Hello, dearest of Dear Readers,

After much brain noodling and post-experiment frustration, I finally have a Chapter 5 draft to share.

I hope it fills some of the story gaps we identified in the pre-outline episode of A Novel Experiment’s Episode 10, and that it will allow for the continued creation of our story—while I whack my head against the wall over how I’m going to redraft the first four chapters in a way that won’t ruin things downstream.

Please forgive the draftiness of it. It is, after all, a first draft.

As always, although I am itching to attack it with my editing brain, and I am very hesitant to post it without, I am here to show you the creative journey from outline to draft to final product.

So, here you go.

Cayse

Chapter 5: An Onslaught of Optimism

Laptops lose their appeal reeeeaal quick when your movement is restricted.

“Gah! Come on!” I growled at satan’s padfolio when once again it slid off my left hip and wedged between my side bolster and low back. I jerked it back up, wincing against the snag of pain that tweaked along my spine.

I had rotated as far to my right as my leg sling had allowed and scooched some bolsters over to make a temporary elbow rest for my left arm--the laptop was balanced on my left hip bone, propped up between my bent right leg on one side, and bolstered on the other as I scrolled through the backlog of notifications and emails.

Ergonomics genius that I am, I had settled on this set up as soon as I found a solution that allowed me to type, tap, scroll, and balance, with only a moderate amount of additional pain. It worked well enough so long as I paid attention to how hard I was tapping and typing. Just well enough that it continued to lull me into a false-sense of security and then…

BAM! Laptop keyboard to the ribcage.

CRACK! Laptop corner to the pelvis.

SCRAPE! Laptop hinge to the human spine as broken human arm in cast attempts to catch it against back to keep it from falling to the floor.

But all that, even the resulting crick in my neck and dead arm it was giving me using the damn thing, was nothing compared to the misery inside of it.

Thank bejeezuz I hadn’t tried to open my own MacBook since the incident at the hospital. It would have been the first thing I chucked at the apple after its mysterious appearance my first night back.

123 unread messages. And much like the five I’ve forced myself to read so far, the one in front of me left me with zero idea how to respond.

Or rather, I had no idea how to respond to them as the “Pollyanna Monroe,” they would be expecting to hear from; that happy-go-lucky Pol these people wanted to hear from wasn’t here anymore.

When the hell are they going to get it through their heads that their sweet, happy, makes everything better for everyone else Pollyanna was dead? She collapsed when she woke up in the hospital and found herself in a full body cast, and died when she heard her best friend was in a coma.

All that had happened within the same five minute time span as she was being asked if she could “sense her toes at all” and told she should be “so thankful” to be alive let alone have a chance to walk again.

Demi may think that “me” is still present and accounted for, and yes, that is my fault, shut up—but he is as close to a gloomy swamp creature as a human can get without moving to a bog. Demi wears gray when he’s feeling festive. Faking old-Pol with him takes less than nothing.

But what am I supposed to do with this?

“Hi Pol!

The crew and I just wanted to let you know that we’ve been thinking of you and wanted to share that we’ve been running all of our meets in your honor! We bring “Pol’s cleats” to every meet and they have given us a great deal of luck, but of course we can’t wait until you are well enough to come be our real-life lucky charm! We have a bleacher seat all cushioned up and ready to go for you (see the attached pictures!)

Lots of love and well wishes,

Coach Kay and The Varsity Girls Track Team”

Cue attachments of various girls mid-sprint during various meets.

Running my races.

Winning my titles.

And then at the very bottom, the whole team and coaching staff, in the stands and huddled around two decorated stadium seats with two sets of track cleats placed on them.

One labeled Pol and the other Saffi.

Do they really think I want to respond to that shit?

Or, better yet, how about this one:

“Ms. **POLLYANNA MARIE MONROE**,

As the end of **THIRD** quarter has come and gone, it is important for all of our **SENIOR** students to look forward with greater fervor and scrutiny than ever before.

To assist you in this effort, the career counseling department of **CHILEDONS HIGH SCHOOL** has collected the following relevant information on your career path of choice:

**ARCHITECTURAL DESIGN ENGINEER**

It is our determination that based on this quarterly analysis of career specific trends, the risk and viability of your career path has:

**CHANGED SIGNIFICANTLY**

And is classified as a:

**HIGH RISK CHOICE**

We recommend that you meet with your designated career counselor to review this analysis:

**IMMEDIATELY**

All collected information can be reviewed in the attachments below.

We look forward to discussing your career prospects and know that you have a bright future ahead of you, **POLLYANNA**!

The Senior Career Counseling Center”

Uplifting, don’t you think?

So, support. Very custom. Much personal.

UGH.

And no, I will not open those attachments, thank you very much.

I don’t need to because Tibbs already told me allllll about my career getting tanked by the latest AI advancement. He found it appropriate to burst into my hospital room as soon as he found out.

I had been there for, what, maybe three days? But that didn’t matter to Tibbs. I needed to know IMMEDIATELY—which he was irritatingly correct about given this email—so he started yammering about how AI had officially broken into the architectural sector by designing the first earthquake resistant brick wall rated over an 8.5 ground shake. He then stole my Jello and suggested I pick a new major “reaaal quick” because he needed me to go to college no matter what.

His reasoning? Duh sis, Tibbs and Telly need their own rooms. And I am all that is standing in the way of their happiness.

Me. Pollyanna. Standing in the way of their happiness. In my full body cast.

It was this little irony that triggered my blow up with Gena over not getting to see Saffi and the aformentioned attempt to see Saffi. And thus my infuriating two-week-long set-back from being out of this damn body cast.

Given that the blow up in front of Gena was the first time in seven years my “true-to-name” Pollyanna mask had slipped in public since first putting it on seven years ago.

I had zero desire to open another email before a physical therapy appointment. But that big red bubble with eighty-four unread messages was staring me down like a challenge.

Stupid round punk was just tempting enough to stop me from realizing that by using a school laptop instead of my personal laptop for this task was the equivalent of waltzing right into a social-reconnection trap.

As soon as my profile loaded into the mailing system four different instant messages popped up from teachers--all wanting to say hello to their “favorite student.”

I panicked. I scanned the menu. Opening, scrolling, and cursing as I searched for the “away from desk” toggle. Right as I was about to click the little settings savior, the school therapist’s video call popped up on my screen and my dumb ass mouse’s arrow landed on the dumb ass ‘accept call’ button instead.

“Pollyanna!” Mrs. Carmelo beamed in what can only be described as the grin of an eager sociopath.

I slammed the laptop shut and chucked it under my leg hammock.

Dr. Gena Falko’s vibe can be summarized in two GIFs: wiggly Shaq shoulders and Shaq swatting away drama. Put another way, she is a Shaq-sized positivity fairy stuffed into a tightly wound, 5’1”, German-Italian Jew.

How do I know she is 5’1” and a German-Italian Jew? Because little miss happy-pants never stops her onslaught of chipper chattering from the moment she says, “Hello!”

“Ouch!” I growl.

Gena’s hands lift from my right ankle where they had only just grazed the blanket.

“Polly!” She turned with a sly grin, and a toss of her mass of black curls. “I haven’t even looked at it yet.”

“I thought I’d save us the trouble.” I said, ripping the blanket back. “You aren’t going to listen to me when I tell you it’s fine, so might as well just get going on recasting it.”

Gena’s smile didn’t flinch into pity, nor did she roll her eyes. The damn woman’s mouth twisted up into a big grin and she clapped her hands.

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

Glad. Always with the glad with this woman. Like I didn’t know why the hell she was saying it.

“Yeah?” I bit back. “Well, I’m glad that being back in a full body cast means you won’t need to be here for another two weeks.”

Gena laughed. LAUGHED.

“I’m sure you are pretty glad about that.” She chuckled as she walked past my bruised up right leg and over to my leg hammock. “But I’m not putting you back into a full body cast.”

The demon PT then had the audacity to wink at me.

“What?” I stuttered, furious for reasons that made little sense. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t a true set back.” Gena shrugged and then frowned. “Pol, this isn’t a safe place to store this.” She said holding up my school laptop.

Before I could form a comeback for why a laptop wasn’t safe below a anchored leg’s hammock—or figure out how to make sense of my much-worse nose dive trying to get the apple “not being a set back” when my attempt to see Saffi had been barely a stumble but gotten me on this woman’s “untrustworthy” shit list—Gena grabbed my school bag from where Dad had stuffed it back by the dresser where I didn’t have to see it, and walked it over to set it next to me where I could reach it and balanced the laptop on my side table.

By the time she was back at my leg hammock she was shaking her head and looking at me with another co-conspiratorial wink.

“I’ve always wondered why they’ve kept your stuff so far away from you.” She said with a bewildered smile as she lowered my leg to the bed and gestured for me to lean forward so she could help me sit up.

I did so out of habit more than out of a willingness to comply. Habit and the desperate need to not look at my backpack or acknowledge her implied question.

Gena helped me rotate toward her and hang my legs over the side of the bed. In the same eager sociopath grin of my school counselor, she asked me to stand up.

“What?” I asked. Hissed might be a better description. Gena was entering a danger zone with me and until that moment I had realized how deep she was.

“I’d like you to stand up!” She beamed. “I want to see what you did to get the apple. Your family was very impressed from the sound of things. Your brother Thibado wouldn’t stop raving about it when I got here.”

I stared at her. Not because I didn’t have something to say, but because what I had to say wasn’t going to help either of us. Unfortunately, Gena took the redness in my face and my silence as modesty or some sort of hesitant embarrassment.

Because, again, this bitch knows zero about me.

“Oh, come on. You know how much your family loves you! Your Uncle was also bursting with pride when I got here about how well you managed what sounded like a very difficult social situation this morning. I’m so happy you have such a supportive environment around you Pol. And, from what they told me, and from the look of things, ” She gestured to the windowsill, “you reached the apple just fine!”

A dangerous calm settled over me as she continued.

“A walk to that window and back without a fall and without assistance is a huge step for you! It shows a great deal more healing than I was expecting at this stage and may even get us back on track with the accelerated plan. Things may just turn around for you yet Pollyanna. And I’m so glad to say that.”

“I didn’t make it to the apple.” I said with care. “Someone else put it in the trash can.”

“Well, that’s not the point though now is it?” Gena was still beaming. “So long as it is still in the trash, does it really matter who did the task? The Monroe Team still wins no matter who crosses the finish line! But how about we see if it can be you today?”

She reached for my hands with a wink and a nod to the windowsill.

“Because they aren’t heartless assholes!” I snapped.

Gena’s smile fell. “What?”

“The backpack.” I said. “They didn’t bring it closer because they, unlike you, aren’t heartless fucking assholes.”

My heart beat hard against my chest and the scream of anguish I was holding back behind it. They didn’t tell her. Why the hell hadn’t they told her?

Gena licked her lips and firmed her jaw as she crossed her arms. “I would imagine there is more to that statement? Given the implication.”

“Such a keen assessment.” I said with slicing dryness. “This backpack is what I was reaching for during the crash. It’s why I had my feet up on the fucking dashboard.”

It’s why my eyes weren’t on the road when Saffi was driving.

Why I didn’t see the truck backing out.

Why I couldn’t warn her in time.

Gena’s jaw trembled a moment but she firmed it again. “I didn’t know, Pollyanna, I’m sorry. There also is no reason to speak to me like that however.”

“Isn’t there?” I asked. “Because I’m pretty sure only a heartless sadist would come in here with a cheery smile every session and vomit their rainbows and sunshine all over me while dismissing away every hope I have of helping my family. And only a psychotic bitch would do that while simultaneously referencing the ‘glad game’ from a movie where a poor paralyzed girl finds a reason to be GLAD ABOUT IT!”

Gena turned and walked toward the door, but at the last second she reached for the chair by Pol’s old desk and swung it back and sat down. Arms crossed, she raised an eyebrow and nodded.

“Go ahead.”

“Wh… What?” I all but choked. She wasn’t supposed to stay. That isn’t how this worked.

“Get it out.” Gena smirked. “What? You think because I vomit ‘rainbows and sunshine’, I can’t take a your sass? I’m honestly shocked it took you this long to crack.”

“You’ve been trying to get me to crack?”

“Yes and no.” Gena grinned, tilting her head to the side.“There is this whole matter of the namebearers, you see. And Alison is being such a bother about it.”

Gena continued tilting her head. Far to the side. Like, farther to the side than normal people should be tilting their head to the side. Her grin and her eyes widened as she did this, spreading across her face larger than before and taking on a tinge of ivory yellow. Both sharpening and softening in discombobulating waves.

I had to be getting sick.

“I don’t feel right.”

Shaking her head, a shiver of purple waves rippled up Gena’s body and she laughed, her head popping back into position again. “No dear, I doubt you do. But not to worry. You have two on your side, and a third in the dark. You’ll know when you find them.”

I blinked and she was gone.

The scream that was locked behind my heart erupted at once in a shriek of terror.

No one.

Zilch.

Zero.

Not a single goddamned Monroe believed my story about Gena.

For one, Tibbs and Uncle Ali both insist they never let anyone enter the house after the Bahtia’s left. Two, Mom claims Gena canceled due to the flu and she just forgot to tell Tibbs—which created a whole side quest of drama about how Tibbs is just sooooo put upon and never respected or cared about by the family, how he is such and after thought child and blah blah blah. Drama-Tibbs. Classic.

Anyhow.

Dad interrogated me as if he was back in the special forces and I was some Iraqi spy that had infiltrated the base. I swear if we had a lie detector he would have used it. The only saving grace from this was watching Tibbs and Telly’s eyes get wide as they witnessed me under full-military-captain-Dad mode.

That’s right twins, this is what it was like before you. This intense 24/7. Be thankful he had that heart attack after Telly’s second heart surgery at 2 yrs old. You definitely wouldn’t be complaining about not getting enough attention, that’s for damn sure. The whole family would be at attention and in tension the entire time.

Ahhh. I crack myself up. Trauma drama.

What? You think I’m losing it again? Think that word play means that my mind must be shattered and I’m losing my capacity to keep my head on straight?

OF COURSE I FUCKING AM!

My goddamned physical therapist just turned into some weird psychedelic morphic being that talked in riddles and here I am talking to myself as if I have an audience!

And good lord. The look of disappointment on Mom’s face. It was as if I had sucker punched the soul out of her. She just sat there at the end of my bed, patting my leg absentmindedly as Dad rage-questioned me and Telly and Tibbs looked on from the hallway as Uncle Ali glared into the room from the shadows at the top of the stairs.

A knock sounded from my door.

Two knocks had been sounding on it every ten minutes or so for the last two and a half hours. One firm yet half-hearted, which would be either Telly or Tibbs impersonating them (likely the latter), and the other knock soft and hesitant—but growing louder with each successive tapping attempt which was Mom’s way of checking in on me without words while making sure I didn’t take a nap.

This knock I didn’t recognize.

“Why did she mention you?” I frowned at the ceiling. “And what the hell is a namebearer?”

There was an odd scruff sound of metal on wood and then Uncle Alison tumbled into the room holding a gigantic brass spheroid. He closed the door behind himself and straightened, shifting the metal contraption in his arms as he walked toward my bed. As he came near, the metal shifted from indeterminate to definitely apple shaped, brass to definitely a mix of gold and glass, and the fine details of it’s craftsmanship put me in a bit of a trance.

“It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed, reaching my free hand out to it. Feeling childish, I adjusted my reach and took the laptop off of my nightstand, and leaned to set it down on my backpack. Not an easy task considering I still refused to look at it.

Uncle Ali gave me a pained smile and placed the apple on the table with a substantial thud that seemed to outmatch the size of the piece. He took my laptop and the bag and placed them both back where Gena had grabbed them. He sat on the chair that Pol had insisted countless times to her father she hadn’t moved herself, and leaned forward with a small grimace.

“What do you remember about the night the twins were born?”

A knock sounded on my door. Firm yet half-hearted.

“For the love of chr—TIBBS GO AWAY!” I yelled.

The door opened and in walked a glowering Telly.

Uncle Ali stood at once. “Telemachus Atrates, you should be resting!”

Telly walked past Uncle Ali without acknowledging the statement. Understandable, given that Telly knew better than anyone what their limitations were and if they were up and moving around they had already calculated whether or not it was a) worth it and b) whether they could manage it. Mom, Dad, and I had all backed off three years ago when at ten years old Tibbs had presented a full thirty-minute powerpoint presentation he and Telly had written detailing why we needed to back the hell off of Telly when it came to managing what they “should be feeling or doing” with regard to their heart condition.

“You okay?” I ask them as they walk right past me and reach down below my bed.

Uncle Ali, still at the door, and me, staring from my bed, watched as Telly rummaged around and then popped up with my old portable game device in his hands. Unplugging a cable I had definitely not connected it to in years, the device pinged on and Telly snapped in an SD card and plopped the whole unit onto my lap with a satisfied smile.

As they left the room they yelled over their shoulder in the hoarse voice they always had after a scope procedure.

“Console’s updated. Fixed it last night waiting for pre-op to be over. Telly got you the game.”

As Uncle Ali closed the door I looked down and watched as the glowing, swirling logo of Polly Olly Oxen free glared up at me, this time with a now sickeningly familiar eager-sociopath grin.

I looked up to Uncle Ali, tears already streaming.

“What is happening to me?”

Even if my brain couldn’t quite wrap around how in the hell he had gotten here so fast.

Rohan released Tibbs’ shoulder but made one heck of a show of stepping back and gesturing to the documents

“Well, go right ahead. I take it you are the infamous Mr. Monroe your nephew has been prattling on about. Wonderful. Sue me all you like. Then maybe you can explain to the judge why your godson stole my lawyers contract and threw my wife to the ground in the middle of a mediation meeting.”

Uncle Ali, laughed, cold and cruel. His entire demeanor shifted into something I had never seen before for half a second before it was reigned back in behind the fierce confidence that had walked through the door.

“You know,” Uncle Ali said, checking Tibbs over quickly he whispered in Tibbs ear and at once Tibbs ran to grab my puke bucket and took it out of the room. Uncle Ali continued without catching my eye. “I haven’t had a fight with a snake in a while. I’m going to enjoy this. Pol, how important is it to you that these to continue to function when I am done with them?”

I hadn’t talked to this man in almost two years. How in the hell did he expect me to know how to answer that? Never mind the fact that I knew. That was beside the point. My question was how? How could he be so confident as to not even bother to catch my eye before turning on them?

“I need them to be able to see my best friend. She’s the ones that was driving and is in a coma and—“

Tibbs waltzed back into the room with a wet rag and twice the confidence, “They want to pull the plug on Saffi but are scared to do it unless Pol says she won’t sure them—“

Priya once again shrieks out in agony but this time with more anger and no collapse. “We don’t! I don’t! Will everyone please stop saying we want to let Saffi go?! I don’t want my baby to die! We have no other choice!”

Uncle Ali frowns at Priya and his grey green eyes turn and catch mine for a brief second before looking to Rohan, who is comforting his wife, tears glinting in his eyes. Finally, he turns to Tibbs.

“Did the truck driver have insurance?”

Tibbs shakes his head no. Uncle Ali curses under his breath and his posture softens.

The energy in the room lightens at once and as it does, Uncle Ali steps toward the Bahtia’s cautiously.

“How much is it costing you? Are you insured, or?” He asks Rohan.

Rohan doesn’t answer but a distinct sorrow blanches his face and turns his gaze to the ground. Uncle Ali nods.

“I see.” Uncle Ali guides the Bahtia’s toward the door and stops only to look back at the two of them sternly.

“Stay here.” He mouths. “I got this.” And the door closes.

Both of us stare at the door, and I swear I can hear Tibbs counting in his head. One, two, three, four, five, first landing, one, two, three, four, five, six, family room.

Just as he leaps up to head to the door, I snatch the washrag from his hand and whisper “don’t get caught.”

Tibbs shoots me an incredulous look of feigned outrage. “Me? Please. You just focus on wiping the puke from you face and for the love of all that is holy, STOP TRYING TO GET OUT OF BED.”

The moment he leaves the room deadens to unbearable silence. The kind that wants to choke off all of my air. The kind that I swear is the reason the apple is still stuck to that damn windowsill. You’d think this silence in the room would be welcome at this point in the day. Especially given that in less than 20 minutes a torturous hag will be showing up to run me through exercises and stretches designed to make me feel like crap. But no.

Just knowing that the four of them were down stairs, likely discussing Saffi, and here I am unable to hear a damn thing is too much right now. I need answers.

Wiping the outer and inner of my mouth as best I can to ride it of the bile smell, I chuck the puke rage at the apple and am off by about a foot. But that was fine because I had a plan.

Saffi had told me about her family’s business. Enough that I had an inkling about why Uncle Ali might be asking those questions. I also knew exactly who to ask for answers and where I would find them.

I dig through my blankets, ignoring the increasingly un-ignorable pain in my knee and pull my phone out from between my low back bolster and the mattress.

Telly had been on me to download this damn game since I first came to in the hospital. They said it was the best way for me to stay connected with them because the hospital was not a place they liked to go when they didn’t have to. Which, if I’m honest, is completely fair.

After being there for two weeks, I now understand what they meant. At the time though? I considered them to be a complete and utter prick and refused to download the game out of pure spite. I was informed that this was very un-Pollyanna of me. The first of many times I would hear that since waking up practically paralyzed. No one seemed to care that it was in actuality very Pollyanna of me, but then who else had ever bothered to read the novel?

Tibbs on the other hand had been on me to download the damn game since it first came out and he became obsessed with it. He was determined to get me hooked because, as he put it, “It has your damn NAME ON IT!! Can you not hear it calling to you Pol?! It is saying: ‘Polly! Oh Polly! Polly Olly Oxen Free!”

In hindsight, this was cute, and endearing—but he had decided to make this his mission in the middle of my college application sprint. The idea that he’d convince me to jump into a mindless life-sim cozy-farm game was laughable and he very well knew that. Which meant he was doing it for some other reason and he refused to fess up. So, naturally, I refused to oblige him.

I stared at the navy blue square in the App Store, with its gold lettering and white accents swirled together: “POOF!”

“The only game that is as addicted to you as you are to it.”

I hesitated.

I didn’t have to ask Johna. Did I? I could probably just Google the company and find information online about their insurance policy… probably. Businesses made that stuff public right?

I tapped my fingers against the side of my phone and then chucked it to the floor as a loud knock banged on my door. My phone slid face up, screen still showing off a starkly contrasted POOF! For a moment, I panicked, thinking it was Tibbs, but Tibbs never knocks.

“Oh!” I called out, realizing it had to be Gena finally showing up for my appointment. “Come on in, sorry I’m not quite prepped yet, but it shouldn’t take me long.”

The door opened and in stepped yet another non-Gena unexpected guest.

“Demi?” I asked looking the boy over as her shut the door behind himself.

Demitri Bastion Hoggle stood there in my room holding a laptop and a peculiar looking plant that seemed twice as big as the last time she’d seen it. But then, Demitri was also twice as tall as the last time he’d entered her room, so that made sense.

Demi didn’t respond. His eyes were trained on the floor, head tilted as he read the screen of my phone. My stomach flipped and then crash landed against my heart.

“That’s um…” I stammered. “What are you…”

I had no freaking clue how to end that sentence without sounding like an idiot.

That was obviously my phone and he was obviously there to give me a school laptop.

But I couldn’t say ‘what are you doing at my house?’ Because of course he was at my house. He lived across the street. The school knew that. I couldn’t even say ‘why are you in my room?’ Because I can’t walk down the fucking stairs and Tibbs is probably still mad so this was payback from not helping him weather his storm earlier.

What I wanted to ask was why did you agree to do this? But that wasn’t the right question to ask either because I knew the answer to that too. He wasn’t the one who held a grudge and ended our friendship after—well, after everything. That was me. And as for who didn’t want him to be here? That fun one? Also me.

“Tibbs,” Demi said clearing his throat, “told Uncle Ali you needed ‘socializing.’ I tried to say no.” He reached down and picked up my phone, turned the screen off and tossed it on the bed.

He held out the laptop. “I’d leave, but apparently your Oma and Opa are in on this whole you needing to be social thing.”

“What?!” I said, a fury of irritation outweighing any hesitation I had about his presence. There was something comforting in the easy way the conversation just existed without preamble. Like it always had. And whether it was good for me or him or not, I needed comfort. “How’d you find that out?”

Demi shrugged and set the untaken laptop next to my bed and walked over to the windowsill and soccer net with the plant.

“They were outside looking at your broken mailbox when I walked over. You Uncle sideswiped it when he drifted into your driveway earlier. Your Oma and Opa sent him cause they heard you’d been avoiding people and were concerned.”

“I’m not avoiding people.” I shot it the back of his head. Even from this angle I could tell he was rolling his eyes.

“Sure. That’s why the school sent you a laptop. Because you have just been so good at not avoiding opening your messages and accessing the counselor network that they wanted to give you a direct line to it.”

“So? I don’t want to talk to anyone right now! Okay?” I growled, but felt heat rise to my face at the thought of my personal laptop that was still very much at the bottom of my school bag. “Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?”

I heard a sniff of a response, though he tried to cover it by shifting the soccer net. He scooted the net once and then scooted it wide away from the window sill forcefully.

“What in the hell is that?” He demanded.

“The hell does it look like?” I sassed back at him for dodging my question.

I actually wanted a goddamned answer for that one. And I didn’t know how much I needed that answer until right now, while looking at the perfect person to ask about it.

It had been six years since his Dad had died. He had pushed everyone away. Including me. And I hadn’t understood.

Now…

“It looks like something your family would cook up to torture you. Whose sadistic fucking idea was this?”

Demi turned and looked at me, brow furrowed, but eyes as desperate as the last time we’d had a conversation about my “sadistic” family. And in that moment, the thin fog of guilt and sympathy that had started to form over my memories of us evaporated.

“And on that fucking note, you can leave.” I demanded.

The eye roll was fully visible now. “Oh you have got to be kidding me Pol. You are telling me that you are fine with this? That this isn’t eating away at your nerves every second of every day?”

“I barely notice it.” I lied, pulling on my best positive Pol smile. “It’s nice to have the company of my little ant army. And besides, it gives the twins something to look forward to, they have a bet to see how long it will take to fall.”

“Uh huh.” Demi said crossing his arms. “So what is the soccer net for?”

“Protection.” I said, feeling my face flush. “I do PT in here and she was here earlier. So, I put that up just to make sure nothing happens to it while we do my exercises.”

“You are literally strapped and chained into a bed. What kind of exercises could you be doing that would threaten this Apple outside of getting pissed and throwing things at it when the twins aren’t here to stop you?”

“I’ll have you know, Demitri Bastion Hoggle, that as much as you may think you know me, it’s been six years since we were best friends and a lot has changed since then.”

“Right.” Demi said. Arms still crossed, no change in his expression. Infuriating as he ever was.

“Why do you always have to be such a pessimistic asshole?!” I growled. “Why can’t you just focus on the positive once in a while? Huh? Me and my family came up with a fun game for me us to play while I am stuck in bed!”

“Oh Jesus. Right.” Demi said. Spreading his hands wide as if warding off an oncoming attack. “Sorry, I forgot you went full Pollyanna. God forbid you actually go back to letting yourself feel anything.”

“I feel plenty of things. I just choose to not feel what isn’t important.”

Demi shook his head and in two strides he was at the door. But before he could turn the nob, an unapproved part of me took control over my mouth and yelled out.

“Are you leaving Spike with me or not?”

Demi paused. And turned to face me, holding the Mimosa Pudica plant closer to himself. Spike’s leaves contracted as if I’d scolded them both. Seeing that. Yeah. That didn’t not affect me.

“I was thinking about it. You going to be able to water her or should I come by?”

I knew the routine. We had raised that little fluffy pot from a baby sprout as a science project in third grade. She’d gotten so big. “I don’t have a good enough spot for her.”

Demi nodded. “I can bring the grow light and her set up.”

An involuntary tear betrayed me and traveled along my jaw. I wiped it away and looked out the window.

“I might need a refresher on the steps.”

“I can do that.” He said. “Under one condition.”

“What?” I said, looking back at him.

With a devilish smirk, he pushed the soccer net out of the way and slammed the apple into the garbage can.

A sob of relief escaped my lips in a soft laugh. But he didn’t turn. He knew me better than that.

“The twins are going to be pissed.” I called after him.

“Good.” Demi called back over his shoulder. “And by the way, you should download that game. I play too.”

Rohan Bahtia looked as if my mere existence was an insult, but that was nothing new. He had looked at me like that ever since Saffi’s announced our breakup to her parents. He continued to do it when she explained she was the one to break it off.

It would be one thing if he’d always been this way; but when Saffi and I started dating in 8th grade, Rohan and I had hit it off. Seeing him like this now, holding a briefcase as if he was finally here to sue me for being dumped by his daughter three years ago, stung more than I wanted it to.

And that pissed me off.

In an act of grace, Saffi’s mother saved me from myself. Priya took one look at me, sobbed, and ran up to gather me in a hug.

My heart caught in my throat. The blur of her rushing toward me, the shape of her shoulders, and the sweet smell of coconut conditioner and plumeria body balm was so much like Saffi that my heart burned hot with hope before falling to ash in blinding realization of why they must be here.

With shaking hands I gently pressed her back from me, and cleared my throat.

“Is she—“

“Saffi is stable.” Rohan interrupted. He was standing by the soccer net now, looking down at the apple with disgust. “Nothing has changed.”

Whether or not that statement was meant to communicate Saffi’s condition, it was still one hell of a statement to say to a girl in a body cast. And I wasn’t the only one to think it.

I could feel Priya tense at the edge of my bed. She wringed her hands in her lap, stood, and smoothed the disturbed sheets absentmindedly; all of this was done while shooting glances at the briefcase in her husband’s white knuckle grip.

Saffi had forever joked that her mother was absolute crap at keeping secrets. Suddenly I felt very aware of the fact that I was alone with two people who likely blamed me for their daughter’s condition. Saffi was driving me around after all.

“Where is my brother?” I demanded. “And what is in the briefcase.”

“I’m right here Pol.” Tibbs’ voice boomed from just outside the hallway along with his stomping footsteps. “And I told them they can wait to show you that when Uncle Ali gets here. I’m just calling his office now.”

Tibbs came in already glaring at Priya in disgust. The woman shifted to stand behind her husband at once and Tibbs stepped between them and me, his back turned to them.

“Uncle Ali?” I all but laughed. “Are you expecting them to wait here for two days? Isn’t he in Greece?”

Rohan’s nostrils flared.

“Is that true young man?” He demanded. “I will not be toyed with. This is a serious matter and if an adult cannot be present to accept—“

Tibbs whipped around, phone still held to his ear. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m going to just stand around like I moron while you burst in here to serve Pol papers?”

Serve me papers? I looked incredulous at Priya and Rohan who both looked equally as stunned at Tibbs’ statement as I was.

“That isn’t why they are here Tibbs.” I growled at the back of his dumb rainbow head.

“Yeah?” Tibbs asked, phone still at his ear, and not bothering to turn around, “then what is in the briefcase Mr. Big man Rohan? A check? Finally decide to do the right thing and pay up?”

“TIBBS!” I barked. All three of them jumped. Tibbs glared at me and with every bit of malice in his body, turned to face the Bahtia’s. I bit my lip hard in personal chastisement.

Outbursts weren’t going to help anyone right now, and here was Tibbs going nuclear on the only people that could dig the family out of medical bankruptcy. That was not an .

“The Bahtia’s don’t owe me anything. They have enough on their plate taking care of Saffi. She’s the one they need to be focusing on getting bet—“

A gasping sob from Priya cut me off, “Pol!”

But by the time I glance her way she’d already hidden her face behind a handkerchief. Rohan’s face however had grown exponentially more stone cold than before—which was a feat.

He clears his throat which sands down the harshest edges of his demeanor as he opens the front of his briefcase, and pulls out a document.

“Thank you, Pol. Yes. Saffi’s care has been—.” He strains to swallow before continuing. “Very, costly. In more ways than one.”

Another sob came from Priya, this one softer and so much like the way Saffi used to cry into my shoulder that it made my stomach turn.

“You don’t understand.”

“I can imagine.” My voice came out as sweet and compassionate as it always does when I overcompensate. “Thank goodness for your company’s health plan. My parent’s plan barely let us stay in the hospital long enough for me to get my catheter out.”

Priya’s sobs escalated to nearly a shriek as she crumpled to the ground. Rohan cleared his throat again, placed his brief case down, and set the document on top with a snap before turning to help his wife back up to stand. Grumbling anger spread from him to Priya just below the level of audible, but the sentiment was clear enough.

And it was completely unacceptable in Thibado-land. Tibbs stepped forward just enough to snatch the document while Rohan was still occupied.

Holding his cell to his ear with his shoulder, he starts flipping through the document. At page 5, he turns to me with a clenched jaw, drops the document in my lap, and states flatly, “Fuck it. I’m calling his emergency cell.”

My stomach felt like it had dropped clear through the floor as Tibbs walked over to lean in the doorway—not unlike a barricade. I scan the document in my lap at once, trying to take in what had driven Tibbs to use up his allotted one call a year to our godfather’s “always on him” line.

Legalese stared back up at me from the papers, unwilling to untangle itself into something coherent until I got to the middle of the page:

I, Pollyanna Marie Monroe, hereby acknowledge and agree that I shall not pursue, initiate, or support any legal proceedings, civil or otherwise, against Rohan and Priya Bahtia, or any individuals acting on their behalf, in relation to the motor vehicle accident occurring on [insert date], including but not limited to claims of physical injury, psychological harm, or financial damages. This waiver shall remain in full force and effect regardless of the decisions made concerning the continuation or termination of life-sustaining treatment for Saffira Bahtia, and shall survive both my post-rehabilitation in-person visitation and the immediate or eventual cessation of such treatment thereafter.”

“POL!” Priya’s shriek and Rohans bark came booming at me in sync, but only Priya came to my bedside.

“How can you give up on her?” I ask, my face is burning and my words sound as hollow as my heart. “She would never give up on you, or me.”

“We don’t want to give up—“ Priya started, but Rohan cut in.

“WE aren’t. The doctors have said that she is beyond the point of coming back. She wouldn’t want this.”

“BULLSHIT.” I scream at him, sitting forward. Priya reaches for mr and the papers but I pull them out of her reach.

Once again I find myself in a moment where everything happens all at once.

Priya stumbles into the bed, arm outstretched and lands on my leg hammock.

I feel a pop and a snap in my knee, right above the cast before the whole hammock snaps from its quick-release and falls to the bed with Priya Bahtia on top of it.

The pain is a white hot razor wire winding and ripping through my leg. My ears ring from the piercing pitch of my own scream. Tibbs is a white blur of feral Monroe rage ripping Priya from the bed—she goes flying back and lands on the floor at Rohan’s feet along with Tibbs’ phone which crack’s against Rohan’s shin deadened thud.

As the Bahtia’s are doubled over groaning, Tibbs grabs my knee and in one sharp upward jerk, pops it back into alignment. The relief is significant, but not enough to rid the vomit rising in my throat.

In tune with the moment as ever, Tibbs’ is already holding the trash can for me when my stomach heaves everything out. Tibbs is wiping my hair out of the way and helps me grip the bucket with my shaking hands while he returns focus on replacing my leg in the hammock.

Priya unfortunately had the same idea.

She stood down at the end of my bed looking helpless as she held the straps of the hammock in her hands with tears streaming down her face. Rohan stood behind her, swiping furiously through his phone.

No. Not his phone. Tibbs’ phone.

The shift in energy from my brother from caregiver to rage tornado was tangible in the room and my body reacted to it by ever-so-helpfully choosing to wretch again. This had the effect of a starting gun at a race on the scene before me.

“Get the FUCK away from her!” Tibbs growled in his deepest voice. He snatched the straps from Priya and lunged at her. From where I was sitting I could tell it was a warning lunge—if he had wanted to shove her again he could have done it with a single step—but Priya didn’t know that. And neither did Rohan.

Priya wimpered, stumbling back into Rohan who arose from his scrolling stupor long enough to pull his wife behind him. And step with his full height up to Tibbs. He shoved Tibbs phone into his chest.

“I don’t know what you hope to gain from talking to your brother about our daughters situation, but he is woefully uninformed of our decision making when it comes to—“

“My twin you fucking bigot.” Tibbs’ voice is acid. He takes his phone and reached back to grab the papers from my lap and tosses them at Priya. “And they got their info from your nephew. So stop pretending that document doesn’t say exactly what it is meant to say. God. You are lucky as hell that Saffi isn’t here to see you treat Pol like this.”

“Excuse me?” Rohan bellows, taking a step closer to Tibbs.

Tibbs doesn’t even flinch. But then, hurricanes never do.

Priya starts to walk toward Rohan with wide eyes and arms outstretched as if readying herself to stop him from lunging. I wish I could do the same. Instead, I settle for puking again and in between hurls, I yell at him.

“TIBBS. STOP.”

“NO.” Tibbs spits the word into Rohan’s face and takes a step forward so that the two of them are inches from each other. “Telly got word from Johna. Says they came here to blackmail you into not suing them. If you want to see Saffi before they pull the plug you need to sign a contract saying you won’t sue them for medical bills.”

“That’s not…” Rohan’s face is red and he is spluttering. Tibbs rips the papers back out from Priya’s hands and starts flipping through the pages. Before he can gets to page five, Rohan grabs him by the shoulder and tries to rip them from while shoving Tibbs back.

“That’s a lie!” Rohan growls.

“Not from what I can see!” Tibbs spits back nodding at the papers still firm in his grip. Rohan shoves Tibbs harder. And he stumbles toward my bed but catches his balance before landing on my leg.

“Stop! Please!” Priya cries out, her hands in her hair and her eyes frantic.

The chaos is enough to wipe the pain and nausea from my awareness and I fall into a numb buzz. I’m careful to set my puke bucket down where I won’t kick it out of the way, and start shifting myself toward the end of my bed. The nausea returns in droves as the motion slices into my knee like a table saw, but I make it to the end.

Before I can attempt to stand on the non-injured foot to draw the attention of the still struggling tangle of man & boy to myself, a boom shakes the room as my bedroom door slams wide open against the wall.

“GET YOUR GODDAMN HANDS OFF MY GODSON THIS INSTANT OR I WILL SUE YOU TO HELL AND BACK.”

It’s the absence of this scent from the scene that plays out in front of me that first screams, “dream.” Not the seven-year-old hands that have replaced my own, or the sight of the small baby in the ventilator next to me marked with a white filing label that reads “MONROE, ? BABY BOY 1” in hastily scratched sharpie.

The absence of rage would have been what clued me in next if I hadn’t already noticed the smell. I watched as my seven-year-old self clenched her fists, and as she did a delayed but very much real anger rose in my body, tripled in scale, and screamed into my brain.

“HIS NAME IS THIBADO!”

The words in my throat come out only as a sob but from outside myself I hear my name.

“Pollyanna!”

I know the voice and the there is no delay in the rush of pain and relief that surged through me then as I turn to my Uncle in time to have him catch me up in his arms.

“Oh, thank God.” He says, as I bury my cries into his suitcoat. “Thank God, you are still here.”

Why he said it didn’t matter, but in that moment it was exactly what I needed to hear.

“Pol! Yo!”

This voice, was not a dream. And neither were the shakes at my shoulders.

“Dude! Snap out of it!” Tibbs whined in the best stacatto-ed performance of the phrase humanly possible. “It’s so creepy when you cry in your sleep!”

I open my eyes with a glare.

“Oh.” He says, pulling away. He drops his hands from my shoulders and plops down at the foot of my bed. After a moment of rainbow hair tugging and avoiding my glare, Tibbs nuzzles my hanging foot in mock apology. “I’m sorry Telly almost killed Mom and then Dad abandoned you in the NICU and told you to watch me when I was like two seconds old and you sat there for like ten hours until Uncle Ali showed up and had a nervous breakdown in front of you.“

He stopped his foot nuzzling to look at me, his head still pressed against my leg, with a pout, he did a tiny nuzzle and purred, “pddddd, but at least now you have meee! Pddddd, pddddd, pddddd.” With each purr, his nuzzle got more animated and ridiculous until a snort finally broke through my disapproving glower.

We busted out laughing.

“See?” Tibbs said in triumph. “I am totally worth all of that mental anguish and childhood adverse event scorey point things.”

I rolled my eyes and shoved him off his perched at the edge of my bed. “ACES, Adverse Childhood Events.”

“Exxxactly.” Tibbs said. “How could I forget that our wonderful medical establishment decided to name their traumatized kids metric ‘ACES.’”

“Probably because you are too ACES.” I laughed, allowing him to pull me into our running joke.

“Pshaw! No one can be too ACES my dear! Everyone in America should have allllll the ACES!” Tibbs gestured with a flourish and stood near the window, absently adjust the soccer net as he checked the apple.

Still stuck. Because why the hell wouldn’t it be at this point.

“Why’d you wake me up Tibbs?” I asked. “I couldn’t have been crying that loud.”

“You weren’t.” He said, now looking out the window. “Mom and Dad took Telly to the doctor this morning for their heart appointment.”

Ah. I forgot about the heart appointment. Tibbs hated waiting for the three of them to come back anytime Telly had to go under for a check or any kind. He always ended up in my room. Usually he’s come in and pick a fight. Which is probably why he was so angry about the crying. I had foiled his emotional regulation plans.

“You know,” Tibbs said, a small spark of devil in his tone. “I was thinking of reinforcing the net given that whole attempted sabotage of yours yesterday.”

And there it was.

People had a tendency to misinterpret Tibbs. Most people thought he was excessive, dramatic, erratic, or just “a lot.” Which, in all fairness isn’t an inaccurate way to describe him, but all of those things are just him. I can’t explain much better than that. It’s like complaining that the ocean is too full of unpredictable waves. Yeah. No shit. It’s the freakin ocean people. And once people understood that and accepted that we weren’t going to change it we figured out how to navigate the ocean just fine.

Same applies to Tibbs.

He is who he is and if you understand him, you can gauge with decent accuracy when the waves of excessive or dramatic are about to roll in. And when they do, it doesn’t make sense to describe him as acting “excessive” or “dramatic” because he isn’t acting or choosing. He’s just him.

But, as much as I love him, as much I understand him, I also have zero tolerance for him choosing to crash those waves all over me when he could go do it somewhere else.

“Nope. You’re moody.” I pointed to the door. “Outta my room. Go run laps or something.”

Tibbs spun around on his heels and collapsed on to the floor cross-legged with another pathetic whine “I caaa-aaaan’t!”

“Whhhyy-yyyyy?” I mimicked back, adjusting my leg harness from where his nuzzling had ruffled the straps.

“Why do you think, Pol?” Tibbs said, his voice no longer a whine—his actual anger finally starting to surface. “Once again, they tromp off together to go be with Telly while one of us is stuck looking after the other one.”

Oh. Oh, this was rich. This was fucking rich.

“One of us is stuck looking after the other one?”

“Yes!” Tibbs said, as if we were both in this on equal ground. “It’s absolutely inconsiderate and is borderline child neglect.”

“Tell me Tibbs,” I said, careful to hold back the full Calvary vying to erupt from my mouth, “how many times have Mom and Dad asked you to look after me?”

Tibbs shook his hair from his eyes and picked at the fuzz on his sock. “Pssh… you don’t even know. Like, ever since you’ve been all bedridden at home, which has been like what, almost three freaking weeks now? I’ve had to cover for Mom and Dad and let your PT into the house like five times. It’s ridiculous. I’m a teenager, I should not be in charge of my older sister’s hospice care.”

I shook my head to try and rid it from the stupidity of that statement.

“First of all, I am not on hospice. For the love of God do not going around telling people that or they will think I’m on my fucking death bed Tibbs.”

“Really?” Tibbs looked up, eyes wide and then quickly darted his glance to the floor. “That explains a few things.”

I bit back the urge to scream. Three breaths later, I continued “Second, I’ve been home for two and a half weeks and you’ve let Gena in three times.”

Tibbs shrugged, “Still shouldn’t have to do it. It’s not fair to place that kind of stuff on kids.”

That was the straw that broke the camels back and set the nuclear arsenal off in my brain.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked. My voice coming out cold. Tibbs looked up, eyebrows quirked.

“That wasn’t rhetorical, Thibado.” I said. “I asked, are you, fucking, kidding me.”

Tibbs’ understandable look of curiosity at my unfamiliar tone of voice shifted into something that likely matched my own. Us Monroe’s were anything if not consistent in our ability to channel clear, calm, rage, after all.

“No, Pollyanna.” Tibbs said, his voice easily dropping another octave. “I am not. And before you go a G.I. Jane on me, it wasn’t fair for you to have to take care of me and Telly for the last thirteen years either.”

It was a good play, but it wasn’t going to work this time. I’d let that pacifying “we’re all in this together Pol,” business go on for far too long.

“I’m not talking about whether or not it was fair. I’m asking if you are fucking kidding me when you put your three excruciating door openings on the same level as my thirteen years of watching you two from 2:30 to 5:30 every goddamned night. Changing your diapers and helping with feedings. Hell, at seven years old I was up mixing formula for your bottles at 3:00am because Dad was sanitizing the bottles and Mom was cleaning Telly’s ports. You think that was fair Tibbs? No! It wasn’t! But I fucking did it because that is what family fucking does!”

“I’m not arguing that!” Tibbs stood up. “Jesus, Pol! Why the hell would you think that!”

“Then why are you complaining about it?!” I demanded.

“BECAUSE IT FUCKING SUCKS!”

“YOUR LIFE IS A FUCKING CAKE WALK IN COMPARISON TO MINE!”

And that is when the doorbell rang.

It took a solid-minute of glaring before Tibbs, in his brilliant angry Tibbs-logic ways, groaned and, without any hint of irony at all, said, “Fine. I guess I’ll go get it then.”

I could have kissed him for it. The last thing I need was to go into my PT session with Gena—the day after a fall—in full rage mode. Or at least, that is what I thought the last thing I needed was. The actual last thing I needed was walking swiftly through my door like they were here for a court case.

Priya and Rohan Bahtia. Saffi’s parents.

It was coincidental, I was told. The wood had lost its protector and happened upon an available namebearer in need of a good soul scrub-up. In other words, I was the closest and easiest mark for them to sink their tiny little claws into.

I blame my mother.

In fairness, I should be blaming my aunt Icee, or my Grandfather Ali, but therein lies the problem. My mother blamed them before anything had even happened. She kept me as far from the name bearers as was feasibly possible in the tiny suburb we all got stuck in. And that is exactly what made me feel inclined to see what all the fuss was about that final night he came.

I was warned. Mother had done her duty on that front. I knew the basics. And I had refused the locket for years up until that point. Because I was a lawyer after all. Responsibility was my middle name. I didn't have time to go gallavanting off down some cold case rabbit hole, regardless of how tantalizing they were. I knew a trap when I saw it—and I knew it was safer to make sure there was a next name bearer on the docket before I took the leap.

What I didn't factor in was the Looking Glass changing the game. Which seems ignorant in hindsight, trust me, I know. But you have to understand, part of me still believe all of this was just some family myth. Sure, I had seen the rabbit. I had even seen the damn cat. But I honestly assumed that just meant our family had a propensity to hallucinate under stressful conditions, not that we actually called forth metaphysical worlds into which we'd be forced to sort things out before we'd be allowed to return.

So, when I came to the hospital, and I saw Pollyanna sitting there in the NICU, holding the small hand of Thibado and that goddamned rabbit came up behind her and was about to tap her on the shoulder and call her into fix my world? My problem?

Fuck no.

It all fell into place in that moment. And it is something I will never forgive my mother for. Every name bearer must enter the world when the rabbit comes for them. If they don't, the Looking Glass starts to tilt our own dimension. Story book tales start to play out in real time with the people you love the most.

I thought it was unique that my brother had named his daughter Pollyanna. Cute that he'd named his twins two names that started with T. But that night when I saw that rabbit behind her I knew that I had started something and unless I found a way to reverse it? Pollyanna and the twins were bound to suffer beyond anything any of them should have to bear.

So when that goddamned smile dropped that night, and I went into that dark wood and found not only Chesh but Archi, holding out a new golden locket, I knew I was too late.

The Looking Glass had already taken the final turn in their story, and now, like me, they would need to come face the Jabberwocky to find freedom from the pain.

I only hoped they would be more successful than me.

**Please note that as part of “A Novel Experiment” Polly Olly Oxen Free” Chapters are only partially edited and subject to frequent updates and or complete overhauls. This is a live project! Make sure to give me your feedback below and subscribe to the separate newsletter to get a behind the scenes look at the whole process!**

I, Pollyanna Marie Monroe, will walk on my own today whether my physical therapist likes it or not.
"Which means I'm coming for you." I announce to the trail of ants that have colonized my windowsill.
They ignore me, as per usual, because they are ants. And talking to ants is pointless. Much like my physical therapist.
Badum Tss.
As you can see, I am losing my mind. Just a wee bit. A smidge you might say. But what else can you expect when you strap an ADHD running addict with a bad case of Senior-itis into a body cast and then lock them away in a six-foot box of a bedroom for five weeks?
"You watch." I say, continuing my conversation with the colony. "You'll wish you had listened. You won't like my first strike." I shoot a glower at the shriveled apple core dangling inches above the trash can.
Exactly how it has managed to cling to the ridge of the yellowing-white sill after eight days with hundreds of ants climbing over it is inconceivable. Why everyone else in my family found it fascinating and decided it would be more fun to "see how long it would take to fall" rather than fix it for me has been beyond torture.
"Final warning, before—," my threat is interrupted by an unintentional grunt as my grip slips from the assist bars above my head, "—I yeet you out that goddamned window."
A couple grunts later and I am up against my headboard. Or, to be more precise, my half-fully-casted-body is tilted slightly higher on the massive mountain of foam and pillows wedged onto my bed. It could easily double as a gymnastics foam pit and is just as impossible to get out of. As if being in a full body cast and a leg sling isn't already enough to keep me from falling out of bed.
My physical therapist tried to sell me on the set up by explaining it would decrease my pain at night and let me sleep better. After nearly three weeks of the worst sleep of my life, I call complete BS on that claim.
No. She foamed me in here for one reason: to keep me from trying to walk again like I did at the hospital, because she conveniently ignores the fact that I had a good reason to try and walk back then: Saffi.
She had been moved out of ICU and was allowed to have visitors. Finally. And sure, Gena and I had a deal where she'd keep me out of a full body cast when I got transferred home if I showed her "good behavior" while I was there. But then she up and hesitated to wheel me over to see my best friend? Saying she wanted to wait until she "discussed things with my psychologist?" What in the actual hell did she expect me to do with that?
And seriously, Gena had known me for like, what? All of ten days back then? Most of that I had been entirely trapped in a trapezoid prison of polyurethane. And yet, somehow, somehow, she felt confident enough to tell my parents that I had unquestionably done enough damage to myself that I would never recover in time for next season; and that she no longer "trusted me" to follow her accelerated recovery program.
Because apparently that one single incident showed her I wasn't "disciplined enough."
Gena doesn't know a damn thing about me, or bolsters, or what I am capable of.
A small bubble of defiant glee rushes my heart as I sweep the bolsters off my bed and yank my blankets off my hammock-raised leg.
The foam blobs bounce and bobble in a fight for space while they settle between my dresser and desk. And despite many an aim at the apple, none of my second or third bolster sweeps make it past the soccer net barricade my family erected to prevent my sabotage.
Still, I revel in the small win that is the freedom of my now non-suffocating bed. It is only ever temporary, but I'm going to enjoy every second until whichever family "Pol Checker" for the morning comes in to scold me for trying to escape my fate.
As if on cue, the first of what is generally a chorus of Monroe-family morning rage echoes from down the hall.
Shrill, nasal, and ending in a spiraling groan—and headed my direction. Thibado.
"I'M NAKED!" I yell at the closed door.
The door bursts open.
"And I care?" Tibbs scoffs as he storms in, kicking a rogue bolster under my bed as he crosses the room in three gangly steps. "Why are Mom and Dad hush-fighting about you getting kicked out of PCU?! Also, get a new threat. We all know you can't get naked on your own, Pol."
Tibbs plops down at the end of my bed and shoves my non-suspended leg out of the way so he can steal some blanket. "At least say you are crapping in your bedpan or something. Your lack of effort is embarrassing."
Of my two thirteen-year-old twin siblings, Thibado Parker Monroe, is the eldest by nearly twelve hours; and without fail people assume he is the younger one. Tibbs hates it. And though it could be said—with dead-on accuracy—that Tibbs hates most things, he hates being seen as "less mature" than his twin to a visceral degree. He also does not find this ironic in the least, which I find highly entertaining.
As a general rule, I manage his morning tantrums with a well-placed immaturity jab right about now. Something along the lines of, "Are you sure they are even arguing Tibbsy? Did you check your logic with Tell?" But that option is out of reach at the moment. It floats across the back of my awareness as all of my effort is placed on stifling my own morning impulse to enter a shouting match.
One person in this family has to be willing to, after all.
My jaw clenches and I feel an instant stab of pain shoot down my neck. The familiar tension spreads from my ear to my shoulder blades and then down to numb my fingers. I focus on Tibbs freckles, his freshly groomed brows, his piecey oil-slick-rainbow-black dyed hair, his horrible, oversized, faded-pink Pikachu pajamas. It's the sight of my old pajamas that settle the scream enough for me to talk.
"I'm not getting kicked out." I say, making a point to roll my eyes. "I think I'd be the one to know."
Tibbs squints at me. "They legit just argued about you getting kicked out if you don't come to spring training on your feet."
"No," A slightly less nasal but more or less identical voice chimes in, "They are worried you are going to get kicked out if you don't go to their spring event on your feet."
At first glance, Telemachus Atrates Monroe is—by their own admission even—a textbook definition of "emotionless DGAF." Where Tibbs is a constant tornado of feminine and masculine expression in one fluidic, dramatic package, Telly is the seemingly calm non-binary wheat field gently swaying but obligatorily tied to the Tibbs-Tornado's random manifestation.
Note that I said 'at first glance.'
Telly, dressed in a frumpy gray sweat suit set with the hood pulled high up over their head and their hands deep in their pockets, stepped into the room and dropped onto the largest bolster, curled up like a dog, and added, "what they did say was that if you did get kicked out of the track team it'd essentially be the same as you getting kicked out of PCU because we can't afford to pay tuition past the first semester the pre-contract covers. You know, thanks to all the hospital bills we have to shell out because you won't let Mom and Dad sue your rich-ass friend's jerk off parents."
"Out." It isn't a scream, but the word bursts out of me before I even fully register what Telly has said. "Get out now."
Tibbs stops my attempt to sit forward with a flat palm and a frown. Telly sits up on the bolster unhindered and continues.
"No." They say with a squinty frown of their own peaking out from their hood just long enough to make a point before returning to shadow. "I am not going to 'get out.' We need you to hear something. Right Tibbs?"
I look at Tibbs. Tibbs looks at the floor. My anger and glare beelines back to Telly.
"What did you convince Tibbs to do for you this time, Tell?"
"They didn't convince me to do anything." Tibbs snaps.
The ferocity from him gives me pause. Tibbs is only protective of Telly when they are vulnerable, and Telly is only ever needs to play defense with Dad.
"I've told you both before. I can't fight your battles for you with Dad. The way to deal with him now is exactly the way Mom is telling you. Do as they both say, when they say it, and don't ask questions or challenge them. Think rigid military. We are 'in crisis' as far as Dad's brain is concerned. Fighting each other's battles is just going to piss him off. God, you know the stories I've told you about me and Uncle Ali. Did you think I was making that all up?"
Tibbs and Telly both roll their eyes in perfect unison.
"Gods, Pol! This isn't about Dad going all Captain Commando on us." Tibbs growls and stands. He picks up the closest bolster and starts repositioning it under my knee. I grab it and chuck it back on the floor.
"Then what the fuck is it about, Thibado Parker? Because so far all I'm getting from you two is the same bullshit I always get from you two: one of you is worried I won't move out and you won't get your own room and the other one is upset that Dad doesn't let you walk all over him and Mom anymore!"
I reach up and unhook my leg harness. The chains ring out with a satisfying slink and crack as fabric and metal drop to the floor and I shift myself forward. I glare at Tibbs, daring him to try and push me back this time. Tibbs takes the bait.
"It's about Saffi." Telly says before either of us do something stupid.
There is a subtle difference to their voice, one that only the two of us would ever notice. We both turn to look at them. Sure enough, sliced below each eye is a trail of tears.
"They are going to pull the plug, Pol." Telly says, pressing a falling tear between their lips. "I'm so sorry. Her cousin Johna told us while we were playing co-op in Oxen Free—"
My heart catches in my chest as if I am slamming into a concrete barrier.
"—and we didn't know how to tell you or bring it up." Tibbs is saying. "So, we told Mom and Dad. But then they started arguing—"
I am spinning, contracting, slamming forward and back.
"—and arguing, and arguing, and arguing—" Telly added. "Until finally Dad told us to go to bed, which we didn't of course."
There is pressure now. And screaming, so much screaming. But not mine.
"Of course not." Tibbs agreed. "We stayed up to hear whether they would tell you, because we needed to know what to do about it."
The screaming stops and it's as if all the air is driven from my lungs as I try to call it back.
"And that is how we found out about the phone call with the coach from PCU that they had last month. That one you wouldn't tell us about." Telly said. "Where the coach wants you at Spring Training for a tour?"
Smoke fills my lungs. Heat—searing and suffocating. And stone. Everywhere I turn, stone. Against my hands, my legs. Oh, god. My legs.
"—and how Dad apparently assured them that you would be up for it and already walking around by then?" Tibbs said with a wince. "Which was so stupid. Especially since your PT is totally against that plan."
The twins are still talking. But the roar filling my ears is louder. All I can think to do is escape. I need to release the mounting pressure of concrete and steel.
"Escape." I say, absently.
"What?" Tibbs and Telly both ask in unison and turn to me from across the room. They are standing near the soccer net, presumably ensuring my bolster throwing hadn't compromised its structure.
That my continued misery hadn't messed with those stupid fucking ants and their stupid fucking apple. That my pain hadn't fucked with their stupid fucking game.
In one swift movement accompanied by a lightning strike of pain from shoulder to shin, I swivel off the bed and stand. Shock holds the three of us in silence before in tandem, we react in equally characteristic ways.
Tibbs, ever the self-centered sarcastic drama king gasps and claps his hands, "It's a miracle! I'll get a room of my own after all!"
Telly, always the pragmatic strategist, shields the soccer net, "Don't you dare, Pollyanna Marie! That apple is a non-competitive family project that I may or may not be winning."
And I, often at the mercy of my own gravity and momentum, take three steps while using my own cast as a crutch.
I am doing well enough that both twins step forward to help. I growl. They nod an apology and run out the door shouting for Mom and Dad.
Puke is rising in my throat. I am getting tunnel vision. But, I am triumphant.
I, Pollyanna Marie Monroe, am walking. And they don't need to know anything other than that.
Thundering steps reach me just as I reach the soccer net. Out of my periphery I can make out Mom and Dad entering the room, the twins close behind. I revel at the sound of their hopeful gasps.
All four Monroes are silent. As if once again they are watching me at a meet, about to set another state record. About to secure my full-ride to PCU. About to get too goddamned cocky about my win.
Shoving the pop-up soccer net aside, I reach out to swat the apple into the bin. But, as I do, my Monroe genetics rear their head. I turn to throw them a "never should have doubted me" smirk. But the world turns with me.
I fall hard, enough so that all five of us Monroe's scream in unison. In a blur of pain and flailing freckled limbs, I am lifted from the floor and replaced in my nest without a word. The silence is only broken when Mom stomps off down the hall.
"I'm calling Gena." She says.
Before I even form a word, Dad, Telly, and Tibbs are out the door yelling at her to put the phone down.
For the first time in my life, they fight my battle before I do.
I look to the windowsill.
"It's because they know I can't."
The colony ignores me. Because they know they can.