Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Natalie
Tessa
He changed to 25 sophomore year.
Wait.
Are you at the game?
Natalie
It’s a long story.
Tessa
Why aren’t you sitting with meeeee.
Natalie
I’m sitting with my parents.
Tessa
Oh my god.
Where?
I’m coming.
Natalie
No. I really don’t think that’s a good idea.
Tessa
THAT’S BECAUSE IT’S A GREAT IDEA.
Do you want a soda?
Natalie
Tessa. No. I’m begging.
Tessa
This is what you get for sharing your location with me!
Diet Coke?
Never mind, forgot they have peanuts.
So did I. I’m getting hives from just touching these bleachers.
Natalie
Sharing my location with you was in case I get murdered.
Not to find me at a hockey game.
Tessa
How do I know you’re not currently being murdered?
Wait, is “I’m at a hockey game” your code word?
The cool air from the rink embraces my fingers as if an old friend is extending a welcoming hand to mine.
Despite my potential Tessa-induced demise looming, I sink into the chill of the bench beneath me and savor the nostalgic feeling that wraps itself around my shoulders like a heavy blanket.
After all the painful memories and heartbreaks on and off the ice, I was unsure how I’d feel being back at a rink. Turns out, all I feel is at home.
And still, very terrified my roommate is about to bulldoze her way into an already chaotic situation. Hopefully disabling my location took care of her. Either she’ll get the hint or turning it off will keep her from finding me in this seven-thousand-seat, packed arena.
“You think disabling your location would stop me? Too late, bitch.” An ominous voice cuts through the arena’s usual sounds of chatter, clanging bleachers, and pucks.
A large figure looms over me, giving off serious serial killer vibes with her diabolical grin.
“Cheese and rice, Tess.” I jump, my heart pounding, and look up at my roommate.
Tess always nails the balance between effortlessly trendy and cozy, and today is no exception.
Her long platinum blonde hair cascades in loose waves around her face.
Glitter star freckles in our team colors—green and black—sparkle on her cheeks.
Her oversized hockey sweater extends to her knees, revealing black fleece leggings and forest green ankle boots.
Because of course she has ankle boots in our school color.
She looks the part of a girlfriend even though she isn’t (not saying half the team hasn’t tried, though).
Meanwhile, I’m in jeans and a sweatshirt that says “Pine Valley Gymnastics” because that’s the only school spirit-adjacent item I own.
I squirm on the bench. There’s no way my mom is going to buy this story for much longer; it’s so shoddily put together I might as well be the pig who built his house out of hay.
My mom glances over at Tessa with a wide smile. “Roommate Tess! Oh hi!”
“Mrs. D’Amore, Mr. D’Amore, so nice to finally meet you in person.” My roommate extends her hand with a grace that would make her seasoned political New York family proud.
My mom pulls Tess in for a full-body hug over my lap. “This is the nicest surprise! We were so bummed that we were going to miss out on the chance to see you when Natalie said you had plans tonight and were going to be leaving early in the morning!”
“Me too! Imagine my shock when I learned Natalie was at a hockey game!”
Confusion replaces my mom’s general elation as she looks down at me. “You don’t normally come to the games, darling?”
“No, I uh—I mean. I do. Normally come to the games to see my boyfriend,” I glare at Tessa like don’t you dare laugh. “Cole play. It’s just…”
“Unusual for me to see her.” Tessa adds, helpfully.
“She’s usually down by the ice with the other girlfriends, like the doting partner she is to Cole Sinclair, and I, a lowly college student fan, am left to cheer on my team in the student section.
” She puts her hand on her heart as if she’s been wounded.
My mom peers down a section below us near the glass to a row of perfectly coifed and curled hair and bedazzled hockey-ware. “You mean she usually sits near the glass? Darling, we wouldn’t want to mess up Cole’s rhythm. You should go join your friends.”
Oh, we probably already messed everything up for him today.
“I wanted to sit with you and Dad; it’s fine. He’s not superstitious.”
Do I know that as a fact? No, but I imagine someone as arrogant as Cole would be arrogant enough to believe he doesn’t need lucky socks or other pre-game rituals to have a good game. If he has a good game, he’ll think it’s because he’s the best.
“What number is he again?” My dad asks as we watch the two teams stretch on the ice.
“Twenty-five. He used to be eleven, but he switched it sophomore year,” I say, like I didn’t just learn this fact two minutes ago.
A dreamy look comes over my mom. “Oh, he changed it to your birthday. How sweet.”
“It is her birthday, isn’t it?” Tessa stares at me, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Because he’s your boyfriend. Cole Sinclair is your boyfriend.”
I pinch the inside of her calf and mouth “shut up.” Obviously, there’s no correlation between his number change and my birthday, because why would there be? But at least that little detail supports our story.
“And boy, Mrs. D’Amore, you should see these two. They’re so cute.” Tess leans conspiratorially over me to continue this conversation with my mother as the warm-up music pumps up in volume. “So in love.”
My mom gently rests a hand on Tess’s. “Oh, I know. The two had me swooning all through lunch.”
“I could move so you two can sit together and continue to chat about me like I’m not here,” I say, leaning so far back on the bleachers I’m worried I’m about to fall off.
“I have to prevent myself from squealing all. the. time.” Tessa says, continuing to ignore me, a menacing grin still spread wide across her face. “Especially when they pretend to bicker. It’s like kiss already, we know you love each other.”
“Why aren’t you wearing your sweater, dear?” My mom asks, gesturing to the girls below us clad in their various custom sweaters. “With his number, like the rest of the girls.”
“Yes. Did you forget it, Natalie? You know how important that is to our dear Colie.” Tess leans further, so she’s practically horizontal across my lap at this point. “It’s what she calls him. So adorable.”
When we return to campus Tessa is going to find the modern, less murdery equivalent of a horse head in her bed.
Maybe like a My Little Pony head.
No no. Still too gruesome. It’s not Sparkleprance Princess Cupcake’s fault that my roommate is a traitor. Maybe #3 Ticonderoga pencils on her pillow. Because Benedict Arnold was stationed at Fort Ticonderoga before he became a traitor.
Subtle. Convoluted. And she can’t use the pencils for an exam after so annoying, too. It’s perfect.
“I…bled on it,” I blurt. “The sweater, I mean. I haven’t had time to deal with the stains because of finals.” Yes. That’s a good excuse, Natalie.
Finals. Stress. The uterus from hell.
Would I like this story to be totally unbelievable in my life? Yes. But unfortunately, it’s very, extremely believable.
My mom buys my excuse because of course she does. She’s never once questioned anything to do with my symptoms, and when doctors tried to gaslight me she was quick to mama bear the situation and tell them they weren’t to question my symptoms either.
Endometriosis and adenomyosis run in our family. It’s why, as motherly as she is in certain ways, I’m an only child. It’s also why I was diagnosed and treated at an earlier than typical age. Which I am profoundly grateful for.
My chronic illnesses are still awful, don’t get me wrong, but I’m lucky to have such a great support system.
I’ve seen too many social media posts from other people in the chronic illness community who are alone, doubted, and still searching for a diagnosis to take my family for granted.
There are so many parts of this journey that people can help make better just by being there.
I can’t imagine how much harder it’d be in solitude.
Which is also why I’m a tremendous traitor for lying to my mom like this.
Lying to her about everything.
Concern overrides my mother’s elated gossiping as she settles back on the bench.
“Tomorrow before we leave, let’s go to the shop and I’ll buy you another so you can have a spare.
” My mom pats my leg and the “I’m the worst” pang in the pit of my stomach grows.
“Maybe see Dr. Chinai while you’re home, too.
We should have her check your iron levels.
You’ve looked pale all day, and we don’t want it getting to infusion levels again. ”
I’ve looked pale all day because I’ve been terrified for most of it. Unable to offer that explanation, though, I nod and stand with the rest of the crowd for the anthem, guilt torturing me and my poor nerves. I can’t keep this lie going forever.