Page 36 of Even If the Sky is Falling
Dianna smiled up at her. “You’re doing it.”
Dianna checked her phone service again, though it was futile. They were still totally disconnected from the world. She grabbed her bag once more. Apparently, there were some things that hadn’t managed to tumble to the floor. She took out a bottle of orange juice and drank half the bottle before coming back up for air.
“Are you okay?” Jones asked.
Dianna nodded. “My blood sugar’s low, but I don’t know how to tell my insulin pump that.” She waved her useless phone in the air. “You can turn that off by the way.”
Jones flicked the flashlight off and then shoved her phone in her back pocket. “How do you normally tell your insulin pump.”
Dianna lifted her shirt, exposing a small patch at the side of her stomach that looked slightly squishy to the touch. Jones moved her hand to test it before stopping. She didn’t know the etiquette, but it probably wasn’t kosher to touch someone’s medical devices without permission. It was a part of her body, and you couldn’t just go around touching people’s bodies just because you were curious.
“Go ahead,” Dianna said.
Jones touched it like it was a rare gem, gently and with barely a press of her fingers. She didn’t know if it hurt, but she didn’t want to find out. Dianna shivered as Jones’s cold fingers brushed against her too-warm skin. She blamed it on her blood sugar—she tended to break into a sweat when her levels were off. Especially if there was an impending event, like a crash. Her mouth was already starting to dry and her thoughts were getting fuzzy around the edges.
“How does it work?” Jones asked.
“I test my blood sugar levels with this.” Dianna picked up the small device. “It’s called a glucose meter. And it’s connected to an app on my phone, so it inputs the numbers and then this—” she held her hand over the small patch, trapping Jones’s hand in between. A small squeak escaped Jones’s lips but she kept her hand in place. “Gives me however much insulin I need based on all of that data,” Dianna finished explaining.
She moved her hand one finger at a time. Jones felt her face get warmer and warmer, thankful once again she had inherited her mother’s deep chestnut skin instead of her dad’s cool umber.
“It’s supposed to be revolutionary and super high-tech, but I guess relying on technology for everything is bound to bite you in the butt at times like this.” Dianna sat heavily into the plush chair, bringing her orange juice bottle back to her lips. She was already starting to feel better. She would have to pay better attention now that she didn’t have her phone to keep track. She manually inputted her numbers so she would have them for later. Twenty years managing her diabetes and she was about to die from either a meteor or lack of insulin from being locked in this room. Cool. She let her head drop back as a deep groan of frustration escaped her.
She should have paid more attention to the innumerable times her doctor tried to teach her how to manually override the connected system. You know, in case of a global blackout or world-threatening meteor, because it would be ridiculous for life-saving devices to require an iPhone. But she had put too much faith in the tech.
A part of her had never quite taken her diabetes as seriously as she should have. She was young, otherwise healthy, worked out five days a week. She had a skincare routine, drank a metric ton of water every day, and had even qualified for the Boston Marathon twice. She wasn’t the type of person who should have diabetes. How could a body like hers bedisabled. So she could be lax about it, she had thought.
She had played stupid games and now she was winning stupid prizes.
Jones sat on the floor in front of her. She plucked a bag of snacks that seemed the least necessary—a small packet of miniature Nutter Butter cookies. She figured the fruit snacks were the better option for blood sugar regulation, just like the orange juice. A shot of easily and quickly digestible sugar.
“You never told me,” Jones whispered. She didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but it was laced through her words.
Dianna snorted. “Would you have been nicer to me if you’d known?”
“Honestly,” Jones said. “Probably. Is that fucked up?”
“Very,” Dianna nodded. “I’d rather you be a bitch to me and treat me like an equal than be nice just because you think I’m broken or something. Yeah, I’m diabetic. But I’m also top of the class and still going to whoop your ass in our Con Law final.”
“Okay, calm down,” Jones laughed. “Not on your best day.”
“There she is,” Dianna laughed. “Seriously though. I’m not ashamed of it or anything. It’s just a part of who I am. And yeah, I have to do things a little differently than other people. I have an invisible disability that makes me feel not sick enough to feel like I can ask for help sometimes. Which is messed up, because it’s not like there’s a hierarchy. And I shouldn’t have to hide this because I want people to treat me like a‘normal’person, whatever that means.” She used air quotes aroundnormaland released the word like it was acidic on her tongue.
“Don’t worry, next time you go around demanding we all bow down, I will certainly remember that it’s just because you’re a little bit of a bitch and not because of anything else.” Jones nudged Dianna’s knee with her shoulder.
“When have I ever demanded anything from you? Or anyone?” Dianna asked.
“You don’t have to,” Jones said. “You just flash your pretty smile and swish your pretty hair and people just do whatever you want.”
“That is so untrue.”
“Oh, really?” Jones sat up now, swiveling on her butt so that she was facing Dianna, eye level with Dianna’s thighs pressed into the leather. Her T-shirt under her dungaroos stuck to her back with sweat from being pressed into the chair. It was a flimsy cotton, a relic of her ex and his love of obscure bands. “Did you have to fight for your spot on Law Review?”
“What are you talking about?” Dianna threw her hands up in frustration. It was just like Jones to create false narratives in her head, even after everything they had been through today. Every day, it was a new victim card being pulled like Uno Draw Fours. It was exhausting. “Everyone earnedtheir spot. We all did the same application, the same Bluebooking challenge, the same article edit.”
“Yeah, and every year the existing editors find ways to exclude Black students from making it on. They go out of their way to find the smallest reasons to reject us. Even when we have the grades. They care more about maintaining status quo than being fair.”
“Hello,” Dianna said, flourishing her hand over herself. “I’m Black.”
