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Part 28 ‘Because I’m not actually thirteen!’ The exclamation was on the tip of Amelia’s tongue, but she had enough sense to know that getting outwardly emotional would simply prove Ashley’s point. Maybe this was still some elaborate joke at her expense. The two eighteen year olds were clearly power tripping, since it had become clear that Amelia was relying on them to put an end to all this. Instead of going home and having dinner at her apartment, she was going to have to stay even longer and read the handbook.  Was that going to be it? Or would they next insist that she needed to study? Amelia could imagine plenty of ways her predicament could be drawn out, especially since she had managed to bomb half the placement test and subsequently somehow got in trouble all afternoon despite just trying to keep her head down and survive the day.  No matter what, one thing was certain–she had to act like none of this bothered her. That tended to take the fun out of things for most young women who liked to play games. “You know why I’m different,” Amelia said, as flatly as she was able without sounding like a bitch about it, “And fine, I’ll read the handbook.” Ashley just smiled. “Cover to cover.” It took a conscious effort not to groan. Plenty of authority figures, administrators and prefects alike, had gone over the ‘proper girl’ thing. “Yes, Ashley,” Amelia replied, “I’ll read the handbook cover to cover.”  “Good. Claire, you have snacks stashed away in your prefect suite, right? I don’t think little Millie will have time for dinner tonight. And I doubt she even wants to go to the dining hall, anyway. Ashley was correct.  “Of course!” Claire hopped up. She turned towards Amelia to explain, “As you’ll read, meals have to be eaten in the dining hall. Certain snacks are permitted, however, for both prefects and students. Ask nicely, and I can go get you something!” Just like so many times before, Amelia chose the path of least resistance. Being dismissive towards Ashley’s friend wasn’t going to get her anywhere, especially since Claire was a prefect who could easily write up an infraction that any of her fellow prefects would believe. “Ms. Claire, can you please get me something to eat?” Amelia asked. She said it with a demure smile and warm tone that simultaneously want to gag and roll her eyes. ‘Happy, brats?’ “Better,” Claire nodded, “We’ll make a proper Westridge girl out of you yet.” She slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her, leaving Amelia with the dark haired girl who started this whole thing. Similar to the way Claire barely reacted to Amelia’s over the top reaction, Ashley didn’t have much to say about it either. “Hop to it, Millie,” she said. She gestured towards the desk while picking up her binder again, to supervise while simultaneously doing some studying of her own.  Once again holding back a sigh, Amelia walked over to the desk and sat down to get started on the demeaning and completely unnecessary task. Even as a teacher at the private school, she assumed she’d only need to know whatever sections were pertinent to the classroom. The rest would be for the prefects and administrators who handled dorm life and other things. And, while she would normally skim through the whole thing, there was a good chance Ashley would quiz her at the end.  The first section included a code of conduct followed by some cringeworthy statements about Westridge girls, the very same thing Claire had just called her.  “Westridge girls are polite and respectful to their teachers, to their prefects, and to each other.”  “Westridge girls strive for academic excellence.” Maybe it’s because she wasn’t actually a student, but the whole thing read so typically ‘teenager.’ Despite how the academy was regarded pretty highly, the format wasn’t so different from some of the stuff Amelia had seen throughout her public school experience growing up. Solid branding, she noted, with the constant repetition of the private school’s name.  When she turned the page, her previous thoughts were immediately countered. Amelia’s experience growing up had mostly been ‘dress appropriately.’ As long as girls didn’t show too much thigh and/or cleavage, they could wear whatever they want. That definitely wasn’t the case here.  The handbook started out describing the uniform that Amelia was more than familiar with at that point. The green plaid skirt and matching tie, white blouse, and black sock/shoe combination. There was an asterisk for the intermediate grades at the bottom that mentioned the required flats Ashley had her change into earlier.  Once she got past the familiar stuff, Amelia found herself more and more surprised at just how many rules there were, especially for the younger girls. No make-up, which she had learned earlier in the form of an infraction. Hair could only be braided in a regular pattern, or held with simple bobby pins or hair ties. Piercings could only be located in the earlobe, and jewelry needed to be both simple and understated. Rings were not permitted, period, though advanced grade girls had a few limited options once they were of appropriate age.  The more she read, the more Amelia wished she had a friend around so she could talk about how this book clearly must have been written over a century ago by fucking nuns or something. But the only girl with her at the moment was Ashley, and the devious girl would no doubt jump at any opportunity to get on her case. So Amelia remained quiet and pressed on.  It wasn’t a huge surprise that there were specifications when it came to underwear, considering how many other ways Westridge girls had to conform to the boarding school image that seemed to only offer the slightest bit of individuality in terms of accessorizing beyond the matching uniforms. Full cut cotton underwear in white or nude was the only acceptable option, with matching bras being required for said colors. Camisoles were also acceptable.  Amelia couldn’t help but wonder how many students broke that particular rule on a daily basis. It’s not like anyone would check. She was actually mostly adhering to the undergarment dress code, as she had worn a matching plain nude set with her professional outfit that morning. However, the thong she had on definitely wasn’t full cut. While no one would see that as long as she sat properly, Amelia was still a rule follower, and didn’t love that she was breaking one despite how said rules shouldn’t actually apply to her.  The uniform section transitioned into hygiene, which was about when Amelia started skimming past the obvious stuff. From an authority standpoint, it made sense, as listing everything in the handbook gave prefects excuses to discipline girls who didn’t take this stuff seriously. But as someone who took her morning routine quite seriously, Amelia didn’t need to read too deeply into that. The only part that stood out to her was how students were to avoid excessive perfumes and hairsprays that would bother other girls. There were enough of those out there that teachers and prefects reserved the right to make the final call.  Amelia kept reading.  There was a whole page detailing politeness and respect, per the statement about Westridge girls at the beginning. There were rules about when and where students were allowed to be places or not be places, as well as a curfew that shifted based on both age and day of the week. There was even a section on acceptable school supplies, as binders and such needed to either be distributed by the school or be approved for comparable ones. So many fucking rules. It was getting difficult not to gloss over each page, as the core principle was the same–uniformity.  The school was prestigious for a reason, after all. While the majority of students attended because they were rich and going there would open as many doors for them as Amelia planned on getting for herself, there was a good portion of girls who were sent there to be reformed. In a way, it was good for them. Instead of being left behind, like most systems would do without admitting they were doing it, the girls that were shipped off to Westridge were still taken care of academically. But, of course, at the cost of their rebellious individuality.  That was the problem Amelia had been facing all day. Everyone thought she was one of those girls, when in truth she was the total opposite. While the handbook rules were still quite suffocating, she definitely would have preferred attending Westridge as her proper, straight-A self.  “Ashley?” Amelia said. Quiet as it was, her own voice surprised her a little bit. The only sounds for quite some time had been the turning of pages as well as the occasional shifting on the bed behind her as the dark haired girl changed positions while she studied. “I’m done.”  “Hmm,” Ashley barely glanced up from her binder, “Shouldn’t you be calling me ‘Ms. Ashley?’ That would be more respectful.” So there was going to be a quiz. Either that, or Ashley was just enjoying herself. One way or another, Amelia armed herself with all the knowledge she had just packed into her mind in a single sitting. There was a good chance half of it was going to be gone within a few hours. Cramming was only a viable study tactic in the short term, and something she never did personally. “No, Ashley,” Amelia said. Still following the proper response drilled into her earlier by Ms. Song, she said, “It’s only ‘Ms.’ and ‘Mrs.’ for prefects, teachers, and administrators.”  Ashley raised an eyebrow, “But I’m your elder.”  “That doesn’t matter. We’re both students.” For a fleeting moment, she almost fell for it. But something like that would have stood out, plus it didn’t make sense. The handbook was absurdly rigid, but it was at least consistent. The hierarchy was students/prefects/teachers/administrators. While there was obviously an unspoken version of that at every school in terms of older girls getting their way, there was nothing official in terms of titles or showing extra respect to girls in the advanced grades.  “You’re no fun. Okay, Millie. Can you tell me when your curfew is?” “In my dorm building by 8:30, in my room by 9:30.”  “And the exceptions?” “Friday and Saturday, or if I’m getting back late from an extracurricular or a school sponsored event.” “Very good. And what about quiet hours?” Amelia answered question after question. She didn’t have all the answers locked and loaded, but managed to remember what she needed to mostly due to Ashley’s quiz prompting her memory. There was no way Amelia could have listed off all the things that Westridge girls were supposed to be, but she could at least handle the things Ashley was throwing at her.  Eventually, Ashley circled back to her earliest question. “So you need to be in your dorm building by 8:30, yes?” “Yes,” Amelia nodded. “Then you’re running out of time,” Ashley smirked, “It’s almost 7:30, and we still have so much to do. At this rate, you might have to spend the night . . . ” ----------------------- Check out my website: www.ladyluciastories.com And read more of "The Teaching Assistant" (55+ parts) and other stories on my SubscribeStar: https://subscribestar.adult/lady-lucia

That was alot of money down the drain. And he said they don't sell well at markets, maybe because they don't want to be embarrassed buying them out in public like that for people to see..... a private sale and that guy would be making alot of money 

Same here! 

I was hoping to get this chapter posted a little earlier, but went down a rabbit hole when researching biopsies.  No promises, but I will try to have chapter 9 posted Sunday night. Chapter 8 With the intense pain waking me up, I look frantically for the remote to press the call button. Taking deep shaky breaths, I find the remote in the dark and hit the call button. As I waited for the nurse, I gripped the covers so tight that my knuckles were probably white if I could see them. Each second seemed to drag on as I waited for the nurse. After the longest 2 minutes of my life, a nurse walks in and cuts on the lights. She said, “What can I do for you, Will?” Between breaths, I was able to muster out, “I need more pain medicine!” “You’re not scheduled to have another dose for another 2 hours, can you wait until then?” she said. “NO!” I almost shouted at her. She responded, “I’m going to go get the attending doctor and will be right back.” As she was walking out of the room, I heard in a groggy voice, “Will, what’s wrong?” I look to my left to see my mom tossing off a blanket and getting off the couch. She rushed to my bedside as I said, “I. Need. Pain. Meds.” “Was that the nurse that just left?” she asked. I nodded and my mom said, “Hopefully, she will be back soon.” She looked at me with concern and grabbed my hand which was clutching the sheets. I held her hand in a death grip as I stared at the ceiling tile directly above my head and kept taking deep breaths in and out to keep from screaming out in pain. Five long minutes later, the nurse rushed back into my room. “Will, I spoke with the attending doctor and he prescribed you a more powerful medicine called Dilaudid,” she said. Injecting the syringe into my I.V., I felt a rush to my head and my peripheral vision blurred for a few moments. Then relief washed over me as my hands lost their tight grip on my mom and the sheets. With a sigh, I said, “Thank you.” The nurse said, “Certainly, Dilaudid is about 10 times stronger than morphine and lasts longer too. You shouldn’t need anymore until tomorrow morning.” I said, “OK.” On that note, the nurse walked out and my mom placed a hand on my cheek and said, “Get some rest and wake me up if you need to go to the bathroom,” then kissed me on the forehead. I nodded, then turned onto my side to let sleep overtake me again. I woke up to Rosie gently shaking my shoulder, “Good morning Will, do you need any more pain medicine?” Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I shake my head yes as I can now feel my joints start to ache again. Rosie injected my I.V. with Dilaudid and another syringe of nausea medicine. She then connected the feeding bag that was already hanging from my I.V. pole to my feeding tube. Unplugging my I.V. pump, she turned to me and said, “Let’s go get you weighed and measured this morning.” I slowly got out of bed with Rosie’s helping hand. As soon as I put all of my weight onto my legs, I lost my balance and immediately grabbed Rosie to keep from collapsing onto the floor. “Will, are you alright?” Rosie asked. As she was helping hold me up, I said, “I just feel very weak.” “Are you able to walk to the nurse station?” she asked. “I should be able to with some help,” I responded. My dad stepped in and wrapped an arm around my torso to support most of my weight as I leaned against him. My mom then took the I.V. pole to push alongside me. Taking shaky steps, we all made the short trip to the nurse’s station not too far outside my room. My dad helped me step up onto the scale and kept a hand on me to keep me steady and only briefly letting go so that Rosie could get an accurate weight. Rosie said, “Will, you are 5 foot 3 and 105 pounds.” With it being Groundhog Day with that information, all my parents and I could do was just nod. We slowly made our way back to my room and halfway there I was hit with the need to poop. Looking up at my dad I said, “I need to go to the bathroom.” “Alright, we will head straight there,” he said. As all three of us walked into the bathroom, my bowels were ready to erupt. Standing in front of the I yanked my pajama bottoms down and as soon as my butt touched the toilet seat, I unleashed a torrential mudslide into the toilet bowl. I didn’t even care at the moment that I had an audience and was using the bathroom like a preschooler. At that moment I just felt relief. My parents quickly exited the bathroom to give me privacy. On the way out my dad said, “Will, let me know when you are done and I will help you to bed,” as he left the door slightly ajar. After a couple more waves of poop were evicted from my body, I wiped and flushed the toilet. I called out, “I’m done.” My dad walked back into the bathroom, placed his hands under my armpits, and lifted me to my feet as I pulled up my underwear and pajama bottoms. Wrapping one arm around me and taking my I.V. pole with the other, we stopped by the sink to wash my hands, then made our way back to my bed for me to collapse into it. Already exhausted, it didn’t take me long to fall back to sleep. I woke up to Rosie flushing my feeding tube and replacing my bag of fluids. She then said, “Will, someone will be here in a few minutes to take you to get your x-rays, CT scan, and MRI scan.” I nodded and a minute later an orderly came into my room pushing a wheelchair. He asked, “William Gauss?” I nodded yes and he said, “I'm going to be taking you downstairs to radiology.” My dad walked over and helped me out of bed and in the wheelchair. The orderly took my I.V. pump and bag of fluids and placed them on the I.V. pole that was attached to the back of the wheelchair. A few minutes later, I was left outside of radiology for an x-ray. The technician took me back into the room and after 15 minutes of getting a full body x-ray, I was sitting back in the wheelchair outside of the room to get my CT scan. Another technician wheeled me into the room and I had full body scans taken with and without contrast. The process took about 45 minutes and I found myself falling asleep then being awakened by the technician over the intercom instructing me to hold my breath during certain aspects of the scan. After the CT scan was complete, I, again, found myself waiting outside of a different room to get my MRI. After a few minutes of waiting, a technician walked out and asked, “Are you William Gauss?” Looking up, I see a man of average height and build with short brown hair and blue eyes wearing light gray scrubs. I responded, “Yes.” “My name is Chuck and I will be taking your MRI today, have you ever had an MRI before?” he asked. Shaking my head, I said, “No.” He said, “That’s OK, we use a strong magnet to help take an internal picture of you. It can be very loud.” “Yeah, the strong magnet causes all of the dipoles of the nuclei in the atoms of my body to align with the magnetic field. Based on how long it takes for the nuclei to return to their original orientation after the magnet is turned off, it tells the detectors what type of tissue it is. The reason why the boundaries between different types of tissue are blurry is because of the Gibbs effect and is a natural consequence of the solution along the boundaries of the partial differential equation used to construct the image.” Pausing for a second, I then sheepishly said, “Sorry, I'm kind of a big nerd and sometimes can’t help myself.” Smiling, he said, “That’s OK, it’s nice to know a patient who has a good understanding of what I do.” After verifying my medical history to make sure that I didn’t have any magnetic material in my body, he disconnected my I.V. and helped me into a pushchair that was nonmagnetic to wheel me into the room. Chuck helped me onto the sliding table of the MRI machine and connected my I.V. to a line while explaining, “This is so I can inject you with contrast during the MRI.” Before placing headphones on me, he said, “This is to protect your hearing from the loud noises and so that I can give you instructions from the control room. Since this will take a while, we usually play music to help keep you calm while being in such a tight space. Do you have anything in particular that you would like to listen to?” Thinking for a second and deciding to keep it simple, I said, “90s alternative rock would be fine.” After spending nearly an hour in the small tube of the MRI while listening to the loud blaring music of Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, Mazzy Star, Gin Blossoms, 4 Nonblondes, Local H, and the periodic loud mechanical whirring and banging of the MRI machine; Chuck had finished all the imaging and brought me back out into the hallway to wait for an orderly to bring me back to my room. Roughly 10 minutes later, I was back in my room and as soon as I was back in bed, exhaustion sent me back to sleep. I woke up to Rosie shaking my shoulder and asking, “It’s about time for another dose of pain medicine. Do you need any?” After a few moments of taking stock of my body, I said, “Yes, the last dose is starting to wear off.” As she was injecting the Dilaudid into my I.V., I asked, “What time is it?” “It is a little after 2:30,” she said. I asked, “Wasn’t I supposed to get fed from my feeding tube at lunch?” She responded, “You did. You slept through both, me connecting your feeding bag, and then an hour later flushing your feeding tube.” I said, “Oh, I must have been really tired.” She said, “Must have, but I say when in the hospital, it is always good to get as much rest as possible. Especially, since it is hard to get quality sleep here. One of your doctors should be here soon to perform the biosis.” I said, “OK,” and she walked back out of my room. I turned to see my mom on the couch and my dad in the recliner with the remote watching TV. Deciding to try and stay awake while waiting for the doctor, I watched reruns of The Office with my parents. About 30 minutes later, Dr. Kutner walked in holding a tray. “Good afternoon Will, how do you feel today?” he asked, as he set the tray down on the table next to me. I said, “I'm just exhausted.” “This biopsy should not take too long and you can get some rest for the rest of the day. I hear that you had a rough night; has the Dilaudid been helping?” he asked. “Yes, it seems to keep the pain at a minimum between doses,” I responded. He said, “That’s good to hear, we will do our best to keep you comfortable. I’m going to perform what is called a Synovial Biopsy on your left elbow and right knee. I will inject a numbing agent into both joints, then I will use a special needle to pull a small tissue sample from the joint. Do you have any questions?” I said, “No.” He then said, “Alright, let’s get started.” Dr. Kutner pulled back the cover that was over my right leg and pulled up the pants leg of my pajama bottoms past my knee. He took some alcohol swabs off the tray and began to wipe down both my knee and elbow. Taking a syringe off the tray, he injected it into my knee and then took another one to inject into my elbow. “We are going to need to wait a few minutes for the numbing agent to take full effect,” he said. My dad then asked, “How is this going to help in finding out what is going on with Will?” Dr. Kutner responded, “This is a useful tool in diagnosing many different types of diseases, but what Dr. Cameron and I will be looking for, in particular, is autoimmune diseases and I will also be looking for mycobacterial inflections where a Synovial Biopsy is the only way to properly diagnose them.” “Elaina and I felt a lot better after meeting y’all yesterday and this just confirms to me that y’all are doing all you can to figure this out,” my dad said. With a small smile, Dr. Kutner said, “Thank you, my passion is helping patients like Will get the proper diagnosis so that they receive the care that they need.” Turning to me he said, “Are you ready?” I nodded and said, “Yes.” Taking a large needle off of the tray, he turned to me and said, “I’m going to start with your right knee. I’m going to need you to stay as still as possible.” I nodded, then watched as Dr. Kutner plunged the needle into my knee. It was odd that I felt no pain but just pressure from the force of the needle going in. He then pulled the plunger back and I watched as the syringe filled with what looked like bloody pus. He set the needle back onto the tray and grabbed a cotton ball and tape to cover the puncher wound from the needle. He took another needle and repeated the same process on my left elbow. As he was pulling down my pajama pants leg and pulling up the covers for me, he asked, “That was too bad, was it, Will?” I said, “No, it didn’t hurt at all.” He said, “Dr. Cameron, Dr. Taub, and I will see you in the morning to go over some of the primary results from yesterday’s blood work and today’s scans. I should have the results back from today’s biopsy either Thursday or Friday.” I said, “OK.” My mom then said, “Thank you, Dr. Kutner.” Not long after Dr. Kutner left; I fell asleep. I woke back up to the intense need to vomit.

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