The week blurred by in a flurry of motion. Gyver refused to acknowledge me. He didn’t even look in my direction—as if he were already getting used to the idea of sitting next to an empty desk. He pretended I didn’t exist; I pretended not to notice I was weaker or that my heart sprinted and my lungs clenched.
I was tired. All the time. Racing pulse and tight chest hadn’t been symptoms before, but they were constant now. These had to be signs I was sicker. Did it show in my blood counts? Would they be able to tell I was a lost cause when I went in for my second round of consolidation chemo in two weeks? Was that why Dad shut himself in his makeshift planetarium after long phone calls with Dr. Kevin?
I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t sleep. When I tried, I choked on the things I wouldn’t live to experience or woke up sweaty and breathless.
Only once did I lose post-psychic detachment—when I unearthed last year’s Halloween costume during a two a.m. cleaning binge. I stared at the sequined honeybee tube dress and wondered what happened to the costumes Lauren picked for this year. I couldn’t remember what they were or if I’d been school/hospital/home on Autumn Girl’s favorite holiday.
I sobbed as I threw the costume in the trash and covered its yellow-and-black stripes with the ratty cheerleading sweatshirt Mom hated. All my pictures of the Calendar Girls were boxed and hidden; the costume had been an emotional ambush. I’d be more prepared next time.
“Don’t you miss them?” Ryan asked on our way to lunch on Friday, his head tilted to the side, his fingers woven through mine. I clung to him; he was the only thing grounding me to this school, where I drifted through the halls like a ghost already. People’s eyes slid over and around me, uncomfortable with my pallor, too-thin body, and vacant eyes.
“Why do I need them? I have you.” I offered this with a smile and a peck, but they were empty words and a hollow kiss. He pretended to believe me, but his eyes tightened with recognition.
I did miss them, especially as the hallways filled with talk about the Fall Ball. Their names were on the ballot. Mine wasn’t.
“Do we have to go?” I asked Ryan at lunch.
“I kinda have to—I’m on the court. You don’t want to? You used to live for this sort of thing.”
“You go; I’ll stay home.” I poked holes in my sandwich.
“Don’t be like that. We’ll have fun.” He put a hand on my knee. “Promise.”
“What’s he promising now?” Chris interjected. “The moon, stars, and everlasting bliss?”
“Something like that,” I answered, a fake smile forming automatically on my lips, though it was hard to maintain because my chest hurt, my lungs felt flattened.
“But Ryan, you promised me those same things last week—you man-whore!” Chris grinned and swiped my apple.
“Tell Mia Fall Ball will be fun,” Ryan prompted.
“Of course it will,” Chris scoffed. “Just picture me in the crown and dancing like this.”
I laughed at his robot and running man and when he moved behind Bill and began to grind. Laughed because it was expected. I tangled my fingers in my necklace: under the table I was tapping a pulse with my foot.
Ryan joined in, but there was desperation in his laugh and on his lips when he pressed them against mine and whispered in my ear, “We’ll have fun. Promise.”
I squeezed his fingers and tried to believe him. We all had our coping methods. Gyver had his anger. Mom had her obsession with finding me the perfect dress for the Fall Ball. Dad had his star maps and phone calls to doctors. I had Ryan.
I still needed him, but did he still want me? By the end of the day, my hand ached from how tightly I gripped his, but it was getting harder to convince myself that we still worked.
“Promise,” Ryan repeated. His coping method: self-deception.
Chapter 43
Gyver’s desk was empty on Monday. I’d decided the night before to ask him for calc help. He might be furious, but I couldn’t imagine he’d say no. In my plans, he’d help me and, more importantly, forgive me. Getting Mr. Bonura and Principal Baker off my case would just be a bonus. But Gyver wasn’t in any of our classes.
On Tuesday, dizzy panic compelled me to ask Meagan.
“He’ll be home this afternoon. He’s visiting colleges.” Her face was a blend of judgment and pity. “I know it’s none of my business, but fix things with him, okay?”
“I tried, but he won’t talk to me,” I mumbled.
“Keep trying, then. Hillary managed to apologize to him, and it’s not like they’re friendly. You know how much he cares for you.”
Hil apologized? He’d accepted her apology but not mine? I swallowed past the tightening in my throat. “Did he tell you I didn’t know about Max? I feel awful about the hospital.”
“It’s okay,” Meagan answered, but she was suddenly engrossed in her calc notes.
I excused myself to go to the bathroom and went home instead. Gyver’d left on college tours. Last year we’d planned our route together. We’d spent afternoons with Dad making spreadsheets and sending away for catalogs.
He’d gone without me. It was a sign he’d accepted next fall I wouldn’t be around to matriculate with him.