100 Days by Nicole McInnes Read Free Book Online Page B

we’re all mainstreamed, I only see the other ACE kids in the hallways and in a few of my classes. It almost seems like the new schedules were designed to keep the former ACE tenth graders apart. Everyone’s so busy trying to assimilate that we barely talk to one another. Sometimes there’s a S’up , sometimes a quick chin-jut greeting, but that’s it.
    â€œGetting back to this most recent incident,” Weaver says, “we’ve contacted Ms. Delaney.”
    â€œAgnes’s mom,” I say, remembering.
    â€œYes. And she’s agreed with our assessment that a form of … service on your part would be an appropriate response here. I’m thinking yard cleanup, maybe some heavy lifting she needs help with around the place. You’re a strapping guy. You’ll need to complete two days’ worth of service, total. At least two hours each day. Weekdays after school or weekends are both fine.”
    I have to work and haul water on the weekends, so that’s out. “Do I have to?”
    â€œIt’s that or long-term suspension at this point. Possibly expulsion.”
    I don’t need to think about this for very long. If I refuse to do the service, I’ll be out of school. And no offense to Mom, but there isn’t a chance in hell I’m going to spend more time at home than I absolutely have to. I love her and everything, but … no.
    â€œI’ll do it,” I tell Principal Weaver. “Yard work, lifting, whatever. I’ll do the service.”

 
    14
    AGNES
    DAY 87: MARCH 30
    â€œHey, Muscles!”
    Dad calls me this sometimes, especially when it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. He first said it when I was in second grade and he let me win at arm wrestling.
    I climb into the backseat of his car Wednesday after school. I have a doctor’s appointment, and since I’ll be spending the night at his house anyway, Dad thought it would be nice if he drove me there for a change. Afterward, we’ll go get ice cream. When he asked what I thought of the idea, I heard Moira’s voice in my head saying, Whatever floats your boat. Out loud I said, “Sounds great.”
    Today’s appointment should be pretty run-of-the-mill. Typically, a nurse will check my height and my weight, neither of which has gone up since I was seven. Dr. Caslow will ask if I have any new pain or mobility issues and give me updates on drug trials I’ve been invited to participate in. Occasionally, some specialist on aging or heart disease or Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria Syndrome (the fancy name for what I have) will ask for permission to publish the results of my various tests in medical journals. As a rare case (I’m almost sixteen and haven’t croaked yet), I’m in pretty high demand that way.
    Dr. Caslow is my main doctor. He’s a gerontologist who also practiced pediatrics in his younger days. Sometimes I meet with him at the hospital instead of during his rounds at the senior center, like when specialized tests are needed, but that hasn’t been the case for a while. I consider him family. Over the years, I’ve been poked and prodded by some of the top progeria doctors and researchers in the world, but he was the one who first diagnosed me when I was a toddler. Like most progeria kids, I looked totally normal when I was an infant. It wasn’t until I was almost two years old that my growth slowed way down. My body was also starting to show some of the classic signs that a couple of doctors in nineteenth-century England first noted when they “discovered” the disorder that would one day be mine: there was my skinny little body and my comparatively too-large head to start with. Then there was my hair, which was falling out, and my skin, which looked and felt like it was drying up.
    Today, Dr. Caslow is going to check my joints, which have been really sore lately, and my heart, which has started doing