Free My Beating Teenage Heart by C. K. Kelly Martin Page B

to resist the desire to steer in the direction of the Baptiste house.
    Thirty-seven Heathdown Crescent, Cherrywood .
    What I wouldn’t give to see my parents in the flesh. To look them in the eyes even though they wouldn’t be able to look back into mine.
    Thirty-seven Heathdown Crescent, Cherrywood .
    Dad. Mom. Celeste. Garrett. I miss you all so much.
    Thirty-seven Heathdown Crescent, Cherrywood, Strathedine .
    I think with such keen focus, such dizzying energy, that I could collapse a brain cell or two if I still had any. Listen to me, Mrs. Cody. Just for a minute, hear me and take us to Heathdown …
    But she doesn’t listen, doesn’t hear. As usual, my mental efforts yield no results. Mrs. Cody makes a left turn away from the mall and pulls into a squat medical building’s parking lot. Soon we’re squeezing into a tiny elevator that takes us to the third floor. There’s a fourth passenger with us, a bald woman about the same age as Mrs. Cody. I see Breckon notice her but pretend that he hasn’t. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am: she’s sick. Will she survive whatever’s the matter with her and live to an old age or is she doomed? Was I doomed? Was Skylar?
    Do any of us have a choice or are we just playing out destiny?
    I stream along behind Breckon and his mother as they exit the elevator and tread along a nondescript hallway and into a medical waiting room. Breckon’s mother gives his name to the secretary, who shows them both promptly into the doctor’s office and closes the door behind them.
    Not five minutes later I’m watching Dr. Siddiqui examine Breckon’s hand. The doctor’s professional expression makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but he says, “It looks sore.”
    “It is,” Breckon admits, glancing from his damaged hand to the doctor.
    “He can take some acetaminophen for the pain,” the doctor advises, looking from Breckon to his mother. “But there’s no infection.” He smooths a burn cream carefully onto Breckon’s lobster hand, lays a dressing on top of that and rolls a bandage around it with infinitely more expertise than Breckon did himself. In the end only the tips of Breckon’s fingers are showing. “The dressing will need to be changed every day, and if it’s not beginning to look any better in a week or so—or if there are any signs of oozing or a strange c ore cha odor—he should come back to the office.”
    “Thank you,” Mrs. Cody says. “I feel better knowing you’ve looked at it.”
    Dr. Siddiqui nods. “Always best to get things looked at. I don’t have any samples at the moment but …” He grabs a pen and his prescription pad. “I’m going to write out the cream he should use. The pain should begin to subside in a couple of days.” He tears out the page from his prescription pad and hands it to Breckon along with a sheet of instructions that explain how to change his dressing. “I’m so sorry about Skylar,” the doctor adds quietly.
    Breckon’s shoulders sag as he takes the papers. I notice his cracked bottom lip again as his lips part. “Thank you,” his mother repeats before he can get the words out.
    “She was a wonderful girl,” the doctor says.
    Back in the waiting room Breckon hands over the instructions and prescription for his mother to study. She unfolds the instructions and scans through to the bottom of the page. “We can pick the cream up in the pharmacy downstairs,” she says as she gives him the sheet back.
    “Good idea,” Breckon says without missing a beat. He folds the page into his back pocket and then checks his watch. “I think I can make second period if we’re quick.”
    Mrs. Cody hesitates, her face changing as she says, “You probably can.”
    With the cream and a fresh supply of bandages in our possession the three of us climb back into the car. I grow anxious when I see Breckon’s high school loom in the distance and I don’t know why. He wants to go back to school, so who am I to