Page 12 of When Ben Loved Tim
“How’s the ankle?” I ask, taking a step closer to see.
“Oh you know…” Tim says, leaning forward to check. Then he leans back slowly with a haunted expression. “It’ll be fine. I can barely feel it.”
“How could you not?” I ask, turning on a lamp. The added light reveals swelling above the brace, like the top of a muffin. “Tim! That doesn’t look good!”
“It’s getting better, I swear!” He reaches for the bottle of painkillers. “Could you get me another Coke?”
“Just a minute,” I say, getting on my knees in front of him, but even I don’t find this moment sexy. I start to unfasten the brace.
“What are you doing?” he asks, jerking his leg away before hissing in pain.
“I looked it up,” I tell him, gently taking hold of his foot and moving it close again. “I think you have a grade two sprain.”
“Meaning what?” he asks.
“That you tore something.” I suck in air as the brace falls away, revealing bloated flesh that is already starting to bruise. “We’ve gotta get you to the hospital!”
“Or what?” he asks, as if wanting to weigh his options.
“Or it won’t heal right and you’ll always be in pain.Andyou won’t be able to play sports anymore.” I’m expecting that last bit to upset him the most.
Instead he twirls his index finger in the air and says, “Whoop-de-doo!”
I sit back, confused by his apathy. “If you let it heal on its own, you might not be able to walk the same afterwards. And you sure as hell won’t be able to run on it anymore.”
This seems to sober him up. “For real?”
“Yes! We need to go to the emergency room.”
Tim crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe tomorrow. If it’s still bugging me.”
“Tonight,” I say, getting to my feet with determination. “I’ll call an ambulance. Or my parents. They can drive us.”
“Wait!” Tim says, sounding panicked “We don’t have to get anyone involved. Do we?”
I shrug, not seeing why it would matter. “You can’t drive yourself,” I say, nodding to the injury, which is on his right leg. “I can’t imagine you pushing down on the gas pedal with that thing.”
“Yeah, but maybe…” I watch him clench his jaw as he struggles within himself. Then he perks up. “You can drive, right?”
I freeze. “I mean, technically.”
His brow furrows at this. “You don’t have a license?”
“I do.” It took me three attempts to pass the test, but I keep that to myself.
“All right,” Tim says as he tries to push himself up. “You can drive us there.”
“In your car?” I ask, already loving the idea.
Tim laughs. “In my mom’s minivan.”
“No way!” I shoot back. “I’ve seen what you drive—”
“Of course you have,” Tim interjects.
“—and it’swaycooler,” I finish.
This seems to please him. “You’re into cars?”
