“Come on, come on.” Coach slides her arms under me the moment the kayak touches the pontoon. Liz is there, too. As I’m being picked up, I just catch sight of the blood swirling around the boat. Is it really that bad?
Every step Coach takes is a throb in my ankle. I want to see what is going on but the only thing I see is the cloudless sky. It would have been a beautiful day.
If not for this.
Coach sets me down in front of the boat shed, which is a small structure in which we put our boats, bags, and miscellaneous stuff like screws, bolts and duct tape.
“Get me the first aid box,” she tells Liz as she places my leg on her lap. For the first time, my ankle is in full sight.
And it isn’t looking pretty. There are two puncture wounds on my ankle, the edges red and slightly puffy. The wound goes down so deep I can see my flesh, and blood dribbles out of my wound. I’m beginning to get a little lightheaded. Blood was never really my thing, if it could be anybody’s thing at all.
Liz comes back with the first aid kit, but I know before she opens it that there won’t be anything in there. I remember checking it before and finding nothing but a bottle of contaminated iodine and a couple of dirty Band-Aids.
Sure enough, Coach curses when the box reveals a couple of mud encrusted wrappers and some black mold. “Oh man, it’s going to get infected.” Liz snaps the box shut. Coach takes a bottle out from the shed and tips it over my foot.
“No!” I yelp and cover the wound with my hands. The water splashes over my hands and drip to the floor but it doesn’t touch my ankle. “Haha, uh, I think I’m fine. You don’t have to wash it.” I grin sheepishly. The puncture is still throbbing, and my stomach turns when I think of the pain the water will bring.
Coach rolls her eyes, pushes my hands away (No!), and dumps the water on my ankle.
So.
Much.
Pain.
I whine and squeal, trying not to shout. I’m crying, the tears mixing with the reservoir water on my face. The pain is concentrated mostly in those two little holes in my ankle, the stinging-to-the-point-of-decapitation, bone-aching, flesh-eating kind of pain.
Coach sighs and turns to Liz.
“Bring her home.”
*
I come home to an empty house. Mom’s on shift, Dad’s overseas. Liz lowers me onto the couch. She’d carried me all the way on and off the bus, and she has no idea how grateful I am for it.
“Let me get the first aid kit.” Liz also knows my house inside out. How else does she get the Oreos when she comes for sleepovers?
My head falls on the back of the couch. The pain has settled down (although something tells me it’s going to come up to say hi for a while later) and I’m okay, really, just a little traumatized. And wet, of course. Oh shit. I look down to see the new sofa covered in reservoir water. I run my hand down my face. Sure. Mom’s going to be so delighted to hear I’d ruined her prize furniture.
“Eat.” Liz tosses a pack of biscuits at me. There are times she’s a prick, but there are times like now that she’s like Mother Teresa. I rip open the pack of biscuits, not caring I’m making a mess (if I’m going to get killed for the water, what difference does a couple of crumbs make?) as I watch Liz bandage my ankle. Poorly, of course. When she’s done, she wipes her brows and plops beside me. I appraise the bandage and grin.
“I love how you used your toes to bandage this.”
Liz smacks my arm. “Jesus. I was going to ask if you’re okay, but considering the fact that you can criticize my bandaging skills, I supposed you’re fine, you little bi-” I stuff a cookie in her mouth.
“Do you hear that?” I twirl my fingers in the air. “That wonderful music? I think it’s called…” I make a show of thinking hard as Liz rolls her eyes. She knows what’s coming.
“Silence.” I smirk and tap her on the nose. Liz shakes her head at me. “Haha. Very funny.”
“Is that the only comeback you can think of? Really?” I act disgusted. “Shoo. Oh my god, we can’t be seen together anymore.” Liz ignores me. She’s used to my crazy, which usually turns to full on insane when I’m tired, and right now, I’m exhausted.
I sigh, close my eyes. So tired…
I must have slept, because when I wake up, there’s a note on the table beside me and no sign of Liz, except for a steaming bowl of hot noodles. I grab the note first, because, well, note?
Hey Hav,
You knocked out in five minutes. Seriously, are you that tired? Anyway, I cooked dinner for you. Your mom ain’t going to come home till real late. She called. I told her you were asleep. You should eat quick then go to sleep.
And for god's sake's, shower. My nose nearly fell of sitting next to you.
-If-you-didn’t-know-me-dishonor-on-you-your-family-and-your-cow.
I laugh at her sign-off before sniffing my clothes. Yup, I smell like fresh crap. Incredible, the perks of canoeing.
After a particularly reinvigorating and odor-removing shower, I gobble down the noodles. They are bouncy, a little salty, and very good. Liz is a very good cook, a skill that has saved me from starvation more than once.
When I’m done, it’s eleven at night. I wash the dishes, limping as I move about. My ankle doesn’t hurt much anymore, although every now and then it sends an arrow of pain shooting up my leg. Well, I think, at least now I can write a little more accurately about pain.
So I’m a writer. Undesirable symptoms of writing include talking to myself, pulling faces to try to understand the character’s feeling but accidentally doing it in front of the class, sudden heart palpitation when the teacher mentions the word ‘write’ and lastly getting weird looks from people when I can belt out all the symptoms of a morphine overdose. All those symptoms have, actually, been limiting my friend intake, but I’m fine with that. Introvert, you see.
I don’t have homework due tomorrow, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have done it. I have a very strong opinion against homework, which means homework is pretty low on my list of priorities. Who cares about sheets of paper that isn’t going to mean shit in the grand scheme of life?
Before I go to sleep, I probe my foot through the thick swath of bandages. My thumb kneads its way gently down my ankle until something like a hundred knives pierce my foot and I stop.
I’m asleep before I hit the pillow. My eyes fall shut so fast it must be record-breaking. I curl up in my silk pajamas. The silk pajamas are important.
Because when I wake up the next day, I am definitely not wearing silks.
ns 15.158.61.21da2
