by Gina Ciocca
I’d always sort of blended into the woodwork at Norwood High—not exceedingly popular, but not invisible, either. Lately, though, the only person who looked at me like I was worth anything was David.
I buried my hand beneath the blanket as I thought about how illness was the last thing I wanted to put me in the spotlight. It already devastated me to know that I was the brunt of jokes. That people were laughing at me. I didn’t want to be the subject of more whispered conversations, or worse, the recipient of anyone’s pity. Suddenly what I did want—more than anything—was to be out at my high school dance like a normal, healthy sixteen-year-old, instead of stuck in a hospital bed with someone else’s blood dripping into my body.
Please, I thought. Don’t let this be my future.
Seventeen
Rhode Island
Senior Year
Things were all sunshine and kittens between Violet and David again, so I could only imagine he’d given her what she wanted.
The thought made my stomach turn. Not only did I not need the mental image, but it gave me the distinct sensation of bugs crawling all over my skin every time I looked at David.
So when Mr. Ingles announced in English class that he’d be pairing us off for an assignment in which we’d have to write a short biographical essay on our partner, my body tensed. The possibilities were endless for disastrous pairings.
But I would have taken anyone over David.
“Now,” Mr. Ingles said as he scrawled example questions across the board, “I don’t want your interviews to be boring, but I don’t want anyone to be uncomfortable, either. Feel out your partner, and decide how personal you’re willing to get.”
Snickers erupted at the phrase “feel out your partner,” and I rolled my eyes. I wanted to ask why we couldn’t just write our own autobiographies, especially when I saw how very bland his sample questions actually were:
“Where did you grow up? How does it compare to the setting of your favorite novel?”
“What has been your greatest accomplishment to date?”
“Where do you hope to be five years from now?”
There were at least three more, but I stopped reading and made a Kill me face at Violet, who responded with a slicing gesture across her throat.
Mr. Ingles made a big show of picking up his grade book and announcing that he’d given careful consideration to our pairings, and that there would be no switching unless we had an ironclad reason.
And the very first pair of names he called?
Of course.
“Ms. Crawford and Mr. Kerrigan.”
Violet’s hand shot into the air.
“No, Ms. Kensing, you may not switch,” Mr. Ingles said with barely a glance in her direction. “Being all atwitter for someone is not an ironclad reason to be his assignment partner.”
The class snickered again, and I might have felt bad for Violet as she sat there pouting if I wasn’t trying to ignore the twenty-degree increase in my body temperature. Oh, that universe had quite a sense of humor. I racked my brain trying to think of an ironclad reason David and I couldn’t work together, but I had the feeling personal drama didn’t qualify.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized it might not be so bad. After all, I had plenty of questions for David that weren’t related to our assignment, and now I had an excuse to ask them. And considering we hadn’t spoken since the hallway incident, an excuse was definitely in order.
At the tail end of class, we were allowed to meet with our partners and get started on the interviews. David turned his desk toward mine and moved it closer without even looking at me.
“So,” I said. “You and Violet are . . . better?”
Of all the questions I’d planned to fire at him, I hadn’t meant to let that one slip first. Or at all, even.
“Fine.” He rotated the cap of his pen around the barrel. “Although she keeps asking about my mother. Any idea why that would be?”
His tone made me squirm in my seat. “How are things with you and your mother?”
He shrugged. “We tolerate each other. Talk every now and then. Nothing worth telling the whole world about.”
“Uh, your girlfriend is hardly ‘the whole world.’ ” When seconds ticked by without a response, I added, “Maybe Violet’s hinting that she’d like to meet her.”
“My mother moved to Puerto Rico with her boyfriend.”
“Puerto Rico? When?”
“Right after my grandfather died.” He snorted. “Probably when she realized she had no way to stake a claim on his house.” Sitting up straighter, he finally looked at me. “It’s all good, though. I’m used to people walking out of my life.”
I gripped the edge of the desk and my teeth ground together. “You can work with someone else if you can think of a good enough reason,” I offered coolly. “So if you want to fake an anaphylactic reaction to my perfume or something . . .”
David leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, arrogance oozing from every pore. “Now, why would I want to do that when I can think of one or two questions I’d like you to answer?”
I dropped my pen onto my notebook and sat up straighter. Two could play this game. “Know what? Me too. Starting with this one.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Why would you try to hurt Ryan?”
David snorted. “Ask him.”
“Don’t you think I have? I can understand why you’d clam up—you attacked him. But why won’t he talk to me?”
“Maybe he has something to hide.” The flippant shrug that accompanied the comment made me want to jab him in the eye with my pen.
“Or maybe you do.” I leaned back in my chair, mimicking his overconfidence. “The David I knew never would have done something like that without a reason. But you said it yourself. Things change.”
That seemed to get him appropriately riled. His eyebrows pulled together and his jaw muscle twitched. “You do know me, Kelse. Probably better than anyone. Did you ever stop to think it’s him you don’t know so well?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That he’s not the great guy you think he is.”
My fingers curled around my pen and squeezed. I wanted to snap it in half. And pretend it was David’s neck.
“If you’re going to make a statement like that, I suggest you back it up.”
We glared at each other for a pointed second before David gave me an equally pointed answer. “Next question.”
“You’re kidding, right? I’m giving you the chance to clear your name, and you’re going to blow it?”
The corners of his lips turned down. “Like you’ve never blown your chance at anything?”
I’d walked right into that. I shook my head and stared at my notebook, trying to find something to analyze on the blank page so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “I don’t think this is the time or place for that.”
“Why not?” The exaggerated nonchalance returned. “Question number seven.” He jerked his head in the direction of the board, where I scanned for question number seven.
Apparently, Mr. Ingles and the universe shared the same sense of humor.
“Describe your ideal romantic relationship. Tragedy? Comedy? Fantasy? Explain.”
So much for not getting too personal.
I knew my mother had been right when she said I owed David more than a sort of explanation for the way our relationship had ended. And despite his holier-than-thou attitude—no, because of it—I knew he wanted me to do better than sort of as well. But I’d been right about something too. English class wasn’t the time or place.
“David, listen. You have Violet now, and I have Ryan. We’re both happy. That’s all that matters, right?”
“You really don’t miss Norwood at all, do you?”
“Where did that come from?” I sputtered.
“I miss certain things about it.”
“Like what?”
I looked at my desk, knowing I couldn’t say the first things that came to my mind: Cutting through the woods to your house. Dinner with you and your dad. Blasting music in your clunky old car and singing at the top of our lungs. So I said, “I miss riding my bike around my old neighborhood. I miss my dad being around on the weekends instead of going off to promote his book. And I miss going down to Pennyfield Beach, and parking a mile away and walking past all those old, beautiful houses just so I wouldn’t have to pay to get in.”
I smiled to myself. I did miss those things.
“Do you still talk to anyone from home?” he asked.
“Do you?” I folded my arms, well aware of how defensive this topic made me.
“Of course. It hasn’t been that long since I left. Why wouldn’t I?” His eyes leveled with mine, and the unspoken portion of his question hung in the air between us: Just because you didn’t?
The silent accusation made me feel the way I did when I didn’t drink enough water with my vitamins—like I had a rock sitting in my throat.
“Easy for you to say. Everyone loved you.”
He looked me right in the eye. “Not everyone.”
My pen grew slippery with sweat and I knew I must’ve been glowing crimson, but I refused to back down. “Have you seen anyone from there lately?”
Tell me you don’t still see her. Of all people, please tell me you’re not still hanging out with that bitch.
“Yep.” He ripped a square of paper out of his notebook and started to shred it, purposely staring at the strips of paper and not at me. A definite sign of guilt, in my opinion.
“Anyone I know?”
“No one you would have cared to see.” He stopped midshred. “Oh, wait. That’s everyone.”
Before I could do anything more than gape, or even fully register how deeply his comment had hurt me, the bell rang. David stood up and shoved his notebook into his bag. He looked at me long enough to say, “We can do this by e-mail. It’s probably easier.”
With that, he walked away, leaving me dumbfounded, and pained.
I forced myself to shake it off as I stood to gather my books. I told myself it didn’t matter what David did, or with whom. There were reasons we weren’t friends anymore, and I’d been perfectly happy before he got here. I could be perfectly happy again if I stayed away from him.
If only it were actually that easy.
Eighteen
Connecticut
Winter, Sophomore Year
I stayed completely silent on the way home from the hospital that night.
My mother glanced at me in the rearview mirror, her face pinched with concern. “Kelsey? Are you all right? You’re so quiet back there.”
“Fine, Mom.” I wondered if she heard the utter lack of conviction in my voice. “Tired. I want to go to bed.”
“I’m sure you’ll feel much better tomorrow.” Her words were too cheerful, and I knew she sensed my complete and total despair. “David can come over for dinner, and tell us all about the dance. That was so nice of him to come by, wasn’t it?”
“Mm-hm.” Sure. It was great of him to come by and flaunt his girlfriend in front of my face. The thought of glamorous, gorgeous Isabel with her fabulous figure and flowing hair squeezed my chest like a vise. She and David were probably having a grand old time on the dance floor right now, pathetic girls in hospital beds the furthest thing from their minds as they laughed and took pictures with people I used to call my friends. Holding back my tears took phenomenal effort.
I left my bloodstained shoes in the garage when we got home. I hadn’t wanted to put my torn-up, bloodied pants back on, so I’d been given a pair of scrubs to wear home. I threw them in the garbage when I changed into my pajamas, not wanting any reminder of that hospital or this night.
My mother tucked me in like I was five years old again. I was exhausted and I knew she was too, but I needed her to be more exhausted than me. There was so much I had to find out, and I didn’t want anyone hovering.
Once she turned out my light and closed the door, I grabbed my cell phone, a dinosaur talk-and-text-only model that was all my parents could spring for on their limited income. I knew David was still at the dance, but I also knew he wanted me to check in with him. Besides, texting would keep me awake until I could go downstairs to use the computer.
I typed in, I’m home. Got a fill-up on blood (so gross). How’s the dance? Then I waited for his response.
And waited.
And waited some more. Oh, and then waited even more than that.
I hit the button on my phone in frustration, wondering if he’d written back and the chime had failed to sound. Nope. Not a single new message.
Guess he wasn’t that worried about me after all.
I didn’t know why, but I felt like I needed to hear from David before I did what I’d been dreading and faced a search engine. Obviously, it wasn’t going to happen that way.
I tiptoed down to the study and closed the door. When the site loaded, I typed in the words that had been burning a hole in my brain all night. I’d hoped to come down there and find reasons why something scary like leukemia couldn’t possibly be my diagnosis, but the more I clicked, the more it felt like pure dread flowed through my veins instead of donor blood.
The symptoms fit. The bloody nose, the effortless bruising, the excessive blood loss during my period. The fatigue.
Fantastic.
I checked my phone again. Still nothing.
Now I had to confirm the thing that scared me the most: the treatment.
I searched desperately for the site that would tell me a blood transfusion meant the end of my worries, that I’d been cured tonight without even knowing it. But the goddamn Internet refused to humor me. The sites all seemed to agree that while transfusions could treat the symptoms, the best way to completely eliminate the disease was through chemotherapy and radiation.
I checked my phone again. God, David, where the hell are you?
Sitting in that chair with my infuriatingly silent cell phone, and with the computer screen and all its horrors as the only source of light, I’d never felt so scared or alone in all my life. I rested my head on my knees and tried to control the tremors racking my frame, but nothing helped. My brain seemed to take its cue from my body, flashing dozens of erratic images behind my eyes.
I saw myself cheering David on at his baseball games, and the way he’d sneak me a sly wink before he wound up for a fastball. I thought about the sunlight catching Miranda’s hair as she ran through the field near David’s house, picking dandelions. Miranda, being poked and prodded as a potential match for bone marrow donation. I remembered the way she’d brushed my hair tonight, and suddenly I imagined it transforming into dry, strawlike strands before detaching from my scalp in clumps. I wondered what Isabel and her friends would do to me then.
Then, for the first time since that afternoon on the Cliff Walk, I thought about kissing David. I’d pulled back because I hadn’t been ready to wander into messier territory. The last time I’d let a friend kiss me, our relationship had unraveled right after. Whether it was a direct result of the kiss or not didn’t matter. It happened, and I didn’t want to risk leaving the safe, comfortable place David and I were in.
Did I want that now? Did it even matter, if David had already moved on?
I tried to imagine that day on the boulders with a different ending—one where I didn’t pull away. It shocked me to realize I could. And that my whole body came alive when I did, only to go numb as I remembered the way David had lowered his voice in front of Isabel at the hospital. I thought he’d done it to keep our conversation private. But what if he’d only been trying to make it look like he didn’t care in front of her? And wors
e, what if he didn’t? Maybe he’d only gone to the hospital out of some sense of obligation. Maybe he’d started to see me as a joke, just like everyone else.
I didn’t know what I would do if it were true. I couldn’t face this without him.
I looked at my phone again. Not a single message.
I walked into our lower-level bathroom on wobbling legs. If I hadn’t been shaken to the core already, my reflection in the vanity mirror would have frightened me. Pale skin, bruiselike circles beneath my eyes, matted hair. I gathered the brittle strands in my hands, wishing it hadn’t taken the thought of losing them to make me want to pay more attention. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to let my hair down more often, to wear it like a crown jewel the way Isabel did. I promised myself that if I got through this, I’d do exactly that.
That’s when the worst thought of all hit me. What if I went through treatment and it didn’t work? What if I was going to die?
A choked sob escaped my throat, and I clamped my hand over my mouth. In the mirror, the hospital bracelet still circling my wrist taunted me. I’d never felt so disgusted by anything in my life.
I yanked the medicine cabinet open and located the scissors my dad used to trim his beard. Then I sliced the godforsaken piece of plastic off with a vengeance. A little too much vengeance, because the sharp tip of the scissors pierced the skin beneath my palm. My heart leaped into my throat as a drop of blood swelled at the site.
Shit, not again!
I grabbed the hand towel off its holder and held it as hard as I could against the cut. At the same time, I sank to the bathroom floor and sobbed my fear and frustration into the other side of the towel.
I cried until I was too exhausted to move. Upstairs, my family slept, quietly unaware. And somewhere out there, wherever he was, my best friend was too busy to care.
Nineteen
Rhode Island
Senior Year
I spotted Ryan hovering at my locker as the bathroom door closed behind me. A smile spread across my face, and I reached back to slow the door so he wouldn’t hear it shut. His brow scrunched in concentration as he spun the combination lock with one hand. His other hand clutched a red rose.