Chris coughed. “Hey, Hil, look who I found.”
“I wish you hadn’t,” she said icily, and resumed dismantling a bunch of grapes. Ally dropped her bagel. She was the only one who returned my “Hey, guys,” with a quiet, guilty “Hi, Mia,” before Hil shot her a look that made her drop her bagel again.
I kissed Ryan on the cheek and told him I’d see him later. I wanted him to stay and sit beside me and hold my hand, but he and Chris didn’t sit at our table on a normal day, and I wanted to pretend this was normal.
It was lunchtime, where the main event was everyone watching Hil ignore me; Ally and Lauren following her lead.
This wasn’t where or how I’d planned it, but after my third lame question about cheerleading was met with silence, I couldn’t take the tension anymore. “Can we talk?”
“No,” Hil said and stood.
I turned to Ally, who was too busy chewing her lip and watching Hil to notice. Lauren wouldn’t meet my eye, which made no sense. She knew, so how could she possibly feel betrayed or left out or whatever was fueling Hil’s pissy mood?
I tried for faux sternness, but only managed desperate. “Hillary, sit down and listen to me. I know you’re mad I didn’t call, but I really had a good excuse.”
She whirled, her burgundy fingernail pointed a few inches from my nose. “I don’t want more excuses. I don’t even care anymore—why should I? It’s been eleven days since you promised to call. I’m obviously not important to you.” Her hand dropped back to her side, clenched in a fist as she began to walk away.
This stupid secret seemed the only card left to play, and even more than I hated telling, I hated telling her this way. “Of course I care. Hil, wait!”
She didn’t. Kept widening the gap between us. Two lunch tables. Three. Tables full of students watching us with open fascination and hope for a scandal.
“I have cancer!” I yelled the words across a five-table chasm and hurried to where she’d finally stopped, two-thirds of the way across a room that was lined with gawkers. Her back was still to me, so I took a deep breath and plunged on. “Leukemia.”
With shaky fingers I reached up and removed my wig. It was like the world had a mute button. Some of the students shifted uncomfortably and others leaned forward—the rustling of lunch wrappers and a whispered echo of leukemia were the only sounds.
“Hil? Did you hear me?”
She turned, revealing a face of wet eyes and trembling lips.
And hands in fists, as she crossed her arms in an angry self-hug. “I heard.”
The cafeteria resounded with shh and buzzed with the giddy energy of eavesdroppers. “I also heard it from Lauren a week ago. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I kept waiting for my turn—God knows I gave you plenty of opportunities. How could you not tell me?”
“Hil, it wasn’t like that …” I felt more people join us, but my words weren’t for Ally or Lauren or Chris. Ryan put a hand on my shoulder, but I shook him off.
“Wasn’t like what?” she asked. “Like you told Gyver, Ryan, and Lauren? God, Lauren! But you didn’t tell me?”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Shut up, Lauren,” snapped Hil, at the same time as I said, “Stay out of this.”
Lauren retreated to stand next to Ally, who looked at my bald head and began to cry, quiet at first, but with the great gulping breaths that heralded sobs.
I didn’t know what to say. The cafeteria was noisy now, filled with unconcealed gossip: I would’ve bet it was anorexia. My money was on drugs. Can you believe he’s dating her? Why?
Hil was clenching and unclenching her fists and my heart was beating much too fast. My throat tightened, so even if I’d known what to say, I couldn’t have spoken.
Hil broke our staring contest with a voice that quavered. “I’m supposed to be your best friend. Best friend! And you hide something like this from me for months?”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t want your pity or—”
“I’m sorry too. Sorry I wasted so long worrying what I’d done to offend you and make you shut me out. For as much time as you spend complaining about your mom, you’re turning into a fabulous mini-her. Congratulations, you don’t have my pity. You don’t have my friendship either. I’m done.”
When she stormed away this time I didn’t follow, but Lauren did. Ryan was engrossed in a conversation with Chris, a hand on his shoulder. Ally was wailing. I felt like the epicenter of a disaster.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I looked at our Spring Girl, but she wasn’t sunny or optimistic right now; her normally impeccable hair twisted in a sloppy knot, splotches on her cheeks, tear-smudged mascara.
“I didn’t really tell anyone. It wasn’t personal.”