It’s only a few minutes before Kash and Mercedes return, but it feels much longer. No one has spoken. They’re standing around me either staring fixatedly on my ankle, or like me, completely avoiding it after looking in my general direction and wincing. King looks irate, his hands woven on his bent knee as the two approach where he’s kneeling beside me.
“What in the hell happened?” Kash asks.
The desire to sit up consumes me once more. Feeling weak is one thing; looking weak is another level of awful. I avoid looking at him as I have King since he came in, though I’m still feeling his attention, more poignant than the others’.
“Can you move your hands?” My eyebrows drop as I look to King.
“Yes.” That was the first question I had too, and therefore the first thing I checked. He doesn’t respond, drawing my attention from my torn jeans to Kash. His glare is harsher than King’s, making me realize Mercedes likely inherited the cunning look from him.
“Her ankle might be messed up. Her foot got caught in the spokes.” Parker’s face appears over King’s shoulder.
King doesn’t ask permission. His hands move to my legs and then slowly run down each one, applying the slightest of pressures before he reaches my ankles and the slight gap between the bottom of my skinny jeans and ballet flats. His fingers prod with increased pressure around my ankles, and then he focuses on my right foot. My shoe is gently removed, and his hands envelop my heel. “It’s already bruising.”
“It’s okay. It really doesn’t hurt that much.”
“That’s the adrenaline. You’ll feel it, believe me,” Kash assures me.
“We need to take her in.” King tosses my shoe to Kash and, without warning, slides his arms under my legs and around my back and lifts me. Pain slices through me as I stiffen, forcing me to try to settle against him. I’ve always been tall. Nothing about me screams petite, cuddle, or protect. I struggle with wondering if it will be easier for him to carry me stretched out with my weight disbursed, or huddled together so I’m not as long. My thoughts cease when I catch sight of my ankle. There’s a large lump surrounded by bruising, and looking at it amplifies the pain shooting through it. My breaths become more labored as I silently instruct myself to look away, but I can’t. My entire body heats and the room begins to swim.
“SHE’S lucky the bars didn’t crush her arm.” The irritation in King’s voice is vibrant, nearly as much as the pain that’s still ricocheting through my foot and leg.
“Hey, are you okay? You’re alright?”
I nod in the general direction of Parker and close my eyes. “I’m going to be fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
“We need to get X-rays of your ankle.” King’s tone is slightly softer, but his words are still clipped.
“It’s fine. Just a sprain.”
“And you know this how?” King asks.
“Because it just hurts a lot.”
“And how do you think it would feel if it was broken?” he asks, his tone holding a new level of warning and sarcasm that makes a concoction I can’t refuse to accept with a sardonic smile.
“It would hurt a whole hell of a lot.”
Parker gives me a short laugh, mostly out of courtesy for my failed attempt at humor, but King’s eyes are narrowed, lacking any trace of amusement.
“We’re going to the hospital. Kash is getting the Suburban now.”
I turn to object again because I know with near certainty that it’s not broken. If my arm was able to handle the impact, my ankle is a guaranteed home run. The look on King’s face stops me. It’s intense, daring me to voice, or worse, act out an objection. His silent threat of being prepared to throw me over his shoulder caveman style is loud and clear. My lips close and I settle farther into the couch, looking away before I’m able to catch a glimpse of his satisfaction from my forfeit.
AS ALWAYS, the emergency room is a zoo. A zoo of sick people that makes me once again question the validity of King’s cave-man threats. To make matters worse, they’ve refused me the right to walk. Parker carried me to the car, and Kash carried me inside the waiting room where I sit in an ugly and lumpy navy blue wheelchair, waiting to get X-rays while undoubtedly being exposed to things far worse than the parasites on a feather.
“Do you need new ice?” Kash looks down at my foot that’s propped up with the support, covered with ice packs.
“They’re still frozen.” My foot went from burning with pain, to burning from being so cold, to now feeling nothing.
“I’m still on my dad’s insurance. You guys don’t need to wait around.” Truthfully, I don’t want to be here alone, but having them wait with me seems to make the time pass even slower. I can’t admit to them that I don’t know anyone else to call who would be willing to wait with me. I know Charleigh or Allie would but also know that neither can afford the time to be here when they’re both struggling to find enough for their work, especially now that Charleigh is dating her mysterious boyfriend.
“I can’t believe you went down the middle ramp,” is King’s reply. “And while wearing those shoes!” He motions toward my remaining silver ballet flat with a pointed toe. Parker told me I had some bad bacon, which had my face scrunching with confusion, prompting him to translate the term to road rash. He later confirmed my shoe had even worse bacon.
“It won’t happen again, trust me.”
Different expressions of objection are worn on each of their faces as they turn to me.
“You can’t give up now.” King’s words beat the ones Kash was starting to say in a much softer tone.
“I’m pretty sure I can. My future depends on my being able to use my entire arm for drawing. Taking a chance to do something that has absolutely no benefit is stupid.”
Parker laughs, King scowls, and Kash pats my knee a couple of times before smiling. “The benefit is the freedom, Lo. You’ll learn to understand that with time.”
I’M mature enough not to break out in a chorus of “I told you so,” but not mature enough to miss the opportunity to shoot a pointed look to King as the doctor clears me of any breaks and informs me I’ve got a bad sprain that requires crutches for at least a week.
A week.
When I was little, the week before Christmas always felt like an entire year, yet now, this week sounds like ten. How am I going to get on the bus with crutches? How am I going to walk to and from the bus stop to the Knight residence with crutches? How am I going to get up three flights of rain-slickened apartment stairs with crutches? This isn’t even counting school.
I’m never riding a damn bike again.
My ankle is wrapped and I’m back in a wheelchair, being taken out to where Kash is retrieving the Suburban. King is carrying my crutches while listening to the discharge nurse remind him that I need to be careful with both my ankle and left arm for a couple of weeks and should ice them frequently. They’ve also given me some antibacterial ointment for my first official bacon—something Parker took several photos of and Tweeted while we were waiting for the results of the X-rays, stating I was official.
“She needs to take the ibuprofen religiously for the first couple of days to minimize the swelling. That and the ice will significantly help with the pain,” she prattles on. I’ve had worse injuries; this isn’t going to be a big deal. It’s the commute that’s going to be difficult.
The dark Suburban pulls up, and I grip each side of the wheelchair, ready to stand up before the nurse makes a cry of shock and puts her hands on my shoulders with just enough pressure that I know she’s instructing me to stay put.
“Alright, why don’t you help me.” I twist in my seat to try to see who she’s talking to. “She can wrap an arm around both of our shoulders and hoist herself up, and we can help her into the car.”