the first and only day I’ve seen our agendas so much as overlapping, much less aligning. Every memory serves as a reminder of this important truth.
I vividly recall waking up post surgery number 9 at the age of eight to the rare sight of my parents and an all too familiar heavily sanitized hospital smell. My dad flanked my left and appeared to be frazzled with worry. My mother sat on the edge to my right, looking weary, with dark smudges detracting from her typically bright green eyes.
“Ethan, it’s about time,” my father said, tapping on his watch. “You took 37 minutes longer than anticipated to come out of the anesthesia.” I felt guilty for causing them such consternation. They’d surely been stressed that I wouldn’t wake up at all.
“I…I…I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper. “It hurts,” I said, referring to the incision in my chest. Dozens of tubes protruded from my frail body and machines whirred in the background.
“That’s what pain killers are for, Ethan,” he said, rising and rounding the end of my bed to grab my mother’s hand. “You’ve made us late for a Council meeting. We expect you to follow every order from the doctors and nurses and recover in a more timely fashion than your waking,” as if I’d had control over either.
“Dr. Christo’s the very best,” my mother said, patting me on my arm before standing. “We are investing in you. You are important. If we can just get past these little medical hiccups, you’ll be a major player in the future of our civilization. The doctors will keep us posted on your progress and time permitting, we’ll check in on you later this week.”
They never did check on me. Time rarely permitted where my parents were concerned. My doctors assured me that my parents were intimately involved in my medical decisions. I’m sure they considered it a medical necessity to keep me alive, lest their political aspirations suffer.
My father gave me crystal clear instructions about the girl, none of which involved speaking to her, but I choose to selectively ignore the mandate to keep my distance. A pretty girl does not necessarily a suitable match make, and if she’s at all deficient on the personality front, I’ll happily let the medically sanctioned boy pursue her. I’m determined to undermine my father and manipulate the situation to my benefit, if only in some small way. Plus, the beauty has the whole damsel in distress thing going on and as a frequent victim myself, I can’t keep from offering her the compassion I was never afforded in my youth.
“Hey, I’m Ethan. You look kind of bummed. Can I help?”
CHAPTER THREE
Blake
“She’s the one.” The words and her face ripple through my head. My life, and the life of my family, depends on some shallow cheerleader who isn’t even interested in the program. She refuses to ditch her senior year because she’s in love with a boneheaded jock whose future is sure to be closely tied to AA meeting schedules. Why am I worrying? They’ll never persuade her to go. Thank goodness for that, because the chick hates me just like everyone else. After all, I almost ran her over with my skateboard this morning in my hurry to get to the Test and I don’t think I even apologized, not out loud anyway.
Why am I so nervous anyway? I’ve been preparing for this forever and with my dad’s connections I’m a shoo-in. It’s not the Test, but the pressure of what’s coming and that I have to go back. My dad’s words haunt me, “We’re counting on you, son. All of us are counting on you.” Getting in isn’t the hard part anyway. Getting what they need and back out alive, that’s another story.
Kira Donovan. As much as I can’t stand Kira on paper, I have to admit that I loved watching Miss Goodie Two-Shoes go off on Ted Rosenberg. I mean wow—she told him she didn’t give a crap about his Test in front of everyone. Classic. Maybe she does have it in her. Man though, I wish I
I vividly recall waking up post surgery number 9 at the age of eight to the rare sight of my parents and an all too familiar heavily sanitized hospital smell. My dad flanked my left and appeared to be frazzled with worry. My mother sat on the edge to my right, looking weary, with dark smudges detracting from her typically bright green eyes.
“Ethan, it’s about time,” my father said, tapping on his watch. “You took 37 minutes longer than anticipated to come out of the anesthesia.” I felt guilty for causing them such consternation. They’d surely been stressed that I wouldn’t wake up at all.
“I…I…I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper. “It hurts,” I said, referring to the incision in my chest. Dozens of tubes protruded from my frail body and machines whirred in the background.
“That’s what pain killers are for, Ethan,” he said, rising and rounding the end of my bed to grab my mother’s hand. “You’ve made us late for a Council meeting. We expect you to follow every order from the doctors and nurses and recover in a more timely fashion than your waking,” as if I’d had control over either.
“Dr. Christo’s the very best,” my mother said, patting me on my arm before standing. “We are investing in you. You are important. If we can just get past these little medical hiccups, you’ll be a major player in the future of our civilization. The doctors will keep us posted on your progress and time permitting, we’ll check in on you later this week.”
They never did check on me. Time rarely permitted where my parents were concerned. My doctors assured me that my parents were intimately involved in my medical decisions. I’m sure they considered it a medical necessity to keep me alive, lest their political aspirations suffer.
My father gave me crystal clear instructions about the girl, none of which involved speaking to her, but I choose to selectively ignore the mandate to keep my distance. A pretty girl does not necessarily a suitable match make, and if she’s at all deficient on the personality front, I’ll happily let the medically sanctioned boy pursue her. I’m determined to undermine my father and manipulate the situation to my benefit, if only in some small way. Plus, the beauty has the whole damsel in distress thing going on and as a frequent victim myself, I can’t keep from offering her the compassion I was never afforded in my youth.
“Hey, I’m Ethan. You look kind of bummed. Can I help?”
CHAPTER THREE
Blake
“She’s the one.” The words and her face ripple through my head. My life, and the life of my family, depends on some shallow cheerleader who isn’t even interested in the program. She refuses to ditch her senior year because she’s in love with a boneheaded jock whose future is sure to be closely tied to AA meeting schedules. Why am I worrying? They’ll never persuade her to go. Thank goodness for that, because the chick hates me just like everyone else. After all, I almost ran her over with my skateboard this morning in my hurry to get to the Test and I don’t think I even apologized, not out loud anyway.
Why am I so nervous anyway? I’ve been preparing for this forever and with my dad’s connections I’m a shoo-in. It’s not the Test, but the pressure of what’s coming and that I have to go back. My dad’s words haunt me, “We’re counting on you, son. All of us are counting on you.” Getting in isn’t the hard part anyway. Getting what they need and back out alive, that’s another story.
Kira Donovan. As much as I can’t stand Kira on paper, I have to admit that I loved watching Miss Goodie Two-Shoes go off on Ted Rosenberg. I mean wow—she told him she didn’t give a crap about his Test in front of everyone. Classic. Maybe she does have it in her. Man though, I wish I
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