“You did? Why?”
“Well, I am the universal donor: O-negative. What are you?” He looked at my hospital bracelet. “It figures, you’re an A-plus. Do you ever do anything that’s not perfect?”
“I’ve got about a billion mutant white blood cells.”
“Yeah, the first nonperfect thing about you, and we’ve got to destroy it. I figured if you had to get blood, some of it might as well be mine.”
“The song,” I muttered, thinking out loud.
“What song? Do you need a new playlist? I’m working on Ballads for Battling Blasts. It’s all eighties bands like Aerosmith, Danger*Us, Whitesnake, and Foreigner. I’ll bring my laptop tomorrow and put it on your iPod.”
“No, the song from that night. ‘I’m willing to bleed for days … so you don’t hurt so much.’ It really was a sign.”
“Mi!” Gyver groaned and slid his grip from my bracelet to my hand. “No more superstitious crap. I mean it.”
Day four of chemo was worse. It hurt. Like frostbite in my veins. I writhed, but it didn’t help. Lying still didn’t help. Holding Gyver’s hand didn’t help. Prayed for sleep. It didn’t come. Asked for sleep meds. Those helped.
My head was heavy. The room was bright. Shut eyes. “Mom?”
“Right here, kitten.”
“Gyver?”
“I’m here, Mi.”
“Okay.”
Sleep.
Wake. Tired. Tried to eat. Too tired. Sleep.
“Where’s your handsome boyfriend?” Nurse Hollywood attached another bag of chemo. I flinched, though this part didn’t hurt.
“What?” Her words startled me. I’d been thinking about Ryan. My life was throwing up, sweating through stacks of the organic pajamas Mom bought me, and feeling too weak to get out of bed or focus on conversations. And I wasn’t in the “bad” stage yet. I was grateful Ryan couldn’t see what a mess I’d become.
“Gyver. Where’s he today?”
“He’s coming … after work.” It took a long time for the words to move from my brain to my lips.
“Where’s he work?” She was making polite conversation. I’d already failed to know any of the celebrity gossip she’d mentioned.
My mom sat at my bedside and flipped through a magazine—lately she couldn’t look at me. And when she did, she couldn’t look away. She’d always been a shopper, but now Dad was showing up with boxes nearly every day—the organic pajamas; chemical-free soap, shampoo, and body lotion; a white-noise machine; an air purifier. She ordered anything and everything she thought might help, and I did my best to sound enthusiastic whenever she unearthed another holistic whatever from bubble wrap and held it up to be admired.
“Me?” Dad asked from the doorway. Gyver was right behind him. He handed today’s packages to Mom and then joined Gyver at the sink for the hand-scrubbing ritual. “I’m a Realtor. How are you doing, kiddo?”
I gave him a weak thumbs-up, not lifting my hand from the sheet. Dad kissed Mom’s cheek and settled into a chair on my left.
Gyver took his usual edge-of-my-bed perch, pulled out his ubiquitous guitar pick, and began rolling it across the backs of his fingers. “Jinx is good, but she misses you.”
“It’s been a rough day,” Nurse Hollywood informed them. To me, she asked, “Who’s Jinx?”
“My cat.” It was a Herculean effort to say the words.
“Gyver gave her to Mia years ago. Named her too.” Dad chuckled.
Gyver shrugged. “I figured the best way to cure her of being superstitious was to give her a black cat named Jinx on a Friday the Thirteenth.”
Nurse Hollywood smiled at him. “I was just asking Mia when her boyfriend would show up. She’s lucky to have such a devoted guy.”
Gyver dropped the pick and looked at me—eyebrows raised. Dad coughed and excused himself to go find water.
Mom paused with a page half-turned. “Mia and Gyver? They’re practically brother and sister. Mia’s dating Ryan, the captain of the soccer and basketball teams.”
“Ryan’s not …”
Gyver’s words were sharp. “We’re not dating. We’re friends. Just friends.”
“I’m sorry. I assumed …”
“It’s okay,” Gyver cut her off.
I shut my eyes, planning to pretend to sleep, but real sleep tumbled in.
Fevers.
Night sweats.
IV nutrition when I threw up too much.
Treatment continued. And continued to suck.
Without questions about cheerleading, my plans for the night, my friends, Ryan, or school, my parents were at a loss for conversation topics. “How was your day?” was out because we spent our days together—making my hospital room claustrophobically small.
Dad was on his third or fourth Sudoku puzzle, Mom was napping in a chair, and I was skimming a magazine while texting lies to Ally when a pair of shrieking girls scrambled through my door.
“What! What’s going on?” Mom jerked awake, blustering and glaring at the tiny bald-headed pair. They were grinning and hiding giggles behind IV-bruised hands.