I take a deep breath and slide the curtain back open to stop her from stripping, but Devon just smiles. No sign of intent to undress. Her big, deep eyes are wide and excited.
“Peek-a-boo!” she sings.
I step to the right side of the bed and tuck her dangling arm back below the layers of blankets. She seems to have forgotten about propositioning me.
“I’m going to go now, Devon. You need to try to rest. And when you wake up, you’ll feel much better,” I tell her. But I don’t move to leave. She blinks up at me and grins.
“You have one dimple.”
I nod. Her dark hair spills around her like an ink blot on the pillow. I can smell her coconut shampoo.
“Satan has one dimple.”
I don’t nod.
“Satan. Lord of darkness,” she whispers and tilts her head, signaling for me to lean closer. I can see the tiny flecks of gold in her blurry, unfocused left eye. “Could you help me become more like you? Teach me how to let loose a little. And possibly send me a lover? A generous one. I’ve heard you can be very, very persuasive.” Her voice has gone low and raspy and she pushes her full bottom lip into a pout.
“I’ll do my best,” I whisper back. And I know how insanely unprofessional it is, but I really cannot resist that pleading look she’s giving me beneath those absurdly thick lashes. I want to use this woman’s uninhibited brain like a gumball machine. Stick a quarter in and see what color comes out next.
Susan appears across the bed and I jump back like she’s caught me with my pants down. She doesn’t seem to notice as she checks the monitors and then smiles down at Devon. I step back but Devon is still watching me as Susan checks her IV and tells her she needs to rest. Her mouth opens to speak, and I put my finger to my lip and wink. I force myself to turn away and head back to the computer. I need to finish this report. Check in on my patients one last time. Send my first month’s rent to the landlord in Philadelphia. Text my Mom and sister back about the farewell party to celebrate the end of this never-ending residency and the beginning of my final one-year stretch as a fellow. I need to sleep. And then sleep again.
An hour later, just before I leave the recovery bay, I pull Devon Gallagher’s closed curtain to the side and look at her peaceful, sleeping face. And though I know she will forget all of this, somewhere in the small irrational area of my brain, I hope she remembers me.
Chapter Two
Devon
Lesson 3: The internet is public and permanent.
Eighth graders can be ruthless. If they even detect the slightest weakness, they will circle it like wolves then each take their turn to attack. So, standing in front of my class today with my bad leg bent atop my steerable knee scooter was like leaving a trail of blood and guts across the snowy, predator-filled tundra.
“Ms. G, can I catch a ride to my next class on your handlebars?”
They snicker in unison before the next wolf takes a shot.
“My little brother doesn’t need his stroller anymore if you want to try that.”
Haha. I smile and shake my head.
“My Grandma has a rascal you can borrow. Just make sure you fill it with gas before you give it back.”
That one actually makes me chuckle. My turn. I give them a big bright grin—lots of teeth—and say, “You guys done? Get it allllll out of your system now because it’s gonna be a long ten days till summer filled with quizzes and tests and?—”
They all groan. Heads go down to desks. Apologies are muttered. Defeat apparent in the slumping of their shoulders. That’s right, little wolves. This bleeding bunny still has all the power.
“No, but seriously everyone. Write down your homework—” Another groan. “Oh please. It’s one problem. And get your notebooks out. We have to finish up our lesson on scatterplots. There is learning to be done, my people.” I clap twice as they start to take action.
June is possibly the worst month of school. They’ve taken all their standardized tests. The sun is shining outside the windows that can’t be opened. The “air conditioner” wheezes weakly above us, blowing nothing but our warm, stale breath around the room. And all that the kids and teachers want to do is get outside and have some much-deserved fun. But the world would fall from orbit before an administrator supports you actually enjoying your school day. Math class is for mathing only.
“Ms. G?”
I turn from the Smartboard at the sound of Madison’s soft voice. Her notebook is open and ready to go as always.
“Yes, Maddie?”
There’s murmuring and Maddie looks around, her cheeks redden, her foot taps beneath the desk. Her peers around her are shaking their heads. Some are mouthing the word “don’t.” I sigh. What are these goons up to?
“Ms. G, I think you should know that there’s a?—”
