I freeze too.
I saw them earlier. The scars. But she’s not hiding them now, not even attempting. Her eyes are locked on mine, and she’s waiting to see how I’m going to react. I can see her terror. I’ve been that terrified. I’ve lived that terror. Oh, Rowe, your scars, they’re your story.
But the second that thought passes through my mind, I realize that the moment the welts, from years of shots, finally disappeared from my body, so did my story—by choice. The proof of MS was gone, and I was going to leave it erased.
Rowe doesn’t have that option.
“They’ve gotten better,” she says, turning slowly. She’s letting me see everything, and I can also see her body shivering with nerves as she does. This is scary to her.
“What happened?” I’m looking at her, because I think that’s what she wants. I am in awe of her bravery.
“Two years ago, there was a shooting at my school. You ever hear of Hallman High?” she asks. Hallman? I don’t even know if the name truly sounds familiar, and my mind has already raced ahead and filled in the blanks. Rowe has been through hell—actual living hell. And sadly, I can’t tell her hell apart from the dozens of other hells I’ve seen on the news lately.
“This sounds awful, but there are just so many school shootings—” I’m embarrassed saying this aloud, but Rowe is shaking her head in understanding. I watch her walk to her dresser and pull out a small stack of photos. I saw her hide those the other day, and my stomach is sinking even lower into the depths of grief for my friend.
She shows me a photo of Josh, her boyfriend, and I immediately think about Nate. A few days ago, Ty asked me about Rowe having a boyfriend, and he mentioned that she seemed strange about the topic. We haven’t talked about it in a while. But I have a feeling the picture is about to become crystal clear.
“Josh…he saved my life,” she says. “He was hit. It wasn’t fatal. But…”
She can’t finish her words, and I can tell her eyes are starting to overflow with tears, so I just nod and offer a silent smile. Josh was hurt—and he’ll never be the same.
She shows me photos of her best friend who died. Betsy. I love that name. I bet I would have loved her friend too. I flip through the pictures she hands me, and I soak each one in, my heart breaking for my friend with every face I see in those pictures. What gets me most, though, is Rowe’s face in those photos. She was so happy, so free. I look at her now, and I realize she’s a ghost.
She’s waiting for my reaction. And I bet she’s rehearsed this—the telling of her tale. And I know what it’s like to get the fake hugs and I’m so sorry utterances. I hate when people apologize because I have MS—like they bumped into me accidentally, and because of that I got MS. It’s ridiculous. I have a mental collection of all of the pep talks after my diagnosis:
“You can beat this, Cass.”
No, actually, I can’t. I can live with it, but I can’t beat it.
“It’s just a little adjustment.”
Right…to my life!
Oh, and my all-time favorite—“You have MS, but MS doesn’t have you!”
What the fuck does that even mean?
I’m looking at Rowe, and I want to tell her that I understand. I want to tell her why I understand. But Jesus…a school shooting? My problems are not even in the same ballpark. I understand, but I feel like I’d be comparing her bowling ball to my marble, and it would just be insulting. So instead, I give her a break from the pep talks and the pats on the hand and the understanding bullshit that no doubt she’s heard a dozen times.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s…sucky. That’s just sucky.”
It is sucky. My MS is sucky. The crap deck life deals out randomly is motherfucking sucky!
“Oooooooh my god, it is soooooooo sucky!” Rowe says, her lips cracking a smile, and a hard laugh follows. She’s breaking a little, trying to hold on—taking my life raft, my free pass to go ahead and laugh at her situation, and how fucked up it is. And I want to laugh, too. Not at Rowe’s experience, but at my own. I want to laugh at it because it takes away its power, and it feels good. And I’ve never done this.
“Riiiiight?” I say back to her, mimicking her Valley-Girl tone. I start to giggle when I do. It’s that crazy, emotional track-wreck kind of laugh that could veer off into a cry at any moment for both of us. But I won’t let it. I’m driving this train, and tonight, we mock our shitty circumstances.
We give them the finger!
We laugh. We laugh hard. And when my sister walks in, we keep it going. We tell Paige everything, about Rowe’s boyfriend—who is practically in a coma—about her friend who died, and about how shitty it all is. Then, for a small second, my sister catches my gaze, and she looks at me hard. “Tell her,” she’s saying. I nod no. I don’t want to; I may never want to. And tonight, I’m going to give her laughter instead of sympathy. Paige can play the role of serious.