Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Josie
Twenty minutes after I’ve stormed out of SynthoTech, I’m still all worked up, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing that’s keeping me from flying off the handle.
Fucking Axe MacKenzie. I swear to God, I’m allergic to that man.
My phone rings, and I see Mom’s name pop up.
I answer even though I’m driving and I don’t really feel like chatting.
But she’ll take my mind, and other blushing body parts, off Axe.
“I hope I’m not overstepping your boundaries,” she starts, which is basically her calling card for I’m definitely about to overstep your boundaries. Same energy as I hope you don’t mind my saying and I’m your mother, so I know. “Josie, are you listening to me?”
“I’m here, Mom.” I try to keep my sigh from becoming a groan, and my foot presses a little harder on the gas. Like going faster might let me outrun this conversation.
“So, since you weren’t handling it, I went ahead and posted to your socials—and yes, I know we had an agreement, sweetie pie.
But, Josie, this is for Alan and me, too.
We’re really trying to help you get back on your feet.
And you know the medication costs are outrageous.
I could show you the stack of bills, all the extra expenses insurance refuses to cover.
We were counting on renting out that apartment unit this spring, and since we’re not—”
“Shit, okay. I get it,” I snap.
I’m now stuck behind a bus coughing exhaust into my AC. My hands are sweaty on the steering wheel as annoyance sweeps through me.
Silence.
Mom hates any kind of “rough language” from me. At some point, my JosieFightsOn personality—the sunshine-and-sunflowers daughter I needed to be for donations and crowdsourcing—seemed to merge, in Mom’s head at least, with the real me. Anything outside the margins upsets her.
She’d be literally gobsmacked if she saw how I popped off on Axe.
Come to think of it, I am, too.
To be fair to Mom, even I can’t always tell where JosieFightsOn ends and the real Josie begins. You tell a story about who you are long enough, and it starts to feel like the truth.
“It’s no big deal, Josie. And don’t use profanity with me,” she snaps, all frosty. Because obviously the issue here is my use of the word shit. Not the fact that she steamrolls over my personal boundaries.
“Dammit!” I yell, but this time my cursing is not actually aimed at my mom.
My car just made a noise. A clunking noise. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Josie! What’s wrong?” Of course she goes straight to panic.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. A small car thing. We’ll talk later.”
I pull the car to the shoulder and get out.
Yup. Flat tire. Looking as deflated as I feel.
There’s no spare in my trunk—Gertrude, my car, is currently being held together with duct tape and optimism.
I also don’t have AAA, because I’m twenty-six years old, live with my parents, and can barely afford a microwave burrito let alone roadside assistance.
And right on cue—just like my tarot reading warned me—this day takes another turn for the worse. I’m pulling out my phone, debating who to call, when I feel the first raindrop hit my face.
“You have GOT to be kidding me,” I mutter to absolutely no one. The highway roars with passing cars, and then, of course, the heavens open up like I’ve been personally chosen for a cosmic dunk tank.
Within seconds, I’m soaked.
Perfect. Just perfect. Nothing like a surprise rain shower to top off a total shit show of a day. Right now, I’m about as far from JosieFightsOn as I can get.
I feel the rage bubbling up. Rage at Bryan, at Axe, at the universe that decided to swipe my childhood and leave me with debt I can never pay back. Rage at my mom for never getting how humiliating and wrong it is to have your life turned into a crowdfunding campaign.
And then a memory hits me like another sudden storm, but this one’s from deep inside, dark and heavy: I’m a kid in a hospital bed, tubes running into my arms. I can’t move, can’t even turn my head without feeling like razor blades are scraping against my spine and the base of my skull.
I’m boiling with anger at the unfairness of it all, at the people who put me here.
At the body that betrayed me. At myself, most of all, for not being strong enough to crawl out of that bed and rip the tubes out.
I’ll never forget this. I’ll never forgive it.
Just as quickly as the rage floods in, it drains away as I give myself a shake and reset.
Who can I call for help? Definitely not my parents—I’m not ready for round two with Mom.
So…who, then? Honor, maybe? She had to borrow my car for months before Strike gifted her that shiny new Audi convertible for her birthday.
If anyone gets it, it’s her.
I shoot a text to Honor, and she promises to call a tow truck and swing by to get me ASAP.
I climb back into Gertrude, soaked to the bone and shivering like a wet dog.
I sit there, staring at my phone, debating whether I’m brave enough to check my socials.
It can’t be that bad, right? Besides, this day—no, this week—can’t get any worse.
I’ve already sent out 130 emails canceling my wedding.
Surely I can handle a quick scroll through Instagram.
I take a cleansing breath, make a wish even though it’s not anywhere close to 11:11 and I have no loose eyelashes, and click.
Oh no. No. No. No. No. No. I feel nauseous.
The post from my account is sugary and begging—a straight-up cash grab—and my mom’s imitation of my voice makes me sound like I’m fifteen years old.
Heya Everybody!
It’s me again, your one and only lil Josie!
Some of you know me from my childhood battle with my leukemia (thanks for helping me kick cancer’s butt!), and others know me from my challenges living with type 1 diabetes since I was eleven years old.
Managing the cost of my special U-500 insulin has always been super-duper challenging, since I need to get it imported from Frankfurt, Germany, and lately the prices have, sigh, skyrocketed.
Even though I’m working a full-time job (shout-out to Grace & Honor, visit our web page, where my bedazzled phone cases are 40% off), and I’ve cut back on every non-essential cost I can think of (I even took a break this semester from school!), I go to bed every night completely freaked out that I will not be able to afford my next dose.
Guys, insulin is my lifeline—and that’s why I am launching this GoFundMe campaign.
My goal is to raise enough funds to cover six months’ worth of medication, including shipping and storage costs. Every contribution makes a humongous difference and is a major impact in terms of my ability to live my life.
But if you can’t make a donation today, please feel free to share my story. It totally sucks to have to choose between finances and health, and I appreciate every last penny you can spare.
Thank you soooo much!!
I love you all times a million.
XO Josie
The photo is of me from about nine years ago, standing in Powerpuff pajama bottoms and a Shelton Softball T-shirt without a bra.
You can see the bumps of my new breasts and the shadows of my nipples.
The ickiest part of all is that I’m holding Bun-Bun, my plushie rabbit, when I’m clearly too old to be clutching a stuffed animal.
Of course Mom said school instead of college. She wants me to sound like a child! What manipulative bullshit.
My cheeks burn and tears sting my eyes. I can’t sit here and look at this—the humiliation actually feels physical—so I jump out of the car again, right into the pouring rain.
I imagine my mother’s face when I get home—that very specific, shiny-eyed high as she listens to the ka-ching cash register sounds as the donations for her latest fundraiser hit her phone.
I feel so trapped. Nothing in that post is technically a lie. And yet.
I look up to the dark sky, to the universe beyond, and plead for some guidance. Just one sign. The universe, of course, doesn’t answer.
As much as Axe thinks I’m a dimwit, I’m not usually the type of person who is desperate enough to yell up at the heavens.
And then I see it, and I can’t help myself. I start laughing, then crying, then laugh-crying so hard that my tears mix with the rain.
There it is—a giant billboard, not two hundred feet away.
A literal fucking sign that reads: Take the Exit to a New You.
It’s an ad for a plastic surgeon, but it might as well be mocking me straight to my face. I’m right back to an hour ago, on Axe’s rooftop, when he let slip the three magic words: premium health insurance.
Nothing would be an easier exit to a whole new me than having my medical costs covered. What’s worse than my mom pimping out my sickly adolescent body and asking people to send her money for financial struggles she won’t even explain to me?
Premium health insurance.
Take the Exit to a New You.
My mind races, and I wonder, panicking for a second, whether my face looks just like my mom’s did when I came home.
That same frantic desperation. Because I’ll admit it—I want, no, I need cash.
My budget is so tight, I have no clue how I’ll pay for the tow truck and a new tire. I can’t even afford to get home.
Besides, what’s the difference between the “disposition” that my mom invented for me as a way to shake the money tree for my diabetes-related expenses and the “disposition” that Axe’s horny SynthoTech geeks think makes me a good choice of girlfriend for She’s the One?
I guess I’ve always been a curious mix of contradictions—how could I not be? Living under the spotlight as a child with a terminal illness, I’ve been performing my whole life.
But with Axe’s offer, I’d have an active say in the project.
Or at least I’d demand one before agreeing to anything.
That’s the difference. I could shape how the ideal girlfriend gets rolled out.
Whereas when it comes to JosieFightsOn, my mom has turned me into a Frankensteinian creation, cooked up by social media’s algorithms and a careful study of click metrics, without any consideration for who I might want to be or who I really am.
With Axe’s offer, I’d have a real shot at getting off my parents’ insurance plan.
Getting out of their house. Stopping the constant drain on their finances.
Finally, independence. My entire relationship with my family and friends—my entire life—has been dictated by my health needs. I need to take back some control.
I look up at the sky again. Wipe the rain and tears from my face with my sleeve.
A literal sign in front of me. Just the other day, I flipped a Tower card—a hint it was time to take a big swing.
I am receiving guidance, if I know how to look for it.
And yeah, the Devil card is still bugging me, but it’s possible I got that all wrong, too. Who knows? The Devil may be the anonymous dirtbags who are right now jerking off to JosieFightsOn.