“Hope, look at me.”
I did. I’d spent so much time looking at his face I could have probably described it perfectly to a sketch artist. He had a small bump on his nose and a scar that slashed through his left eyebrow, and when the sun hit his eyes, they looked not just brown but flecked with amber, like the galaxy marbles Jenny and I used to play with in sandboxes in grade school, back when I was allowed to do things like play. His lips were parted, and I suddenly couldn’t look away from them.
There was a knock at the door then. I jolted back from Ethan as Mom popped her head in.
“Time for your treatment,” she said.
Sometimes I could accept my disease. Other times I wanted cystic fibrosis to die in a ditch.
Ethan cleared his throat. I could smell his musky scent through the chlorine on the old NYU sweater he wears after practice, and it was intoxicating. Our thighs were so close they were nearly touching. If Mom wasn’t there, I could have reached over and traced my finger along the hem of his jeans. He would have known then, without a shadow of a doubt.
The phone rang, and Mom disappeared.
“What did you want to say, before?” I asked, jumping on the opportunity.
He toyed with the drawstring on his hood. “I, well—”
The ringing stopped, and the door swung open again. Mom was there with the phone in her hand. “Just the bank.” She gave me a knowing look. Mom never answers when the bank calls. What’s the point when she has nothing to say besides “I can’t pay right now”?
Ethan popped up from the bed. “I’ll call you later, ’kay?”
I nodded into my lap, and then he was gone. Off to a life that didn’t include me, to school and parties and moonlight kisses with Savannah, while I lay on the carpet in preparation for yet another round of chest physio.
And then he sent me that mysterious email.
I didn’t say anything yesterday, didn’t kiss him when I should have, but tonight I can make up for all that. Things can change.
But they won’t, I realize. Because I’ll still be here, holed up in this apartment with its paper-thin walls. It’s hard to have a relationship when your mom is right there all the time. Another point for Savannah. I bet she doesn’t have her mother hovering over her 24/7 in case she breathes wrong.
“Hey, Mom?” I ask.
“Mmm-hmm,” she replies absently.
“Do you think I’m ready to go back to school?”
She pauses. Just for a second, but I notice.
“I mean, I feel well enough. I’m breathing easy, and I’m off the oxygen. I don’t get winded anymore when I walk, and I really miss seeing my friends.”
She shakes her head in my peripheral vision. Everything inside me tightens and liquefies, all at the same time.
“It may seem like you’re doing better,” she says, “but you’re not out of the woods yet. That chest infection nearly did you in, and it’s cold season. Becky at work has a nasty cough, and her kids are all sick too. It’s just a bad idea.”
I nod, but then I think about Ethan, about Savannah, about sitting in the same bed for another day, another week.
“Someone is always sick,” I say. “I can’t stay cloistered in my room my whole life just in case someone sneezes near me. Please, Mom. I want to go back. I need to.”
“She’s right.” My little sister, Jenny, appears in the doorway. She’s wearing pajamas, and her ash-blond hair is pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head. I’m pretty sure there’s mascara smudged under her eye. “You can’t keep her locked away all the time.”
“You say that like I’m evil,” Mom says, her hands momentarily leaving my back. “Her life is at risk!”
“But what is life anyway if you just spend it lying in bed every day?” Jenny counters.
“Jenny, that’s enough!” Mom says.
Jenny huffs and disappears down the hallway. I focus on a crack in the plaster so I don’t cry. Smooth jazz and whirring tires come in through my window.
“I thought I told you to keep the window closed,” Mom says irritably.
I don’t answer. Can’t.
Mom sighs heavily, and I know what she looks like even if I can’t see her: a balloon with the air let out, deflated and sad.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she says, more gently this time. “But it’s just too dangerous.”
“I know, Mom,” I say, because I can’t stand to upset her. “I just thought I’d try.”
She climbs off my back and hands me a plastic basin. “Don’t forget to do your breathing.”