Love and Other Unknown Variables

by Shannon Alexander

  “Some cancer-free diet I read about. Last ditch effort, you know?”

  She’s staring at the two cups, not moving, just staring. And since she said you should share with a friend, and I’m anything but a friend, I’m not sure whether to reach out and take the coffee. I’m also not sure how long we both stand there frozen by our complicated relationship.

  Finally, her hand moves as she pours thick cream in the cups until they are nearly overflowing. The creamer jug makes a loud metallic thud when she sets it back on the counter. The couple sitting closest to the coffee jumps at the sound.

  “Try it. Making coffee is about the only thing I can do correctly anymore,” Ms. Finch says. Her chin droops as she shakes her head in defeat. I can’t imagine being in her shoes, wanting to hold on to Charlotte when all Charlotte wants to do is run away. Has to suck. Ms. Finch’s eyes close while she drinks, and when she opens them again, they’re full of tears.

  I grab my cup, sloshing a good bit of it on my hand and swearing under my breath.

  “Rookie,” Ms. Finch mumbles and tries to blink away the moisture in her eyes.

  “You have no idea,” I say as I try a sip. It’s not bad. I don’t know if it’s great, but it feels like what I need.

  We sit in silence near a bank of windows overlooking a courtyard. Around one-quarter left in my coffee cup, I work up the nerve to ask an important question.

  “What’s happening?”

  Ms. Finch’s cup is two-thirds full. She watches the tan liquid like it may have the answers. When it doesn’t offer any, she says, “Charlotte is dying.”

  Everything inside me erupts at once. My skin is the only thing holding me together. It’s not like this is a surprise, but it’s the first time anyone’s said it so plainly.

  “There’s a clinical trial for tumors similar to the newest of Charlotte’s. It could help if we could get her into the trial.” Ms. Finch puts her cup on the table and stuffs her shaky hands into the pockets of her sweater. “But Charlotte says, no more.”

  Help. One word and I’m able to pull enough pieces together to talk. “Why?”

  Ms. Finch’s eyes are full again. She turns her face toward the stars outside the window. “She doesn’t want to die here.”

  Silence swallows us again.

  Die? No. That’s not an option right now. No one’s dying here. Not when there’s a chance still out there. What about Atticus Finch? This may be a losing battle, but Charlotte’s got to try to fight it—we have to try to win.

  “What should I do?” It slips out. I didn’t mean to ask it. I instantly regret it, knowing it’s a step away from what Charlotte wants—a step toward Ms. Finch.

  “Tell her to do the trial.”

  I shrink back from the intense look Ms. Finch is giving me. I feel like I’ve stepped in a trap.

  “She won’t listen to me. But maybe you can convince her. Do this, Charlie, and I swear I’ll do whatever you want. You want me to leave Brighton? Done. You want me to pull some strings at MIT? Done. You want me to drive you and Charlotte to Atlantic City to elope? Done. I’m that desperate.”

  “Elope?”

  “Whatever it takes, get her to do the clinical trial.”

  “Why can’t you make her do it?”

  “She’s eighteen. She took over control of her medical decisions. I’m just here to make the coffee,” she says, lifting her cup in a toast. She doesn’t drink any, but sets it right back in its place on the bleached linoleum table.

  “What are her chances if she does it?”

  Ms. Finch’s whole body sags. “Slim.”

  “How slim?”

  Ms. Finch sighs in this breathy, frustrated way. “Like a quark-sized chance.”

  That’s the smallest damn particle of hope in the universe.

  6.2

  It doesn’t take much hope to infect a person. Hope is worse than vampire venom. It takes hold and changes a person. Fast.

  By the time we get back to Charlotte’s room, I am imagining scenarios in which I casually mention a new medical breakthrough I happened to read about in a science journal. I could hold her hostage until she agrees to the clinical trial. Possibly, I’ll cry until she promises to try it.

  Becca is already there when Ms. Finch and I walk in. I wonder how she got “authorized” without Ms. Finch’s permission, but then I notice Charlotte is awake. They’ve got lots of sleepy stuff coursing through her IV, but her eyes are open and the steely quality is gone. Beautiful blue eyes blink sleepily at me as I linger in the doorway.

  “You must be Becca?” Ms. Finch asks, sitting at Charlotte’s other side.

  Becca nods, watching Charlotte for some guidance.

  “Jo, this is my best friend, Becca Hanson,” Charlotte says in a faraway voice.

  Ms. Finch’s smile freezes on her face. Poor thing must have been thinking, finally, a friend of Charlotte’s I don’t hate. Then bam! It’s like the whole Hanson clan is in on it. I’m sure she’s expecting Mom and Dad to parade in here any second.

  Speaking of Mom and Dad… “How’d you get here, Bec?” My voice is ripe with anxiety.

  “Greta and James are in the waiting room.”

  Ms. Finch’s brow collapses as she looks from Becca to me and then at Charlotte. The three of us are a team. Plus, we’ve apparently got reinforcements. She’s alone. I watch this new defeat sink in, pulling her further under.

  Except, she isn’t alone. Not with the voice of that small hope whispering to me. No, she’s not alone in wanting Charlotte to fight.

  Charlotte whispers to Becca, who pops up out her chair like it’s been infected with the Ebola virus. “Well, Charlie, we’d better get going,” she says, taking my arm and pulling me back toward the door. “Mom and Dad will be worried.” She drags me into the hallway before sticking her head back in. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Finch. See you in school, Charlotte.”

  I allow myself to be pulled a few doors farther away from Charlotte before my senses catch up to me. “Hold on.” I shake her loose. “I want to say good-bye, too.”

  Becca scrambles around me, her hands up, like she’s going to block me if I try to get past her. “Charlie, Mom and Dad—”

  “Screw ’em, Bec.” I move to the right.

  Becca counters. “It’s sooo late.” She punctuates this with a fake yawn.

  “You never sleep anyway,” I say, stepping toward the left, but Becca is there before me.

  “Seriously, Charrrr-lieeeee,” Becca whines.

  My adrenaline is spiking. Becca is annoying. I scoop her up over one shoulder and start to jog back toward Charlotte’s room. Becca pounds on my back a few times before she tenses each of her muscles and stretches herself out like a starfish. The toe of one of her sneakers catches on one side of a doorjamb to our right and her hand snatches the other, holding tight. The sudden change in momentum swings me sideways so we both crash into the door, which bangs open. We fall into a dark room, full of whirring and beeping.

  The patient in the room screams. One of his machines starts to scream, too. Becca and I are still a tangle of limbs on the floor when a harried nurse comes running in.

  “Out. Out. OUT!” she yells, yanking us to our feet.

  Needless to say, our authorization is revoked. Greta and James look startled when we come barreling back through the heavy metal doors into the waiting room. I turn on my sister, my voice tight, my throat aching. “What the hell?”

  Becca is rubbing an already swelling elbow from our fall. “Fine,” she yells back. “Fine. I was trying to be nice, but whatever. Charlotte doesn’t want to see you. Happy?”

  Every bit of anger holding me up rushes out of me like a balloon deflating and flying in wild arcs, making the room spin. I sit in the nearest uncomfortable chair and hold my head between my knees.

  Becca’s hand brushes my back. “Don’t be so dramatic, Charlie.”

  I peek up at her.

  “She doesn’t want you to remember her as sick. That’s all.” Becca’s big brown
eyes get glassy. “She wants us to remember the good stuff.”

  I put my head back down. I don’t want to have to remember her at all.

  I want her to stay.

  ---

  Greta and James are both staying over for what’s left of the night, James in my room and Greta with Becca. They appear to be taking turns babysitting me to be sure I don’t do anything rash. I think that’s funny because what could be more reckless than falling for a girl like Charlotte Finch?

  Greta sits on the counter in the bathroom watching me brush my teeth. I consider stabbing myself in the ear with my toothbrush just to see what she’d do. Instead, I recite the elements of the periodic table in my head. When I reach Ununoctium, I spit and rinse.

  “You still do the whole element thing?” Greta asks, a sliver of a smile on her lips.

  “It’s a good song. How’d you know?”

  Greta points. “Tapping your fingers.”

  I lean over the sink, cupping the water in my hands and scrubbing my face. My eyes are burning. It’s got to be well after midnight.

  Greta passes me the hand towel. “You doing okay in there, Chuck?”

  I pat my face dry and glance at myself in the mirror. I don’t recognize myself. “I fell.”

  “I know.”

  There’s a horrible pressure everywhere, on my chest, behind my eyes, squeezing my temples. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t keep me from crying. Greta reaches out, grabbing the towel still in my hand, pulling it and me toward her until she can wrap her arms around my shoulders and tuck me in a hug.

  “Shh,” she whispers into my hair, but it does no good because my crying is evolving into this loud sobbing. It draws James and Becca toward the tiny room. Becca wraps her arms around my waist and leans against my back. James’s ginormous frame barely fits, but he pulls himself up to sit next to Greta. Actually, half his ass is in the sink.

  “Little better in there now?” Greta asks as soon as my sobs ebb into sniffles.

  I try to suck in a full breath. It takes four tries before I can get one that doesn’t sound like I’m hiccupping. Finally, I nod at Greta.

  “You’re strong, Chuck. You know that, right?”

  I do. Struggling with my fears about losing Charlotte has put everything into perspective for me. There’s only one thing that can hurt me now, and it isn’t even Charlotte’s death. My biggest fear now is not earning her love while she’s still alive. “I know,” I say with a firm nod.

  Greta’s smile exudes relief. “Good because you, Charles Hanson, are Charlotte’s hero.”

  I shy away from Greta, considering this. I don’t think Charlotte wants a hero. Charlotte needs someone to love every bit of her. I want to be that person for her. But I don’t want to share my thoughts with everyone—they’re for Charlotte. So I wipe my face with the towel and deflect by asking, “Do I get to wear a cape?”

  My humor catches everyone off guard, which is good because if things don’t lighten up we’re all going to be crushed. Becca snorts and James slips while laughing so his entire ass is stuck in the sink. And Greta. Well, Greta starts to cry a little as she smiles at me. She never did get my sense of humor.

  6.3

  I beat Ms. Finch to school Monday morning by a good fifteen minutes. I wait by my locker, which used to seem too close to her office, but now seems to be in a rather convenient location. Funny how that perspective thing works. Thanks for that one, Mrs. Dunwitty.

  By the time Ms. Finch arrives, there are only a few minutes before the first bell for me to find out how Charlotte is doing. I shift foot to foot, as she approaches her door, jug o’ coffee in one hand, papers in the other, key ring clenched between her teeth.

  “Need a hand?” I ask.

  She grunts and releases her keys so they fall into my outstretched palm. “You do the honors,” she says, nodding toward her office door. “Be careful for falling objects. There have been a few of those lately.”

  We both hold our breath as the lock releases with a click. I slowly open the door and brave the light switch, expecting at any moment to be electrocuted. Nothing. Everything looks normal, but man, what’s that smell?

  Ms. Finch wrinkles her nose. “God. That is rotten. What is it?” She looks at me like I should know.

  “I didn’t do anything. Wait here.” I take a deep breath and plunge into the small office. I open drawers, look under the desk, behind bookcases, in the trash, and behind a few of Charlotte’s paintings. Nothing. My lungs feel wrung out.

  I dash back out and pant a few times, doubling over to rest my hands on my knees. My eyes are watering from the stench. I look at Ms. Finch and follow her gaze up to the ceiling tiles. Her face is pinched, studying them.

  “I believe the prize is hidden behind the tile over my desk chair.”

  She may be right. The tile is set back in place, but there is a chip in the front right corner, like maybe some jackhole was too clumsy while replacing it.

  I nod at her and take one more big breath. I stand on her desk and slide the tile up and over. The hideous odor triples, making me gag. I’m going to have to stick my bare hand in there to find the source of the stink. I gag again.

  I cover my mouth and nose with one hand to help block the fumes. With the other, I reach up and pat around in the ceiling until my fingers touch something smooth. It’s firm as long as I’m just brushing my fingers along it. But when I grasp it, my fingers sink up to my nail beds with a horrible squelching sound. In one fast movement, I grab whatever it is and pull it from the ceiling, like a decapitated rabbit out of a demented magician’s hat.

  It’s a rotting fetal pig. The kind we dissect in freshman biology here. Someone must have taken it from the freezer on Friday and hid it here. The sight of it pisses me off. Ms. Finch shouldn’t have to put up with this. She’s trying to save her sister’s life. This is bullshit, and I’m stopping it here.

  Ms. Finch, who had been leaning in the door to get a better view, gasps and jerks backward, stumbling into Brad Mitchell, the closest thing we have to a muscle-head at Brighton. He’s standing there glaring at me with his big old arms crossed over his big old chest. It’d be intimidating except I know that he cries like a baby if he gets anything less than an A on a test.

  I hold the pig by its tail and jump off Ms. Finch’s desk. By some miracle of physics, I manage to stick the landing, wobbling so the pig circles like a pendulum from my grip. I march the wee piggie out into the hallway, the horrific stench of it preceding me.

  “I believe I found your lab partner, Brad.”

  He blinks at me, his arms still crossed, but a muscle near his eye begins to twitch.

  “What’s all this?” Dr. Whiting’s voice comes booming down the hallway. I can see his slick, dark hair weaving through the far side of the crowd.

  “This,” I say, waving the pig, “stops now. Got it, man?” Brad’s eyes are filling up, but he nods. “Get lost,” I say through clenched teeth. He hurls himself through the crowd, bowling over some girls.

  I whirl around with the pig, trying to figure out what I’m going to do when a trashcan is thrust out at me. James’s thick forearm muscles flex as he shakes it in my face. Where’d he come from?

  “Drop the pig, Chuck,” Greta’s says, her voice taut like a trip wire.

  I toss the rotten meat into the trash and quickly snatch up the edges of the black bag to tie it shut. Now what? I look from James to Greta, but we’re out of time. Dr. Whiting strides up to us, his face puckering at the lingering odor.

  “What’s going on here?” He crosses his arms over his sagging chest.

  I can’t let anyone else go down for this. I started this revolution. I knew the risks. My mouth opens, but before I can say anything, Ms. Finch steps beside me.

  “Oh, Mr. Hanson,” she says, her hands flapping the air near her eyes. “Thank you so much for helping me.”

  Dr. Whiting’s thick brow twitches. “Ms. Finch?”

  “When I came in my office this morning there was a
horrible— Well, you can smell it, I’m sure. Mr. Hanson’s locker is right next door,” she says, pointing to my locker. “He could smell it, too.” Ms. Finch looks at me and I nod. Emphatically.

  “He was the one that located the poor thing.” Ms. Finch breaks off, her hands flapping again, fanning away fake tears.

  “What? What did you find?” he asks me, but Ms. Finch rushes to answer.

  “A squirrel. A dead squirrel. It must have gotten in through a vent and couldn’t get out. Oh, I do hope he didn’t suffer long.”

  Dr. Whiting’s muscles unclench. “Very well. Mr. Hanson, please deposit that trash bag in the large bin out back.”

  I don’t say a word, afraid a full confession will fall out of my mouth instead of “yes, sir.” I turn on my heel and walk as quickly as I can down the hallway to the double doors at the end.

  I toss the bag in the Dumpster and step away to take a few deep breaths. Ms. Finch just saved my butt. The kindness is overwhelming.

  ---

  Ms. Finch is waiting for me at the doors when I come back. The clog in the hallway has been cleared, everyone moving off to first period. James and Greta are leaning against my locker. Greta holds out my backpack for me, but I just look at my hands, gross with pig gush and Dumpster gack. Ms. Finch leads us to the private teacher’s restroom down the hall.

  “Wow,” James says with a whistle. “This is sweet.”

  “It’s a bathroom, J.” Greta smacks his arm.

  I head straight for the sinks, trying to ignore the fact that I have pork under my fingernails.

  Ms. Finch leans against the wall next to me. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “I’m sorry about this,” I say, inspecting my sudsy hands. “These pranks have taken on a whole life of their own.”

  “Frankenpranksters,” James whispers to Greta in his not-at-all-quiet whisper.

  I’d tell him to shut up, but Greta stomps on his foot. Actions do speak louder than words.

  I run hot water over the suds, scrubbing so hard my skin reddens. “It ends here. It’s gone too far.” I glance at Greta, who nods once. She’ll get the word out to everyone. As if she’s on her way to do it now, she takes James’s hand and tugs him out the door.