“But still. He’s … he’s such a tool!” Ally didn’t swear or use objectionable language. “Tool” was a major show of loyalty.
Before I could think up an innocent cheer question to keep Ally chatting, she sucked on her lip and spoke slowly, “Hil’s pissy about it, but she’ll get over the Ryan thing; this single-seniors idea is totally a Keith reaction. You really should say yes to Ryan.”
“Why?”
“Why not? You like him! How many times have you told me you felt slutty for hooking up with him? And, really, all you ever did was make out, which is, like, nothing. I thought this is what you wanted.”
“Yeah, but …” I sighed and scratched a bug bite behind my knee.
“But what? Last year every other week you were promising if Ryan didn’t ask you out, you were done with him. And then every time you kissed, you beat yourself up. What changed?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
“Did something happen in Connecticut?”
“What?” I stared at her blankly for a moment. “Oh. No, nothing.”
“You’re different since you came back. You sure nothing happened? I’d be the last one to judge you if you hooked up with someone. Don’t get upset, but you know he did.” Her face was a portrait of concern and sympathy.
“Different how?” Mine must’ve been painted with panic.
“Let go of your necklace and relax! That’s what I mean; you’re so tense all the time! But about weird things, like you don’t drink … and Ryan. And you didn’t flip about your haircut.”
“I did when it happened.” I touched my head self-consciously. Mom had sent the bagged hair to the wig maker. No one expected my fragile strands to endure my next round of chemo.
Ally shrugged and turned her lime-green VW Bug onto my street—a row of matching two-story, four-bedroom colonials in a line as straight as a Monopoly board. Gyver’s house stood out because of the police cruiser in his driveway; mine for having the most overly landscaped yard—flowerbeds strategically scattered from the mailbox to the front door.
“This Ryan thing, though. How much time did we spend talking about him last year? Are you really going to say no because of Hil?”
“It’s not that.” My eyes filled. It wasn’t just Hil’s pact; it was leukemia, and Gyver, and twelve types of doubt about why Ryan really asked.
“Oh, don’t cry. I’m sorry! Mia!”
I smeared my tears and makeup with the back of my hand.
“I think it’s good he asked.” She pulled into my driveway and fished a tissue out of her purse. “It shows he’s got good taste. And maybe it’s that potential thing you were talking about. If you’re not into him anymore, then tell him no, but don’t because of a silly agreement.”
“I don’t know what I want.” I checked my makeup in her visor so Mom wouldn’t pounce when I walked in the door.
“I’ll tell Hil to back off, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.” She gave me an awkward seat belt hug. “Love ya, Mia! I’ll call later in case you want to talk.”
I was exhausted by the demands of the day, bruised from Ryan’s collision and cheer practice. By the time she called, I was asleep.
Chapter 18
“How’re you feeling? You look good, considering …” The words were an ice bath; they left me shivering and gaping, because they hadn’t been offered by a doctor, nurse, or one of my parents. Not even a teacher or Principal Baker. They’d come from Meagan Andrews. She’d said them in the middle of history class.
It was the second week of school, and I was finally relaxing into a routine. Granted it was a routine that included trips to guidance, two skipped practices because I’d been too tired, and I-want-you-to-know-I’m-here-for-you comments from my teachers. Each day felt like a magic trick, convincing people to look at one thing so they missed what was going on behind the curtain—but Meagan’s question had shattered the illusion.
“What are you talking about?” My voice dropped to a razor-blade whisper. I pretended to be absorbed by the timeline of the Roman Empire on the board.
Meagan leaned across her desk, conquering the aisle between us. “I know about your leukemia. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Gyver told you?” He was by the pencil sharpener but turned at the sound of his name. “You can’t tell anyone,” I hissed at her. Without waiting for a response, I walked up to Mr. Yusella. “I need to go to the nurse.”
“Oh. Oh!” He swallowed a worried breath. “Do you want someone to walk you?”
I shook my head and hurried out the door. Before I’d made it past three classrooms, Gyver caught up. “What’s going on? You okay?”
“I trusted you.” I had to wrap my arms around my stomach to get the words out. Everything inside felt broken. I couldn’t believe he had betrayed me—to her. But why wouldn’t he? If he wrote her songs, why wouldn’t he tell her secrets?
“What are you talking about, Mi?” He held open his arms to embrace me, but instead I rained weak fists against his chest.