10 Things To Do Before I Die Part 4

"What's the matter? Is it your ears?"

"No. I mean, yes, but not totally. My ears are only part of it. I feel really dizzy. There's a pain in my side. I just threw up. And I hear this Weird ringing-Wait a second. Actually, you know What? It's starting to die down a little. But it Was really loud there for a bit."

She gives me a quick once-over. Her eyebrows are tightly knit behind the c.o.ke bottle lenses. She sniffs loudly.

"What is it?" I ask.

Without a Word, she takes my elbow and escorts me to a more private spot at the end of the hall. We pause next to a big, fake palm tree.

"Have you been drinking?" she Whispers.

I frown. "Excuse me?"

"I have to ask," she says.

"No!" I bark.

She flashes an apologetic grin. "Okay, okay, I believe you. Let me ask you something else: Have you eaten anything unusual recently?"

I hesitate for a moment. "Just some fries. But I eat fries every day of the Week, pretty much."

"Oh, I see." She laughs. "Very healthy."

Maybe she's trying to be overly friendly now to compensate for the drinking accusation, but I relax a little. I admit: I'm a sucker for the attention of a female, any female. What sixteen-year-old isn't?

"Well, not every day," I say sheepishly.

"Do you notice if the ringing is louder in one ear?"

"I ... louder in one ear?" It strikes me as an odd question, but she's the doctor. I concentrate for a moment. "Yeah. I think it is. I think it's louder in my right ear."

"I see," she says. She scans my entire body again, pausing briefly at the vomit stains on my T-s.h.i.+rt. There's zero emotion involved. She studies me the Way a butcher might study a spoiled side of beef. Any meat Worth saving on this carca.s.s? she's asking herself. Or so I imagine. She chews a nail. "I think you should Wait here."

"Why?"

All of a sudden she grins again. "I'd like a doctor to take a look at you," she answers, a little too cheerfully. "I'll go see if one's available."

"You're not a doctor?"

She laughs. "No, I'm just an intern. Don't Worry!"

Until she brought it up, I Wasn't Worried. Now I feel a shudder of fear creeping up my spine. "Why should I Worry?"

"You shouldn't."

"Okay."

"How old are you?" she asks.

"Sixteen," I tell her.

Her smile falters.

"What?" I say, alarmed. "Is that a problem?"

She forces another laugh, peering through the sunlight toward a bank of elevators. "Of course not. Listen, Why don't you call one or both of your parents and tell them to meet you here? I'll be right back. Okay?"

Alarm turns to full-fledged panic. "My parents? Why do I have to call them? They're on a business trip. What's going on? I really-"

"Shhh," she Whispers. She casts a furtive glance back toward the security guard, then lays a hand on my shoulder and puts another phony smile on her face. "If We're going to conduct any kind of examination procedure, We need the consent of a parent or guardian. You know, for X-rays and stuff. Or maybe minor surgery. Okay?"

Minor surgery? What are you, nuts? No! It's not okay! Not in the least!

That's What I'd like to tell her. But I'm too frightened. Because that phrase, that one phrase, is stuck in my brain for all time. I'm talking about the phrase that instantly conjures a thousand different visions of twisted hospital horror movies and s.a.d.i.s.tic torture and crimes against humanity-the crimes that Rachel Works so hard to prevent as a member of our school's chapter of Amnesty International, that go Way beyond minor surgery... .

"Examination procedure."

Everyone knows about phrases like that. Evil geniuses use phrases like that. Maniacal dictators. Movie villains. They use them to cover up awful truths.

"I'll be right back," the intern is saying.

"Huh? No! Where are you going?"

"To find a doctor." She hurries toward the elevators. "We might as Well rule some things out, right? I'll be right back. Call your parents, okay, sweetheart?"

The Creeps.

No Way am I Waiting around for her to find a doctor.

For one thing, hospitals give me the creeps. Not just because "examination procedures" are performed here and "things" need to be "ruled out." It's the Whole atmosphere: the blinding sunlight, the stale air, the miserable patients With the ma.s.sive bandages on their arms (because blood has just been drawn)- not to mention that every single bench and cafeteria and pediatric Wing is "Memorial" this and "In Honor of" that, so there's this unseen shroud of death hanging over the Whole place- Wait.

For no reason Whatsoever, I suddenly realize Why the security guard Was such a jerk to me. Mark's father just got the job as an administrator here. So he hasn't started. His name isn't in the computer. He's not an employee yet.

Which means he can't help me.

But that's not even the issue. The real issue is that even if I did call my parents (Which I have no intention of doing), they can't help me, either. They're in Denver at a billboard convention. They're a good two-thousand miles away.

I catch a glimpse of the intern's ponytail as it swishes into one of the elevators.

The doors close behind her.

My eyes zero in on a glowing sign nearby:.

Cardiology: 2.

Transplant: 2.

Radiology: 3.

The list goes on. The sign is also ill.u.s.trated With those universal stick figures that represent all humanity: Mr. and Mrs. Public Toilet-a triangle skirt for her, a blank formless body for him. Except here the couple don't just provide helpful directions to the nearest bathroom. No, here they're stricken With terrible diseases and injuries. Mrs. Public Toilet has to go to the ER. Mr. Public Toilet is due for chemotherapy. The prognosis is not good for either of them. Okay. I've seen enough. Time to split. I know exactly What Gla.s.ses and Ponytail has in mind for me. It's not just X-rays. She's thinking stomach pumping, invasive surgery-that's What she meant When she said "examination procedures." She Wasn't talking about checking my pulse or sticking a thermometer in my mouth. You don't need a doctor or your parents' consent for that.

And all I did Was throw up! So I have some ringing in my ears. So I'm dizzy. What's the big deal?

The truth is, I have no desire to find out What's really Wrong With me. Maybe that's a character flaw. But that's Who I am. We all have problems. I just don't care to know What my particular problems are.

Once again I've been given my exit cue. And this time, thank G.o.d, Mark and Nikki aren't around to stop me.

Lou and Frankie.

Ahhh.

It's good to be outside. What With the sunset, the cool breeze ... yes, remarkably, by the time I round the corner onto Barrow Street, I feel better. Or close enough. I'm no longer hobbling. The fire iron in my abdomen has cooled from White-hot to lukewarm. My head is revolving less like a radar dish and more like an abandoned merry-go-round, slowly decelerating to a natural standstill. I'm fine! Sure. Of course I am. I've just suffered some Weird, inexplicable affliction. That's all. Stuff like this happens all the time in New York City. There is nothing that needs to be "ruled out." No ...

Rachel?

She's standing in front of my brownstone.

Our eyes meet.

Mine are pink and puffy. Hers are ice blue. They're the same color the sky Was an hour ago-Whoops. It occurs to me that I Was supposed to be home an hour ago. I Was supposed to call her on her cell phone.

But Why is she here?

I glance at my Watch. It's not even five-thirty. Usually she's up at the community garden in Harlem until five-thirty. I Was supposed to call her at five so We could confirm our date for six so she could help me With the Amnesty International Summer Retreat application.

"Hey, Ted!" she cries, Waving.

She hurries toward me. Right away I see that she must have skipped Harlem altogether, because she's not in her gardening clothes. She's Wearing a black flower-print dress and a gray b.u.t.ton-down sweater. And sandals. Her short blond hair is mussed from the breeze. Her green knapsack dangles from her left shoulder. She looks really gorgeous, actually-especially in the sunset. But I have to admit: I just don't Want to see her right now. Not until I've changed out of my smelly T-s.h.i.+rt.

"So Where have you been?" she asks. "I thought you Were gonna be here to call me. I Wanted to surprise you."

"I, uh, see, I Wasn't feeling Well, so I-"

"Oh my G.o.d." Her eyes zero in on the vomit stains. "Have you been drinking?"

I start to laugh.

Her soft features melt in distress.

Whoops again. "Of course not!" I exclaim. Inexplicably, I sound guilty. So I laugh harder. It doesn't help. "But it's so funny you ask that because this nurse-"

"Your face is all bloated," she interrupts. "Your eyes are bloodshot."

The laughter stops. "Yeah, because I'm sick."

She shakes her head. "Oh, Ted ... you are drunk. I know What guys look like When they get drunk. I have two older brothers, remember? Hockey players?"

I swallow. Sure, I remember: Lou and Frankie. The twins. How could I forget? They're twenty years old, violent, and built like refrigerators. They aren't my biggest fans, either. The one time I met them, they called me Forrest Chump. I doubt if they even know my real name. And they're home from college for spring break, Which means they're probably bored and looking for some action-like, say, pummeling their sister's clownish boyfriend because he got "drunk" and blew her off.

"I bet I know What happened," Rachel mumbles. She stares at her feet. "I bet Mark and Nikki roped you into getting drunk With them after school, right? Because it's the first day of spring break and all? And since you have a crush on Nikki, you Went along With them."

"Rachel, come on! Do you know how ridiculous that is? Do you even know What just happened to me? I Was practically shot."

She pauses. "Shot?"

"Well, not technically. I mean, it Was only a Water gun. But still, it Was-"

"A Water gun?" If I saw a flicker of forgiveness in her eyes, it's gone.

"Well, you sort of had to be there. It Would take too long to explain. The point is I'm not drunk and I don't have a crush on Nikki. I Went to the diner With her and Mark, just like I told you I Was going to do. Then Leo, this crazy fry-cook ... See, he burst in and threatened to kill us, and then Mark tackled him, and then I started feeling sick. So I stopped by St. Vincent's. That's Why I'm late."

Rachel just stares at me. Finally she shakes her head again.

"That's the best lie you can come up With?" she Whispers. "It doesn't even make any sense, Ted."

My Wild Daydream Problem.

"Ted, What's Wrong?" Rachel asks me pointedly. "I mean, really?"

I shrug. "I just don't feel Well."

"Well, then, I should go, right?"

"No, Rachel, don't go. I'm sorry. Come upstairs."