Page 3 of That Pucking New Girl

NOOR

“Miss Martin, why are we still doing this?” I ask tiredly, feeling like shit today.

I’m living in a medical group home until I age out in a few months. While my health has gotten better as I get older, I still have days where I feel exhausted and can’t stop wheezing with even small tasks. I just got home from school, where the teacher forced me to run during physical education. It’s warm in Southern California, and I puked after the run while everyone else seemed fine.

I hate the looks I get at school as a senior. My eyes are too big, I’m lethargic all day, and the gossip mill runs wild with theories because having ‘Pots and Pans’ isn’t a real diagnosis.

I fucking can’t wait to age out and quit school. I’ll get my GED and call it a day. It’s a piece of paper that’s as good as a high school diploma. It also won’t consistently attempt to make my life miserable.

I’m too damn old for a foster family or adoption at this point. It doesn’t make any sense to me.

“Noor, you know you’re a special case,” Miss Martin says, leaning forward. “It’s going to be hard enough for you to find a job after you age out. The infusions help, but stress makes things worse.”

I have some complicated thing called postural orthostatic tachycardia. It means my body hates me, which I’ve known since I first started getting these awful symptoms. I constantly feel like I’m in a state of fight or flight. My heart beats really hard, and my blood pressure goes wild whenever I stand up. If I get too warm, I will start to feel faint and I’ll pass out.

That’s the layman’s version of what happens at least.

“I pass out less often,” I argue.

“While this is true, that’s only because of the heart monitor and infusions. What’s going to happen when you no longer have health insurance that’ll cover them, Noor?” she asks. “I’m looking out for your best interests.”

“Conning a nice family into taking a shit show like me isn't right either,” I wheeze, annoyed that she mentioned my infusions. It just serves to remind me that I’m due for one soon.

The heavy exercise at school isn’t helping, and because this is a hidden chronic illness, my school won’t accept a doctor’s note to excuse me from it. I hate public school so much.

My head throbs, telling me this day is about to get worse, and I begin to massage my temples.

“Did you take your migraine medicine?” Miss Martin asks carefully. She doesn’t want to make an uncomfortable conversation worse. I get it, I promise I do.

I hate that everything comes back to how responsible I’m being with my health.

“I took the one that’s supposed to keep them away,” I murmur. I want to sit in my closet in the darkness and silence. The last thing I want is to be having this conversation. I’m sick of having to take so much medication. “It’s not working at the moment.”

“Okay,” she says, her volume reflexively dropping to a whisper.

Her fingers flick off the light so that we’re in the darkness, and my eyes heat with moisture. I will not cry because of this small kindness.

“I think you should meet with this family,” Miss Martin continues. I swear she’s like a dog with a bone. “They want to help an older child, they have two younger kids of their own, and they seem like good people.”

“Why would they want me?” I rasp. My chest feels tight with emotion, and I force myself to take a deep breath, even though it doesn’t help. It’s never enough.

“We’ve all been talking about you here, and your situation,” she explains. “It’s not right for you to go out unprepared. I know you have a front desk job on the weekends, but I want more for you.”

Neither of us is going to discuss how depressed and anxious I often get. I can never get ahead of my symptoms, and a few good days feel like such a betrayal when I know that I could crash and burn at any time.

There is only so much pain a person should be able to take before they decide enough is enough. And yet, I’m still here. Somehow.

“When am I meeting with them?” I finally ask. I’m not caving, I know there’s no way I’m going to win this argument when my head is spinning and the discomfort I’m feeling is increasing.

The vertigo is starting to settle over me like an old friend I would rather kill than ever see again. It means getting back to my room after this will suck. I hate that I have to share it with three other girls, but they also all have health issues and give me a little grace.

“Tomorrow,” my caseworker says. There are several here at the Wilder Home, but she has my case, fields my appointments, and does her best to keep me going.

“How do they know about me?” I ask, my eyes sliding closed. It feels as if my eyeballs are vibrating, and it is awful.

“The state has files of all foster kids. Those in medical housing have priority for adoption to ensure they’re more comfortable,” Miss Martin drones on.

Blah, blah. I’m imagining photos of us online begging people to adopt us. Can they do that? God, I hope not.