22

I OPEN MY EYES AND GROAN AT THE SUNLIGHT AND MEMORIES PIERCINGthrough morning fog. Had it just been—I check the clock—twelve hours since Royce and I left the gala? Feels a lot more recent than that. The embarrassment is especially fresh.

Just after Royce and I had almost—my face reddens—kissed, I think, we were interrupted by Zee and Royce's mom, who happened to be done with her other thing and decided to drop in on her son's gala. I cringe at the memory of her glare and the way I'd scuttled away from her. And then I'd crashed backward into a bunch of boxes, although in the panic I was in, I hadn't felt much. Royce was then summoned by Zee to wait by the stage so that they could announce him as Student Athlete of the Year and Vern drove me home in his car.

My leg didn't stop hurting even after I got home, but I dismissed it, chalking it up to weeks of putting weight on it and not resting like my physio recommended. I was healing so fast, after all! I went to sleep after taking two painkillers, thinking it would be better the next day. Stanley and my mom are scheduled to come back this morning to pick up Rosie from her friend's, and I was planning on sleeping in as I always do every Sunday.

I inhale and smell the exquisite scent of Stanley's famous curry—we have prata on Sundays for brunch. Good. The parents are home. When I check my phone there's a bunch of congratulatory texts—including one from Gina, who had recovered from the worst of yesterday's stomach troubles thanks to some meds she'd received from Yun while Royce and I had been onstage.

I swing my legs over the bed to get up to do my physio exercises (and my secret nonprescribed strengthening ones), only I don't manage to because a lightning bolt of pain shoots up from my knee and I gasp-shout. I stumble and fall hard onto the floor, dazed, sweat running down my face. When the waves of pain subside, I crawl to the door and weakly call for help.

"Stanley," I manage to groan out, hoping that his super-sharp hearing, honed from years of teaching screamy tweens, would catch it.

Stanley hears me from the study next door and hurries over. He helps me walk to my bed, every step torturous. When I knock my shin against a post climbing into bed, red explodes in my vision and I almost scream. I fold onto the bed, breathless with pain.

Stanley grimly fishes out the crutches from under the bed and I blink back bitter tears at the sight of them, but my frustration is quickly buried by a wave of agony. I whimper.

"You need to see a doctor, now," he says, helping me to his feet. "Let's go. Ling! Ling!"

He calls for my mom, who appears at the door pale and bloated; I can tell she'd been sleeping in, and I'm ill with worry on top of everything else that I've caused her distress. I'm the worst. I'm the worst.

"What's—what's going on?" she says, disoriented.

"Mama," I cry.

The sight of me in this state galvanizes her into action. She herds me into the car with Stanley's help, the car keys already in her hand, while Stanley is on the phone with Rosie's friend's mom to ask if Rosie can stay a little longer at Jasmine's because the waits at public hospitals can take hours. He grabs some provisions for us—coffee, water, snacks—and we go. I don't even remember to take my phone.

The ER in the closest public hospital is packed with unfortunate people who chose Sunday to get sick. We get an X-ray and the results come back delivered by a young doctor who believes that I've injured my ACL—again. I would need to get checked by a specialist who can give me a further opinion after an MRI, and soon.

"It might be less severe than it feels…" she says.

I turn my face away to hide my tears. I am—was—an athlete, and I know the truth: The prognosis isn't good.

~

The next available appointment with an orthopedic specialist was weeks away, being that I am:

1. Not dead

2. Not walking around with a shard of bone sticking out of leg or spurting geysers of blood

3. Not otherwise important enough to be bumped up

"That's not quick enough," my mother says, noticing my distress.

"I'm sorry, her case isn't high priority," the nurse in charge of scheduling says bluntly.

As soon as we get out of there and safely installed in the minivan, Stanley and my mother start texting and calling friends to see if there's someone who could see us outside of the public healthcare system, and who could give us a discount.

"We're going to have to find a way to front the expenses, I don't think our insurance covers private healthcare that's discretionary," my mom says in a terse voice. My heart rate doubles at her tone.

"We'll find a way," Stanley says. He turns on the radio at high volume and doesn't even seem to register that it's blasting hard rock, which he dislikes. He's lowered his voice to talk with my mother and I understand it's a private conversation, so I let my mind drift.

My phone buzzes and I look down.

Zee: Any updates on the leg sitch?

Me:Not good, I have to wait a few weeks for a specialist consult and my parents are trying to find a private specialist.

A few minutes later she calls me back.

"You should see Dr. Zulkifli," she says without preamble. "He's a personal friend of the family and a premier orthopedic surgeon in the region. Super famous. Like, the national badminton team go to him, and when that celebrity influencer had that hotel bed contortion incident—"

"Thanks, Zee, I…" I drop my voice so my parents can't hear me over the music and their fevered discussion. "We won't be, y'know…" I sigh. "He sounds expensive."

"He won't charge you," she says simply.

I fall silent as a myriad of shouty, competing emotions battle for supremacy. "Zee, that's too much," I say at last.

"Say Thank you, Supreme Light, and we'll call it a day."

"Sounds cultish."

"OMG, just say thank you."

For some reasons the words jammed up in my throat, words that I'd never had a problem verbalizing before. "Thank you," I manage.

"Tomorrow morning, eight thirty at Murni Sports Medicine Private Clinic, okay?"

"Okay."

~

My parents were thrilled to hear about the early appointment, and the visit went well. Dr. Zulkifli saw me and told me what I already suspected: I had sprained my ACL. It wasn't too serious, but it had set back my recovery and it was going to take more months of physio. I would probably not be able to run competitively unless I got surgery, which was elective, of course. Another out-of-pocket expense for a dream that's surely dead by now.

My parents sat down and told me they were prepared to pay for the surgery, but I refused.

"You have a baby coming. There's going to be so much more expenses."

"Agnes—"

"It's fine, the whole point about wanting to get better was just so I could run competitively. It's not like I won't be able to participate normally in all activities without the surgery."

They exchanged looks. Stanley says, "We know how important your sports career is to you, but also—"

"Look," I say, keeping my gaze, my breath steady, "it doesn't matter anymore, because my senior year is halfway over, and my place at college and the track scholarship were already pretty much out of the question a couple of months ago when I got injured, so—I've accepted my fate!"

"You've got your creepy face on again," Rosie observed.

My mother says, "We're thinking about college, and running in college. And even beyond. Agnes—you love running. Not just competitively. We want you to be able to do what you love again."

Do what I love again…what a joke. In a way, I know I am privileged to be able to go to a school like Dunia, that my athletic prowess affords—afforded—me choice in terms of universities, that I could even consider university at all. I know all that. That's why I want—wanted—to make the best of my chances, convert it to a sure win in later life being the best, being able to provide my family with the best. But now—I'd be working so hard, and there would only be the quiet knowledge that even if I got a scholarship, I would still not be going to run in the NCAA. I make an excuse about needing to work on my homework before power crutching up the stairs.

In the safety of the darkness the tears fall, fast and hot. "It's no biggie, Agnes," I whisper furiously to myself, blotting my snot with toilet paper, because absorbency. "It was just a chance at a walk-on anyway, and somebody had to give you a place that came with a good scholarship before that."

That was true…but now the door was definitely closed for any sporting glories in senior year. I will close out senior year a nobody.

Unless—

I had a vision of myself in a lit stadium, being applauded, the next Amina Kaur, the next Ronny Chieng.

Comedy is the answer. To everything.

I glance at the JOGGCo International Young Comedians Competition schedule—I have to win. Otherwise, there'd be nothing to distinguish me anymore. In the drama from yesterday and this morning, I hadn't checked my phone. As soon as I turn it on it buzzes with a stream of congratulatory messages, which I ignore. There are multiple messages from Zee and Royce from last night,.

I respond with a short message to assure Zee that I'm fine and that I'll call her later; then I turn to Royce's messages.

Royce:My mom saw videos of me onstage

My heart sinks: I know how important it was for Royce to appear like the perfect, uncomplicated kid, his perfection a cover he needed, his invisibility cloak. Now he'd been caught in a lie, a shadow life to explain away. They were already worried for his mental health—what would they think now?

Royce:She's so mad. She wants a talk once we're back home

Royce:Saw you leave with Vern, hope everything's OK. Text me

Royce:She just called me downstairs. Wish me luck

Royce:We just had a chat. Text me when you get this

Me:Hey

Me:Finally have time to myself, I'm sorry I took a while

Royce:Hey! How's your leg? I've been so worried

Me:There's been some developments.…

Royce:I'll facetime you? I want to see your face

Me:Sure

Royce video-calls me. "Okay, tell me first, mine can wait."

I explained all that had happened that day, including my prognosis.

Royce looks contrite. "Shit. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I lie. "I'm back on crutches for a week or so, then I'll be able to walk again. The tear is a partial one and the surgeon says its manageable without surgery."

Royce, who'd never had pro-athlete aspirations and who saw sports as just another thing he needs to be good at, does not pick up on what's unsaid. "What about the JOGGCo qualifiers next weekend? Can you perform?"

I sigh. "I don't know. I haven't told my parents about stand-up yet. I know they probably won't let me go. I'll just have to figure it out later. What about you? What happened? Your parents found out you've been going to open mikes?"

"Kind of. I had to come clean to my mom after she got videos of my set. She was the one people were texting pics and clips of us performing to, telling her the jokes were offensive, et cetera."

"Yikes. What happened next?"

Royce scratches at the stubble on his jaw. "Well, actually, after she'd calmed down, I apologized for keeping them in the dark about trying stand-up. I showed her the video of the performance, and it was really sweet, my mom actually smiled when she saw me perform. She laughed at our jokes. She hadn't laughed in the longest time….She doesn't laugh much, since my brother left. And she complimented my stage presence. Said I was a natural—like her."

I swallow. "That's great. Have you told your parents about competing in the JOGGCo Competition?"

Royce's face grows animated. "Yes. I pitched it as being a really prestigious thing, that many famous people from various professions were in their college's improv or stand-up troupe. I told her about Comedy City and the opportunity to share the stage with a Netflix comic, that winning the competition would open up lucrative media opportunities for me and look good on my CV." Royce shrugs. "I spoke my parents' lingo, I guess, because I got to them: She agreed. The money would be a sweet bonus, of course. Anyway, she said that if she gives me her blessing to do this, I better make it worth her time. I have to place in the competition. Or stop."

I turn away. In spite of everything that had happened, I can't help the jealousy that wells up in me at this. Royce is one step closer to resolving his situation, whereas mine just seems unsolvable. "That's great."

"I've got to go, my mom wants me to video-call my dad with her." His voice softens, gathers meaning. I—I really enjoyed our time, y'know, before…"

"Sure. It was so fun being onstage together," I say, glossing over the part he's really getting at. "Good night."

I kept the tone of my reply light, but my insides are churning. I'm a fool to think that the things we said during the gala made any difference, that Royce and I have any chance of being together when our paths are already bifurcating. He is preparing to step into the light and take control of his destiny, while my future—in stand-up, in everything—is as uncertain as ever. If I'm not careful I'll mess everything up, just when I can't afford, literally or otherwise, any more slipups. I need to focus on the only thing I have a real chance at: winning the comedy competition.