Part 12 (1/2)

Or. Devon looks across the room. Her mom's eyes are wide and bright, so hopeful. She's twisting a strand of her long blonde hair around and around her index finger, watching Devon closely.

Does she want her mom to come in with her? She'd hear everything that is said then, hear the doctor's questions, hear Devon's answers to them. Devon isn't sure what all that will entail exactly, or even why she's become so anxious about this appointment. But what she does know is the embarra.s.sment she'll feel, having her mom sitting in the room with her, seeing everything. Making her chatty remarks. But . . . that hopeful face. So pathetic.

Devon takes a deep breath, shrugs. ”I guess, if you want to.”

Devon's mom smiles at Devon, relieved. ”Want to? What do you think? Of course!”

”Well then, ladies, right this way.” The woman with the manila folder turns toward the door. Devon and her mom follow her through it.

The woman has Devon stand on the scale first, takes her height and weight. She annotates the information onto a form that's inside the manila folder. Then she has Devon sit down, takes her blood pressure and pulse and temperature. ”Hmm,” she says after reading the thermometer. ”A hundred point three. You're running a low-grade fever. Feeling under the weather today?”

Devon shrugs. ”I don't know. Kind of.”

”And your blood pressure is a teensy bit high,” the woman says as she writes into the manila folder. ”Just a tad.” She smiles at Devon. ”Nervous?”

Devon tries to smile back. ”Maybe a little.”

”So,” Devon's mom says, ”what percentile is she in?”

The woman looks up. ”Excuse me?”

”Her height and weight. What percentile-”

”Mom-” Devon starts.

The woman glances between Devon and her mom.

”What?” Devon's mom says. ”It's a good thing to know, Devon. How you compare to other girls your age and everything. What's wrong with asking that?”

”Well . . . ” The woman flips to the back of the folder, runs her fingers along a chart. ”Five feet, eight and a half inches . . . a hundred and twenty-nine pounds. . . .” She looks up at Devon's mom. ”She's in the ninetieth of height and fortieth in weight. Tall and slender.” She smiles at Devon. ”One of the lucky ones.”

”She's already an inch taller than me,” Devon's mom says. ”Unbelievable. But the weight thing, well, I'm not saying.” She winks at the woman. ”I'm not fifteen anymore, dammit.”

The woman laughs. ”Weren't those the days? When we didn't worry about stepping on a scale.”

Devon's mom plays with her hair again, frowns. ”Yeah . . . it was . . .”

The woman leads Devon and her mom to an examination room, opens the door, pulls a fresh paper sheet across the exam table. She turns back toward the door, smiles at Devon and her mom one last time. ”Have a seat. Dr. Katial will be in. It'll be just a few minutes.” She closes the door quietly behind her.

”Well.” Devon's mom drops into the chair near the door. She opens her magazine.

Devon paces the room. She steps over to a desk in the corner, picks up a pamphlet explaining juvenile diabetes, puts it down. She can feel her heart beating faster and faster, feel the adrenaline racing through her stomach. She leans against the desk, picks up a paperweight advertising some drug with a complicated name.

”I didn't appreciate that comment.”

Devon looks up, relieved to have something occupy her mind for the moment. ”What comment?”

”Oh, that weight comment. About stepping on the scale or whatever stupid thing she said. Obviously, she thinks that's something that I have to worry about.”

Devon sighs. ”Um, I don't think she was saying that at all.”

Devon's mom is flipping through her magazine. ”Well, maybe she has to worry about that. She could obviously drop ten pounds and not even notice. But she shouldn't project her own c.r.a.p on me. I'm a size eight! I've never had a-”

”Mom! You're the one who made a big deal about not telling her your weight!”

Her mom stops flipping pages, holds up the magazine to show Devon a picture. ”Now that is a gorgeous gown. Don't you think? Catherine Zeta-Jones is the most beautiful woman in the world. I don't think she could look ugly if she tried.” She turns the magazine back around and starts flying through the pages again. ”Or look old,” she says, almost to herself. ”Oh, I just love In Style magazine. They have the best articles.”

Devon rolls her eyes-as if her mom actually reads them-and looks at the wall, at the watercolor hanging there. It's a landscape-a lake with a hazy impression of tall trees surrounding it and hills in the background, an early morning mist overhead. But in the middle of the silvery water, stands a large rock. A young child sits on that rock with her back turned, looking tiny and alone, the world so big around her.

A little rap on the door. Both Devon and her mom turn to look. A dark, lanky man pokes his head in. He looks foreign, Indian maybe. He wears a scowl on his face, carrying an air of sternness, even some irritation, with him; Devon can see this around his eyes, the way his brows furrow, how he holds his mouth. He knows how to dress and does so with care; Devon can see that even under his white doctor coat. The rich colors of his pressed s.h.i.+rt and khakis complement the olive tones of his skin.

”Well, come on in, doc!” Devon's mom says. ”We don't bite.”

He walks in, closes the door behind him. He looks down at Devon's mom, offers his hand. ”I'm Dr. Katial.”

”And I'm Jennifer,” Devon's mom says, taking his hand. ”Jennifer Davenport. And that's Devon over there, my daughter.”

”Ah, yes. The patient.” The doctor crosses the room to where Devon is still leaning against the desk, offers his hand to her. ”h.e.l.lo, Devon.” He looks directly into her eyes as he shakes her hand. Devon can see then that he isn't really an angry person at all; his eyes are warm, like chocolate, and a little sad. Angry people don't have eyes like that. Devon looks down toward the floor.

”Why don't you jump up on the table,” he says.

When Devon moves, he opens the manila folder on the desk and takes a seat.

Devon hops up on the table, leaves her feet dangling over the edge. She looks over at her mom; she's inspecting the French manicure she'd given herself. The magazine, Devon notices, she's stashed under her chair. Devon almost rolls her eyes again at that. What, is her mom hiding it? As if the doctor actually cares-or notices-that she reads vapid fas.h.i.+on magazines.

”So, we're doing a sports physical today.” The doctor turns around to face the room, his legs crossed.

”Yes,” Devon's mom quickly says. ”But I'm also wondering if . . . well, Devon's been getting her sports physical done with the school nurse, so it's been kind of a long time since she's been to a real doctor, you know, for a regular checkup with a real doctor, I mean. And-”

”How long?”

”Since, gosh, probably since she's been twelve or something. Maybe thirteen?”

Lie, Devon thinks. More like eleven. Summer after fifth grade. Her mom's friend Tiffany had said it was ”criminal” to let Devon go so long without a checkup. ”I'll take her myself,” Tiffany had said, ”if you don't.”

”So, I was wondering-”

”Don't worry,” the doctor says. ”When we're done today, we'll have a pretty good picture of Devon's overall health.”

Devon jiggles her left foot. The paper under her makes a crinkling sound.

”Well, she's superhealthy,” Devon's mom says. ”She hardly even gets colds. But the thing is, I'm just not sure where she's at with her shots. I think I've, maybe, misplaced her shot record. I got a notice from the school the other day. They said she's missing something, so . . .” She giggles nervously, combing through her blonde hair with her fingertips. ”You must think I'm a terrible mother, Dr. Katial. No shot records, no checkups . . . ”

The doctor smiles, shakes his head. ”No, not at all.” He stands, crosses the room to the door. ”There's a database that maintains immunization information on everybody.” He squeezes Devon's mom's shoulder as he pa.s.ses her. ”So, no worries.”

The doctor sticks his head out the door, speaks to someone in the hall. Devon's mom draws her hair over to one shoulder, scoots around in her seat, crosses then recrosses her legs, arranging her little skirt just right.

The doctor closes the door, looks down at Devon's mom, gives her a small smile. ”We'll have that in a few minutes.”

”Wow,” she says. ”Technology. Amazing.”