Page 32 of Facing Off
“Nothing is wrong. We were concerned about the bump to the head, but your scans are clear. Just make suresomeone at home closely monitors you for concussion symptoms, and if you experience any of those in the next twenty-four hours, come back to the hospital.”
My dance mistress gapes. “There’snothingwrong with her?”
The doctor levels her a strange look. “Yes. Good news, right? Based on our tests, Sonya is in excellent health.”
I draw my legs up to my chest, and my toes curl into the hospital bed. “Just a fluke,” I hear myself say. “It won’t happen again,” I tell Madame Kozlova.
“You almost injured Robert!”
The doctor clears her throat. “Sonya needs rest, not questioning.”
With that, the doctor leaves and a nurse comes in. “Who’s going to take you home and monitor you, Sonya?”
Madame Kozlova’s hands jerk up, and she looks at me. “Oh. I would, but I can’t. I’ve got plans tonight that I can’t cancel. There must be someone else available.”
Nina Hart, who hasn’t said anything in a while, decides to chime in. “I also can’t help. I’ve got a family dinner to attend.”
“I have someone named Quinn listed as the emergency contact,” the nurse notes.
I sit up so fast my blanket falls to the ground. “No, not him.”
I’m not asking Quinn to drop everything and fly back to Vancouver for me. Focusing on winning needs to be his only priority.
The nurse forces a stack of papers into Madame Kozlova’s hands. “I have to check on other patients, so I’m giving you Sonya’s home care instructions. Whoever is looking after her has to read them. Please make sure they do.”
When the nurse leaves, Madame Kozlova points to theside table beside me. “Sonya, your phone is on the table. You should call someone.”
I slowly pick it up. In the background, the TV keeps blaring. My neighbor has switched the channel to another sports network.
I’m going through my contacts, wondering if this day could get any worse. Not only have I been rushed to the hospital because I can’t dance, but nothing’s wrong with me, and so this mystery of falling continues—and now I have to call…
No one.
Considering I feel fine, I don’t need help anyway.
“Just leave the papers on the table. Um, I think my person is running late.”
Madame Kozlova clutches them tighter. “I can’t leave you alone like this. We’ll wait for someone to show up.”
“No—” I try to argue.
“Yes,” insists Madame Kozlova.
Fuckity-fuck.
She’s using her stiff tone, the one that means she’s not budging.
“But I can’t control how long it’ll be until someone comes…”
“You fell in my studio,” she points out. “How would it look if I left you alone without making sure you had help tonight? Now, who’s coming?”
No one. Because—well—I don’t exactly have many options.
Do I call the owner of my favorite store, Gabriela? Farim, the doorman to my apartment building? I know if Kavi was here, I would call her, but she’s not.
The patient beside me clicks his TV volume higher. Sportscasters are furiously debating about the World Hockey Championship. A picture pops onto the screen.
All the air gets sucked out of the room. It’s the last face I want to see.
