Free Pieces of Me by Amber Kizer Page B

sure that they’d asked, in case. Well, in case. In
my
case, there was a staff meeting the day I skipped school because someone reported the Skirts bullying me. I don’t know who saw, or who spoke up, but it was too late. Obviously, because I died that weekend. The new school policy was to react faster. How? No one really knew. And if there were consequences for the Skirts for that assault, I didn’t know that, either.
    Mrs. Youngs leaned against her desk and folded her hands as if in prayer. “Misty, I am worried about you. Your grades have continued to slip and I have spoken with your guidance counselor. We want you to know that we’re here for you. We’ve reached out to your parents but they haven’t responded.”
    Panic raced through Misty’s system. A hit of adrenaline. The tang of fear. The sudden twisting of her insides in rebellion.
    Didn’t they realize that there were things more important than grades?
    Bigger than school?
    Misty’s brain locked up, blanked out, trying to think of something, anything, to say. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to choke the teacher.
    That morning at the library, Misty had carefully opened the newest stacks of bills. She organized them by date, by doctor, by procedure. She marked the invoice numbers, the amounts paid and owed, the dates sweeping past like the hands of a clock. She tucked them into a box she hid behind the Russian poets, between the shelves, books, and back wall. Every bill, every letter demanding payment, she kept. That morning, the running tally of what her family owed, that went unpaid, topped a quarter of a million dollars. Her medications, follow-ups, and treatments might be a hundred thousand dollars a year. Forever.
There are no classes in how to keep track of medical bills and how to pay them with no job, no help. Misty might ace that class
.
    I wondered if my parents got a bill for my brief, but high maintenance, time at the emergency room, in the operating room. Did they get a bill from the surgeon for taking all my pieces? Or in some karmic system did they get monetary credit for my sacrifices?
    “I’m fine, Ms. Youngs. Still recovering from the liver transplant. They said it would take a while for me to focus and feel one hundred percent. I’m not supposed to push too hard. My parents work a lot.” Misty’s lie rolled off her tongue. I’d watched her use the words “liver transplant” enough to realize exactly what she wanted to accomplish.
    Immediately, the teacher’s posture changed. “I don’t want to pressure you. I simply want you to know I am here if you need anything. Tutoring. Extra time after school. Whatever I can do.”
    Misty had insurance for a week before it ran out. Her parents didn’t tell the doctors that it was ending. Billing didn’t double check. A girl shouldn’t see how much saving her life cost andthe money it took to maintain. It’s not something I ever thought about. What would you pay? You say anything? Did anything mean living in a hovel and eating beans out of food banks for the rest of your life? That no matter how hard you worked you’d never catch up, never make enough for a breath free from that crushing weight?
    “Thank you,” Misty said, hoping she might escape soon.
    “You’re a very brave, and very lucky, girl, Misty. I’m sure you know how proud we all are of you.”
    For getting sick? For having a dead person’s organ? My liver inside her? What did she have to do with that? Why would either of those things make her brave?
    Misty nodded and didn’t let the door close before she put her head down and dove into the sea of flailing bodies in the hall. I was never sure where to look. At people I recognized? At people I’d never seen before because I used to stare at the tiles under my feet? At the banners and artwork and flyers that seemed like a hodgepodge of colors and demands?
    I forgot Misty for a moment. Until she shuffled past a glass case.
    That’s me!
    Within the glass walls was last