“Geez, Logan. You sounded pretty upset.” Logan shrugged. Probably not a good idea to let the kid know too much of what he was thinking. “Well, you know how it is. I got over it.”
Kip looked at him with those giant little-kid eyes. “I don’t know about that. I remember you were still pretty mad when I got here.” He pulled the notebook onto his own lap. “Look! The next bit is about Cleo. Let’s read that.”
Logan glanced at his watch. His stomach twisted with nerves, but he couldn’t let the kid see that. He just needed to get the information he came for and get out of here.
“Just a sec, Kip. Are they doing extra bed checks on you these days? Because if that nurse comes in here and I get caught, I’m toast.”
Kip shook his head. “No, we should be good for a while. I can usually manage about an extra hour of computer time in between checks at night.” He grinned shyly. “I like playing that game you showed me. You know the one where you draw the line and the stick man drives along on his motorbike until he crashes?”
Logan had to smile back. At least the kid was learning. “Okay, we’ll keep reading for now, but I may have to make a fast exit at some point.”
He glanced down at the handwriting in the next section. The information had to be here. But if he grabbed the book and ran, the kid would turn on him. And he had to read it sometime. He couldn’t make a decision without it. The kid flipped the page and Cleo’s voice filled his head.
November 6
Cleo J. Jacqueline Hornby-Moss <SSRI — Prozac>
9:17 a.m.
Good morning, Ms. Zephyr. This is my third day here at the Evergreen County Hospital, and I’m certain it will be my last. I’ve spent the past two days going through one test after another, each more horribly embarrassing than the one before.
I’m writing my journal here in your notebook because… well, because you asked me to. Everyone else who works around here has just told me what to do, but you just seem so nice and don’t act anything like that Medusa of a nurse. And of course, I will be going home soon, but just to humour you I agree to write a page or two. I hope you will appreciate the effort I have taken to design my own letterhead.
And so, Ms. Abigail Zephyr (such a nice, soft name you have), here is the information about me that you requested:
• My birth name is Cleopatra and I’m only telling you that for the sake of absolute veracity. I’m not going to put down my other names, because of course it is a mistake that I am here in the first place. And anyway, I much prefer to be called Jacqueline. Jacqueline Hornby-Moss. Isn’t it lovely? You may call me that if we get close, which we likely won’t since I plan on leaving here today.
• I am almost 14 — it’s just a little more than three weeks until my birthday. I’m in the ninth grade at Evergreen Middle School. Skipped fourth grade, which makes me the youngest in my class. They don’t usually do that anymore but in my case they made an exception. Next year will be high school, and I’ll have to take a bus out of Evergreen to the big consolidated school down the freeway. I have to say I am extremely nervous about the idea of high school, but in an excited sort of way. At least some of the time.
• I’m not really comfortable discussing the reasons that I have been admitted to this place. Obviously the nurses and doctors have made a mistake. I mean, a girl gets a little dizzy at school and everyone has a fi t. I did break my wrist in the fall down the stairs, but that can happen to anyone, right? Other than that I am in the prime of health. Couldn’t be better.
I think that’s all I can manage today, Ms. Zephyr. It’s been very nice to meet you.
Sincerely,
Jacqueline Hornby-Moss.
Jacqueline H-M. <SSRI, Prozac, Beta Blocker, Potassium>
10:42 a.m.
Dear Ms. Zephyr,
I’m afraid I find myself unable to call you by your first name as you have requested. First, I was taught that I must speak to older people in a formal way, so even though you seem quite young for a teacher, I still feel odd about it. And second, I have had a terrible blow this morning, and I believe you might be a part of the group working against me.
You did ask that I note down the time whenever I write in this journal, and from that I hope you can see that today it has taken me a great deal longer than yesterday to get down to work. I spent the morning arguing, Ms. Zephyr, with that Medusa of a nurse and the rest of those professional food pushers who all seemed to want to talk at once. There is nothing else wrong with me. It’s just a broken wrist. Anyone can have a broken wrist, especially if they have fallen down the stairs. You can hardly walk through the halls at school without seeing someone in a cast for a broken arm or a broken leg. It is not only me. Plus, I remembered this morning that I distinctly felt a push before I fell. I’m sure now that the whole thing was on purpose. Someone who doesn’t like me at school pushed me down the stairs. I suspect a Certain Person, though of course I don’t have the evidence to say so, and I would never dream of implicating anyone without proof. Even if she is the meanest girl in the school and would stoop to anything to get what she wants.
But when no one would believe me this morning, Ms. Zephyr, I had the single, faint hope that you would come to my aid. After all, when you asked me to participate in your tutoring session yesterday I attended more than willingly, in spite of the fact that I am here in error. I completed every assignment that you requested, including writing a journal page even though I get top marks in English and don’t really need the practice.
And regardless of what could have been quality reading time that I sacrificed to complete your busy-work, you still didn’t help me stand up against the doctors. I do not need a bone density test. My bones are fine, apart from the broken wrist, which as I have mentioned could have happened to anyone who may have had the misfortune to fall down the stairs. You did not support me, Ms. Zephyr. And the medication that Medusa has noted on the top of this page is making me sleepy and sad. I have nothing left to say except that I miss my dog Zoë and it is time for me to go home. I trust you will all come to your senses tomorrow.
Jacqueline Hornby-Moss
Logan K. <IV fluids, corticosteroids>
After lunch, which didn’t resemble anything I’d call food.
Hey, Abbie, I can’t believe you wouldn’t accept my incredible vehicle list instead of writing this stupid journal today. That stinks. Just so you know, I plan to own every one of those cars one day. And I will, dude, since my dad is making a fortune working in Denver right now. He drives a pretty cool car himself. 2007 Hummer. Silver, too. All silver.
So, can you believe that new chick? A bit full of herself, in my opinion, though obviously not full of much else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a pale, skinny thing in my life. She makes that Olsen twin look like a porker. She even makes me look fat!
Seems weird that they’d keep her here like that for just a broken arm, though. I heard one of the nurses say that she passed out at the top of the stairs at her school — just tipped over like a drunken monkey. I remember that staircase from when I went to Ev-Mid a couple of years ago. All cement and hard edges. No wonder her face is scraped up like that. She’s lucky she didn’t lose any teeth. My buddy Joe took a header off his board one day when he was cruising down a sweet pair of handrails just outside the office of the school. Unfortunately, he didn’t know they’d recently put up anti-skate knobs all down the rails. Left his teeth all over the cement steps. So the skinny chick should consider herself lucky.
Maybe they’re keeping her here because she got some internal injury.
Who cares? I can hardly stand to hear her talk. She’s totally stuck up and wants to put everyone down by using words normal people have never heard of. Besides, she said she’s probably out of here tomorrow. Sayonara, sweetheart. Can’t say it’s been nice knowing you.
Logan
Logan K. <IV fluids, corticosteroids>
9 p.m. Primetime. Just what are you thinking, Abbie?
Geez, Abster. I’m missing all the good shows. You’ve never made me do homework this late. And you know what? This caf stinks at night. All I can smell is the grease from the cooking, if that’s what you call what they do down here. French fry grease and Lysol. It reeks, dude.
Okay, I know I was a little hard on the chick. So I’m sorry already. You can appreciate that I don’t really know her — I was just commenting on what I could see, right? But I want to get back to the TV, so here goes. And by the way, you can say goodbye to the remote. I’m hiding it tomorrow.
Okay, the chick with the scraped face and the broken arm is probably a good person because… ah… because…
Abbie, this is so stupid. I can’t think of anything to say. I don’t even know her, for crissakes. She’s just some stupid, skinny chick.
Okay, I just thought of something. She didn’t give me that better-be-nice-to-the-kid-maybe-he’s-dying look. So there you go. I like her better already.
One other thing. Did you know you’re named after a very cool car? I just pulled it off the internet this morning to add to the list of vehicles I plan to have in my garage some day. Here’s a sketch of what it looks like:
Evergreen Hospital |
November 7 |
To: Ms. Abigail Zephyr |
Evergreen Hospital, |
Education Department Head |
Re: In-hospital school work schedule change |
Dr. Valens has requested that Logan Kemp be withdrawn from any schoolwork tomorrow morning, due to a scheduled series of blood tests. The doctor reports that the anticipated increase in medication may leave the patient moody or depressed. He asks that you report any symptoms to him directly. |
Thank you. |
Takehiko Ken, RN. |
Logan K. <IV fluids, corticosteroids>
After some kind of disgusting liquid breakfast.
Okay, Abbie, I’m gonna make this quick today. My face has gone all puffy and gross, obviously from the toxic cocktail these creeps are pouring into my veins through Useless here. And I did extra math for you, remember? That’s gotta count for something. Sorry… it has got to count for something. Is that better? Because I know you’re trying to improve my grammar by giving me this freakin’ journal to write, but lady — it ain’t gonna happen. (Ha — just a joke, of course. You always have such a great sense of humour, Abbie. And nice hair, too. Did I mention the nice hair?)
Anyway, I just looked it up and the dictionary says a paragraph can contain a minimum of three sentences. I do believe the above paragraph qualifies, and therefore, in the words of Carl Sagan, I am outta here!
L.K.
Dear Ms. Zephyr, |
It was lovely to meet you in person today at last. I’m so sorry I had to rush away — my elder daughter had a small emergency. She has a final audition for a position as a line dancer at the Starlight Dinner Theatre later this week. The dress we had lined up for her required alterations and the seamstress was only available today. |
I know my baby will work hard and do her best for you, Ms. Zephyr. I don’t know how the situation with her appetite went downhill so fast. Cleopatra and food just never have gotten along. She was a fussy eater as a baby and she still is. It has never been a problem before. I just want you to know that this child is well-loved and no one in her family has ever encouraged this sort of behaviour in the slightest. Thank you for your help with Cleopatra. |
Sincerely, |
Donna-Fay Jones |
P.S. I remember a girl from Atlanta in one of Helena’s early pageant events whose last name was Zephyr (or perhaps Zimmer). Do you have any family in Atlanta? D-F J. |
“Wow,” said Logan. “I’m such an idiot.”
“What’s wrong?”
Logan stared at the notebook. “If I’d paid more attention to some of the stuff in this book, I would have clued in to some things a lot sooner.”
Kip looked at him quizzically. “What kind of things? I never read any of the other stuff in there, Logan. It’s just a place to put my work for Abbie.”
Logan turned back to the notebook, avoiding Kip’s eyes.
“Just things,” he muttered, and turned to the next page.
November 8
Logan K. <IV fluids, corticosteroids>
Back in the stinking cafeteria after all the cows have gone home.
Okay, so I was wrong. No sense of humour whatsoever. Still like your hair, though.
And I was not trying to get out of doing my work. I did my work — I wrote a paragraph, just like you said. It’s just that I’ve been here for over a week now. And there you are every day, bugging me to get my schoolwork done. I feel lousy, all right? Are you happy to hear me admit it? Last week when I got here, I thought it might just be for overnight. And don’t tell me that makes me have something in common with the little weirdie down the hall, because it doesn’t.
When Tom tossed the ball at me in practice, he didn’t even throw it that hard, but when I caught it and everybody piled on me in the scrum, I suddenly felt like a bomb had gone off in my gut. I just managed to pull myself out of the pile and run like a madman off the field and straight into the changing room. I’m still falling on my knees every night to thank God I made it to the can. There was blood everywhere and it was obvious something inside me was seriously messed up. But Abbie, I thought it was just because I fell on the rugby ball. Off to the hospital. Stitch me up, fix whatever made me bleed like that, send me home. Was I ever wrong.
Anyway, I don’t want to write about it anymore. These drugs seem to finally be kicking in and my gut doesn’t hurt quite as bad. We’ve got a big meeting happening tomorrow — the doc, the nutritionist, my parents. (Actually, it turns out my dad’s really busy and can’t make it in from Denver, but everybody else will be there.) So, much as I like your hair, Teach, I’ll be happy to bid you and the little weirdie down the hall AND this stupid journal goodbye.
L.K.
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL |
Student Name: Cleopatra Jones Grade: 9 |
Date: November 8 |
This report is intended to pass formal information ONLY regarding the above-mentioned student to temporary teacher Ms. Abigail Zephyr in the subject of English 9. |
Punctuality 0 lates Attendance 0 absences (perfect attendance) |
Classroom marks to date: |
|
Cleo is a model student, though I worry she takes things a bit too seriously. Her work standard is excellent. |
Teacher Name: Ellie Plato, English Department |
Jacqueline H-M. <SSRI, Paxil, Beta Blocker, Potassium>
9:11 a.m.
Good morning, Ms. Zephyr. I say that strictly out of good manners and because of your kind offer to take dictation for me. (As you can see, I am managing just fine with my left hand. But thank you anyway.)
There is nothing else good about this morning. This place is worse than even my real school. That Logan is so mean. He calls me a “little weirdie.” Please! Who is the weird one? And he’s always talking about your hair. Have you seen his hair? It’s so thick and curly it really needs to either be cut short or at the very least brushed occasionally. Just because a person is six feet tall is no reason for not brushing his hair. Newsflash: we can all still see it from down here. He looks like a giant brunette dandelion.
And he has horrifying etiquette. I understand he hasn’t been able to eat for a while. He certainly looks out of practice. He has the table manners of a warthog. In fact, I watched him stuff some kind of candy down his throat when we were watching television last night. You can find the wrappers under the couch cushions, if you are interested.
But Logan aside, I am trying to be patient, Ms. Zephyr, though it is difficult when so many people around here want to keep touching me. I spent most of yesterday afternoon hooked up to some kind of heart monitor. I hate that thing, and besides, it doesn’t seem to work properly. That Nurse Hydra insists that my heartbeat is irregular. How ridiculous is that? Anyway, as a result, I am sorry to say that I did not get my math questions finished. I will get them done tonight, I promise. I can’t stand another evening in the company of Mr. Kemp, anyway.
The best thing about you, Ms. Zephyr, is that you seem to be able to talk to me without feeling compelled to take my temperature or my blood pressure. I’m grateful for that, believe me. And I still hold out hope that you can drop even a tiny hint to the doctor that I am doing very well. Even my mother can’t get the doctor to see reason. She knows I am fine. I agree that I may be a little pale these days but that is no reason to keep me hooked up to these machines.
Oh no… here comes Nurse Medusa to force one of those awful protein bars down my throat. This will have to be all for today.
Jacqueline H-M.
