“It’s just my fingers.” I held up my hands, palm out, as evidence.

Epilepsy wasn’t pretty. Carson had epilepsy. When I was in second grade and he was in third, he had a grand mal seizure on the blacktop during recess.

“Boys only,” he’d said, barring me from his new club. Second grade was the year I was mad at Decker. He’d decided he should play with the boys and I should play with the girls when we were at school. I used to barter for him to play with me at recess. My brownie at lunch. His choice of cartoon at home. The window seat on the bus. That day, I had snuck an extra chocolate chip Pop-Tart into my backpack for him. I had several friends who were girls, but no one was quite as much fun, or knew me as well, as Decker.

He’d ducked his head and wouldn’t meet my eyes. Even back then, Carson was the natural leader. Tall, with blond curls and green eyes, nobody said no to him. Not guys, not girls, and definitely not me. Well, usually not me. But right then I was mad at Decker, and Decker was sitting cross-legged on the blacktop, cowering behind him.

“You promised, Decker,” I’d said.

He’d shifted uncomfortably and started to stand.

“Decker stays,” Carson had said. He took a step closer.

“You’re a big jerk,” I’d said. And then I pushed him. Just a little shove, really. He took one step backward and smiled. He opened his mouth to say something, but he never got around to it. His eyes rolled backward and he dropped like a stone onto the pavement. His body, usually so self-assured and charismatic, disintegrated into a fit of bucks and spasms. Nobody moved. And then I was the one pushed aside. Janna barreled past me, knelt by her brother, and turned him sideways.

Her eyes bore into me. “Go get help!” she screamed. But I didn’t. I just stood there, staring. Decker was the one who ran for help.

Ten years later, it still ranked as one of my top five scariest memories.

Dr. Logan said, “Most seizures are not like what you see on TV. Some people just stare off into space, yet their brain is seizing. Sometimes just part of the body convulses, like your hands.”

“Can you fix it?” They must’ve fixed Carson’s, because I never saw or heard about another seizure. But then I realized that maybe the reason Carson had to repeat that year of school was because of the seizures, and I started to panic.

“I can. Medicine can. Or it might. But I won’t prescribe anything unless I know for certain that you’re having seizures.” By the set of his mouth, I knew Dr. Logan believed he’d found the answer.

“Like if my hands twitch again? Then you can give me something?”

The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. I’d like to run a test called an EEG. Basically, I’ll stick some sensors to your head and monitor your brain activity tomorrow morning, but you need to stay up to night. We need to put stress on your brain. Hopefully we can nudge it into having another seizure.”

My hands clutched at my long blond hair. “You can’t shave it off.”

Dr. Logan smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But it will get fairly messy. Nothing a good shampoo won’t take care of.”

Vain. I disgusted myself, clinging to my hair when I was fortunate my body wasn’t rotting underground. The man in physical therapy had no use of his legs. The woman in occupational therapy had drool hanging from her face. Hypothermia could have resulted in amputations. Lack of oxygen to the brain could have left me comatose, muscles atrophied, boils on my backside. I wasn’t vain by nature. I didn’t dress in tight designer clothes and I didn’t wear a lot of makeup, but I loved my hair. In the grand scheme of life and death, it was ridiculous. I knew it, but still it didn’t matter.

When Dr. Logan was halfway out the door, I said, “Hey, that person from last night. They’re okay, right?”

But he kept right on moving, pretending he hadn’t heard me, and the door slammed shut with a resounding thud.

My parents took shifts that night. We watched movies. We played Scrabble. I tried reading Catch-22, but after several pages, an ache started deep in my head and the words swam. I wasn’t allowed to have any medicine because it might interfere with the test results. My ribs ached. My head hurt. The tugging at my skin was beyond annoying.

And then, just as I was losing the ability to keep my eyes open, Decker came. Even though it was a school night.

“My turn,” he said.

Mom kissed me on the forehead and then kissed Decker’s forehead, too. “We’ll be back for the test. Call if you need anything.”