“What can I do for you, son?”
Son? I’ve never been called that by anyone before. Not even my mom. It’s weird as fuck. “I…um…well, I know this is kind of strange, but I was wondering…did Meg ever leave a journal here? It would have been a regular, one-subject notebook.”
Dr. Maldonado thinks for a minute. “I do recall her carrying around a notebook or two. But I don’t think she ever left anything here.” He picks up his phone and pushes a button. “Ann, did Megan Reynolds ever leave a notebook here that you know of?” There are a few seconds of silence and then he says, “Thanks,” and hangs up. “I’m sorry, Alan, there’s nothing here.”
I nod and stand. It was a long shot. I knew that going in. “Thank you, sir.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it. “And thank you for…taking care of her.”
“Of course, son. That’s my job.”
I’m halfway out the door when a thought hits me. I turn back. “Um, Dr. Maldonado?”
“Yes?”
“Would Meg have lived? You know, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant and didn’t have to stop her chemotherapy? Would she have gotten better?”
The doctor’s lips press into a thin line. It’s the first sign I’ve seen that this guy is ever anything but cool, calm, and in control. “I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss specifics of my patients’ cases.”
Oh, come on.
“But I’m her…best friend. And she’s gone. What difference does it make now?”
“I’m sorry. Even after death, I’m still bound by a confidentiality clause.” His fingers are steepled under his nose, and he looks at me with apology in his eyes.
I nod and move to leave. My shoulders feel like they’re weighted with all the boxes in Meg’s storage unit.
“Alan.”
I turn.
He sighs and lowers his voice. There’s no way anyone outside the office would be able to hear him. I can barely hear him. “Her cancer was very advanced.”
That’s not really an answer to my question, but it seems like he’s okay with breaking the rules now, so I ask another one. “But you wanted to keep doing the treatment? Before she got pregnant, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“So that means you thought there was a chance it could work, right? It wasn’t completely hopeless?”
He looks at me, his gaze clear. “There was a chance, yes. A small chance. But a chance.”
“That’s all I needed to know.”
Chapter 23
It feels good to finally be back on the soccer pitch, playing in an actual game.
The air is a little bit cool, the lights are a little bit warm, the crowd is wild, and I am on fire. I feel like Spider-Man, anticipating every shot before it comes my way, knowing where the ball is going even before the kicker does. I block each goal attempt like it’s nothing, like the goal is the size of a Whole Foods shopping basket.
I briefly wish the UCLA recruiter were at this game to see me play, but next week’s is going to be even better, on our home turf, with everyone in the stands cheering my name. This week is only the warm-up.
A huge grin splits my face as the buzzer sounds, indicating game over. Downey Pumas: 2, Clinton Central Pioneers: 0. I run out to the middle of the field to join my teammates in the celebration. They meet me in a frenzy of hugging and cheering and jumping up and down, and I pull my shirt off and swing it around over my head, screaming along with the crowd. After we shake hands with the other team (losers) and get a verbal pat on the back from Coach, half the team runs to the sidelines to make out with their cheerleader girlfriends. Dave and Shoshanna are the worst—she leaps up on him and wraps her legs around his middle, practically shoving her tongue down his throat. His hands grip her ass, under her skirt.
I grab my water bottle and towel from the sidelines and am crossing the field on my way to the visitors’ locker room when I hear my name. “Ryden!” It’s a girl’s voice. I look back at the cheerleaders. They’re all occupied. So I shift my glance over to the stands, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Who could it be? Some random girl from school? Mabel? My mom didn’t come tonight, did she?
“Whole Foods boy!”
And then I see her—Joni. She’s in the guest stands, a few rows back, waving and trying to get past all the celebrating Downey kids. I can’t believe it. She came.
I toss my towel over my shoulder and run over to her. We meet at the bottom of the bleachers. Her face is red and flushed from the cool air, and she’s got on a pair of purple earmuffs. She’s grinning the grin I’ve seen on a million fans but never thought I’d see on her: the “holy shit, sports are fucking awesome, especially when your team wins” look.
“You’re here,” I say, unable to keep the dopey ass smile off my face.
“I wanted to see you play. I figured no one I know would see me if I sat on this side.”