Free Lurlene McDaniel by Hit & Run Page A

begin to whisper to one another, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that some are betting on how long Quin and I willlast. I hold the trump card that no one knows about: He won't be dropping me until I say so.
    The feeling is delicious, almost sweet. I am startled at how happy it makes me feel. I think of how my mother is not on my back so much and how I've taken control instead of feeling weak and insignificant. Well, I can't deny to myself that I feel just a trace of bitterness because I know how I got here. I shove it out of my mind, move closer to Quin's side, take his hand. I can be tough, why not? He doesn't let go either, but I can feel by his grip that he doesn't like it.
So what?
I am capable of dealing with more than I have ever imagined.
    When the bell rings, I give him a kiss on the cheek. I feel his jaw tighten. “See you at lunch,” I say, and sashay off to class. I sometimes cannot believe the new me. I am almost transformed. I still am secretly amazed.
    Later, passing me in the hall on the way to the cafeteria, Kathy, a girl from the cross-country team, stops me. “So what's with you and Quin and the PDA in the commons? I thought the two of you were over last October.”
    PDA, shorthand for public display of affection, isn't my usual behavior. I offer what I hope is a coy smile. “Obviously we patched it up.”
    She looks skeptical. “Make sure he's had his shots. He's done a few girls between last October and now.”
    I flinch. “Not every girl he dates has sex with him.”
    “Oh, right. And you're an exception because … ?”
    I feel my cheeks redden. “Because I tell him no, and I am not as ordinary as you'd imagine.”
    “Why didn't I think of that?” Kathy says, slapping her forehead. “Oh, don't look so surprised. It was one time only at a party last summer. And just to ease your mind, we used a condom. At least he
knows
how to be careful.”
    Speechless, I watch her walk away.

J ANUARY 15–31
    S ometimes when I rise to the surface, I hear Mom reading school lessons to me. I like the sound of her voice. It soothes, like ointment on a burn. My parents are so loyal to this cause of waking me from my coma. I appreciate and admire their determination. Yet I hear what the doctors say.
Three months.
That's kind of a magic number in coma land. Once I've been down for three months, it's unlikely I'll ever emerge. Me. Analise Bower. What remains is a breathing vegetable.
Funny, ha-ha.
I'm little more than a carrot, or an onion. Tubes feed me. Bags hold waste from inside me. Other people care for me. My family, my Jeremy, a friend or two come and watch by my bed. The onion sleeps.
    I remember philosophy class again, all the wise and learned men who have tried to explain the unexplainable, who write entire books in an effortto comprehend mankind's existence and our purpose in the universe. I read once in my textbook about a philosopher, Nietzsche, who had become famous for declaring “God is dead.” In the margin of the book, someone had written in ink: “Nietzsche is dead. —God.” Very funny because it's true. We all die. But I don't want to die. Not yet. Not until I know who did this to me.
    I remember my experience in the emergency room. My mind, the essence of me, rising out of my body, floating and watching, going higher, leaving the hospital and entering a tunnel, and a light more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. And I wonder, why can't I float my mind out of this body that cannot move? Why can't I come and go into the world around me without entering the tunnel? How much control do I truly have in mind and matter, over time and space? Can I split myself into parts? Can I break apart like a seedpod and float my consciousness into the real world while my body languishes on this bed?
    The idea intrigues me. If I can break free, if I can project myself out of the shell of my body … I can go anywhere.

J ANUARY 15
    I'm walking into the house after indoor practice at