It’s not an option to refuse. That’s the only reason I nod stiffly and follow her down the hallway
As told to Rochel Samet
"How’d you find the quiz?” Shana asks me after math class.
My stomach turns. “Ugh. It was awful. I hardly studied.”
“Yeah, I tried calling you last night,” Shana says in an offhanded voice. I know my best friend — she’s offended. But honestly, between collapsing for two hours after walking home and being bullied by Henny into cleaning up, and then spending half the night on the floor crying from dizziness and pain in random parts of my body, I just didn’t have the time or energy for algebraic fractions.
“Sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t feeling great…”
“Whatever,” she shrugs. “I studied with Mimi and Eliana, it’s fine.”
But it’s not. Nothing is.
The bell rings.
Shana jumps up. I stay seated, too exhausted to move. I rest my head on my hands and decide to sleep through this period. If I’m quiet enough, Miss Halb will probably leave me alone.
*****
I actually feel almost refreshed at the end of the lesson. Art comes next, yay.
This time, when the bell shrills out and we are dismissed, I’m the first to move. I grab my art stuff and head out of the room.
“Libby?” Miss Halb steps out from the doorway. Probably waiting in ambush. “I’m so glad I caught you. Can I have a word…?”
It’s not an option to refuse. That’s the only reason I nod stiffly and follow her down the hallway.
“Libby, I’m not calling you over to attack you or anything, you’ve always been an excellent student.” She says this all in one breath; something baaad must be coming next. Of course, it comes. “But I’m noticing that you’ve been absent a lot recently. And when you are in class, you seem a little… distracted. Sometimes you’re not even taking notes.”
I fidget and stare at my fingernails.
“What is it? What’s going on that a good student like you is falling asleep in class? No notes, no participation? I don’t think I’ve heard you answer a question in weeks.”
I don’t think she has, either. I shrug.
“Libby?”
She’s waiting for an answer, and I’m waiting to go. Late for art, and I love art class. It’s all light and color and freedom, no pressure.
“I’m not feeling so good,” I mumble finally, hoping it’ll pass. It doesn’t.
“And last week? And the week before?” Her eyebrows, dark and fine, are arched, disbelief etched across them. I am suddenly so angry that I lose it.
“Yes! Okay? I’m not feeling well all the time, I’m trying to sit through class, and I can’t help it, I really can’t!” I want to continue, but then I realize who I’m talking to. I close my mouth and let the echoes of frustration and anger reverberate through the still hallway.
Miss Halb stares. I shrug, mutter, “Sorry,” and then, before the conversation can go any further, I whirl around and head for the safety of the art room.
*****
The thyroid results come back negative.
If there’s ever a time to get news that hits you in the face, it can’t be right now: curled up on the sofa in a haze of pain and nausea. I want to cry.
Ma takes her usual approach of “Baruch Hashem, it isn’t that,” and I feel panic rise up inside — but what is it?
Images dance in my mind: my GP. The Indian doctor. Colonoscopy. GI doctor… my crazy diet. Thyroid or mono or celiac, all negative, all dead-end.
There’s nothing wrong with you, Libby.
But there is, there’s something terribly wrong.
My stomach clenches in agony. I think of the exhaustion, how hard it is to walk to school, fifteen minutes away. Of the cramps and the aching pain in my joints. In my stomach. Dry eyes and sweating when it’s cold in the room.
Ma gives up on conversation and goes back to the kitchen. And I lie there alone, too weak to cry.
