile without interacting much beyond that, and I’m grateful for it. Evie tenses only a little when a few girls come over and talk to Colt.

  She bats her eyes when they both walk away without ever acknowledging me or her. “Maybe I’ll sit with them at your game. We can all shout your name together.”

  Her cheeks turn bright red, the words she just snarked off registering at the same time Colt offers her an arrogant smirk. “Anytime you want to shout my name, Evie girl, you let me know. I’ll find us a nice corner and make it worth your while.”

  We all go our separate ways at the bell, and I know Colt’s more than distracted by Evie when he doesn’t check on me or demand he walk me to class. Note to self: when I want to be left alone, employ Evie’s blushing cheeks and innocent comments.

  At my locker, I lean down and twist in the code. When I flip the latch, nothing happens. Giving in to the irritation and exhaustion that are still plaguing me, I let a few cuss words fly before resting my forehead against the cold metal and closing my eyes.

  “Have you finally resorted to finding affection from your locker, Lincoln?”

  Jacqueline. If there wasn’t already proof that my life is cursed, this moment would be it.

  I don’t open my eyes to acknowledge her; I tell myself it’s because I want to piss her off by ignor
ing her to some degree, and not because I’m afraid I’m not really strong enough to play it cool today. “I heard this is a lot like what sleeping with you feels like. I guess I was curious.”

  “I always knew you were a lesbian.”

  “Are you a bigot as well as a bitch now, Jackie?”

  She doesn’t answer, but I don’t think it’s because I stunned her silent—because life is so even, Jackie was made rather smart along with her pretty face. Rather than my witty comebacks, I think her silence has more to do with the second set of footsteps I hear, and the voice that follows.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting for you,” she coos.

  Silence, and then, “Go ahead to class.”

  “You’re not coming?” Ford doesn’t respond, but, a minute later, Jackie groans. “Jesus, what is it with this girl and the Slaughter boys?”

  “Bet you wish you knew,” I mumble, but when I open my eyes and turn my head a little to the side, Jacqueline is nowhere to be found, and Ford is crouched down, staring at me.

  I stare back, ignoring the small flutter in my belly when I breathe and his scent fills my nostrils. Not strong, just… masculine. And yummy. He falls back on his old faithful—silence—so I’m forced to talk first.

  “I like your perfume, Rich Boy. And your lashes—kind of cruel for a boy to have such thick lashes, though.”

  “Nobody said God was nice.”

  Because it’s so similar to what I was just thinking, I can’t help my smile. “Truth. I’m a bigger believer in karma myself—of course, that could just be because I’m hoping to be rewarded for living in this place one day. And that reward will come by way of watching Jackie get fat and ugly.”

  “Always good to have a goal.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  His stare is penetrating, and, just when I don’t think I can stand it anymore, he speaks. “You look like shit, Blondie.”

  “And here I thought my hair was on point today.”

  Ford’s eyes flick to my ponytail, skimming over the rest of me. I might not have seen Jacqueline, but I’d bet my next paycheck that she wasn’t wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, with Nikes she bought at the used clothing store. I try not to care.

  “Where’s Colt?”

  “Probably finishing his flirt with Evie, or some other girl, before he gets to class.”

  “Has he seen you today?”

  “Well, I’ve lost my invisibility cloak, so I’m guessing when we ate lunch together he saw me.” McHotpants doesn’t even crack a smile. “I can’t decide if your frown is because you’ve never read Harry Potter, and don’t understand the reference, or because you don’t have a sense of humor.”

  “I saw the movies.”

  I nod. “No sense of humor it is.”

  When he takes out his phone, I sigh. “Don’t text Colt. I’m fine, Ford. Just a little tired.”

  “Are you going to run in your meet today?”

  “Stalking my schedule? Careful, Jackie might get jealous.” He ignores me, his frown deepening.

  “Does Colt think you should run?”

  “I didn’t ask him, because he’s not my dad. Neither are you, b-t-dubs.” My irritation is back, along with a heavy feeling of… something in my stomach. Pushing off the floor, I turn my back to Ford and spin my locker combo again. When it refuses to budge, I swear I’m two seconds away from tears.

  “Lincoln—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Ford. And don’t bother telling me I look bad—I have a mirror. I don’t need another one.”

  He doesn’t speak, and I think he’s going to walk away. I wait for it, my heart pounding and my hands shaking. But he doesn’t; instead, he reaches around me until my back is almost touching his front, putting his hand on my lock. “What’s your code?”

  His voice is rough, and I have to swallow before answering. “23-10-19.”

  Ford opens the locker quickly, both of us holding our breath until the door pops open. He steps back just as fast, and air wheezes out of me while I reach inside and grab random books, unsure what I was even looking for.

  When I stand, he’s still there, a hand out to steady me.

  “Don’t be stupid about this, Lincoln. You have diabetes—you can’t just ignore that.”

  The thank you I’m about to offer him dies on my lips, and red hot rage fills me. “What did you just say to me?”

  Ford doesn’t even flinch. “I said ‘Don’t be stupid.’ You look ready to pass out—and you haven’t even begun. You can’t risk yourself this way.”

  “Says the guy who risked his life, and someone else’s, by driving like an entitled asshole.”

  He shuts down immediately. Good.

  “You don’t get to sit here and push me around because you think you know what it feels like to live the way I do—one heart to heart doesn’t make you an expert on me, Ford. So back off.”

  “What about bad decisions?” he asks, and stops me cold. “Because I’ve made countless of those, and I can promise you, the outcome never makes you feel better.”

  “Nobody’s asking you for promises.”

  I walk away, my anger fueling me in a way I know is dangerous throughout the rest of the day. It’s stupid, this need I have to push back against a disease that does not play favorites with its victims. I don’t really love running so much as I crave it and what it stands for: choice. Being diagnosed as Type 1 is a lot like saying goodbye to things before you ever really get a chance to experience them; things like frivolity and gorging on candy, forgetting to plan ahead for meals and just going with the flow; thinking of the future and maybe, one day, having a baby.

  Those dreams are there and gone when that diagnosis comes, because, suddenly, your body is your biggest enemy, and instead of working with you, it works against you. Running is my outlet, the way that I push back, even on days like today when it’s stupid. I just can’t seem to stop myself, because I refuse to be a victim to one more thing.

  Both Colt and Evie text me to check on me one last time, but I ignore them. By the time I get through my last two periods and drive to Bryant Park where we hold our home races, I can feel myself starting to crash. I eat a granola bar and drink some Gatorade, hoping the sugar rush will get me high enough to make it through the course.

  If not, there’s always the fun size pack of skittles I keep in the small zip pocket of my shorts. At just shy of four o’clock, Coach checks his watch and motions for us to strip down to our uniforms.

  It’s hot today—a late summer push while we exit out of September, and enter into October. It rained over the weekend, so the humidity is rising from the grass, and it feels like someone has added a blanket to my body to weigh me down.

  When the starter calls us to the line, Coach pauses us and reminds us of our jobs—run together, keep pace, be a team.

  I nod, but I don’t really remember what my job is. All I can think about is the heat, and how it’s trying to suffocate me.

  I’m slow to start, and I get jostled as the girls around me sprint the first hundred meters looking to gain their position. My breath is coming in heaving gasps before the first mile is even done, and my vision is beginning to waver.

  I could stop—pull off to the side and just quit running. No one would blame me when they know why. But I don’t, because something inside of me is pushing me to show everyone I’m in charge of my body.

  But I’m not. And, no matter how many times I challenge it, my body never lets me win. Not when I was ten and diagnosed with this disease, and not when I was in middle school, trying to find a way to survive off stale cereal and chips while my mom put all of our money into a pipe.

  And especially not now, when I’ve continued pushing myself to work and go to school and be on the team because once, just fucking once, I wanted to show everyone that I was worth something.

  To my body, I am only one thing—my blood sugar. And right now, that blood sugar is dropping.
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br />   Instinct has me reaching for my candy, but I’m at the first hill and it’s too late. My vision spots, goes black, and I stumble, barely feeling the sharp sting of my knees when they connect with the ground. My hands hit next, and then my body.

  There are voices around me, but I can’t respond. I try, once, and then there’s nothing but darkness.

  Someone yelled to Colt when we were walking toward the locker room from film, about to change and hit the field: “Lincoln passed out at her meet.”

  That’s all we got, but it’s all we needed. Both of us turned from where we were headed and began sprinting, Colt burning rubber, leaving it on the asphalt when we tore out of the parking lot. We make it to the hospital in record time, but Lincoln’s already been taken back for an exam.

  Her coach meets us in the waiting room.

  “She must have forgotten to take her levels before the race,” he says. “She was at 50 when we got to her—which was a few minutes after she fell down, since I had to run and get the kit. I knew.” He pauses, scraping a hand over his face. “The minute I saw her, I knew, and I had someone call an ambulance while I put some frosting on the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t enough.”

  Colt and I both stay quiet, letting the man finish. I’ve never met him, but the minute he saw Colt, he walked over and began talking. Now, the nurse is motioning for him; before he leaves, he claps a hand on Colt’s shoulder and lets it sit there a second. “I have to call her mom, son.”

  Colt laughs, and I see Coach’s face change, like he knows calling her mom isn’t going to do one damn thing.

  “I’ll do my best to get you back to see her.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  When he walks away, Colt and I turn to the waiting area and post up against the wall, sitting with a seat between us.

  “Will her mom come?” I ask.

  “Not unless she’s sober enough to need a score—and wonder if she’ll find it here.”

  I incline my chin like I understand, but I don’t. I just don’t. The moms I know use diet supplements and probiotics. They overdose on skin peals and Botox, and if they’re going to use something hard, they buy from a high-end dealer who’s richer than all of us.