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Chapter Twenty-Four

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Chapter Five

Chapter Five

I take back what I said about the fluorescent light in grocery stores being the worst, because clearly the worst-lig hting award goes to the doctor’s office. At least in grocery stores you might find yourself surrounded by colorful flowers or freshly baked bread; in doctors’ offices, it’s nothing but the smell of alcohol burning your nose, nausea clawing at your stomach while you wait, wait, wait for it to be your turn and then wait, wait, wait to be seen.

I like Dr. Delgado. I do. But I don’t like the uncertain feeling that washes over me every time we’re discussing the dizzying array of symptoms I’ve been experiencing. And there are a lot. I wrote them down on the car ride over.

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Whit’s Excessively Annoying PCOS Symptoms

1. Excessive facial hair growth (Beard?! Is that normal?).

2. Excessive hair loss (And how can both #1 and #2 be true???).

3. Still gaining weight.

4. No period in sight (not that I’m complaining, but, you know).

5. So, so, so tired.

It’s just five things, but they’re five big things, at least to me.

In the waiting room, I show the list to Abuela so she can take a second look. She digs out her reading classes, perching them on the tip of her nose and holding the notebook out to read it.

“Bien,” she says. “Pero, you should add mood swings.”

“Abuela!” I hiss.

“See? Another mood swing.” She breaks into a smile, and I roll my eyes. “Better to ask, no?”

I take the notebook from her with a sigh. “Fine.”

6. Mood swings (according to my abuela).

The list only keeps my mind occupied for so long and then I can’t stop fidgeting as we wait to be called in. I think of all the classes and assignments I’m missing to be here, and the fact that El Coquí is closed for the morning, meaning we could be missing out on money we need, and for what? I know Dr. Delgado is doing her best, and I don’t mean to be so skeptical, but the idea of only being able to treat my illness one symptom at a time for eternity makes me bone-ti red.

Abuela squeezes my knee and assures me everything will be fine, reminding me to breathe. But my leg doesn’t stop bouncing up and down until we’re in the office with all my vitals done and there’s a soft knock at the door.

I clear my throat. “Come in.”

Dr. Delgado’s small frame emerges from behind the heavy door. Today, she’s got her tightly coiled hair tied up in a gold-and- ora nge silk scarf. Peeking out from beneath her white coat is a black sheath dress, and she has yellow heels.

She smiles at me and then Abuela. “Whitney. Paola. How are you?”

“Good,” Abuela answers.

“Okay,” I say.

Dr. Delgado meets my eyes. “But could be better, right?” At this, I nod. “So, what brings you in today?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” I say, heaving a sigh.

“How’s the metformin working?”

“I guess that’s been helping. I’m not sure. I don’t feel much different and sometimes it makes me feel sick if I eat carbs.”

She makes a face. “Unfortunately, that can happen.” She makes a note in her iPad. “Okay, what else?”

“Well, recently, all these other symptoms have been popping up and it’s been taking a really big toll on me.” I glance down at my notebook, splayed open in my lap, and turn it around so she can read it. “I made a list.”

She gingerly takes it from me, nodding as her eyes scan the page. “Some list, isn’t it?”

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“No, no. I don’t mean it like that. You should always, always feel comfortable sharing what’s going on,” she clarifies. “What I mean is: Wow, this is a lot for a seventeen-yea r- old to be dealing with, and look at you. Not only are you wise enough to be tracking all of this— pay ing careful attention to how you feel, just like we talked about— but I i magine you’ve also been managing everything else seventeen-yea r- olds need to manage, too. Yet you’re here. You’re saying your body needs help. And you’re taking all the right steps to make that happen. That, in itself, is an accomplishment.”

These words, combined with her reassuring tone and the gentle lull of her Dominican accent, make my face crumble. The tears come before I can stop them. “Thank you. It’s been a lot,” I admit, sniffling.

Abuela comes to my side and puts one hand over mine, rubbing my back with the other. “That’s my Whitney. Always leaving me awestruck with how strong she is.”

I give her a small smile, gently squeezing her fingers with mine.

“We are going to figure this out, Whitney,” Dr. Delgado says. “I promise you that much.”

I leave the doctor’s office with a few things: a virtual appointment with a psychiatrist to discuss anxiety medication; an appointment for a sleep study to help with the drowsiness; and the satisfying validation of Dr. Delgado telling Abuela that while mood swings can be a symptom of PCOS, they’re also symptoms of being human, so we’ll revisit that one at a later date.

But it’s still overwhelming.

In the car, Abuela rolls down the windows so we can enjoy some of the sunshine. She even makes a pit stop to get me a PSL. I sip and lean back in my seat and let her take the lead in picking up prescriptions, calling doctors from the pharmacy parking lot, and making decisions, while I just sit quietly. I feel numb and slightly beat up, despite the appointment going about as well as I could’ve hoped.

While Abuela is inside the pharmacy, I get a text from Marisol. Marisol: The stupid dentist made you miss Noah’s proposal! It was PERFECT.

Guilt aga in— this time at my white lie that I was going to the dentist.

A video follows Marisol’s text. In the thumbnail, I can see that Noah is wearing a Mona Lisa T- shir t, holding up a sign that reads I LOUVRE YOU, SOPHIE. FALL FEST?

Okay. That’s pretty adorable. Good job, Noah. Yet with Aiden out of the picture, and no homecoming date prospects for me, I can’t bring myself to watch the video in full. It’s not fair, but it is what it is. I scrub through it so I get the basic gist, feeling at once genuinely happy for my friend and genuinely kinda sad for myself.

Me: OH MY GOD KJSFHHJKSDJKS SOPH!!!!! This is SO CUTE. CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!! So so happy for you! And so sad I missed it! Can’t wait to hear everything

Sophie writes back a long string of heart emojis and I smile.

This is what Sophie deserves, and what Fall Fest and my dedication to it are all about. Even if it’s looking like I won’t get my own special night, I want it so badly for everyone else, especially those I love most.

Finally, we get to Elmwood. But when I reach for my backpack, Abuela stops me.

“Stay here,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t even protest as she leaves the car running and strides up toward the building.

By now, it’s lunchtime, and I see my classmates milling about: some of the seniors head to their cars to grab lunch off campus, some take a vape break (not technically allowed, but it happens, obviously). They’re all trying to soak up the late- September weather while they can. We have little more than a month until fall shrivels up and turns cold, so we all spend as much time as we can outside before we’re forced to shelter indoors.

“Whit?” a deep, familiar voice calls. I look to where the sound came from and smile when I see Isaiah standing idly on his skateboard. His locs are tied back and he’s wearing that bomber jacket I think makes him look extra cute. He breaks into a smile. “Thought that was you.”

“It’s me,” I say. “Hi.”

With his foot, Isaiah gives a strong kick and skates over to the car so he’s just outside the passenger door. He hops off the board and leans down so he’s right at my eye level, and I get the faintest scent of cologne and firewood. It sends a small pang into my chest as I realize I’ve missed talking to him. It’s only been a few days, and yet . . .

“Hi,” he says, still smiling. “I’ve been looking for you. You hiding?”

“Not hiding. Just feeling a little under the weather,” I say, even though I have kind of been avoiding him, too. After Destiny, I just can’t.

His brows knit together in concern. “Oh, no. What’s wrong?”

“Just a migraine,” I lie. “I’ll be fine.”

“So, are you heading home, then?”

I nod. “Yeah. At least I think so. My abuela just ran inside and didn’t tell me why.”

“Well, it’s good you go home and rest if you’re not feeling well.” His eyes search my face for a moment, like he’s considering saying something else. “I’ve been worried about you, you know? After you canceled the other day and then there were no additional notes in our Fall Fest Google spreadsheet . . . I don’t know. I thought you’d been abducted by aliens.”

This makes me laugh a little. “Aliens, huh?”

He laughs, too. “It seemed like the most logical thing, honestly. I feel like nothing else would stop you planning. But I guess not feeling well makes sense, too.”

“Isaiah!” a voice chirps from a distance. We both look over to see Destiny motioning to him. “You coming?”

He waves at her. “Meet you there.” Then he turns to me. “I hope you feel better. Will you be at the committee meeting tomorrow, you think?”

“Probably. If this migraine goes away.”

“Okay. Good. I hope it does.”

We look at each other for a second, and I see that Destiny hasn’t moved from where she was standing, waiting for Isaiah. “You should go, though. Destiny awaits.”

He chuckles at the terrible pun and glances quickly at her, then back to me. “That’s one way of putting it. All right. Well. I’ll see you?”

I nod. “See you.”

Isaiah walks, rather than skates, over to where Destiny is. She links an arm with his. I hear her say, “Finally!” and I slink lower into my seat. Seeing Isaiah felt so good, but with every breath I remind myself he’s spoken for, so no matter how good the firewood and cologne smell, I need to let it go.

In the side mirror, I see Abuela making her way back to the car with Lily in tow.

“What’s going on?” I ask as they both get in the car.

“Girls’ day!” Lily sings, plopping in the backseat.

“But the tailor shop,” I say.

“Pah. That can wait.” Abuela waves a hand. “So, where should we go?”

“Midday movie?” Lily suggests.

Abuela waggles her eyebrows. “Ooh, the new Pedro Pascal one just came out! What do you think, mija? Should we go see my soon-to -be husband on the big screen?”

A movie where I’m not the fifth wheel sounds nice, and I can’t be mad at two and a half hours ogling Pedro Pascal. I grin at Abuela. “Let’s do it.”

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