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Halo 2.

      Okay, so he still had a few years to go before he was really eligible. And if he didn’t have those sapphire blue eyes, I wouldn’t have noticed him in the first place, either. But FDR’s spring dance was coming up in a few weeks and I’d invested too much time in Jason to find someone else now.

      The funny part was that I didn’t really want to go to the dance at all. Not many of us did. In fact, nobody ever, like, actually danced. The dance was like so retro and we were way too cool. I mean, what’d we do to deserve this? But if nobody asked me, I wouldn’t have a chance to say no. It would be more like the dance was rejecting me. Plus, it seemed like most of the other girls already had dates.

      “I tell you,” I told Jasmine, “if Jason doesn’t mature soon, I’m gonna have to ask Ken.”

      “Forget the Karate Kid. He says he’s not goin’.” “Even better.”

      Jasmine was about to respond when my right leg, the one I couldn’t move, suddenly twitched. At first, I was like, “Now what?” Then a minute later, my leg was back to normal. I mean one hundred percent completely normal, like nothing had ever happened.

      First thing, I stood up and walked around the room. In fact, I was practically skipping when Nurse Cole bustled through the door. That was another thing about Nurse Cole. She was a great bustler. Even when she had nothing to do, she was straightening up or checking her supplies. Still, this time she stopped in her tracks, mouth open.

      “What happened?”

      “I got better.” To prove my point, I launched into a jumping jack. Pretty impressive, right? “I’m ready to go home.”

      One look into Nurse Cole’s beady little eyes put that hope to rest. I wasn’t going anywhere. Stupid school rules. It was nothing, a muscle spasm, at most. Even pro athletes got them from pushing too hard.

      That’s what I told myself anyway. All I said to Nurse Cole was, “Can I at least go to my locker and change? I haven’t even taken a shower.” This was true—my hair was a sweaty, sticky mess—and I wrestled with my tangled scrunchie as Nurse Cole shook her head.

      “I’ve spoken to Principal Tuttleman,” she announced as though she’d just had an audience with the Pope. Or maybe the Wizard of Oz. “You’re to remain here until your mother arrives to take you home.”

      Nurse Cole pulled herself up to her full height, which was all of about five feet, and squeezed her jaw shut. I had to halfway beg her to let Jasmine get my clothes so I could change in the office. Then I got to sit for the next hour and a half before my mom arrived.

      During that time, I was caught somewhere between thrilled beyond belief that my leg was fine, hoping really hard that it would stay that way, and worried about what would happen when my mom realized that we dragged her down here for nothing. But mostly I was bored. Even the novelty of swinging both my legs out from under my chair was beginning to wear thin after awhile. I couldn’t wait for Mom to get here soon and spring me loose. Otherwise, I was considering making a run for it, now that I was able to.

      My friends have a nickname for my mom, Abigail Moore-Bergamo. They call her Type A. That’s because she’s always running around organizing every little aspect of her life. In her work, that’s a pretty good thing. I’ve seen her in action on take-your-kid-to-work day. In a courtroom, she generally gets what she wants, with juries and judges alike— not to mention at home. Forceful is the best description. Whatever Abigail needs or desires, Abigail gets. According to my grandmother, she was always like that.

      So, like, naturally, when Mom arrived, she started right in on Nurse Cole. I swear, it was like the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. While Mom hit her with question after question, Nurse Cole folded her arms across her chest and tightened her thin little mouth until it almost disappeared. All the while, I was hopping around the room like the Easter Bunny. Hey, check me out, I’m a hundred percent recovered. Take a look, please.

      But nobody was paying any attention to me. Jasmine had left (although I wished she could have witnessed this), and my mom and Nurse Cole were locked in mortal combat.

      “I’m not a physician, Mrs. Bergamo…”

      “Moore-Bergamo,” Mom automatically corrected. Nurse Cole’s smile was as cold as ice. “I’m not a physician, Mrs. Moore-Bergamo, but I can tell you this: loss of function in a limb can be a serious symptom. Maddie must see a doctor and I cannot allow her to return to school, much less engage in sports, without a physician’s note pronouncing her fit.”

      Mom tried to get Nurse Cole to name a few of those causes—and I was kind of curious, too—but like I said, Nurse Cole was playing the part of immovable object. She wasn’t a doctor and she wasn’t about to diagnose an unknown disorder and if Mom didn’t like it, maybe she could try home schooling. I was sitting there silently like, what’s there to argue about? It was weird; it happened once. Let’s build a bridge and get over it, people.

      Mom stood her ground for a few minutes longer, then caved in.

      And I mean, what choice did she have? At Franklin D. Roosevelt Middle School, when it came to matters of health, Nurse Cole’s word was law.

      Chapter 2

      The Journey Begins

      MOM WAS ON the phone the minute we walked through the door. She was calling Dr. Martin, my pediatrician (yes, I was still seeing a pediatrician—talk about mortifying) to arrange an appointment. The office was closed, naturally, and she got his answering service. I didn’t listen to the conversation, but I’m pretty certain she used her I’m-a-lawyer-and-don’t-mess-with-me line, because she always did. Unfortunately, the attack failed, just like with Nurse Cole. My mom was told to take me to the emergency room if I needed immediate care. Otherwise, she could phone Dr. Martin in the morning.

      While this was going on, I was in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. Talk about feeling guilty. I mean, puh-leeeze. Emergency care? A one-time sports injury was hardly an emergency, and I liked to think that I was beyond needing care. Daycare, childcare, even caring much about the dance—all in the past.

      Independence was my thing. I took care of myself. Not that I was a drudge; I didn’t mop the floor or clean the bathroom. We had a housekeeper who came in twice a week, on Monday and Thursday. But I did make my bed, and pick up after myself, and do the occasional laundry. Now my mom would have to take a day off; maybe more than one. I mean, who knew where this was going? And all this drama over something that had already magically healed itself! If only my leg could write a medical note.

      After she gave up on bullying the answering service, Mom ordered up a thin-crust pizza and a Greek salad and we sat down to a mostly silent dinner. I could see that she was more worried than she let on, but there wasn’t much I could do about it besides assuring her that I was fine and suggesting that I go to the doctor alone, or that we make an evening appointment. I wanted to get this ordeal over with as soon as possible and get back to normal, like my leg had already decided to do. Mom wasn’t listening, though. It seemed that Nurse Cole’s nervousness was infectious.

      “Don’t worry,” she told me over nibbles of mushroom pizza. “Come tomorrow morning, I’ll get us an early appointment. I promise you.”

      I wasn’t worried. But the more the adults acted serious and strange, the more worried I was becoming.

      I went up to my room after dinner and sent a collective text message to the Mag-7s, just in case they hadn’t heard from Jasmine. The responses poured in—mostly questions I didn’t have answers for. After texting back a series of “IDK” (“I don’t know”), I suddenly discovered that my “attack” was something I didn’t want to talk about. It’s like when I’m on the basketball court and I’m knocking down shot after shot. You don’t want to

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