Fix by J. Mann (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📕

pizza on my plate, he plucks a slice from the box and plops it in front of me. He returns to eating but doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“Nice hair,” he says.

I can feel it standing on end.… In fact, I can see it tangling about in the corners of my eyes. And I’m still in my skinny jeans because I’m trapped in them until someone else peels them off me. Otherwise, I’m only in my brace and body sock. I know I look like shit. I certainly feel like shit.

He stops eating. “Eve, why did you walk away today?”

My heart stings. I guess he did kiss me under the portico. Although instead of remembering his kiss, I remember her eyes.

“I had to get to class.”

“Well,” he says, “I guess we both know that is some genuine bullshit.”

“You don’t know anything,” I snap. Because… I don’t know why. Because he’s right? But why does this make me angry? And I am angry. Really angry.

He sucks in his lips against his teeth. “Seriously, Eve. I’m just worried about you. And since we’re”—he hesitates, but then finishes—“friends…”

“We’re not friends. I don’t have any friends.”

“Eve—”

I cut him off. “Stop saying my name.”

He looks right into my eyes. And I see he sees it. Everything that’s wrong. That’s been wrong.

“Eve.”

I hate the way he says my name. I shove my plate across the table. “Get out,” I snap.

“You aren’t eating.”

“I said, get out.”

“And you seem to be on a lot of drugs for someone so far out from surgery.”

“What are you, a fucking doctor now?”

My face is burning. My chest is burning. My entire being is burning. And I want it to. All of it. To burn, burn, burn.

“Eve.”

Now I just might kill him.

“GET OUT.”

He starts to clean up our plates and napkins.

“I said, GET THE FUCK OUT!”

He sighs and puts everything down. Picking up his car keys, he heads to the door.

“And don’t pick me up in the morning,” I say, sounding like I’m five years old, “because I’m not going to school.”

He opens the door, and then turns back. “I’ll be out front at 7:10 a.m., Eve.”

I meet his exasperating compassion with fury, picking up his half-eaten piece of pizza and whipping it at the closing door. But I’m so weak, and drugged, that it flies about five feet and hits the rug.

Still furious, I pick up my slice and throw it, too.

It doesn’t even make it five feet.

And then I eat my dinner.

It’s small and

white and

tastes like

shit.

My Decision

The front door opens.

Mary Fay.

I can tell by the heavy key chain and

light step.

She heads for the kitchen.

I cleaned my pizza fit,

leaving the last four slices

on the counter.

I hear cardboard slide against

cardboard, and then her

happy exclamation at the little

amount left over.

It depresses me even

further.

Her joy over

nothing.

Two seconds later,

the floor creaks outside my door.

I shut my eyes. My heart,

pounding.

“Hey, Eve?”

“You up?”

I lie stiffly,

aching to respond. To

tell her I love that she made me

homemade fish sticks and

toast to go.

That I’d talk. If I could.

But I can’t.

Because that would mean

surrendering

all one hundred and

forty-four

halves.

The creaks

head off into

silence.

I fill it

with the deep sobs

I’ve been holding back

since I heard her car

pull up and turn off.

“Shhh,” he says.

“Thomas?” My heart

flutters to life.

“Eve.”

He says my name like

he owns me. Maybe

he does.

“The pact.” I sigh, sinking

back onto the bed, suddenly

so tired. “You asked if I cared

about Minnesota.”

“You said you didn’t, Eve.”

His voice is inside my head now.

It’s a part of me.

I feel for the single baggie,

all of my beautiful,

beautiful Roxy

gathered together.

Everything I want.

“I don’t make the rules, Eve,” he says.

“You make the rules.”

Yes.

I decide.

Clutching my Roxy,

I roll sloppily from bed,

slide to my knees, and

drag it out.

The box.

Her box.

I pull it onto my lap.

It’s never been opened.

I never thought I’d open it.

I don’t want to open it.

I do.

There it is.

Nestled in clear plastic

air pillows.

Lidia’s hand.

The truth is

I didn’t want her to have it.

The truth is

I wanted her to be happy

the way she was,

in case I needed to be happy

the way I was.

The truth is

I was happy the

way I was.

So was she.

The truth is

I also wasn’t.

Neither was she.

I reach for it,

afraid to touch it.

She was afraid, too,

reaching out on that long-ago red rover day,

waiting for the hand to arrive,

dressing for the date.

She was afraid, too.

All this, I knew. All this I’d

always known.

I take her hand.

It feels… not at

all like Lidia.

“It’s fake,” he whispers from deep inside me.

“Just like your friendship.”

I look around my room

at my life—tacked,

taped, and glued onto

the green walls.

“No,” I tell him.

“You’re wrong.”

Me and Lidia.

Me and Lidia. Me and Lidia.

MeandLidiaMeandLidiaM

eandLi

dia.

The truth is

we had become bad

for each

other. For now.

For today.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But today.

I look down

at an arm

that ends in a hand-

ful of Roxy.

My hand.

I place it

all

in her hand

and close the lid.

“Eve.”

This time it’s my own voice

I hear in the dark.

“Hold on.”

And I do.

Author’s Note

Fix is not a memoir, but it is the most autobiographical novel I’ve ever written. Like Eve, I was born with large, progressive thoracic/lumbar scoliosis. Like Lidia, one of my close childhood friends was born with congenital amputation of the hand. Neither plot nor personality is pulled from our lives, but many of our feelings splatter these pages.

As a child, I was taught to accept, respect, and love myself. Simple ideas that become much harder for folks with disabilities, as hate, disrespect, and nonacceptance are often built into the laws, policies, and social and cultural norms around us. This institutionalized discrimination is so strong that it permeates hearts and minds, including the hearts and minds of disabled people—we call this internalized ableism.

It has been well documented that internalized ableism can be associated with negative health outcomes, achievement gaps, and, of course, poor self-esteem. This internalized oppression is further complicated by race, gender, sexuality, class, and age. As a teen, I found it nearly impossible to separate how