Page 5 of The Chemistry Test

Penny

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come back, Penny?

’ Mum says. ‘I really don’t mind.’ It’s the fourth time she’s called since she left me here, and I can hear Delilah in the background telling her to leave me alone.

The three of us, along with my dad, unpacked my suitcases and decorated my new room just over an hour ago.

And now I’m really by myself. I actually did it.

And it’s the best feeling in the entire world.

The university campus is cradled among the gentle slopes of the English countryside just ten minutes away from home, but since my symptoms snowballed a few years ago, I hadn’t been able to go anywhere by myself anymore.

But with my new wheels and a bit of practice, I’ve managed to get some of my independence back.

‘Honestly, Mum, I’m fine! I’ll send you lots of photos and I’ll message you every day.

And I promise I’ll tell you if I ever need help,’ I say, repeating and rewording it at least three times before I can get her to hang up.

As annoying as it is, I understand why she wants to be here.

We’ve fought so hard for my independence over the past few years, but for me to really be independent, she can’t be here to see it.

Instead, I snap a photo of myself in front of the picture wall she made of all my family and friends and send it to her.

The fact I’m even sending her a photo is a big deal – there’s nothing to show someone when you’re always together. Which sounds cute and it kind of was, but not when you’re an eighteen-year-old girl and it’s with your mum out of necessity.

I adapted to a new normal once before when I first started to get ill and I know I can do it again.

I look around my room, smiling in disbelief.

Even though I’ve been preparing for this for weeks, I couldn’t imagine it really happening or that I would actually go through with it.

But I did. And so here I am. Everything worked out exactly as it was supposed to.

I’m still smiling to myself when there’s a knock at the door.

Perhaps a little too eagerly, I race to get it.

With every step, my heart pounds harder and faster, but I keep going, determined not to keep them waiting. For all I know, that could be my future best friend out there or, dare I say it, a Karen who won’t want to be kept waiting. Either way, I’m about to find out.

I open my bedroom door and lean against it, hoping it will look sort of natural.

‘Hi, I’m Amy!’ says a girl with blonde hair and dark-green dungarees. ‘Just wanted to let you know a couple of the boys and I are going to order pizza and play some games if you want to join?’

Nope. I definitely jumped up too quickly. My vision is starting to black out, but I’m not ready to give in to it yet. My first impression can’t be like this.

‘Sounds great! I’m Penny, by the way.’ I smile, but I can hear the shakiness in my voice.

The tell-tale sign that my heart rate is way too high and that I don’t have long to sit or lie down to stop myself from passing out.

I go to walk towards the kitchen with the girl, but my legs start to buckle beneath me.

Please, not now, I think to myself, willing my heart rate back to a more comfortable pace.

But it’s only getting worse and I’m clearly off-balance.

‘Are you okay?’ the girl asks, catching me by the arm and guiding me to the ground.

I feel my body crumple as I slide down the wall, but as soon as I make it to the floor, the dizziness starts to evaporate and my vision improves, fizzling the presyncope away.

As my heart rate returns to normal, I can feel the embarrassment taking over, overriding any remaining symptoms. But as I take my hands away from my eyes, I realise I’m not alone on the hallway floor.

The girl – Amy – is sitting beside me, cross-legged and wide-eyed.

‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry about that. I have a condition that makes my heart rate go too high when I stand up, but I can usually stand for longer than that.’ I don’t know why, but I always want to convince people that it’s slightly better than it is.

She looks relieved to see me go back to normal so quickly. Or what she considers to be normal.

‘Is it similar to having low blood pressure?’ she asks, holding my arm as if I still need the support on the floor.

‘Yeah, the symptoms and how it feels are a bit like that, I guess. It’s called POTS and it mainly causes issues with prolonged sitting and standing.

For me, it means I have to use a wheelchair when I’m out of the house and on bad days.

’ I study her face to try to gauge what she thinks about that.

People don’t seem to realise that a lot of wheelchair users can walk, at least a bit.

She jumps up and, for a second, I worry that she’s weirded out by the idea.

I wish people realised that you don’t have to need a wheelchair all the time to need a wheelchair.

‘I can get it for you if you like,’ she says. ‘If today’s a bad day?’

I feel my face break into a smile. And while she gets my wheelchair, I message my mum that I think I’m going to be alright here.