Agorafabulous! by Sara Benincasa Read Free Book Online

electricity—the whole works. Uniformed nurses brought a wheelchair to the door as soon as the bus rumbled to a stop. Mr. Brixton, Mr. D’Angelo, and the driver helped a nurse load me into the chair. The driver returned to the bus, and Mr. D’Angelo shouted over his shoulder, “Everybody stays on the bus until we get back! Anybody gets outta line, I’m sending youse home tonight!”
    “Can he put the A/C on, at least?” one of the boys asked. The air was deadly still and oppressively hot.
    Mr. Brixton exchanged a few quick words in Italian with the driver and then called back, “I’m afraid not, children. He cannot run the air-conditioning while the bus is parked and off. Perhaps now would be an ideal time for a nap.” He added quickly, “And he has advised me that the windows do not open.”
    An exasperated collective whine arose, and the bus door clanked shut behind us.
    I remember swiftly gliding into the hospital, which was smaller than the giant places I knew from back home. We had an ever-growing county medical center, as well as the renowned Robert Wood Johnson Hospital, where I went to get some sort of mild, non-scary cancer hacked out of my skin once. It was no big deal, just a local anesthetic and a few snips. I may as well have been at my regular doctor’s office, except for the super high-tech cameras and wide-eyed medical students taking notes. Also, my doctor’s name was Babar, which was kind of awesome.
    Other than that, I’d only gone to hospitals to visit new cousins in the baby wing and dying old relatives in the cancer wing. Something about being in that wheelchair just seemed wrong, like I was taking up a real sick person’s space. Even in my hazy daze, I felt like a fraud. I was going to die, sure, but they shouldn’t waste the wheels on me. They could just lay me out someplace. Maybe they could hook me up with a blanket and a stuffed animal and just let me expire quietly.
    They did lay me out soon enough on an examining table in a room with spotless steel cabinets and bright overhead lights. A circle of faces peered down at me—Mr. D’Angelo, Mr. Brixton, and no fewer than three suspiciously attractive nurses, each of whom wore bigger hair and more makeup than I’d ever seen on a nurse back home in New Jersey (no small feat, incidentally). Someone took my pulse. Someone else shined a small flashlight in my eyes. A third someone looked at my tongue. I should have told one of them that I was on prescription medication, but my remaining shred of vanity stilled my voice. Besides, I was about to die. That secret could die with me.
    “I suppose we ought to give her some space,” Mr. Brixton whispered to Mr. D’Angelo.
    “You’re gonna be fine, kiddo,” Mr. D’Angelo said. He patted my hand. “Don’t worry.” The sudden fatherly gesture of caring made a lump swiftly rise in my throat. I felt tears prick the back of my eyes, and had the vague realization that the body to which I was loosely attached was going to begin crying.
    I stared up at the lights, blinking. The faces moved away, and the nurses spoke to one another in lovely-sounding syllables that I could not decipher. Soon, I could barely hear them anymore. My ears were shutting down. I was relieved to realize that my body was giving up.
    Maybe I could just fall asleep here and not wake up ever.
    Then came a sudden whoosh of cold air and a great crashing sound as the examining room door burst open. The energy around me changed suddenly, became electrified. I saw, without seeing, that Mr. Brixton and Mr. D’Angelo stood up straighter. Slowly, I turned my head to the side and gazed for the first time upon Dr. Sophia Loren.
    That wasn’t her actual name, of course. I don’t think I ever got her real name. What I got was the same eyeful Mr. Brixton and Mr. D’Angelo were getting: a stunning, deeply tanned olive-skinned woman with huge, luscious clouds of shining brown hair, giant, heavily made-up eyes, pouty lips, and