A shy high school senior jock and a closed-off girl battling an immune disorder fake a relationship to win a social media contest.
Being shy isn't easy, especially when you're the new kid at school. Scotts Valley's football program is subpar compare...
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"I'm sorry, Paige."
Despite Dr. Katz's gentle voice, his subsequent words didn't matter. His look screamed enough volume. He flashed the same crinkled eyes and overly kind smile during every appointment. The genuine concern in his voice wasn't enough to dull the knife his words stabbed into my gut.
"Your condition is progressing."
I didn't need a doctor's diagnosis, in particular my family's trusted rheumatologist, to see the evidence my body presented. Shit, I didn't need a visual inspection. The army of invisible insects burrowing under every part of my body that skin touched was sufficient.
"Creepy crawlies" was my best explanation for my condition or more infliction. The first description I ever provided to a doctor was the most applicable. I cupped my elbows and ground my chin to my chest, rustling the thin tissue paper gown. I felt more than naked, exposed from the bodies standing over me.
When I was seven, the first patches of white, dried skin ringed my elbows and knees. My pediatrician assuming eczema led me down a long, "Try this?" journey that dead-ended in misdiagnosis. My condition wasn't skin-deep. It was problematic down to every red blood cell flushing through my veins and arteries. The external pink, scaly spots that drew unwanted attention and teasing at school were Band-Aids covering the problem: My body waged an internal war against itself, and all I could do was witness it.
"It's okay," I said to Dr. Katz's cat-printed socks stuffed into his white tennis shoes and tugged at my sleeves.
"It's not okay if it's uncomfortable."
Comfort level was a skewed construct. Instead of striving to be comfortable, I minimized not being uncomfortable. Bare skin was most comfortable, but Scotts Valley wasn't a nudist colony. I didn't have the guts to bare the pink patches now banded around my stomach, so baggy clothing was my next best alternative. Loose, lightweight yoga wear offered breathable enough fabric that didn't cling to my offended skin. Long-sleeved tops two sizes too big stuffed my closet to burst. A sewn-in thumb hook gave me wrist-to-shoulder coverage.
Dr. Katz's gaze lingered on my left ear, another inflamed area. I pulled my lips into as much of a reciprocation smile as his sympathy offered. With a sigh, bushy eyebrows connected, and poised pen over his clipboard, his soft, gentle voice launched into his barrage of "Are you?" questions.
Imprinted in my brain, one suggestion after another became a restriction in my life, turning my body into an imprisonment of oppression. Numb autopilot mode took over, and my head bobbed like a dashboard chihuahua dog.
"Following a Celiac diet?" Yes, food no longer held any joy in it.
"Yes, water, no to soda?" A camel returning from the desert.
"Application of your creams?" A single nod prompted his, "Three times a day?" follow-up. Smearing myself into a Thanksgiving turkey.
