BELLA
A pixie cut.
That’s what the nurse just called it. The nurse, with her long, long ponytail.
Slowly, tentatively, I run a hand over my head. Over what feels like myscalp.
I’d cry if it didn’t hurt so much just to breathe.
“I always wished I could pull off short hair,” she blathers on. “But you’ve got the bone structure for a pixie.”
A pixie.The name doesn’t even make sense. Pixies, fairies, whatever—they never actually have short hair. I think of all the princess stuff in my bedroom back at Gram’s, the Barbies and dollar-store picture books. Long hair, always.
And this isn’t a pixie cut, anyway. A pixie cut gets done in a beauty parlor. Not the back of an ambulance.
I find my voice. “Can I go yet?”
The emergency department at London Valley Memorial smells like barf and bleach. The lights make everything look green and the curtains they have between beds don’t give anyone any privacy.
Not that I’ve had any privacy for a while.
The nurse pretends not to hear me. Or maybe she actually doesn’t. It’s definitely loud enough in here.
“Five-eleven.” She blinks at my chart and does a low whistle. “God, I’dloveto be that tall.”
She pauses. Like I’m supposed to congratulate her on being jealous of me. For something I have no control over.
“And you’re soskinny, too!”
I feel like nurses aren’t supposed to say that. But this is a shitty hospital and she’s probably a shitty nurse.
“You could model, you know.”
That.
Icepick. Stomach.
I can’t say anything, I can’t react, I can’t cry because I can’t even get enough air.
So I just ball up the blanket harder in my fist. Keep staring at the ceiling. At the ugly green light. Like it’s the morning star.
“Okay,then.” The nurse mutters it in a way that I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear. “Well, I am sorry about the wait.” She doesn’t sound sorry. “The physician will be with you as soon as possible, but I should warn you, we areverybusy tonight.”
She doesn’t need to warn me. I saw the waiting room. I can hear all the stretchers banging in down the hall.
“Any new or increased pain since we checked you in?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. If you feel sharp pain or feel like you’re losing consciousness?—”
“Can I at least take this off?” I don’t even know what it’s called. I just know I can barely breathe.
She smiles. Like I’m stupid for not knowing what the beige plastic-and-velcro thing smashing down my chest is called. “The support binder,” she says. “The physician will go over all of that when he arrives.”
When he arrives.
He.
