Extraordinary Means

I went back to my room and collapsed onto my bed, listening to the noises in the hall. The walls of my room felt so close, so claustrophobic. And so thin, like there was nothing between me and the hallway except a flimsy sheet of cardboard, and I had no privacy at all.

I was shocked that everyone could bounce back so fast, that Grant’s death had been cleared away as quickly as his belongings. All I knew was that I didn’t understand Latham, and I wondered if I ever would.

“Start as you mean to go on,” my father was fond of saying, but I certainly didn’t mean for my life at Latham to continue like this.

No, not my life. Just the next few weeks. Latham was temporary. A vacation. A place to stay while I was contagious, so my parents wouldn’t get fired, and so my mom wouldn’t panic every time I coughed.

The whole Grant thing was an anomaly. A weird twist in the fabric of the universe. But then, so was my being sick. I’d caught TB somewhere. It was random and unfair, and if I’d just taken Spanish instead of science, volunteered at the clinic on Tuesdays instead of Wednesdays, seen a different movie, taken a different seat, I’d be at home, eating pizza for di

Thinking of it like that helped. As long as I was here, the plan was not to care. To keep my head down, do my work, and get through it.

I didn’t need to play nice, or to make friends. I needed to stay on track, get better, and go home. I took a couple of deep breaths, which actually sort of hurt, put on some appropriately gloomy music, and started to unpack.

My mom had packed my suitcase for me, and even though I’d made pretty specific requests, she’d still grabbed the wrong jeans and, like, five of these polo shirts I never wear. Instead of my favorite T-shirts, I had a stack of every unwanted Hanukkah gift, my name freshly scrawled across each label for the laundry. Fantastic. I put all of it into the wardrobe, and then I stacked my Harbor coursework, my college guides, and my SAT books on my desk.

I tried to unpack slowly, so I could avoid the inevitable phone call home, but calling your parents is just one of those things you can’t put off forever.

It was seven thirty, and they were probably sitting on the sofa grading papers, with the news on in the background. I could picture my father with his herbal tea and Chapman sweatshirt, my mother in her purple slippers and reading glasses, sipping decaf, the careful way my parents used coasters, as though they were guests in someone else’s home and didn’t want to offend. They were big believers in routine, in getting things done. “When you feel like quitting, do five more,” my dad always said. Most of his catchphrases were motivational insults.

I stared dubiously at the ancient landline on my desk, knowing resistance was futile. And then I picked up the thing and dialed.

Of course my mom answered on the second ring, sounding way too concerned.

“Lane, sweetie, how are you?” she cooed. I said I was fine, and she plunged on, talking about how Dr. Barons had uploaded my new X-ray so she and dad could see it, and how she thought it looked much better than the last one, and my dad agreed.

The thought of them staring at a picture of my insides on their iPads was pretty embarrassing, and I tried not to imagine the two of them discussing it over di

There was an awkward silence, where I guessed my mom was waiting for me to say something about my doctor’s appointment, but I had no idea what.

“How was the drive back?” I asked instead, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, fine,” Mom said. “Not too much traffic.”

An uncomfortable pause again.

“Hold on, let me get your father,” my mom said. “I’ll put you on speaker.”

Then she and my dad took turns asking Concerned Questions about what I was eating, and if there were enough pillows on my bed because they could always send more, and if I was ru

“Did you ask your teachers if you can do the AP work you brought with you instead?” my dad asked.

“Um,” I said, glancing at the stack of textbooks and assignments on my desk. It was more like a tower, actually. I’d meant to ask, but I’d been so thrown by everything that I hadn’t gotten the chance.

“It doesn’t matter,” my mom said soothingly, and my dad cleared his throat like he disagreed. “I mean it, sweetheart. I don’t want you to tire yourself out.”

“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” I said. “I’ll ask them tomorrow.”

Then my dad told me to “Hang in there, bud,” and I said, “You too,” which was completely the wrong thing. But too late. There was an awkward chorus of “I love yous,” and, thankfully, it was over.

I felt entirely removed from my old life in that moment, a million miles from the band posters on my walls, and from Loki, my black Lab, and from everything that had defined me for so long. My parents never used to worry how I was sleeping, or if I wanted more pillows. They never used to tell me not to tire myself out back when I was pulling all-nighters over my physics exams. They’d just ask if I felt prepared, and then, after I got my grade, they’d ask what I could do to improve my score on the next one.

I was used to my parents. To our cadence, and our lives. I just hadn’t realized quite how much my getting sick would turn us into strangers, our usually predictable conversations becoming distant and unfamiliar.

I picked up the phone one more time and called Ha

“Hello?” she said tentatively.

“Congratulations, you’ve won a romantic trip for three to Sea World.” I tried to disguise my voice.

“Lane?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said. “Sorry about the weird number.”

“It’s fine, although I’m devastated I won’t be taking my two favorite lovers to Sea World.”

“Wait, you have more than two?”

“You don’t know me.” Ha

It felt so good to talk to her, to joke about things that didn’t matter. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, for a moment letting myself pretend that I was somewhere, anywhere else.

“So what’s going on in the Harborverse?” I asked.

“Oh God, everything.”

Ha

“If I fail, like, one quiz and then do perfectly on the rest I’d still get, like, ninety percent. It’s precarious. I’m going to stress eat an entire pizza over this every Thursday night, I can just tell.”

“You’ll do fine,” I said.

“Maybe.” She sighed. “Except it’s on a curve, and everyone’s fighting for second now that . . .”

She trailed off, embarrassed.

“Now that I’m out of the picture?” I supplied.

Ha

“I’m coming back, you know,” I said.

“I know,” Ha

We lapsed into silence for a moment. I wasn’t used to talking on the phone. Not with Ha

“How is it there?” Ha

“Fine.”

“And you’re feeling okay?” She said it in this mom-ish voice, and I shut my eyes a moment, as though that would erase it.