Ryan didn’t do big shows of sympathy. At least not when it came down to choosing between his friends—my former friends—and me. If I wanted condolences about Gyver’s continued distance, I bet he’d have found plenty to say about that, but about everyone else he was pretty quiet. I’d wanted him to come running, to hold me and tell me everything would be okay, to offer to skip the rest of the day and take me home so I could hide beneath my covers.
Instead he squeezed my hand and walked me to class. “Okay, that was bad yesterday, but how’d you expect them to react? They’re hurt.”
I hurt too. And my cell stayed silent, like I’d never been a girl whose phone seemed alive with buzzes and chirps. The shopping bag containing my uniform still sat in my locker, taunting me each time I retrieved books: you used to be this girl; you used to be happy.
“Good. I thought I’d have to call and tell you to turn these in and I already deleted your number from my phone,” Hil said when I finally worked up the strength to hand it to her on Thursday.
“I know you’re mad, but don’t be like this. Just because I’m not on the squad doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“Newsflash, you and I haven’t been friends for a while. All you did today was turn in the uniform that marked you as a person worth noticing.” She shook the bag, then shoved it in the bottom of her locker.
“Hil—” I pleaded.
“No! You’ve always acted like you were better than us: with your perfect grades and perfect parents. You thought you were smarter and kinder and prettier.”
“Not prettier—” I clasped a hand to my mouth, realizing what I’d implied.
Hillary narrowed her eyes. “One of these days Ryan’s going to dump you, and Gyver’s going to stop looking like he wants to jump in front of a train for you. Then what will you be left with?”
“Apparently, not my best friend,” I retorted.
She wilted. “How could you not tell me?” She slammed her locker and ran down the hall before I could answer.
What would I be left with? Her words haunted me as I drove the sleepy streets of East Lake, circling the body of water the town was named after. I didn’t want to go home and deal with Mom’s anxious energy. Ryan was stuck at soccer practice.
What would I be left with? Gyver had judged, Ryan was distracted, but it was Hil’s question that made me pause. Cancer had cost me so much: friendships, grades, cheerleading, my whole sense of who I was. I needed to know: Would I beat this and have time to fix things?
Press gas. Pump brakes. Turn wheel. Flip turn signal. Pause at stop signs. These things were automatic. I could do them without thinking, which was good because my mind was spinning too fast for thoughts to develop into coherence. My eyes stared out the windshield, seeing other cars and keeping appropriate distances but not registering anything. Not until long after my gas light was on and beeping persistently. Then I looked around and didn’t immediately recognize where I was. I wasn’t in East Lake. I was probably pushing the boundaries of Green Lake too. Edging closer to Hamilton and the bigger highways. There was a gas station within sight on my left, attached to a run-down strip mall that I studied while the numbers next to the dollar sign spun upward and the pump glugged gas into my car. An insurance agency. A cash for gold place. A dollar store. And a psychic’s sign.
The pump beneath my hand jerked to a stop, and I had to force my eyes away from the gold lettering on a teal background so I could unhook the nozzle and close the gas cap on my car.
I’d been searching for a way to know the outcome, and this was a clear sign: a four-leaf clover found under a lucky horseshoe. Or a black cat walking under a ladder on Friday the thirteenth. I wouldn’t know which until I went inside.
I expected scarves and crystal balls, like I’d pass through the modern glass door and face the flaps of an ancient gypsy tent. Not so. It resembled my dentist’s waiting room. There were potted plants, generic landscapes on beige walls, industrial carpeting, and a TV tuned to Lifetime. A large L-shaped desk sat in the center of the room; one arm covered with a computer and printouts, the other with tea things, crystals, and a stack of worn tarot cards. A large woman with frizzy gray hair was seated behind the desk. She smiled and turned off the TV.
“Are you here for a reading, dear?” Her soothing voice sounded too young for her wrinkled face and knobby knuckles.
“I guess.” My hand wouldn’t release the door despite the heat whooshing past me into the cool, late October afternoon.
“Ah, first timer. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” With effort, she pushed herself out of her chair, plugged in an electric teakettle, dimmed the lights, and pressed Play on a stereo. Exotic music filled the air—Gyver would know the instruments and origins; I found it distracting.
“Come. Sit. Let’s do a tarot and tea leaf reading; that’s a good start.”
I let the door slip from my fingers. It banged closed and I startled forward. A printout of prices was displayed in an ornate frame on the corner of the desk. I fumbled in my purse and pulled out a twenty. She hummed as she slid it off the desktop, then began to shuffle and organize her deck of tarot.