I nod, and she leaves my room to get ready for work. I’m desperate to talk to Ethan, and for a moment I consider skipping the breathing exercise. But I promised her, and she seemed so sad and helpless. She usually puts on a good show, but sometimes, like now, when she has to remind me I’m a ticking time bomb, I can see how much my sickness weighs on her.
So I force myself to finish the exercises, breathing in and then huffing out as forcefully as I can until I cough up everything in my lungs. Once I feel clear, I set the basin aside and grab my phone. I wait until I hear the shower running in the bathroom before I dial his number. He picks up on the third ring.
“Hope? Is something wrong?” Ethan asks sleepily.
I push aside the image of him rumpled and bare-chested, languidly kicking off his sheets.
“I got your email,” I say.
“What email?” he asks.
“Ha ha.” I smile into the phone.
“Seriously, what are you talking about?” he says.
“You—you really didn’t email me last night?”
“Hope, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
My heart gives a deep thud as my shoulders sag with disappointment. If it wasn’t him, then I’m back to square one: who would have sent me that email, and more important, why?
“I got an invitation last night,” I say. “It told me to go to this abandoned warehouse tomorrow night. Or I guess it’s tonight now. It said I was invited to play a game.”
“What kind of game?” I hear him yawn through the phone.
“I don’t know, it didn’t say. One sec. I’ll read it to you.” I refresh my computer screen and read the email out loud.
“Weird,” he says when I’m finished.
That’s an understatement. I wait for more, and when nothing else comes, I ask, “So should I go?”
He releases a short laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
I don’t respond.
“Hope, it’s probably some stupid joke. Forget about it.”
I gnaw on my lip. I hate that he’s brushing me off. I hate that he’s making me feel stupid. And mostly, I hate that he’s probably right.
“Hope, are you still there?”
“My mom’s calling me,” I mutter. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“What’s with the sour face?” Jenny asks as she breezes into the kitchen. She’s wearing an indecently short miniskirt paired with scuffed boots and a baggy T-shirt. Her recent fashion choices are more mature than I am, and she’s thirteen.
“Isn’t that skirt a little short?” I ask.
“What do you care?” She grabs a bowl from the cupboard and sits across from me.
I roll my eyes as she shakes off-brand raisin bran into her bowl. Jenny gets to do pretty much whatever she wants, because Mom’s too busy hovering over me to worry about whatever hijinks her healthy daughter might be up to. More and more, Jenny’s starting to realize that. It worries me.
There’s a honk outside. Jenny looks at the time on her phone. “Shit. Gotta go.”
She wolfs down two more bites before abandoning her bowl; then she simultaneously snags her bag from its spot by the door and snaps the bolt back with a deafening crack. There’s no way to do that gently, but Jenny doesn’t try. The door slams behind her, and I take her bowl to the sink.
“Let me get that,” Mom says as she enters the kitchen. She reaches to take the dish from me.
“I can do it.”
“I would rather you rest.” She gently extricates the dish from my fingers.
I grit my teeth and bite back my response—that I can wash a dish without dying—then march to my bedroom and slam the door. I curl up on the bed under my paisley duvet, plug my earbuds in, and start my French lessons again.
“Je suis perdue,” a monotone female voice says. “I am lost.”
“Je suis perdue,” I repeat.
But my heart is beating too fast, and I can’t concentrate. I pause the lesson and drag my computer into my lap. The page is still open on 291 Schilling Road. The decrepit warehouse fills the screen. Half the windows are bashed out, the whole lower level is tagged with graffiti, and weeds shoot up around the sun-faded brick as though the place has been abandoned for years. A shiver slides down my spine. If it wasn’t Ethan…who wanted to meet me here?
It’s probably some stupid joke.
I frown at the computer. If I had anything interesting going on in my life, I wouldn’t be obsessing over something that’s obviously a prank.
Mom pokes her head into the room, and I snap my computer shut.
“You okay?” she mouths. She’s already got her blue CVS apron around her neck, and the ash-blond hair she gave both Jenny and me is twisted into a bun.
I pull my earbuds out. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You seem off today.”
I feel a stab of guilt. It’s not like me to flip out on Mom—she was just trying to help.
“I’m really fine. Sorry I got mad at you. I guess I’m tired.”
“Tired?” She tilts her head, looking me over with scientific interest. “Did you not sleep well?”
“No! No, I slept fine.” I know where this is going, and I don’t want her pecking at me all day in her mother hen way.
“Okay…,” she says reluctantly. “I’ll be home at lunch to do your treatment. Do you want me to bring you anything?”