Back to School I wake up to my pink cane propped up against the dresser-- a spot where I know I didn't leave it before going to bed. Mami put it there while I slept, I'm positive, as if waking up and seeing it would logically make me grab it, as if its nearness to my carefully picked out first-day-of-school outfit would make it the natural accessory for my first day back. It doesn't matter how many times I tell her that I don't want it, she doesn't listen-- always going on and on with her metaphors and cutesy phrases insisting my cane is inspirational and lecturing me on how using it is just like someone using glasses and so I shouldn't be ashamed. But it's not that I'm ashamed-- it's that I'm confused. Nervous of what everyone at school will say if I come to class with a cane some days but not others, like I must be hiding a secret, like I did virtual school just for fun, like whatever they heard about me, about my accident, about my surgeries, has to be a lie because the Valentina in front of them doesn't look injured, is rejoining her fencing gym this week, because the seventh-grade Valentina in front of them? With her Dutch braids, frowning face, calendar counting down the days? She looks exactly like the tough champion athlete she's always been. Background Noise "No me voy a llevar el baston," I inform Mami as I come down the stairs, ignoring my stiff ankle and cutting her off before she can open her mouth to ask why I don't have my cane. Luis Manuel is already at the kitchen table scarfing down chocolate Pop-Tarts with a glass of milk, and I see him make a face under his curls and concentrate on his breakfast because we both know those are fighting words in the Camacho Gutierrez morning routine. I grab a can of guava juice from the fridge as Papi instantly defends me, saying there's no point in giving people the wrong idea when I'll be starting up my training again so soon. Which then immediately prompts one of Mami's speeches, her most common one, the one about how I'm not the same Vale who competed in Summer Nationals last year, that me and Papi can't pretend everything is fine just 'cause we want it to be and that if we're all being honest, I probably shouldn't fence again at all. I practically have this argument memorized by now, can mumble along with both of them as I take each sip of my juice. Papi all: She doesn't need a cane. She just needs to strengthen her left leg. Then Mami: If she didn't need a cane, the PT wouldn't have suggested one. Then Papi: Look at her! She's fine. Aren't you fine, Vale? Tell your mother. And Mami: She's not fine! Didn't you see her limping? Vale, show your dad. I don't bother answering either of them because as long as I keep quiet, my parents will argue alone for twenty minutes easy, even if everything they say is just a repeat of something they've said before. Halfway through my juice, though, my brother swallows the last of his food and points at the garage door with his lips. And even though I was supposed to ride the bus today, even though Luis Manuel threw a fit last week telling us all how driving me to Jefferson Middle would make him late to Jefferson High, his tall, lanky self quietly leads me through the garage door, leaving our parents still arguing, and then drives me to school without a single complaint. I Know Me Best I wish I could say Mami just got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but she says stuff like this all the time now, buys me all sorts of random natural medicines that don't work, the closer we get to me being allowed to fence again. It's like she thinks giving up what makes me me shouldn't be a big deal at all, that my energy could be better used trying out whatever "new solutions" for my pain she's found online that day. And I don't understand how she can't see that fencing again, the promise of it, is the only thing that's kept me going through the surgeries and the doctors and the complete rearranging of my life. That fencing isn't just a hobby I can pick up and put down-- it's who I am. It's what keeps me me. And anyone who can't see that is clearly not Team Valentina, even if it's my own mother, even if she insists everything she says is out of love. Because We Love You Before my accident porque te queremos meant my parents were tough on me when I didn't win. It meant Papi would film me so we could go over all my mistakes, and I'd always get in trouble with Mami if I didn't eat enough carbs the night before a match or didn't get enough sleep due to nerves. It meant I wasn't allowed to say I was tired after practice or say I wanted to take a week off and if I ever complained Mami would remind me that she never got the chance to ever compete to ever take lessons in anything and I'm lucky to have parents who work so hard. And, yeah, Papi is still the same, I think but it's like Mami went to bed the night of my accident and woke up as someone brand-new. And as bad as it sometimes felt to be pushed and pushed all the time this? now? is a million times worse. Because if love used to mean never letting me give up what does it mean now-- now that Mami has forgotten who I used to be? Parallel Universe Even though I've been counting down the days, ready to restart regular life, Jefferson Middle School still feels weird, itchy, slightly off, and though I glare at everyone around me, though my raised eyebrows dare them to even try saying something to my face, I keep catching kids looking at me around corners and behind lockers, trying to see if I'm limping, WHICH I'M NOT trying to see me doing anything that would match up with what they were imagining in their gossipy group chats. And it makes the back of my neck prickle, the temper Coach Nate always warns me about threatening to flare up, because it's not like I asked to get excused from group sports in gym it's not like I asked to be allowed to walk slow and arrive late to class all because my flare-ups are so hard to predict. And maybe I should have brought my cane to school just so I could test how similar to my epee blade it could be in knocking someone out. Whatever. It doesn't matter anyway. School is just the place I go to during the day to learn all the things I won't need once I'm a pro international fencer training day and night. Plus, Amanda is here. Amanda, with her straight shiny black hair and friendly eyes, who surprises me today with a bag full of 3 Musketeers and says, "Te extrane, Vale," in her soft Mexican accent like she actually means it and is glad to see me physically back at school. I don't really have friends, if I'm honest, because (a) fencing is a big commitment that most people don't understand and (b) because I don't always believe people when they tell me things, especially doctors and other fencers and Mami most of all. Amanda, though, is not a fencer, has never brought up my leg in texts, and so when she offers me her arm at school, I link mine through it, because being stared at all day is not as terrible with company, and there's definitely less chance of me hitting someone with Amanda next to me, shaking her head. Dinner Is Awkward We all pretend this morning didn't happen and Mami even makes me my favorite-- arroz guisado-- but the nice gesture is hard to focus on because all she wants to know is how being back at school went. All "¿Te duele la pierna, Vale?" as she hands me my plate, all "¿Como te sientes, Vale?" as she sits down, all "¿Quieres que te de un masajito despues de comer?" before Papi tells her to give me a break. It's as if the only thing that could possibly be worth talking about with her is my leg hurting and the quick and easy solution a simple massage for the pain. I don't need lotions or massages. I don't need Mami babying me. I don't need anyone to make me a special dinner. Because guess what? None of those things even help! What I need is for everything to go back to normal, for each day's trivia-- will I hurt today or not?-- to become part of my past and disappear from my future, for the dinner conversation to go back to being about competitions and rivals for life to go back to being fencing school fencing and for Mami to go back to the way she used to be before she became convinced I was something fragile-- back when she wouldn't have cared if I was sore she would've cared that I complained. I eat quickly, only half listening as Luis Manuel distracts our parents with the new mosaic piece he's working on for his independent art study this year. Eat quickly, saying nothing, even as my leg buzzes with soft heat from my first full day walking down concrete hallways after so many months of soft carpet at home. This is almost over, Vale, I tell myself in between bites. You're almost there, I promise. All this time of feeling weak, all these months of staring at the wall wondering if there was something wrong with my brain for weighing how much it would hurt if I just ripped my medical boot in two and took off-- it's ending. I'm going back to fencing. I'm going back to training. And then it'll be like I was never even in a stupid crash, like nothing ever happened-- just a small hurdle I'll tell the sports interviewers when years from now they make a documentary about my life. Gym Sitting out during basketball on Wednesday "just for a little bit, just to be cautious" is annoying but it also lets me daydream about my big fencing return tomorrow, now that my ankle can bend whatever number of degrees my doctors decided made it okay for me to fence. It's weird, really, how my return is more about angles measurements X-rays and not how my body feels inside. Weird, but good too, because those numbers gave me something to count toward during the months when I couldn't even make it to the bathroom without leaning on my rolling walker the whole time. It's embarrassing, honestly, how many weeks I spent listening to doctors to Mami to my brother asking if I was okay when I could have been listening to the sharp computer beeps announcing every touch of my blade, could have been listening to the sneakers shrieking as the other kids hoped for a win on the strip only to have to face me and lose. Luis Manuel has always said fencing bouts sound too angry smell too awful-- like sweat mixed with the sound of stress. But he's wrong because nothing compares to the adrenaline of your own body as you win the scent of strength in every one of your pores as you face someone in all your armor and score the winning touch. I've missed fencing of course I have missed the weight of my jacket stamped with U.S. CAMACHO a whole lot. Sure, it's not always fun; fencing is a lot of work. Worth it, though. Forever worth it for those sweet high-pitched beeps those sliding sneakered feet and the rush the thrill every time the referee calls out my winning touch. Physical Therapy Dr. Claudia is Puerto Rican like me, which is why I think my parents picked her out of the list of names my surgeon gave us after the operation where he put pieces of metal in my leg so I could be half robot as I healed. And she's nice, Dr. Claudia, she is, but I wish she'd focus more on the fact that I'm pretty much a pro athlete which means that she should be speeding me through a fast and serious recovery plan instead of whatever slow and easy kid schedule she has laid out in the notebook that she's always writing in. I mean, I like her special massages her stretches her exercises and all the weird fancy tech she uses on my leg, but every week when I ask her, "When can I stop coming here?" she waves me off, answers with sentences that mean nothing, like "Let's see how your leg responds to this first," which might work on her other patients but won't work on me. And seriously, how can I get good enough at physical therapy to graduate from it when I don't even know what the rubric is? What Do You Mean, "Forever"? Today I come to therapy with my mind made up, because now that I'm back at school about to be back at Fencing Paradise I need Dr. Claudia to be honest with me and tell me when I can expect to get fixed. I've got goals, you know? Summer Nationals are calling my name! And I'm done being patient when I need answers not later, not eventually, NOW. "Dr. Claudia," I say seriously, or as seriously as I can while lying face up on a table as my whole body vibrates from the special massager she's using on my calf. "When can I stop coming here? And give me a real answer this time." Dr. Claudia stops the massager and helps me sit up. "Valentina," she says. "I can't answer that question. But more importantly, just because you eventually stop coming here stop working with me doesn't mean you won't have to do stretches and massages maybe forever at home. Sometimes our bodies change temporarily, but sometimes those changes are more permanent, and the goal with physical therapy is not to fix but to strengthen not to change but to give you the skills and tools to adapt." And I try to focus on what she's saying but I'm distracted by the woman at the table next to me laughing as she gets her knee brace taken off. Yes, yes, some things are temporary and some are permanent, but for my leg? This is just a setback. A challenge. Like when my ex‑best friend Stephanie tore her ACL years ago but since then has been fine. This leg thing? Just a tiny obstacle for me to conquer on the path to being a worldwide champ. Excerpted from It's All or Nothing, Vale by Andrea Beatriz Arango All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
