Dark Night

Confrontation

"Your brother has a name, Delia," Mom said, and I glared at her. But she had a point. Dick Grayson was my comic book crush, and he was awesome. He even put up with his brother Damian, and Damian was kind of psychotic, not simply terminally selfish.

"That's nice. And when he can be bothered to use mine, maybe I'll use his."

"Delia, what's gotten into you?" Dad asked. "We will pay it back. There were other expenses that Stan's prize money went to, but he has nationals next month, and there will be prize money from that too, and he's agreed to put some money toward your savings. This is a chance to get ahead a little."

"I suppose I'll have to be happy to see any of it," I snapped. "And don't get any ideas, Mom. I put what's left into a new savings account that only I have access to. You can give me a check. As to what's 'gotten into me,' the real question is why it's taken so long for me to wise up. I'm tired of him getting everything he wants, including all the parental attention. He told me that I was an accident, and that's how I feel that you look at me. Like an inconvenience, an unwanted drain on your finances and time. And there's nothing that I've heard tonight that makes me feel any different. Nobody asked how I was. There's no apology. No kid should have to feel this way."

"Delia, you have to see it from our side," Mom said.

"No, I don't," I said heatedly. "For like a decade, most of my life, I've been second rate, an afterthought. The big skating dreams took precedence over everything else, and I'm done with that. I've done my best to be a team player, to tamp down the negative emotions, to go along, to sacrifice so that someone else can pursue their dreams. When is it going to be my turn? Never, if there's a second Olympics. Not if I don't make my own chances. I told you last night that if you want to go down, that's your choice, but you're not dragging me down too. I can live without an allowance, I can live without your interest or consideration, but when I graduate, I'm out of here. I'm finally putting myself first, because nobody else will do it."

From there, it got a little shouty, and Grandpa told me to go to bed, that I needed my rest. I popped into the half-bath, then went back to my room, dropping my backpack and taking out my phone to charge. Tonight I made it into my pjs and crawled under the covers. I hoped to go to sleep for a good long time, like Rip Van Winkle. Maybe when I woke up my dystopian future would be here. Books had promised me a dystopian future, and I'd rather decapitate zombies or play in a high risk tournament than deal with my family, frankly.

I could hear my grandpa through the wall. "I'm very disappointed in you, Jane. Your mother, God rest her soul, would be ashamed. We tried to raise you better than this. Greg, I thought you were a better man. And Constantine, your attitude has got to change. What got into you, telling your sister she was an accident? You--"

I fell asleep as Grandpa took on my family.

I woke up too early again the next day. What was up with that? I was exhausted, I should be sleeping through my alarm, but no. I dragged out of bed, took some aspirin for my head, did quick grooming in the half bath, and left. It wasn't as foggy today, so I just wore my pretty teal hoody and kept mostly to the sidewalks, diverting to the street only when I encountered a pedestrian. I was moving slower today, and stopped by the drugstore for sore throat lozenges before picking up a coffee again. I decided to step out of my comfort zone and got a caramel frappuchino out of deference to my throat.I got to school on time and took a little more aspirin. I was doing ok until I got to gym, where my new coaches were much bigger on team sports and we were playing soccer, in a probably doomed bid to build our enthusiasm for the game, with the World Cup coming up. Even if the men's team had washed out. But to compensate, they actually explained how to play it and stood on the sidelines, actually coaching. And to my surprise, I actually liked it. I was playing defense because everybody wanted to be a forward. The goalie came forward to cut down the angle of the attack, and I slid in front of the net as the attacker juked around him. Some of the kids in this class played soccer over the summer and were good. And to my surprise, I cleared the goal line. The coach hustled up to take the ball and congratulated me on the save.

"Good job, Knight," he said briskly. "Next time I'm trying you as keeper." He looked at me more closely. "Are you ok?"

"Not really, Coach. I feel weird, and I didn't even hit my head."

"Go to the nurse, then," he instructed and turned away. The kid who was the goalie patted my shoulder on my way by, and I trudged into the school. That save seemed to have taken all my energy. When I got to the nurse's office, she asked me questions about how I felt, then pricked my finger and sampled the blood.

"Ok, you're having a hypoglycemic incident," she said briskly, giving me some grape-flavored glucose tablets, then asked me more questions about whether my family had a history of diabetes and when I ate last. I couldn't remember.

"I had a frappuchino this morning," I said. "It felt better on my throat than a hot coffee. And I took aspirin for my headache. My sinuses hurt too."

The nurse sighed. "Those coffee drinks are just loaded with sugar, and when the sugar wears off, your blood sugar drops, especially with exertion and if you haven't been eating. Aspirin can also affect your glucose levels negatively, and you've taken the max dose." She paused to check my throat and press gently on my cheekbones and forehead. And because I hadn't been paying attention, had me blow into a Kleenex. Then she asked why I wasn't eating.

"Big family fight," I mumbled around a thermometer in a sleeve. "I don't have an eating disorder." She looked at me skeptically, taking the thermometer when it beeped. I shook my head. "It's bad enough that my grandpa came here from out of state to help."

"Ok," she said. "I can't do anything about family drama, but you need to go see a doctor. I'm inclined to think this blood sugar crash was due to poor eating habits, the high aspirin dose, and the physical exertion, but you have a sinus infection and it looks like strep throat too, it's been going around the school. So go to your locker, get your stuff, and I'll call your parents."

"Uh, could you call my grandpa instead?" I said, alarmed. "Both my parents are at work, and Grandpa is free." It wasn't really in accord with school district policy, but she agreed, and I went to my locker first because I couldn't remember his cell phone number, pausing to change out of my gym uniform. The nurse took my phone and hit the contact labeled 'Grandpa' after I told her his name.

"Mr O'Reilly?" she said. "This is Cheryl Gonzalez. I'm a nurse at your granddaughter's high school." Pause. "Well, no, she really isn't ok, which is why I'm calling. She had a hypoglycemic incident in gym, and when I asked questions, it came out that she's got other symptoms which indicate a sinus infection and strep, which is going around the school. She needs to go to the doctor for a formal diagnosis and to get a prescription. Can you come pick her up? Do you know where the school is?" Another pause. "Great. My office is to the left after you come in the main doors, but you'll need to stop by the main office first to check Delia out."

After that, she handed me back my phone and let me stretch out on one of the cots. I got a little nap in before the secretary showed Grandpa in. "Aw, punkin, you've had a rough few days," he said, cuddling me in a hug. "Your mom called the doctor and they're going to work you in as soon as we get there. Then I'll take you home and go to the drug store for you."

I wanted to ask if we were going back to Michigan, but somehow I doubted that the answer was yes. And truthfully, my family aside, I was liking Duke's Crossing a lot more than I'd expected. For one thing, no way could I be skateboarding back home. It wasn't far to the doctor, where they whisked me into an exam room, and shortly thereafter had a broad-spectrum antibiotic for both infections. Grandpa took me back to the condo and tucked me into bed when I changed. He left to go to the store, and I took the opportunity to text my friends to let them know that I was sick and called the library, leaving a message that I had strep but that I expected to be back for my weekend shifts. I was drowsing by the time Grandpa came back. He brought me some chicken soup from the deli in the supermarket, my medicine, and a glass of ginger ale. He brought over my desk chair while I ate--and I wasn't particularly hungry, but that low blood sugar thing had scared me--and took the antibiotic. It was huge, and my throat felt sore and it was hard to swallow.

"I'm going to make you some better soup, punkin," he said getting up when I was done and taking the platter that he'd used as a tray. "That stuff probably had preservatives and who knows what else, but you needed to eat. Why don't you take a nap? You need to sleep to recover."

So I did.