Page 9 of My High School Rebel Boyfriend
“Sure,” I said. I know Maddie was being considerate but I was getting to the point where I didn’t want people to be considerate to me—I wanted to be treated like normal. Miss Barber at volleyball, Mr. Barron at rock climbing, my mother every single day, and now Maddie.
Mitchell Finlayson was the only one whohadtreated me like normal. True, he was a jerk who didn’t know any better, but I liked that he had, and I liked that I’d risen to the occasion.
The bike ride was hard, but I pressed on, sheer determination willing my legs to keep turning the pedals. The head wind didn’t help either.
As we approached Peyton’s house, Maddie suggested we see if he was home, saying she was dying of thirst. I could see there was no point in offering her the Gatorade or water bottle that Mom had packed in my bag. Peyton was there, and so was his Uncle and his Uncle’s girlfriend, Miss Barber. We all knew Miss Barber was dating Peyton’s Uncle, but it was weird to see our coach dressed in a denim skirt and cowboy boots with her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. I’d never seen her in anything but sweatpants and a cap.
Peyton’s Uncle Luke offered us soda and cake, but a mental estimation of the sugar content of the thick chocolate frosting would have myblood sugars through the roof. That horrible word retinopathy (disease of the retina which results in impaired or loss of vision), implanted itself in my brain and I politely declined, taking out a bag of Mom’s flavorless popcorn. I didn’t bother to explain to Uncle Luke, presuming that Miss Barber would tell him if he thought it was odd.
Miss Barber chatted about the volleyball tournament, again repeating for the hundredth time how it was a big opportunity for Maddie, Bella and Tanchia. I fought hard to quell the feeling of resentment festering.
And then it was Peyton who said, “Harper, aren’t you interested in playing in college? Your stats have been great this season.”
My heart swelled at his kind words and I went all tongue-tied and shy. “I, I...nah, I’m not that good,” but I could have kissed him. What a shame he was my best friend’s boyfriend.
“Your statshavebeen tremendous,” Miss Barber added.
“Thanks,” I said, and that recognition overshadowed the thought that diabetes was holding me back.
I could see that Maddie wanted to stay with Peyton, and I could also see that I was the third wheel. Not a nice predicament. When my phone pinged with a text from my mother—How’s the bike ride going—for once I wasn’t annoyed, I’d been given an escape card.
“Oh, hey, it’s my Mom. I better get going,” I said, tucking my phone into my backpack.
“You’ll be okay biking on your own?” Maddie asked, and then seemed to remember. “Actually, I should go too.”
“No, don’t be silly,” I said, “You stay, I’ll be fine.”
“On your own? What if—” She was worried I might have a low, get dizzy, fall off my bike and into a coma.
I shook my backpack full of food and gave a wry smile. “I’ll be fine, Maddie. Really.” It was both heart warming and infuriating that she thought I was incapable of biking home by myself. “I’ll text as soon I make it. If I don’t, send out a searchparty.”
Peyton and Maddie walked me down the driveway, holding hands, so cute but so annoying too. With Bella caddying for Jack at a golf tournament, it felt like I was being left behind. That thought of me never moving out of my parents’ house hung over me like a giant rain cloud.
The tail wind back made cycling easier and I enjoyed the breeze on my face, but as I neared the town, I had a sudden feeling of light headedness. Maybe I had been going a little too fast. Maybe I should have eaten that chocolate cake with the sugar-laden icing.
That’s the thing with diabetes, it’s basically a paradox. Your pancreas doesn’t produce insulin which is the hormone that regulates the blood sugars in your body. So you’re told to limit the amount of carbohydrate you eat, especially the sugary stuff. Yet, if you find yourself about to go hypoglycemic because you’ve exercised, then you have to indulge in sugar to set your body right. That balance sometimes seemed impossible.
And the thing was, sometimes my body wouldn’t even warn me that I was about to go hypo. Sometimes others would see it before me:Harper, you look sweaty.OrHarper, are you okay?Like, they can see that I’m looking dazed or spaced out, while I’m in oblivion or sometimes denial.
It was only a few miles back to my house, but I didn’t want to risk falling off of my bike and have Maddie blaming herself. I was in the suburb of Jackson Park, not the best of neighborhoods, but I could see a small park to my right, the climbing frame, slide and swings in pretty poor condition and devoid of any children. I could rest my bike next to the bench seat and give myself a sugar fix. I’d have a drink of Gatorade and something to eat and hope the dizziness would go away. The wooden seat had seen better days, but I perched myself on the end. I removed my helmet, disgusted by how sweaty my hair felt.
In hindsight I knew I should have eaten something more substantial at Peyton’s house. If I’d tested my blood sugars, I probably would have seen that the vigorous cycling had lowered my levels. Trying tobe good and avoiding the decadent sweet chocolate cake had been a mistake, and the popcorn hadn’t been enough carbs to fuel my journey back.
See what I mean about trying to balance everything? You try to do the right thing and exercise and eat healthy, but diabetes makes a fool of you.
I guzzled down a quarter of the bottle of orange drink (about 15 grams of sugar), and that’s when I heard the sound of thumping against a wall. Thinking something was blowing in the wind, I stood up and looked around. Behind the climbing frame was an old basketball court, the concrete overrun with weeds. A person in jeans and a hoodie covering their head was throwing a ball continuously against the top of the backboard. Not trying to shoot hoops into the askew basket, but repeated overhead throws with unrelenting force, like they wanted to smash it.
I put my bottle back into my backpack, knowing I should get out of the place. I took a few quick bites of Mom’s homemade nut bar, just enough to give me the energy to get home. I didn’t want to be confronted by someone who looked like they were in a merciless mood.
I threw my backpack on and unhooked my helmet from the handlebars at the same time that I straightened my bike. I lost control of the handlebars and the bike crashed down.
And in that moment the thumping noise stopped. With my pulse racing, I scrambled to untangle my helmet straps and put it onto my head, not wasting time to buckle it up. I picked up my bike, pushed it onto the path and hitched my leg over, trying to gain my balance.
And that’s when I saw who the person was...Mitchell Finlayson.
He’d come over and was leaning against the climbing frame, well, he was as tall as it. The black hoodie concealed his hair and he held the basketball between both hands and for a moment our eyes locked.
Hard to know who was the more surprised. Probably me. I had no idea he lived in Jackson Park, and why would I? It was neveranything I’d thought about. Well, I had no intention of allowing him payback here in this remote park, so with a strong push of one leg I got my wheels in motion and rode off in the opposite direction, praying he wasn’t in pursuit.
