Side Effects May Vary

by Julie Murphy

  The whole class turned.

  Alice watched each of their faces and seemed to shrink back a little. “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Oh my gosh,” said Margaret, clutching her notebook to her chest. “That’s so incredible. It’s, like, a miracle.”

  Alice bit her lip and nodded.

  More students—who I was sure Al had never spoken to in her life—began to crowd her desk, like they hadn’t even seen her until Margaret Schmidt had to make a goddamn scene out of it.

  “Yeah,” said Doug Halbert. “My dad talked about you in church on Sunday.”

  “Could you feel it? Like, the cancer?” asked Tasha Wenters.

  Yeah, she can feel the earth orbiting too.

  It was rapid-fire. Two girls leaned on my desk trying to get a better look.

  “How soon will your hair grow back? My aunt’s didn’t grow back the same,” said some guy I couldn’t see but wanted to kick the shit out of.

  I was overwhelmed, so I knew it could only be that much worse for Alice. She didn’t answer any of them, not based on what I could hear. And I don’t think the fuckers cared because none of them even gave her a chance to respond.

  Some were genuinely nice. Things like “I’m glad you’re okay,” or “I prayed for you,” or “If you need help catching up on schoolwork, let me know.”

  I wondered if every single class Alice went to today had been like this one.

  “Class, seats.”

  A teacher. Thank God.

  While Mr. Slaton settled into his chair, the thrum of voices leveled out and everyone trickled back to their seats. Alice trained her eyes on the top of her desk. One lone pencil sat tucked behind her ear. She squeezed the back of her neck, her fingertips going white. I wanted to protect her.

  Mr. Slaton clapped his hand loudly against his desk, giving one last warning for everyone to shut up before roll call. He called name after name and then Alice.

  “Miss Richardson?” called Mr. Slaton.

  She barely moved at the sound of her last name.

  “Welcome back,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times today, but we’re glad to have you back. Quite a bit to catch up on. See me after class. We’ll get you squared away.” He waited for her to nod before smiling and calling the next name.

  If it hadn’t been for the Algebra 2 book on my desk, I wouldn’t have been able to say exactly which class I’d been sitting in for those forty-five minutes. I spent the entire period staring at Alice, and Alice spent the entire period pretending to sleep—I could tell by her breathing. (Weird, I know, but I’d seen her do a lot of sleeping in the last year.) When class was dismissed, she stood and waited for Mindi to pass her. With her shoulder, Alice rammed her from behind. Mindi tripped and dropped her books. I picked one up and then practically ran over her to try to catch up to Alice, but she didn’t stay after class like Mr. Slaton had asked her to. She disappeared, making whatever loomed between us grow a bit bigger.

  I searched for her all day, but she didn’t show up for any of the other classes we had together. After last period, I turned my phone on and found I had a voice mail from Martin explaining Bernie had gotten tied up in court and they wondered if I could give Alice a ride home. I would have been cool with giving Alice a ride, if I could find her in the first place.

  I covered every square inch of school, including janitorial closets and girls’ bathrooms, in forty-five minutes. Alice was nowhere in sight. I even checked the groundskeeper’s shed out past the track. I’d done as much looking as I could on foot and decided to head out to the parking lot.

  Her phone sent me to voice mail over and over again. She was probably screening my calls. Either that or her phone was dead. Both were entirely plausible options. I left four voice mails. My artfully composed messages sounded something like this:

  Voice Mail One: “Alice.”

  Voice Mail Two: “It’s me, Al. Where. Are. You?”

  Voice Mail Three: “I’m sorry, where did you say you were again?”

  Voice Mail Four: “Alice, in case you were wondering, you’re not in the guys’ bathroom, but whoever was here last pissed all over the floor. I’m really hoping that wasn’t you. I give up. I’ll be in the parking lot.”

  The cold air slapped me in the face, and I slid my gloves on, pulling the collar of my jacket up around my face to shield my cheeks from the burning wind. As I ran down the aisles of cars belonging to kids staying late for rehearsals and practices, I saw two figures sitting on the ground huddled together between a truck and an old Cadillac. I thought I recognized a spot of red on one of their heads, so I doubled back. I found Alice sitting on the freezing pavement, but without her beret on. Her cheeks and nose were bright red. And looking at her made my bones chatter even more.

  “Hey,” she mumbled, and wiped her running nose in the crook of her elbow. “This is Eric,” she said, nodding to the guy sitting next to her.

  From where he sat on the ground I could tell he was scruffy and broad with thick muscles. Thicker than my body could carry. Basically, he was all the shit you didn’t want to see in the guy sitting next to the girl you love. He was more man than boy, and he wore Al’s beret, while her nearly bald head was exposed to the freezing cold. Either he was even more selfish than Al or he was that stupid.

  “Hey, guy,” he said.

  Guy? Who called people that? There was something slightly familiar about him. “Are you in any of my classes?” I was really hoping this guy wasn’t some creepo Alice had picked up in the parking lot.

  “It’s possible,” he said, shrugging his shoulders with a calculated effortlessness. “I guess I’m new.”

  “Eric, this is my . . . this is Harvey.”

  I flinched. “But you can call me guy.”

  Alice crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She was not amused.

  Then it dawned on me. “Study hall! You were in my study hall last Monday. Did you get moved to Johnson’s study hall or something?” I’d only seen him the once.

  “Something like that,” he said, not even looking at me but at Alice, like it was some kind of private joke only they shared.

  I wanted to drive an entire continent between them, but instead I extended my gloved hand. Scruffy man-boy stared lamely like it was some kind of inanimate object.

  “Right . . . okay,” I said, stuffing my hand in my pocket and directing my attention to Alice and away from His Royal Scruffiness. “Al, I’ve called you a billion times. I’m supposed to give you a ride home.”

  “I’ll meet you at the car.” She didn’t even look at me; her eyes were locked on Eric Guy.

  “I parked far away.”

  “Sure, yeah.” She gave me a small smile.

  I shook my head at her, but she’d already turned back to Eric. “I’ll be right back.”

  I pulled the car to the front of the lot, giving the heater a chance to warm up. With her back turned to me, I could see Alice had no intention of getting into the vehicle anytime soon. She was talking to Eric Guy. She couldn’t talk to me, but she could talk to this asshole. So I honked. For thirty seconds straight. And then one more honk for good measure. Alice turned and narrowed her eyes at me.

  Normally, I would have given her an apologetic smile, but not today. I rolled down my window and breathed in the cold, fresh air. I gave her a grin so big I was sure she could see all thirty-two of my teeth. She rolled her eyes and continued on with Eric Guy.

  “Alice, come on!”

  She held a finger up to me while Eric Guy grabbed her hand and pulled a permanent marker out of his back pocket. As he was about to press the marker to her palm, she pulled her hand back like she’d changed her mind.

  I exhaled.

  But then she took the marker from his hand and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, scribbling her name and number down the length of his forearm. She tossed the marker to him and sauntered over to my car with a prowling grin on her face.

  She slammed the passenger d
oor shut. “Hey, guy!” I yelled through my still-open window. “The hat!” I said, motioning to my head. “Hand it over.” Alice punched me in the thigh. “Now.” He took his time walking to the car, trying to make a sad display of James Dean cool, and tossed the hat into my lap.

  “I’ll be calling you, Allie.”

  “Her name’s Alice, you turd,” I said, and sped off.

  “Jesus, Harvey. What’s your problem?”

  “You’re my problem!” The words were out of my mouth before I could calculate them. “You are so obviously my problem.” I paused. “Why are you acting like nothing happened between us when something did?”

  She didn’t answer. So we acted like adults and gave each other the silent treatment. Her eyes followed the blur of trees and buildings outside her window as her fingers traced patterns on her seat. It felt good—standing up to her, like I’d won something. But that didn’t last for long.

  When I dropped her off, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, a small gesture that she knew would appease me. I hated myself for letting it be this way, and I hated her for making it this way. But, really, I loved her, and that hurt the worst of all because I was tired of being her debris.

  Alice.

  Then

  Most everyone who’s undergone chemotherapy has a hair story.

  Plenty of people had told me that when my hair grew back, after all the chemo was said and done, it would look and feel a little different, a new texture or maybe even a whole other color altogether. The first person to tell me this was a stranger, a random woman at the Grocery Emporium. I was in the juice-and-soda aisle when she came up behind me, touching my elbow lightly, like I might break. She had had breast cancer and rebelliously curly hair, but after remission it all grew back straight as a board. Then she gave me a reassuring smile and hugged me, which honestly creeped the shit out of me.

  Harvey stood a few feet away, stocking apple juice in his Grocery Emporium apron with his name tag hanging upside down, witnessing this exchange. With my chin resting in the dip of this stranger’s shoulder, I watched him concentrating on his task, avoiding my gaze.

  I had lost my hair a few weeks before. Most people let their hair fall out slowly—clogged in a bathtub drain or clumped in a hairbrush—until it was time to let go and shave it all off. But I guess I’ve never been very patient.

  It was Christmas Eve, and I had finished up my first round of induction chemo the week before. I’d seen enough Lifetime movies to know it was coming—plus it was a major bullet point in the “So, you’re going through chemo” pamphlet. The pamphlet also said that the process of losing hair can feel more manageable if the patient cuts their hair first. I’d stood in the bathroom the night before starting chemo with the scissors in my hand. Before I’d made the first cut, I noticed my pile of hair ties next to the sink. I couldn’t do it. The pamphlet also said I should be attending a support group, but I didn’t take that advice either. Nothing would have made me feel dead faster than sitting in a room full of dying people talking about their feelings.

  At treatments, I’d see girls with scarves wrapped around their heads, and they looked at me like they knew all my secrets. And they probably did.

  We usually spent Christmas Eve at home. Natalie and Harvey would come over and we’d have a big dinner and take family pictures, blending the six of us together for various combinations. Natalie would make lots of traditional Romanian desserts, like amandine—which translated to insanely delicious chocolate cake. When we were kids, Natalie and Harvey used to stay the night and we’d all open presents together in the morning.

  I stood in front of the bathroom sink, splashing water on my face. I’d spent the entire previous day puking up every piece of food I’d ever so much as looked at. The prospect of Christmas Eve felt better, as long as the nausea didn’t kill me.

  Pushing my hair back to put it half up, I ran my fingers through to the ends to find a clump of hair in my fist. I’d noticed it before, in the shower and in my brush, but this was the most at one time. I dropped the hair into the sink, wishing I could count the strands. I closed the lid to the toilet and plopped down.

  I’d never been all that vain.

  Okay, that was a lie. But I’d never had to try with my looks. They just were.

  Tucking my knees into my chest, I pulled on another small patch of hair, just to see if maybe it was a fluke. A drill. I loosened my fingers and let the strands fall to the ground, hitting the white tiles of the bathroom floor.

  I was fine.

  I was absolutely fine until I realized the last person who had played with my hair had been Luke. And I would never put my hair into a sleek dancer’s bun again. I had this certainty about death, and, for me, there was never a possibility of it growing back. I knew it the way most people expect they’ll wake up in the morning.

  “You all right?” called my mom through the door. “Everyone’s ready for pictures.”

  “Just a minute,” I said, my voice a little shaky.

  I pulled my fingers through my hair once more and a fistful of hair fell into the sink.

  My mom knocked on the door. “Alice?”

  I turned the thumb lock, unlocking the door, and the minute it clicked she twisted the knob. She looked me over once before noticing the hair in the sink and the loose strands on my shirt. Reaching for me, she tucked me beneath her arm. I was too tired to pull away. She spoke to me in a soothing language only she and I knew. For that moment, her lies dissolved and I melted into her side. She held me, as though the sheer force of her could keep me on this earth.

  The next day, we shaved my hair in the kitchen with the brand-new electric razor my mom had bought my dad for Christmas.

  There were no family pictures that year.

  Alice.

  Now

  Harvey was pissed at me. I really didn’t care, though. My first day of school was horrible, even worse than I’d expected. And Harvey’s feelings weren’t at the top of my list right now. He was livid the entire way home, making sharp, jerking turns and shifting his foot between the brake and the gas.

  When he pulled into my driveway, he didn’t even cut the engine to come inside like usual. He sat there with his hands on the wheel, drumming his long fingers. I leaned across the center console and gave him a kiss on the cheek. That was exactly what I needed to keep Harvey in reach. Not too close, but still in my line of sight.

  My mom watched from the porch.

  “You’re home late,” she observed as she followed me into the house.

  “Yeah, lost track of time.”

  “I see. Got home a minute ago—court was shit today. I knew I wasn’t going to make it in time to pick you up.”

  I doubted court was the only reason she was held up. How’s your boyfriend, Mom? I’d carried this knowledge of her with me for so long that it had become as much a part of me as the cancer had. And now when I saw her, I saw nothing else.

  “It was very nice of Harvey to drive you home.” My mother was impatient by nature, and her job always showcased the worst sides of people, so she wasn’t very forthcoming when it came to caring for others. But she loved Harvey. In the eyes of my dear mother, Harvey hung the moon. Hell, he was the moon. “Why didn’t you invite him in?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. Why didn’t you invite him in?”

  “Drop the attitude, Alice.” She thumbed through her box of teas and pulled out two different individually wrapped tea bags. “After school teatime. Lavender or hazel?” she asked, holding them up.

  “Neither,” I said. “Hot chocolate.”

  She closed the tea box.

  “With extra marshmallows,” I added.

  When our bags of grainy powder had turned into steaming mugs of cocoa, she sat down next to me at the kitchen table.

  “Talk to me.”

  Talking. It’s something we used to do all the time, just talk. I’d tell her all about school and dance and even Celeste. Two summers ago, when I was headed to tenth grade, we even talk
ed about going for birth control soon. I told my mom over and over again that Luke and I weren’t having sex, but she insisted that we take the precaution and that I could always be honest with her.

  “How was it?”

  Horrendous. “Nothing to report.”

  “Anyone give you a hard time?”

  “Not really.” Lie.

  “And Celeste?” she asked.

  “Didn’t see her.” Another lie.

  “Girls can be barbarians. But you know that—you are one.”

  “A girl or a barbarian?”

  “Both.” She paused. “I talked to Natalie on my way to work this morning. She’s not doing any spring-break camps at the studio this year. She was thinking maybe the five of us could go on a little mini vacation. What do you think? I mean, if you’re still feeling okay.”

  What did I think? I thought that sounded great and horrible all in the same breath. “I don’t care.”

  My mother pursed her lips. She probably wanted to tell me to stop acting like a brat, but she didn’t. “We’ll play it by ear.” With her still sitting there and neither of our cocoas barely touched, I got up to go to my room. But my mother wasn’t done. “Do you have any homework?”

  “I guess,” I called over my shoulder. Instead of replying with an equally biting remark, she let me walk right out of the kitchen without a word left between us.

  I wanted her to yell at me. I wanted to hear the truth. The lack of truth—that’s how I knew she was still having an affair. And today, with her getting stuck in court, I couldn’t believe it. No matter how true it might have been, I would always be suspicious. Because if she’d ended it, she would have told my dad, and then they would have told me. Working in criminal law, my mom saw the fruit of lies every day, and she wouldn’t tolerate it at home. Growing up, she would say, “Inside our home, we always tell the truth. Even when it does more harm than good.”

  In my room, I checked my cell phone and found three missed calls from the same unknown number, presumably my newest acquaintance, Eric. Funny, I hadn’t taken him for eager.