She distributed cups and toasted, “Drink up, buttercups.”
I joined in the echo of “I will, daffodil,” but only pretended to sip. I knocked the contents into the grass and drummed my fingers against the empty plastic while they rehashed the hookup, then some party, or a beach trip, or whatever from their summer full of: “so wasted,” “oh my God, so funny,” and “you should’ve been there.”
I stood, mumbled “snacks,” and walked into the house.
I took my time pouring popcorn into a bowl, watching out the window as Ally demonstrated a cheer move and almost fell in the pool.
They were laughing; I was gripping the countertop with white fingernails.
It was the same summer day we’d had for years—but it seemed trivial, boring.
I wanted them to leave as fiercely as I’d wanted to see them—anything to end this hollow feeling, like I was betraying our friendship by not being on the same page. Or like they were betraying me by being the same when I wasn’t.
“Mia!” Hil was standing on her chair, yelling toward the house. “Where are you? Do you need help?”
“Coming.” I picked up the popcorn and practiced my casual smile at the toaster until it felt less like a grimace. Pushing open the screen door, I called, “Hey, Laur, you’re starting to burn. I can see it from here.”
Chapter 12
Gyver was my bridge between the hospital and real life; he made it impossible to separate the two or doubt the existence of either. We sat in his basement after cheerleading tryouts. All I’d done was demonstrate a few routines, but I was exhausted. Gyver was playing guitar and I was slipping into a doze when a thought blurbled into my mind.
“You were chatty in the hospital,” I accused.
“One of us had to be.” Gyver took off the guitar and sat on my side of the couch. I rested my sleepy head on his shoulder. “Luckily, you slept all the time so I never ran out of topics.”
“What did you talk about?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Some—but not a lot.” My hospital memories were smudged a bit. Even my emotions were faded, like it had happened to someone else—a character in a book I’d read or a movie I’d seen. “It’s all hazy. Like trying to take a test after pulling an all-nighter. I’d flunk if you quizzed me on my own life.”
“Like you’d ever flunk anything.”
“I got a C on a pop quiz in bio freshman year,” I reminded him.
“And you cried for hours. You’re crazy.” He traced a lazy hand up and down my arm.
“I’m motivated,” I corrected. “You should talk—isn’t your GPA three hundredths higher than mine?”
“I don’t know. Who keeps track of that?” Gyver leaned his head against mine.
“We talked about movies, didn’t we?” I asked after a pause. “You were making a list of movies I needed to see. And music. You talked about bands I’d never heard of.”
“Maybe that’s why you kept falling asleep.” Gyver pulled me closer and I nuzzled drowsily against his chest. “I made lots of lists. Bands, movies, things to do when you got out of the hospital.”
“What’re we going to do?” I wanted to stay awake and have this conversation—it felt important—but I was so sleepy and comfortable.
His voice hushed. “Anything. Everything. I want to do everything with you, Mi.”
“Can I see these lists?” I murmured, an escapist yawn splitting the final word in two.
“Not tonight. We’ve got time.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Mrs. Russo fretted as she showed me where to stack the mail and how she’d gathered the plants on the kitchen table so I could water them while they were away for a week in Martha’s Vineyard. The routine hadn’t changed since I started plant sitting in second grade.
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re feeling too tired, it’s okay to miss a day.”
This was proof I shouldn’t tell people; Mrs. Russo doubted my ability to empty a mailbox and fill a watering can.
“I’ve managed to keep myself alive so far; I don’t think a dozen plants will be too tricky.” I smiled, she didn’t.
“Dearest, take a seat. Do you have a minute?” She fussed in the fridge, serving me a large dish of tiramisu. “Can you eat this?”
I reached around the island and grabbed a fork from the drawer. “I can if you don’t tell my mom.”
She smiled, poured a glass of milk, and sat across from me. “I’ve wanted to talk to you since your diagnosis, but I haven’t found a moment where you weren’t guarded by my son or your mom.”
I dragged my fork through the dessert, mixing the powdered top into the creamy layer. “About what?”
She put a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were all sympathy with no trace of their police-chief sternness. “This hiding thing you’re doing, it isn’t good. You’re sick. You’ve got leukemia. Hiding it, lying about it, those are forms of denial.”