You Drive Me Crazy || Sam Evans

67. Glee, Actually

Melanie was walking down the hall when she spotted Artie struggling at his locker. His movements were rushed, shoving papers into his books and bag, but they kept slipping from his grip. His bag had already fallen off his lap, its contents spilling everywhere.

Without hesitation, she hurried over, kneeling beside him as she started gathering the fallen papers.

"Whoa, hey. Artie, you okay?" she asked, glancing up at him.

That's when she got a closer look—his eyes were red and glossy, and a fresh scratch stretched across his face.

Her stomach dropped. "What—what happened to your face?"

Artie let out a frustrated sigh, shoving the last of his papers into his locker. "I fell, okay?" His voice was clipped. "The janitor didn't put salt on the ramp like he's supposed to, and my wheels don't have chains, so I slipped backwards and tipped over on the ice." He stuffed his papers into his backpack with more force than necessary. "It's fine. It's nothing."

He started to roll away, but Melanie stepped in front of him.

"No, no, hey. That's not nothing. That's some pretty nasty road rash." Gently, she cupped his face, tilting it slightly to get a better look. "Let me take you to the nurse, okay?"

Artie let out a small, exasperated huff but nodded, allowing Melanie to wheel him down the hall.

In the nurse's office, Artie sat stiffly as the nurse cleaned the cut on his face.

"You hit your head pretty hard," she said, focused on her work. "I'm going to call your mom. Lay down until she gets here." She added, stepping out.

Melanie turned to Artie. "Want me to help you onto the cot?"

"No." His response was immediate, firm. His hands clenched into fists on his lap. "I don't want help. I'm tired of being so helpless. I'm tired of people pitying me. And I'm so damn tired of this chair." He ripped off his armrests in frustration.

Melanie's heart clenched. "Anyone could've slipped on the ice, Artie."

He looked up bitterly. "Yeah, but they could've gotten back up. I just laid there, yelling for help, until some freshman girl showed up." His jaw tightened. Then, as if proving a point, he tried shifting toward the cot.

Before he could struggle, Melanie placed a hand on his shoulder—gentle but firm.

"Artie, you need to rest, so I'm going to help you, all right?" Her voice was steady, leaving no room for argument. "Not because you're helpless. Not because I pity you. But because you're my friend. And that's what friends do."

Artie exhaled sharply, tension draining from his shoulders. Finally, he gave a small nod.

Bracing herself, Melanie slid an arm around his shoulders as he wrapped one around hers. She placed her other hand under his knees, carefully lifting him. Luckily, the cot was right there—because there was no way she could hold him for long. She lowered him onto the bed, a little rougher than intended, but he didn't say anything.

He stared up at the ceiling. "I just wish I was never in this chair." His voice was quieter now.

Melanie sat beside him. "I know."

And she stayed, waiting with him until his mom arrived.

Artie woke up still lying on the cot, but something felt different. He flexed his feet—and they moved. His brows furrowed as he ran his hands over his face and chest, searching for any sign that this was real. Noticing the scratch on his cheek was gone. Slowly, he swung his legs off the cot and pushed himself upright.