I signed the surgical consent forms myself. Didn't tell Mom and Dad. I thought I could just die quietly under anesthesia. No more suffering from this disease. But the moment that mask came down over my face, I heard Jason's voice: "Last time. Once Emma finishes the principal dancer audition, we won't need to give Ruby the injections anymore." Mom was crying her heart out. "But Ruby is only eighteen. What about the rest of her life!" "Mrs. Carter, it won't ruin her whole life." Jason's voice was low, guilty and stubborn. "Just one year. After Emma gets into that ballet company, I'll help Ruby train for next year." "I'll coach her through everything she missed. Whatever company she wants, I'll go with her. It's just one year. She can catch up." Dad's voice was shaking. "So... do we give her the shot today?" "Yes." Jason was silent for a few seconds. "Let her sleep another month. She'll miss this audition, and once Emma gets her contract, I'll make it up to Ruby. I'll give her back her life." So I never had a muscle-wasting illness. It was that "vitamin shot" that made my muscles deteriorate. That "supplement" kept me drowsy. He said he'd make it up to me in a year. He didn't know that before entering the operating room, I'd already swallowed an entire bottle of paraquat. … The operating room lights were bright. Glaring white, hurting my eyes. I lay on the operating table, covered with a green sheet. Cold. So cold. The anesthesiologist walked over, holding a transparent mask. "Don't be nervous, Ruby. Just a few breaths and you'll fall asleep." I nodded. I clutched a small bottle in my palm. The bottle was already empty. Half an hour earlier, in the changing room, I drank all of that paraquat. No one noticed. Mom and Dad were waiting in the corridor. Jason was there too. He was my boyfriend and my childhood best friend. We'd known each other for eighteen years. He told me, Ruby, don't be scared, after this surgery, your illness will be cured. He told me, Ruby, when you get better, I'll take you to the ocean. He told me, Ruby, I'll always be with you. But now he was saying in a low voice, "Last time. Once Emma finishes the audition, we won't need to give Ruby the injections anymore." I always thought Jason was the best person in the world to me. We grew up together. When we were kids, he protected me, chased away the boys who bullied me. When we got older, he took care of me. Brought me my bag on rainy days, helped me with technique before performances. Until a year ago, when I started having frequent back pain. I went to the hospital for tests. The doctor said it might be a muscle disorder and needed further diagnosis. During that time, Jason was especially concerned about me. He came to see me every day after rehearsal, brought me snacks, and chatted with me. "Ruby, don't worry. Whatever this is, I'll be with you." Later, Jason said he knew a specialist who treated neurological disorders, and told me to try seeing him. Mom and Dad were happy and took me right away. That specialist did all kinds of tests at the hospital, then looked at the results with a serious expression. "Muscle degeneration. Already at the stage where you need intervention." Mom and Dad cried on the spot. I cried too. Jason stood beside me, holding my hand. "Ruby, don't be scared. I'm here." Looking back now, his hand was warm. But his heart was cold.
After that, the long "treatment" began. One "vitamin shot" every week. One "supplement" every day. One "therapy session" every month. Those "treatments" made me weaker and weaker. After each shot, my legs would go soft. I couldn't walk steady. After drinking the supplement, I'd sleep drowsily for an entire day. A year passed. I didn't get better. I got worse. I used to be able to dance a full variation. Now I could barely sit up in bed. I used to be top of the academy. Now I couldn't even read—the words swam in front of my eyes, I couldn't focus no matter what. I asked Jason, "Why am I getting worse with treatment?" He said, "It's a normal reaction. Means the medicine is working. Just bear with it, you'll get better." I asked my parents, "Mom, when will I get better?" Mom's eyes turned red. She didn't speak. Dad turned around, pretending to look out the window. I dropped out. Spent all day lying in bed, like a useless person. Mom and Dad took turns taking care of me—feeding me, washing me, changing my clothes. Mom's hair went half white. Dad's back bent. Once, when Mom was washing me, she suddenly cried. "Ruby, Mom is sorry. Mom didn't take good care of you." I reached out to wipe her tears. "Mom, it's not your fault. My body just isn't good." Mom cried harder. I held her in my arms, gently patting her back. What I didn't know was that Mom was crying not because of my illness. It was because she knew I wasn't sick. I thought they felt bad for me. Now I know—they couldn't bear to look at me.
The night before the surgery, I made a decision. I took all my savings and put them in an envelope. On the envelope, I wrote: Mom, this is the money I saved over the years. It's not much, but you can use it. I organized all my choreography journals, checking them page by page. Those journals were from freshman to senior year of high school, four years of work. Every technique, every combination, key points marked in red, difficult parts marked in blue. I put them in a box. On the box, I wrote: Dad, please donate these journals to the academy, maybe someone can use them. Then I wrote a letter. Very short. Just a few lines. "Mom, Dad, I'm sorry. I'm too tired. Take care of yourselves. Don't blame me." I put the letter under my pillow. Then I took out that small bottle. Jason had left it at my house the last time he came. He said it was a "booster" for the vitamin shots and told me to keep it. On the bottle was one word: Paraquat. I didn't know what it was at the time. Later, I looked it up. Paraquat. Lethal pesticide. No antidote. After drinking it, your lungs slowly turn to scar tissue. You suffocate to death. The whole process lasts from several hours to several days. You're conscious, but can't breathe. I held that bottle in my hand all night. I didn't hate my parents. I knew they'd had it hard. When they were young, they were too poor to raise two kids, so they could only give one away. All these years, they'd been living with guilt. Especially toward my sister. They always felt they owed her. Always felt they'd failed her. Always wanted to find a chance to make it up to her. Now the chance had come. Jason gave them a solution. No money needed. No effort needed. Just let me "rest for a year." The morning of the surgery, Mom and Dad came to the hospital. Mom's eyes were red and swollen. Clearly, she'd cried all night. Dad's lips were trembling, but he forced out a smile. "Ruby, don't be scared. After this surgery, you'll be fine." "Okay," I said. Jason came too. "Ruby, hang in there. After the surgery, I'll take you to see the ocean." "Okay," I said. I lay on the gurney, wheeled into the operating room corridor. The corridor was long, the lights bright. Mom followed behind, walking until she reached the "Family Stop Here" sign. "Ruby! Mom will wait for you outside!" I turned my head and looked at her. "Mom." "Yes?" "I love you." Mom froze for a moment. Tears fell. "I love you too." I turned my head and was wheeled into the operating room.
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