Send Me a Sign

“I can’t believe you told her.”

 

 

“Who?” He took both my fists in one of his hands, and with the other drew me into a hug. “I haven’t told anyone.”

 

“Who do you think? Meagan Andrews. She knows, Gyver, she knows.” My face was slick with tears, which I wiped against his Velvet Underground T-shirt.

 

“I didn’t tell her. You know I wouldn’t.” He rubbed my back and released my hands; they dropped to my sides.

 

“I need to go home.” I couldn’t be in school when Meagan told everyone. I couldn’t face their scrutiny and overwhelming pity.

 

“Okay. Let’s go.” Gyver’s hand around my shoulder supported and propelled me outside to his car. I couldn’t do anything but bite my bottom lip and shake my head. All those weeks of hiding and lying and I was going to be exposed … by her? Would it change how Gyver felt? Would he go home and add a verse about M.A.’s life-ruining tendencies?

 

“It’s going to be okay,” he reassured me.

 

I shook my head and reached for him. He drove one-handed to my house.

 

“Your dad’s home.” He pointed to his car in my driveway. “I’ll head back to school and let them know you weren’t feeling well.”

 

My eyes grew wet, but I nodded.

 

“Do I need to tell your cheer friends?” he asked.

 

I nodded again and continued to chew my lip.

 

“It’s going to be okay.” With one finger he reached out and touched my lower lip, easing it from the clutch of my teeth. “I promise. Try not to worry.”

 

I got out and trudged up the steps.

 

“I’ll stop by after school,” Gyver called from half in, half out of his car. I waved a limp hand and resumed kneading my lip with my teeth.

 

 

 

It was a long afternoon. Dad was out of his depth once he confirmed I had no temp. “Mia, kiddo, people were bound to find out.”

 

“No, they weren’t!”

 

“Did you really think you could keep it a secret?”

 

“Yes,” I gasped through a fresh tide of tears. “Mom thought I could too.”

 

“Your mother means well, but she’s …” He paused and passed me a box of tissues. “She’s struggling with the reality of your illness. I’ve tried showing her some books and charts … Well, you know how sensitive she is. But this keeping your cancer a secret, it’s not really a long-term solution.”

 

“I’m not ready,” I responded, annoyed he had higher expectations for me than Mom did.

 

He made me a cup of chamomile tea. When I ignored it and cried harder, he said, “Hang on,” disappeared into his office, and reappeared with a pack of Oreos. “Don’t tell your mother.”

 

I smiled in spite of myself, took a cookie, and twisted it apart. I ate the creamy half and dunked the naked chocolate side in the milk Dad set on the table.

 

“Better?” he asked.

 

I nodded and stared at the crumbs floating on the surface of the milk.

 

“Good. Now let’s look at this logically.” He lifted my chin. “You can’t control everything. If people find out, they find out. And sick or not, you’re a person to be respected.”

 

I gripped the cookie too tightly and it crumbled all over the table. How could I explain that my image was the only thing I could control? Only, thanks to Meagan, I couldn’t.

 

The door opened, and both of us looked guiltily to the cookies. “I’ll take the heat,” Dad reassured me. But it wasn’t Mom, it was Gyver.

 

“They make health-food Oreos? Are they as awful as that tofu ice cream?” He hesitated before reaching for one.

 

“These are the all-processed kind. Don’t tell her mom, but we needed some artificial flavoring today.” Dad gave Gyver a sheepish grin.

 

“Sure.” Gyver shoved a cookie in his mouth and dunked a second in my milk before he even took a seat. “I let the office know and told Ally you had a migraine.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Gyver pointed to the box of tissues on the table and the discard pile in my lap. “Enough of that. I talked to Meagan. She won’t tell anyone.”

 

“Really?” I latched myself around his neck, scattering tissues on the floor and knocking the Oreo out of his hand.

 

“Easy there, Mi. It’s no big deal.” Gyver laughed at my awestruck expression and reached around my back to help himself to another cookie.

 

Dad cleared his throat. “Well, it looks like you’re in good hands. I guess my work here is done.” He gathered the cookie and tissues off the floor and poured Gyver his own glass of milk before leaving. “I’ll be in my office.”

 

“Thanks, Dad.” I squeezed Gyver around the neck again.

 

“You’re—choking—me.” He laughed. I relinquished my stranglehold and returned to my own seat.

 

“Spill!” I ordered.

 

“It wasn’t hard. Meagan’s cool. I told her you didn’t want people to know and she apologized and promised she wouldn’t say anything.”

 

“You’re the best!” I quashed the urge to hug him again—once he mentioned Meagan, I no longer felt like I had a right to.

 

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