Ruin (7 page)

Maybell

Before

Crooked, potato-like nose.

Uneven green eyes behind a set of glasses with sloppily applied purple makeup and heavy eyeliner.

Wavy hair that never listens and looks like cobwebs when sprayed with hairspray.

Three almost-ready-to-be-popped zits.

Yep, I’m a complete and utter mess.

I tried covering it up with foundation, but that only made it worse.

I glare at myself through the mirror, my eyes stopping at every imperfection they spot. I don’t mean to do it, but it just happens.

After being called ugly so many times, one just starts to believe it. And when I look at myself now, I don’t blame them. I might even convince myself they’re right.

I sigh and swallow away the loathing that settles. I won’t give up … yet.

With my head held high, I walk out of the bathroom and slide on my coat. “Mom, I’m off to the party.”

“Okay, honey! Get back safe and sound!”

“I will,” I call as I run out the door.

Thirty minutes later and I’m standing in front of a door that’s no match for the loud music booming behind it. It’s literally vibrating as my hand levitates close to the doorbell.

I make one last check and pull up my bright purple pants before ringing the bell and clearing my throat.

When a girl my age opens the door, her face goes from wide smile to disappointed and revolted.

“Uh … Hi?” I don’t know why I make it sound like a question.

Stupid, stupid, May!

“What do you want?” the girl barks. Talk about unfriendly.

“I’m here for the party … There’s a party here, right?” I try to ignore her obvious snarl.

Her brows rise, almost as if she’s surprised I showed up. “Oh … well, yeah, but—”

“You invited the entire class,” I add, as if it’s going to help.

“Right …” She grits her teeth and then forces out a fake smile. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in our class too. Come in.”

She steps aside and allows me to enter, but the way she leans back tells me I wasn’t expected.

And she wasn’t the only one … because half the eyes in the room that look my way seem surprised.

Damn.

I didn’t know I
wasn’t
invited when she invited everyone.

I make my way through the crowd slowly, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that I have no friends with me, but it’s hard when everyone’s looking at you as if you don’t belong.

There’s only one person I’m looking for, but I can’t find her anywhere, not even near the punch bowl or outside.

After five minutes of still not finding my only friend, I decide to grab a plastic cup and fill it with punch. A girl’s gotta do something to avoid looking like that awkward nerd who doesn’t know how to talk to people and start conversations like normal people do.

Plus, I like to dance, and I like to listen to music, and I can do both of them right here, so why not enjoy it while I can? I just start swaying my hips to the music, smiling at anyone who walks by, hoping someone will notice and start to dance with me, but none of them do.

Not that it matters. I like being on my own … and dancing on my own is my specialty.

The room is quite hot, though, and soon, sweat is running down my back. I need a drink to cool myself down, so I grab my cup of punch, but the moment I take a sip, I realize it’s heavily spiked. I immediately put it down, following a cough. It burns all the way down my throat.

God, I hate that feeling.

“Can’t handle the buzz, huh?” one of the boys muses, laughing a little.

“Not really,” I reply.

“C’mon, it’s not that bad,” he says.

I shrug. I get that others may like it, but I don’t. “I just don’t like it. Nothing wrong with that.”

He raises a brow while pouring himself a cup. “You should learn to live a little. Maybe then you’d have more friends.”

And then he walks away without looking back.

Just like that. Another dagger to my heart.

Now, I remember why I never come to parties.

My art teacher once sat down with me after I was bullied in his class. Instead of telling the bullies to stop harassing me, he told me I should make more of an effort to fit in. That, instead of being different, I should try to be the same.

He didn’t know I had Asperger’s, and neither did I.

My parents didn’t tell me until I was much older … but by then, it was too late.

They thought it wasn’t good to put a label on me, like it was some kind of stigma that would stop me from being a part of society, but I disagree.

My teacher only wanted what was best for me, and he didn’t know any better. I still listened to his advice, even though I knew in my heart that he was wrong. Like this party … I only came here because I could still hear his voice in my head, telling me that I should try to act normal. Maybe then, I’ll finally be accepted. Maybe then, I’ll finally belong.

I hate disappointing people … and myself.

I turn around and make my way to the door again, only to find it being blocked by three of the most popular girls in school. When they spot me, they stop talking and eye me from top to bottom, settling on chuckling without even attempting to hide it.

“What are you doing here …
in those pants
?”

One of them points at my purple, scale-like pants, which glisten in the light, and her finger makes me look down too. “What? I like them,” I say.

They laugh, almost louder than the music itself.

“Oh my God, that’s hilarious! You look like a clown. I can’t believe you’d wear
that
to a party like this.”

I make a face and cross my arms. “Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t know this was a party like
that
. I didn’t know this was a party where you had to dress up like a whore and act like a bitch.”

Their eyes widen and their jaws drop. I use their astonishment to my advantage by slipping past them, only to be called out as I walk down the steps.

“You’re a stupid, ugly girl, and nobody likes you, Maybell Fairweather. Or should I say May-turd Not-so-fair-nose?” The girls laugh like hyenas, but I close my coat and pull up my hoodie, trying to block out the sound.

And my tears.

This isn’t the first time, and I know it won’t be my last, either.

Being bullied for not looking or acting a specific way.

Being chased away for not fitting their mold.

Being misunderstood for a difference I was born with.

Sometimes, I just want to give up on it all. Sometimes, I wish for it all to just disappear. And sometimes … I just know that I don’t belong in this world.

***

Now

It’s been a few days since the surgery, and I’m so glad they’re finally taking off the bandage.

My leg hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt, and it’s so swollen that it looks like someone inserted a balloon. When the nurse removes the bandage, and I see what’s become of my leg, I feel queasy.

“Looks good,” she says.

I gag a little at the sight of my bloody skin sewn together by a blue wire across the entire length of the incision that runs along my knee and shin.

“I can’t look at it,” I say, looking away as she gently swabs it with a cotton pad.

“It’s fine,” she muses. “It healed nicely.”

“Is it closed yet?” I ask, already feeling queasy just from the thought of it still being open.

“Yes but not completely yet. You can’t put it under water.” She lowers my pajama pants.

“Wait, what?” I mutter. “So no showering?”

She cocks her head. “No, sorry.”

I frown. “But how am I supposed to wash my hair? It’s getting all greasy.” I don’t want people to see me when my hair is greasy; it looks yuck.

She pauses. “Well, if you really want to, I could ask one of the nurses to help you.”

“Yes, please,” I say.

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Can I maybe eat lunch somewhere else today?” I ask before she’s gone.

She stops in her tracks. “Like where?”

“I don’t know. I’m just tired of this bed,” I say, putting on the best smile I can muster right now.

“Sure, I can set you down at the table near the end of the hall.” She grabs the wheelchair and puts it in front of me. “You’ve placed your order already?”

“Yeah, a few minutes ago.”

“Perfect. I’ll tell them to bring it to you there.” She picks up my leg and carefully helps me lift it off the bed so I can shift from the bed into the wheelchair. The whole thing takes a while, but at least, it doesn’t take as long as it did before they bolted my bones together.

In my robe, I’m driven down the hall to a table with a stack of magazines.

“There you go,” she says. “I’ll return in about an hour. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“If you need something, just call out.”

I nod and thank her then she leaves.

I sigh as I pick up a magazine from the stack and randomly flip through it, not really interested in what it has to say. I see the words, but they don’t register. The only words that do filter through are the ones mentioning a life-shattering change. Something I can identify with.

Because I’ve never been through anything this big … And if I have to be honest, all that talk about clothing and makeup and decorating just doesn’t cut it anymore. Not when all I can think about is when I’ll be able to move my leg without feeling pain, when I’ll be able to stop taking these meds, when I’m finally allowed to start putting weight on it, and if I’ll ever be able to walk without pain again. If I can jump or run. Or even bend over or sit on my knees.

All simple things I took for granted.

All things that seem so normal but really aren’t.

Our bodies are precious and fragile, and I realized that too late.

“Hello,” a woman says as she holds out a tray. “You ordered this, right? The nurse down the hall told me you were sitting here.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” I say, suddenly aware of my growling stomach.

“You’re welcome. Enjoy.” She sashays off to the other rooms up ahead, while I unwrap the quesadillas and take the plastic off the sauce. I dip it in and lick my lips, my mouth already watering and opening widely at the thought of tasting all that goodness.

Suddenly, a guy plops down beside me on the bench.

My sauce drips off my quesadilla as I gape at him.

“Hi,” he says, a simple grin adorning his round face.

A piece of chicken drops from my quesadilla and almost rolls off my plate. “Shit.”

He laughs. “Oops. Did I do that?”

“No. Crap.” I pluck it off my plate and stuff it back into the quesadilla, but when I catch him looking, I blush. “Sorry. I just don’t like it when chicken goes to waste.”

“Oh, I’m not saying a thing. Chicken can never be wasted.” He takes a small package wrapped in plastic out of his bag and places it on the table, still rummaging through his bag.

“Um … what are you doing?” I ask.

He puts a bottle of Pepsi on the table and places his bag under the table. “Sitting. Eating.”

“But …” I mutter, still unsure what this is. “You’re that guy who’s been visiting me.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah.

So simple. It’s like it doesn’t faze him.

But he’s the guy who brought me that Snickers. To me, he’s some kind of god.

He starts unwrapping the plastic around his sandwich.

“Hmm … I freaking love chicken,” he says, taking a bite of his sandwich that has some kind of spread on it.

“Guess we’ve got something in common,” I muse, taking another bite of my quesadilla.

“Mmmhmm …” He nods, visibly enjoying his lunch. “Sorry about not saying a thing the other day … I was a bit weird.”

“It’s okay.” I smile at him. “So … what are you in for? Broken toes? Brain surgery?”

“Me? Oh, I’m not a patient here,” he says. “I’m a volunteer.”

I put down my quesadilla. “A volunteer of what?”

He shrugs. “Anything. Showing patients to their rooms. Explaining basic things like how the phone works and where the toilets and exits are. Generally helping people with stuff. Or entertaining them.”

“Oh … look at you … being a good Samaritan.”

A smug smile appears on his face, dimples appearing on each side. “Well, you gotta do something to keep yourself busy.” He takes a sip of his Pepsi. “So what do you have?”

The smile almost immediately disappears from my face. “Broken leg.”

“Ouch. Is it bad?”

“Yeah …” I chew on the inside of my cheek for a second. “My knee and shin are shattered from a car accident.”

He stops eating and puts his sandwich down. “Wow. That sucks.”

“Majorly,” I add.

“So what now? Do you get a cast?”

“No, I had surgery. They put seven pins and a plate in my leg.”

“Really?” His eyes widen. “Whoa, then you’re like a cyborg or something.”

I laugh, suddenly seeing an image of myself in a Robocop uniform. “Cyborg … Basically, yeah.”

“So does that mean you’ll never be able to walk again or …?”

I sigh and stare at the stack of magazines, wishing they were on a table somewhere far from here. Like the dentist, they always have those magazines too. And even though there’s pretty much nothing I hate more than going to the dentist, I’d freaking love to be at the dentist right now instead of here in this hospital.

I say, “Right now, I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll be able to. The doctor says I probably will, but that one word … probably … it could ruin everything.”

“I can imagine you’re feeling a lot of doubt.”

“Yes, and it’ll take months and months of rehab to know whether I’ll be my past self again.” I look his way, my lips parting to mention that one thing. That thing that’s been lingering there since I came here.

Dancing.

I’ll probably never do it again.

I briefly smile and push away the impending tears.

“So you’ll be staying here at the hospital for some time then?” he asks.

“Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. The doctor didn’t say when I could go home, but I know they want me on physiotherapy ASAP. Actually, I think they’ll have me doing some exercise today. Something where they put my leg on a device. I don’t know.”