Page 6 of Puck Block

The sound of Ford rubbing his hand against the scruff of his face draws my attention, and I know he agrees, just like my brother. I also know that neitherof them will back me up if I refuse to let them drive me around campus like I’m some damsel in distress or watch my every move like I’m a felon trying to escape prison.

It’s always them against me.

Always.

“Mom, I don’t need the glucose mon–”

The door opens, and in walks Dr. McCarthy with his white coat flying behind him like a superhero’s cape.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks, ping-ponging his attention around the room. He lands on me, and his mouth immediately turns into a frown.

“I don’t want to be watched like a lab rat, and I don’t want some monitor placed on me like I’m being tracked. I won’t allow this disease to rule my life like this.” I’m unable to hold back the snip in my voice. I’ve been on edge since being diagnosed, and it bothers me to no end that everyone else is on edge too—because of me.

“I see,” Dr. McCarthy says, taking a seat on my bed.

Ford clears his throat, and we make eye contact again. His blue eyes widen, and his jaw muscles flicker with a hiddenmessage. My heart is beginning to jump all over the place, and if I don’t agree to the stipulations that are being laid out for me, then it’s going to be an uphill battle on top of the already demanding battle with my diabetes.

“Let me explain this to you,” Dr. McCarthy starts. “If you don’t get this under control, those organs that were impacted last summer when you were first diagnosed will continue to be impacted. Today was a high-blood-sugar episode, but last week was a low-blood-sugar episode while you were driving. You have to see how dangerous that could have been for you and others.”

I do. Of course I do.

Emory intervenes—as if my brother’s hostility regarding my health is going to help matters. “That means you’ll die or kill someone else.”

“Yes, thank you for clearing that up for me,” I snap, flinging myself back onto the hospital bed.

Ford turns his back to our conversation and starts to stare at the machine keeping track of my heart rate. He puts his hand on the top, and from my position on the bed, I can see the furrowing of his facial features, as if he somehow wants to reach inside the device and control the beeping.

“He’s right, Taytum,” Dr. McCarthy adds. “It is necessary for you to wear the monitor so we can be certain that the insulin is the right type for your diabetes. Once it’s stable, then we can move on to a pump.”

A pump?No way.

I hate this.

I hate being the center of attention.

I hate that everyone is worried about me, as if I’m purposefully crying out for help. But it’s not me. It’s the wonky, weakened organ inside my body.

“If you don’t agree to this, we’re moving you home.” I stare at the phone in my lap like it’s the devil. My heart pounds, and my entire body heats.

“She’ll wear it.” We all turn toward Ford, but he’s looking at me. “Right, Taytum?”

He knows me too well, and I hate it. It’s either move home or wear the monitor, so of course I’m going to wear the monitor.

Emory is staring at me with his eyebrows raised, and my mother is silent on the other end of the phone.

I look to Dr. McCarthy. “Yeah,” I say.

Dr. McCarthy stands up and peers down at me on the bed. “No driving, even with the continuous blood sugar reading. Moving home won’t benefit you, though. You’ve gotta come to terms with this sooner or later.”

Relief settles my heart rate right away, but it’s followed by frustration. I have come to terms with it. That doesn’t mean I have to like it or flip over backward when someone snaps their fingers at me.

Emory steps forward. “We have it worked out, then. Ford and I will make sure she doesn’t drive, and we will have someone close by at all times until we know that we can trust her.”

“Trust me?” I fly upright and glare at my brother. “You act like I’m–”

“Taytum.” I jerk my attention to the phone mid-sentence. My dad is the silent type, only speaking up when necessary. “The last thing we want is for you to give up graduating, lose your scholarship, and move back home. You’re absolutely right. No one wants a disease like this to control them in the way it’s controlling you, so please just promise us that you’ll take care of yourself.”

I slink back onto the bed and slowly hinge my jaw back together. My lips close, and I’m quieter than a mouse. Dr.McCarthy takes the phone from my lap and moves closer to the door to speak into it. My brother follows and listens intently.

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