It's All or Nothing, Vale

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.