Sweetblood (9781439108741) Read Online Free

100 percent sure he’s kidding.
    You meet a lot of weirdos on the net.
    The chat room gets me thinking about another one of my theories. I go back to my computer and read over some old notes. All of a sudden I am writing. I write for an hour straight, my fingers hammering the keyboard. Mrs. Graham might just get her stupid essay after all. I imagine her mouth turning down as she reads.
    I’ll show her disturbed.

5

    Blue Eyes
    I am Sweetblood. I am Honey, Sweetie, and Sugar. I am Sport and Tiger and Kiddo and Skeeter. It all depends on who you are. Fish calls me Lucinda Szabo. At school they call me Lucy, or Luce.
    There are 246 kids in my class and two of us are diabetic: me and Sandy Steiner. Sandy just got diabetes last year and to talk to her you’d think that God reached down and gave it to her as a gift. She was insufferably cheerful and disciplined and friendly before she got sick, but instead of calming her down, the diabetes made her even more unbearable. Now she’s like the diabetes ambassador, telling anybody who will listen all about her diet and her blood sugars and how well-controlled she is. But the worst thing is that she’s decided that we’re the diabetes sisters. Every day she hunts me down.
    This morning I almost make it to my first hour class before she finds me.
    â€œHey, Luce!” As usual, she looks as perfect and stiff as a store mannequin.
    â€œHi, Sandy.”
    â€œSo how was your weekend?”
    I keep on walking. “Okay.”
    â€œHow have your blood sugars been?” Sandy has these perfect Julia Roberts lips that curve up when she smiles.
    â€œI’m still alive,” I say.
    â€œHa ha ha.” Sandy laughs as if she’s reading it from a script. I get very uncomfortable around her. She says, “I stayed between eighty and one forty the whole weekend. Isn’t that great?”
    â€œThat’s amazing,” I say, both irritated and impressed. Eighty and one forty? I haven’t stayed between 80 and 140 for more than a few hours
ever
. “I always get up at three in the morning to test. I’m seeing Dr. Fisher next week and he wants my diary to be complete. You know. For my pump?”
    Sandy’s latest thing is she wants to get an insulin pump. I think it’s ridiculous. I’ve been controlling my diabetes for ten years with injections. You get used to it. Personally, I don’t want a machine hooked up to me twenty-fours hours a day, even one as small as an insulin pump. But Sandy is totally into her diabetes. It’s her holy crusade. If the technology exists, she has to have it.
    â€œMaybe that’s not such a good idea,” I say.
    â€œWhat do you
mean
?” All worried.
    â€œIf Fish thinks your sugars are
too
good, he won’t put you on the pump.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
Really
worried now.
    â€œUsually they only prescribe pumps for people who can’t control their diabetes.”
    â€œWhat? That’s not
true
.” She’s not sure if I’m kidding her.
    â€œSure it is. If your control is good, they’ll just keep you on the shots.” We have reached room 230, my chemistry class. “See you!” I leave her standing in the hall with her perfect mouth hanging open.
    Chemistry and French are my worst subjects. I am failing both so far this semester. I’m failing chemistry worst of all. Mr. BoreAss (he spells it
Boris
) is writing gibberish on the board and I am drawing pictures of red blood cells in my notebook. The red blood cell has an interesting shape, sort of like a cough drop that’s been sucked on for about ten minutes, or a Life Saver with the middle filled in.
    So I’m drawing and listening to BoreAss babble on about acids and bases. I don’t know why I signed up for this class. Maybe because last year I was smart, but that was last year. People change.
    This year my best classes are English and art, although lately I haven’t