“I know I’m sick.” The dessert curdled in my mouth.
“And I know your parents. I know you.” She paused. “This is your time to kick your feet and make a fuss. Cry, yell, do something. You’re allowed. It’d be healthy.”
The irony of the word “healthy” snapped me out of the pity cocoon I’d started to build. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Leukemia is not fine. Not accepting you’re sick isn’t fine. Your stoicism and the lies—Mia, you have to tell people.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” I crossed my arms. “You think I don’t know I’m sick? I couldn’t forget if I wanted to! Whether or not other people know—that’s my choice. I don’t need or want people judging me.”
“I’m not judging, but you need to focus on getting well, not waste energy pretending everything’s okay for your parents or your friends.” She pulled me close and I relented, clutching a handful of her sundress so she couldn’t let go.
This comfort felt a bit like betrayal; Mom would hate this whole conversation. She’d say Mrs. Russo was meddling; that this wasn’t sympathy, it was pity.
I let myself linger for another few seconds before I pulled away from the embrace and swallowed a sob. I couldn’t go down that pathetic, sloppy, poor-me path. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. I just needed to try little harder and do a better job of faking it until the pieces of my life fell back into place.
“I’m fine,” I repeated.
“And I’m here. Whenever you need me. I believe you can beat this. I pray for it and I believe it.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Now eat—you’re far too skinny.”
Chapter 13
I tugged at my T-shirt and yoga pants; they didn’t fit like mine anymore.
“Hil, I can’t tumble.” Dr. Kevin had forbidden it, and my secret backyard attempts were displayed in a blackish bruise across my butt and left thigh.
“What?” Her eyebrows arched and she crossed her arms.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to meet her eyes. The old Mia didn’t back down from Hil. Of course, she didn’t have to lie as often either. But I’d prepped for this one. “I pulled something in my knee running in Connecticut. I can still cheer, but the doctor said no tumbling until it’s healed.”
Hil pressed her lips into a thin, shiny line and I braced myself, but a new girl spoke first. “So all of Ally’s talk about Mia being the best tumbler ever and she can’t even tumble?”
Hil spun around and the girl choked off midgiggle. “And you’re so great, Sarah? Maybe if you’d spent all summer training instead of bitching, you’d be close to as good as Mia is. No, never mind, you wouldn’t. And even when she’s not tumbling, Mia’s a more important part of this squad than you’ll ever be.”
Sarah blinked and backed away. I touched Hil’s arm and she turned. “Get a doctor’s note for Coach Lindsey and don’t run if it will make your knee worse. I want you tumbling ASAP.”
“Thanks.” My eyes strayed to where Sarah whined to another freshman; Ally was headed over to do damage control.
Hil released a slow breath. “I meant it—we need you. You’re the heart of this squad and camp wasn’t the same without you.”
I hugged her, but she brushed me off. “You might as well go home—the rest of the practice is tumbling; it’s a waste of time for you to be here.” Having dismissed me, Hil stomped off to critique a sophomore with bent elbows.
I drove a roundabout route home, then sat at the kitchen table and watched for the mail truck. It was just collecting mail, but I was glad to have something on my calendar that wasn’t a trip to the doctors for endless blood work to test liver function, kidney function, and always, always white blood cell counts.
The only other things on the kitchen calendar were the first day of school, cheerleading, and a red circle around September 21. Mom, Dad, and I all knew what it meant, and none of us needed to have the words “chemo” or “hospital” staring down while we ate breakfast.
School would at least be something distracting. Right now cheerleading filled my mornings, but my afternoons were empty. The girls came over some days but were preoccupied with back-to-school shopping. I wasn’t allowed at the mall—it was number eight on Dad’s list of germiest places. Avoiding it required a complicated series of lies and excuses—made slightly easier by Mom’s online shopping sprees. I could honestly say I had no need to buy any more new clothes.
I embraced the mail collecting and plant watering and tried to ignore how weird it was to be in Gyver’s house without him. It was weird just to be without him, and I’d begun carrying one of his guitar picks in my pocket—something to hold on to when I was stressed or lonely.