If you insist . . . I make a feeble attempt at grooming: brushing my hair and my teeth, changing my clothes and applying a thin layer of rose lip gloss.
Micah texts me when he arrives. He circles behind the car, opens my door, holds my crutches, and supports my arm as I climb in. He jiggles the keys until I click my seat belt.
“You’re being kidnapped,” Micah says, turning the key in the ignition.
“Hmm. You might need a dictionary. Because number one, I am going with you willingly and number two, I’m a freaking adult! Why does no one remember that?”
Micah laughs. “I keep telling my mom that too. She says that she’ll treat me like an adult next year when I start college and I’m living on my own.” He pulls away from the curb slowly. “Have you heard back from your top schools yet?”
That too-small skin feeling creeps back over me. “I missed the deadlines to apply.”
He brakes abruptly. “You what?”
“Hey, hey! Safe driving, buddy! You’re the responsible one, remember?”
“Sorry. I just—are you serious?”
“Yeah. I uh . . . I don’t know.” I don’t have any explanation worth saying. “I screwed up, I guess.”
He drives in silence for a little while. “You can always go to a community college for a couple years and then transfer to another school. You didn’t miss the boat for that. And it’s way less expensive anyway.”
“Yeah, or I could get a job at Yogurt Dream. Work my way up to manager. Live off the free fro-yo.” I lean my head against the window. It feels cool to the touch.
“Cayenne.” Micah readjusts the rearview mirror. “This is gonna sound cheesy and maybe presumptuous, because I know you’re six months older and all, but I have to say it.”
“Shoot.” I tilt my head toward him so that I can kind of see him, even with my forehead resting on the window.
“I don’t think it matters what your plan is. Plans change all the time. Did I tell you I only got a partial scholarship to Cal, instead of a full one like I hoped? I’m gonna apply for another one, but I might still be in debt up to my eyeballs by the time I finish. So obviously, planning doesn’t guarantee anything, and we always have to deal with curveballs. But you gotta have a plan. You gotta start somewhere.”
I slump, as much as I can with stretched-taut skin. “Where exactly is that ice cream? I’d like a quart. All for me.”
We both order double scoops. Me—mocha almond fudge and pecan with pralines. Him—cookie dough and birthday cake. I tease him about ordering kiddie flavors, but he tells me I’m just jealous, and maybe I am. I do like cookie dough.
He drives me to his house afterward. When we pull up, Fletcher’s car is parked in the driveway. I turn to Micah, confused. He holds up his hand and says, “I wasn’t joking about the kidnapping thing. You and your sister have to patch things up. I’m in cahoots with her boyfriend to orchestrate a sappy reconciliation. He brought her here after her last period.”
“I cannot believe you said cahoots.”
“So you’re okay with sappy reconciliation?”
“Oh is that what you said? I got stuck on cahoots.”
“You must be delirious. The ice cream went straight to your head.”
I groan. But secretly, I’m relieved. I can’t stand much more of this fake sugar-cookie Saffron. Makes me feel like Mary Poppins has taken her body hostage.
Micah boosts me out of the car and helps me hobble into the house. Saff is perched on a kitchen stool, and Fletcher stands behind her rubbing her shoulders. As we step through the door, I watch the sweetness melt right out of her and drip all over the floor. She twists back to glare at Fletcher. “What is this?”
Fletcher slides his hand from her upper shoulders down to her arms. “Well, basically, you’re miserable. And clearly Cayenne is miserable. And that makes me miserable. So it’s time to fix this.”
“Plus I figured you might want to finish watching your mom’s videos,” Micah points out, dragging another stool near Saff’s.
I totter over and ease myself carefully onto the stool, trying not to jostle my sensitive ribs. The way I’m moving, I probably look a hundred years old. Micah bites his lip, like he might crack up.
“This isn’t funny,” I say.
“It’s a little funny.” He gets a regular chair, so that my butt sits on the stool and my broken ankle rests at an angle on the chair below. Saff’s expression remains flat, but her eyes have softened a tiny bit.
“So we’re going to be held hostage until we make up?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Micah nods. “In your condition, you won’t get too far if you try to leave on your own.”
“This is true.”
“So we just have to secure Saffron. I have some rope in the garage.” He says this with a totally straight face, but his voice betrays him, the humor cracking through.
“Oh, shut up.” Saff rolls her eyes. “I’ll play nice. Promise.”
“Do we have to stay in here to supervise?” Micah asks.
“No,” we both say at the same time. “Jinx,” I add softly.
Micah and Fletcher leave the room, grabbing sodas and a bag of chips for sustenance on their way out. “We only have enough food and sugary beverages for an hour,” Micah warns. “So talk fast.”
I don’t bother messing around, just get straight to the point. “Hey, Saffron, I’m sorry. I know I screwed up. I understand why you’re mad, but . . .” I trail off.
She stares me down, and just when I’m feeling myself melt under the heat of her gaze, she speaks. “I’m more hurt than mad. Listen—if you’re gonna treat your life as so disposable, I’ve got to distance myself. I’m not doing it to be mean. I’m doing it because I can’t lose another person I love.” Saff looks away, picking up one of the apples in Alicia’s fruit bowl and examining it carefully.
I remember what I said to Axel before our last jump. That my biggest fear is losing someone I love. “I feel that way too. I guess up until this accident, I felt like I’d rather be the one to go.”
“But why does anyone have to go, Cay? We’re young. We have our whole lives ahead of us.” She shifts the apple back and forth in her hands like it’s a baseball.
I scramble to explain myself. “I’m not saying I want to die soon. But when I do die, I want to feel like I really lived.”
“So that equals ignoring safety signs on cliffs and breaking traffic laws?”
“Maybe,” I say. Saff groans and turns her head away. Her frustration triggers a word tornado in me. “Well, it’s not up to you. Who I am and what I do—you don’t get to decide for me. I’m my own person and you can’t control me.”
The word tornado must be contagious, because Saff snaps back. She’s not yelling, but there’s fury under her words. “This is not news to me, Cayenne. I have never in my life been able to control you, or even influence you. You don’t care what I think. You don’t care if what you do hurts me. Cayenne Silk cares about one person and one person only. Herself.”
“There you go again. Thinking you know better.” The words spew from some deep dark place in my core, and I can’t stop them. “I think you actually like it when I screw up because then you can be the good one, the trustworthy one.”
“This is pointless.” Saffron stands up to leave. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this. I give up. I’m not going to try anymore. It’s too hard.” She moves toward the door, each step writing me off as a lost cause.
“Wait.” Something desperate pulls at me. She turns, wary. “I’m sorry, Saff. I didn’t mean to flip into attack mode.”
When she speaks again, she’s totally matter-of-fact, maybe even robotic—and it kills me. “Cayenne. I’ll always love you because you’re my sister.” It’s weird to see someone say the word “love” with zero emotion linked to it. “But I can’t count on you and I can’t invest my time and my heart in you . . . unless you can promise you’ll take care of yourself. I know you think I’ve got it al
l together. But I’m on the edge too. It just looks different in me. I’m not going to sign up to be hurt and abandoned over and over again.”
The stool underneath me is turning into quicksand. “I’m gonna wear my seat belt from now on. I promise.” I sound pathetic, backpedaling like this, but bravado clearly hasn’t gotten me anywhere. “And I’m going to be more careful in general.”
“You’re throwing promises around all over the place. Words are meaningless unless there are actions attached to them.” She pulls back and I wonder if she plans to pelt the apple at me. Instead she sets it back in the bowl. “Fletch said you promised the girls you’d never die.”
“I didn’t mean for it to come out quite like that. But what I meant is that I’ll do better. I never promise anything, Saff, you know that. So that means I’m serious about this.” My words are frantic, like I can somehow stop sinking into the quicksand if I get her back on my side. “I can’t stop being me. But I can try to be my best me.”
“Show me.” Saff says, her voice strong. She fiddles with the hem of her oversized T-shirt. “I know you mean well, Cay, you always have. But nothing you say right now will be enough on its own. I can’t start counting on you again until I see the difference. So let’s give it some time.”
“That’s fair. I guess.” My foot is going numb, all tingly and prickly, but the sinking has slowed. “Are we good now?”
“We’re as good as we can be. I’m willing to try.”
“Micah!” I holler. “We’re besties, we love each other forever, and we’ll live together with our cats until we’re ninety-nine. Now help me up!”
Chapter 26
“My hair is so greasy I could fry eggs on it,” Tee groans. It’s a Thursday night and she’s standing, or rather hunching, in front of the dining room mirror. The Minions are hiding in their room. We bribed them by handing off our phones, so that Tee could have some peace and quiet while they addict themselves to mindless games.
Saff and I share a glance. Tee’s much more alert and mobile than when she first got home, and yesterday Luke took her to a follow-up appointment so her drains could be removed. But to be honest, she is a bit the worse for wear. Swollen, greasy, bruised and cranky. Luke’s been helping her take sponge baths, but they’re clearly not doing the trick.
“Wanna take a shower?” Saff suggests, sweeping crumbs into a pile and stooping down to use the dustpan. “You’re okay to do that now that the drains are out, right?”
“Yeah, but I can hardly lift my arms up to my hair,” Tee complains. She leans in closer to her reflection, staring at her pores. “How am I going to shampoo, let alone undress myself?”
“We can help you undress, turn on the water, hand you the soap, all that,” I say, wiping the table. Moving her arms seems to be hardest for her. The hospital sent home a sponge on a stick, which I’m guessing is for sudsing up her hard-to-reach places. “We can wash your hair too.”
Tee turns to us, and I can tell she’s considering this . . . while not wanting to consider this. She’s pretty modest. “What if I get in the shower and get my hair wet—and then put a towel on and get out, and you can shampoo up my hair? And then I can get back in and rinse off.”
“Sure,” Saff agrees. “Let’s do that.”
I consider teasing her, saying we’ve seen naked women before and it’s no big deal, until I imagine how her recently hacked skin will look. All bruised and swollen and probably misshapen. I know it’ll look good after it heals because Tee showed us a bunch of before and after shots her surgeon provided, but I can do without witnessing the post-op visual up close.
“Okay,” Tee says, visibly relaxing. “Thanks, girls. I know I didn’t do this for cosmetic reasons and I know that it’ll heal nicely. But right now, I feel like Frankenstein.” Moving slowly, she gestures for us to follow her. “My greasy hair doesn’t help.”
In the bathroom, we get the hot water running, help her unbutton her top and remove her hospital post-surgery bra. After handing her the soap and the sponge stick, we give her privacy. A few minutes later, she hollers for her towel, which we hand over. She steps out so that we can soap up her hair with a rose-scented shampoo/conditioner combo, and then gets back in to rinse it out. Some of it drips into her eyes, which makes her curse.
But aside from her red-rimmed shampooed eyes, she exits the shower looking like a new woman. We comb through her hair and help her dress.
“Oh my god. I feel SO much better,” she tells us. “I feel like a real person.”
I think of all those early years when she took care of us in this way. It feels good to give back.
✱✱✱
“Hold still,” I command. I’m trying to paint a flower on Maggie’s big toenail, which is barely the size of the nail polish brush. I sit on a chair with Maggie perched on the armrest of the couch so I can reach her feet without inconveniencing my ribs.
Saff seems to be having just as much trouble with Missy’s little piggies. It might be the medication, but Tee finds the whole business quite humorous. She sits on the couch, sipping diet soda from a straw. Luke is wholeheartedly opposed to diet soda, but in her recovery period he seems to have difficulty denying her anything.
“Girls, you’re the customers here. Make sure your toes are just the way you like them.” Tee giggles. “Missy, didn’t you want a rainbow on each toe? I bet Saffron can paint five different colors on each toenail.”
Saff fake-glares at Tee. It’s hard to be mad at her when she can barely get off the couch. “Uh-oh.” Tee grimaces suddenly. “Damn my bladder. Gotta go.” The problem with consuming massive amounts of diet soda is that Tee has to pee about every half hour. But she’s still moving slowly, so the trek to and from the bathroom gives Saff and me plenty of time to plan our revenge.
“Maggie? I bet you could paint your mommy’s toes if you ask.”
Missy’s head pops up. “What about me?”
“Each of you could take a foot. And I bet Mommy would like some really creative colors.”
The Minions love-love-love this idea. So after their toes dry, we set them up with an array of polishes, and newspaper covering the couch. Tee tries to grumble, but she can’t stay upset for long. Plus she can’t hold a grudge, since we’re cleaning the house, doing laundry, and making dinner. I’m doing my best to help, and while my injuries are inconvenient, I can still fold laundry sitting down. I’m also breaking my own no-homework rule and trying to complete some of the assignments I’ve missed.
I wonder if Saffron is seeing the difference.
✱✱✱
I avoid school as long as humanly possible, but eventually my doctor’s notes run dry, and I brave the halls. They’re filled with sympathy glances and poorly timed questions. I’ve graduated from a cast to a non-weight-bearing splint, but I still need crutches. The complaining of my ribs has settled to a low grumble. Luckily between Axel, Saff, and Saff’s friends, someone’s always helping me carry my books between classes.
I’m hobbling down the halls with Saff by my side, when she asks, “What are you giving me for my birthday?”
“My never-ending love.”
“It’s barely a week away and that’s the best you’ve got?”
“Do you have a better gift idea?”
“Yeah. Take a blood test with me.”
I nearly trip. “Excuse me? I think we already know we’re blood sisters.”
“I want us both to get tested for the BRCA gene together. I’ve been talking to Aunt Tee about it and been researching it, and I don’t think I can get tested until I’m eighteen. But that’s in a few days. So I think we should know what our future holds, and we can find out together.”
“Everyone acts like this stupid gene is a crystal ball. We have no idea what our future holds whether or not we take a blood test.”
“Well, that’s what I want for my birthday,” Saff says flatly. Like she doesn’t see any point in debating with me.
“Ugh.” I stick my tongue out at her. “Fine. I gu
ess I can’t afford to alienate my main book carrier.”
“Cool. I’ll have Aunt Tee book us a consultation with a genetic counselor a couple days after my birthday.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re welcome.”
✱✱✱
I glance at the clipboard. What a nightmare. Four pages of checkboxes with every symptom known to woman. I skim the form, checking off boxes with flair until I get to “Family history of cancer.” I cross off “history” and write “curse.” I elbow Saff and point it out to her.
“How are you eighteen?” Saff asks.
“Oh, you know you love my juvenile antics.” Some of my nervousness fades away. Humor is the cure for all ills. “Plus, in our family cancer is a curse.”
I decide to really have fun with the form. For “Have you had excessive bleeding?” I write “every freaking month.” For “are you pregnant or trying to get pregnant?” I write “Trying NOT to get pregnant every chance I get,” which is certainly one way to interpret the fact that I’m not having sex. For “Palpitations or irregular heartbeat” I write “induced by hot boyfriend.”
For “eating disorder” I write “compulsion to consume frozen yogurt.” For “thoughts of hurting self or others” I write “Only when filling out this stupid form.”
Saff keeps peeking over at me, and a red flush is creeping across her cheeks. I’m embarrassing her. She can hardly stand to watch me writing down all this ridiculousness, like it somehow reflects on her.
“Relax, Saff. We’re not in school. We’re not going to get in trouble.”
“Well, I’m not, for sure. I take no responsibility for what you’re writing. My form is filled out appropriately.”
“You can sit over there,” I offer, pointing to a chair on the other side of the room. “That way there’s no chance of guilt by association.”
“I could,” she concedes, a tiny gleam of amusement sparking in her eyes. “But then I’d miss out on the fun.”
✱✱✱
The Genetics Department turns out to be a tiny room, empty except for three uncomfortable chairs and a mini desk. The genetic counselor, Natalie, wheels in her supplies in a luggage-type container. I can tell the job wears her down. I can’t imagine going in to work every day to hand people tainted fortune cookies.
How to Live on the Edge Page 15