Send Me a Sign

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Thanks. Quiet though, she might be asleep.”

  Wishful thinking. I kept my eyes open but didn’t bother sitting up when he and Mom entered my room. “Kitten, look who I found in the kitchen.”

  “Hi.”

  Gyver filled my bedroom door, his eyes more alert than I’d ever seen them before nine a.m. He balanced a kitchen tray and his mug of coffee. “Hey, Mi. Are you okay? Do you want this?” He nodded toward the tray. It was loaded with juice, fruit salad, toast, a bottle of water, organic cardboard toaster pastries, and granola bars: an arsenal of food for a patient who had no appetite.

  I shook my head. Gyver placed it on the floor and sat on the corner of my bed. Mom hovered by my desk. Both of them stared at me like they were decoding a puzzle written on my face.

  “I’m just tired. Dr. Kevin said I would be.” I’d slept all weekend, bailing on cheering on Friday and Saturday’s party with a weak excuse of food poisoning. I’d felt recharged enough for school Monday and Tuesday. Enough to feel jealous of everyone’s party stories: Chris peed in a house plant; Lauren hooked up with Bill’s older brother; a JV cheerleader broke up with her boyfriend, so Ally spent the night comforting her and Hil ordered the linebacker ex to leave—even though the party was at the house of one of his teammates. Ryan had, according to Hil, spent the night pouting and texting. While I doubted the first part, I had a half-dozen Saturday night texts from him—all clever variations of date me. I’d spent Sunday morning trying to come up with a response: trying, and failing, and avoiding him at school like some reverse game of hide and seek.

  Today school seemed impossible.

  “Just tired,” Mom repeated. “Let’s take your temperature.”

  “Again? You’ve taken it three times, and it hasn’t been above 99.1.”

  “Just once more.” I accepted the thermometer and returned it post-beep. “Okay, 98.9. So, a day in bed? But Mia, I can’t stay home today. I’ve got client meetings. I’ve missed so much work and I’m taking next week off for your chemo. Mr. Russo will be here to get me any minute … But if you need me, I guess I could try to work something out.” She twisted her hands and looked at me with tortured uncertainty.

  “I’ll be fine.” I yawned.

  Mom started to pace the room. “Your father already left—but I called him. He’s got a showing this morning, then he’ll come home. He’ll be back by noon. Maybe I could go in late? Cancel my nine-thirty meeting?”

  “I’ll stay.” Gyver tickled my foot through the blanket.

  “Seriously, I don’t need supervision. I’m just going to sleep.”

  “Then I’ll sleep with you,” Gyver blurted out.

  I raised an eyebrow and Mom blinked rapidly.

  “I mean, I won’t sleep with you. But if you’re sleeping …” Gyver ran a hand through his hair and took a gulp of coffee. “This is why I shouldn’t speak before ten.”

  “We understood what you meant,” Mom said. “And that’s a kind offer, but you have school.”

  “My dad’ll say it’s okay. I can at least stay until Mr. Moore gets home. That way you’ll have someone here if you need something—like, I don’t know, what’s not on your tray?—apple juice.” This was directed at me, but he turned back to my mom. “Wouldn’t you feel better knowing someone was here?”

  “My nine-thirty meeting is important …,” Mom mused. “You’ll call if you need anything?”

  “Of course. I know the drill; I spent so much time at the hospital this summer, I’m practically an RN.” He handed me a bottle of water. I obediently took a sip.

  “I would feel better if you weren’t alone, but I’m not saying yes. That’s up to your dad.”

  “What’s up to me? Is there a neighborhood meeting going on up there?” Mr. Russo’s voice sounded from the bottom of the stairs. Gyver left to talk to him.

  “You okay with this, kitten? Are you sure you don’t need me?”

  “Go to your meeting. If Gyver wants to stay, he’s going to be bored. He should know by now that when I say I’m going to sleep I sleep.”

  “It can’t be more boring than listening to you talk about cheerleading,” Gyver said from the doorway. “My dad said it’s fine. He’s waiting in the car and says come out when you’re ready.”

  My mom looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go or we’ll sit in traffic. Call me if you need anything. Thank you, Gyver. Let her sleep as much as possible.”

  “Will do, Mrs. Moore.” The scent of her perfume lingered as we listened to the front door close and then stared at each other.

  “What do you want to do now?” Gyver asked.

  “Sleep.” How had I made it to seventeen without realizing my eyelids were so heavy?

  “Right. You sleep. I’ll …” Gyver retrieved a magazine from beneath a stack of clean laundry on my desk and sat next to me. “I’ll read about ‘Jen’s Baby Drama’ and ‘Hot New Trends for Fall.’ You know how hard I strive to be trendy.”

  I nodded and shut my eyes.

  “Mia?” The whisper and hand on my arm were unwelcome.

  I tried to keep irritation out of my voice. “Dad, I’m really tired.”

  “Shh, Gyver’s sleeping.” He crouched next to me, a hand resting on my bedside table for support. “Sorry to wake you, kiddo, but you need to take your meds. Then you can go back to sleep.”

  “What time is it?” I lowered my voice to match his. My room was bright and my eyes were crusty.

  “After two.”

  I tried to sit up and take the bottle of juice Dad offered, but something anchored me in place. It was Gyver’s arm, which he’d wrapped across me while I slept. His foot weighed down my calf. His face was inches from mine, his breath warm and steady on my cheek.

  I blushed, wide awake. What had Dad thought when he walked in and saw Gyver wrapped around me like a hotdog bun? Granted, Gyver was on top of the covers and I was underneath. Still.

  I took the thermometer, muffling its beep with a cupped hand. “98.7.” Then lifted my head off the pillow enough to swallow the pills and juice. Oh so carefully, I lay down. “I’m going to sleep more,” I lied in a whisper, hoping my blush would pass as just-woken flush.

  Dad nodded, patted my shoulder, and tiptoed out of the room.

  Gyver was half on my spare pillow, the one Jinx normally occupied, and half on mine. His exhales breezed over my cheek; if I turned my head in his direction, our noses would’ve brushed. I focused on the warmth and weight of his arm and leg and listening to him breathe.

  Because I was paying attention to the rhythm of his inhales and exhales, I knew the moment he woke. Other than an instinctive tightening then relaxing of his arm, he didn’t move right away either.

  “You awake?” I whispered at the ceiling.

  “Yeah.”

  I rolled to face him. His foot slid off my leg, but his arm remained around my waist. Only a few inches of pillowcase separated our eyes and lips. I was too aware of that fact.

  “How’d you sleep?” Gyver whispered, though there was no one left to wake.

  “Great.” Whispering must be infectious, because I did too.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really. I’ll get something in a bit. Are you?”

  “No, I helped myself to your breakfast tray.”

  “Good. Thanks for staying with me. Sorry I was so boring.” “I’ll play hooky with you anytime. Not only did I get out of our history test, but I got to read about”—Gyver reached behind him for the magazine and flipped it open—“the best pants for my body type.”

  I smiled. “Which are?”

  “No clue. I couldn’t figure out if I’m a triangle, rectangle, circle, or sideways bow tie. How do girls know these things? What are you?”

  “That’s an hourglass, not a bow tie. I’m a rectangle, because I’m not super curvy, but an hourglass, too, since I have a waist.” I felt stupid talking about my body—and self-conscious drawing attention to my waist, where his hand had just rested. A fact he was aware o
f too; his eyes flicked there before coming back to meet mine.

  We were quiet for a heartbeat. Two. Then my heart sped up as my blood rushed to my cheeks and that was no longer an accurate way of counting.

  My focus shifted from my racing pulse to an awareness of how good he smelled. My eyes drifted to his lips, and my thoughts? They drifted to our first kiss. Our only kiss.

  It had taken place in his car—more than a year ago—on the night Gyver got his license. He’d taken me out to celebrate with ice cream.

  We could’ve eaten at our usual picnic table. In fact, we could’ve walked home—Scoops is less than a mile from our houses. But that night we’d sat in his car and Gyver cranked the A/C to keep my cone from dripping. “Where should we go next, Mi?”

  “Wherever. It’s just nice to be parentless.” I gave him a cheesy high-five, but he grasped my hand instead, leaned in, and pressed his lips to mine.

  It was the best kiss I’d had—until I knocked my ice cream off the cone and into his lap. There’s no way to read that as anything but a bad sign. A very bad sign. He’d pulled back in surprise and banged his head on the window. I’d gone to retrieve the melting glob of chocolate fudge—until I realized where I’d be reaching and he stopped me with a sharp, “I’ve got it.”

  I’d darted out of the car to get napkins. By the time I’d returned, he’d wiped himself off with tissues from the glove box. The only evidence of our ill-fated kiss was a chocolate stain on the crotch of his khaki cargo shorts and my red cheeks. We never discussed it.

  Was he thinking about it now too?

  I willed my gaze from his lips to his eyes; they were dark, questioning.

  My phone beeped on my nightstand. I blinked—how long had it been since I had blinked? In the instant my eyes were closed, something changed. When I opened them, the intensity was gone, the moment passed.

  Gyver rolled away and sat up. “I bet that’s The Jock.”

  I picked up my phone and read the screen. “Don’t call him that. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s my horoscope.”

  Gyver snorted. “You have your horoscope sent to your phone? So what’s today’s dire prediction?”

  “It says: ‘Things can’t balance on a knife’s edge. Make careful choices because once you decide, you can’t go back.’ I guess it was a good day to hide in bed.”

  I flipped through the other texts. Ally: U OK? Lauren’s: Out again?! Hil: Call me. There were two from Ryan: L8 or sick? Then, a few hours later: RU contagious? Can I get a good luck kiss b4 the game?

  I looked at Gyver. He was playing with his own phone, but lifted his eyes to meet my gaze. “Meagan says hi and that the test was easy.”

  She knew he was here. At some point today, Gyver had checked in with her, which meant that while he’d had my full attention, at least during the times I was awake, I hadn’t had his. I hit Reply and fumbled with the keys. I didn’t feel lucky—I felt a little queasy—but Ryan wanted me, which was more than I could say about Gyver. And if he thought my kiss was good luck, I wasn’t going to jinx him.

  “You’re blushing.” Gyver glanced over my shoulder. “Oh. What are you telling The Jock?” he asked in a tight voice.

  “I’m serious, stop calling him that!” When Gyver waited, I added, “That I’m not contagious. He can stop by if he wants.”

  He stood up. “I better go then. School gets out in ten minutes. If Ryan’s”—he overemphasized the name—“going to come over before his game, he’ll be here soon. I doubt he’d be happy to find me here.” He pointed at the bed and echoed his last word, “Here.”

  I nodded. He was right, but I didn’t like the new attitude in his voice. “Thanks again for staying with me.”

  He opened the door, and Jinx squeezed between his legs and jumped on the bed, her tail twitching as she settled on the pillow he’d abandoned.

  “I hate to say this, but your horoscope was right, Mi. You’ve got to make some decisions. Things can’t stay like this.” I looked down at Jinx and didn’t reply. “I’ll call you later.”

  Chapter 20

  I took a quick shower and changed into clean pajamas—regular clothes seemed pointless this late in the day. Mom would have to deal with it.

  I was gently towel drying my hair when I heard Ryan’s voice in the kitchen. “Hey, Mr. Moore.”

  “Hi, Ryan. Mia’s in her room. Wash your hands before you go up, please.”

  I cringed, but Ryan’s “sure” sounded fine.

  Things had changed. I never had many rules, but my parents had drawn the line at boys in my bedroom. Maybe now they felt I was too sick to do anything, like having leukemia made me less of a teenager.

  They were wrong. When Ryan stepped in the room, I forgot all about cancer. I studied his hair first—the natural highlights turning it gold—and then his summer-at-the-shore tan, dark-yellow hooded sweatshirt, and blue soccer shorts. Finally, I let myself focus on his face—bright blue eyes and brighter smile. He looked down at me with such concern and … attraction. This was why I never had any luck not kissing him. But maybe kissing was what I needed right now; a reminder that Gyver wasn’t the only guy in the world.

  “Hey, you. Are you skipping or really sick?” He crossed the room with athletic strides and sat next to me on the bed. His mouth was paused a breath from mine as he waited for my reply.

  “Not contagious.” I stretched to meet his lips and his arms curled around me. The summer sun seeped from his skin—warming mine where we touched. We lay down—annoying Jinx, who jumped off the bed, pawed the door open, and left.

  “It’d be worth it to catch whatever,” Ryan murmured against my neck, sliding his hand up the hem of my pajama camisole. He paused and glanced at the now-open door. “Your dad’s downstairs. He’s not going to come check on us, is he?” He moved his hand back to my waist.

  “I don’t think so.” But his “catch whatever” felt like clouds on a sunny day. The words stole the warmth from my skin and all playfulness from the moment.

  “I should go. Coach Burne’ll kill me if I miss the bus.” He sat up, then crashed back for another kiss. “’Kay, I’m really going now. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck.” The words tasted uncertain.

  He hesitated. “Mia, I know you’ve been avoiding me, but have you thought at all? About us?”

  “Ryan … I can’t.” I played with the cuff of my pajama pants.

  “Why not? At least tell me why. Is it Hil? Since when does she run your life?”

  “I thought you had to go.” On cue, his phone beeped. “See? That’s probably Chris or Bill wondering where you are.”

  “I’ve got a minute.” He put his hand on mine.

  “Why can’t we keep things like this?”

  “Because it’s not enough anymore. I want to get to know you, as much as I want to do this—” He kissed me until I was dizzy and breathless, then leaned back against my pillow with a look that was exactly as seductive as he intended. “If you really don’t want to date me, let me know. I’m not going to ask again.”

  I stared at my hands and chewed my lip. His words were the second echo of my horoscope. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I looked at him, lying across my bed like he belonged there. “I’m sick.” The words weren’t as hard as I’d expected, but I waited for his reaction.

  He grinned and stood up. “We don’t have to go on a date this minute. I’m already going to be speeding to make the bus.” He pulled out his phone.

  “No. I’m … really sick.” These words were harder. I choked them past my necklace, which I’d twisted strangulation-tight. “I’ve got leukemia.”

  Ryan continued to look at his phone, but he wasn’t texting. He hit the Power button, shoved it in his pocket, and sat down. Sank down. His face was gray beneath the tan and his mouth half-open. “What?”

  I didn’t repeat myself. He couldn’t want to hear it again; I couldn’t say it again. I reached for his hand. Tentative, because I wasn’
t sure how he felt about me anymore. Would he ever look at me like he had when entering my bedroom?

  “When?” His eyes looked huge against his ashen face. He cradled my hand like it was breakable.

  “I found out this summer.”

  “This summer? That’s why … Connecticut? And cheerleading?”

  “Those aren’t complete sentences, but probably.”

  “Leukemia?” He said it slow, like a tricky vocabulary word. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “The doctors say everything’s going well …” He was staring at my hand, but his eyes were unfocused. “Don’t you have a game you need to get to?”

  I wanted him to stay, to process this and want me anyway. But it had to be his choice.

  “The game.” He placed my hand back on my lap like he was putting away a delicate teacup. “Yeah, the game. We’ll talk.” He stood and turned away.

  “Ryan, it’s okay. I didn’t expect …” My voice and heart were breaking a little.

  “I can’t … Shit! I don’t—I’ve gotta go.” He failed at smiling, then shut the door. His footsteps ran and his tires sped. He couldn’t get away from my illness—from me—fast enough.

  I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed. Mad at myself.

  He wasn’t worth it. I’d let myself hope. I’d known he’d react this way. Mom warned me. Telling him was a mistake. I couldn’t take it back, though. Soon everyone would know. I ruined everything.

  “Kiddo, you need anything?” Dad called from downstairs.

  “No, thanks,” I answered in a voice that almost sounded tear free. Not that he’d notice. “Doing homework.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I hugged the spare pillow. Tight. Pressed into it to muffle my sobs. It smelled of Gyver and Ryan until I drenched it and changed the scent to moisturizer and sadness.

  There was a knock on my door. “Dad, I don’t need anything.”

  “Mia, don’t cry! Crap.” Ryan stood at the foot of my bed. His hands curling the bottom of his soccer shirt, eyes red-rimmed, and hair disheveled. “I panicked. I had to think. I’m sorry.”