“Her boyfriend?” Mom asks.
I shake my head. “Ex,” I tell her. “You know Devon. You’ve met him.”
She nods absently. “Yeah. Kristina didn’t bring him around much though.” She returns to her cooking without another word. The fragrance of the fresh flowers makes me want to sneeze so I leave and go back to the living room.
A short while later, Mom hollers that supper is ready. “Wash up,” she calls.
Dad still isn’t home from work.
I go to the bathroom to wash my hands. She’s chattering about Dad being late and saying we’ll go ahead and eat without him.
“What else is new?” I mumble as I walk back to the kitchen. She’s setting the table and I offer to help but she waves me away as if I’m causing her grief.
“Can you get Kristina for dinner?” she says without looking at me. “I’d like her to come down. She should see the flowers too. It was a nice gesture from her friends.”
I head upstairs and knock on Kristina’s door.
“I’m not hungry,” she calls out.
“Mom’ll freak out if you don’t come down and at least have something.”
Kristina doesn’t answer, so I turn her knob and push the door open. She’s lying on her bed, on top of the covers staring at the ceiling. She looks breakable. “You got a couple of bouquets of flowers. From the volleyball team and Devon,” I tell her.
She doesn’t even blink.
“Do you think I’m going to die?” she asks the ceiling in a flat voice. Unfortunately, I know she’s talking to me.
“No!” I’m surprised by the ferociousness of my voice. A surge of anger sweeps through me. She’s not allowed to give up.
“But what if I do?” she says.
“Then I’ll get the bigger room,” I tell her. “And your Toyota. But you can’t die because I want a Volkswagen Beetle and you love this room.”
She glances over at me then and sits up slowly. “My sickness is bringing out a sense of humor I didn’t even know you had.”
“Neither did I,” I tell her honestly. “You’re not going to die,” I add.
She lifts her hand in the air and studies her fingers, kind of waving them about. The veins popping out on the back of her hands are clearly visible. They look like old woman hands. I try not to picture the poison that was running through them. Chemo to kill the cancer.
“What did Jeremy give you at the hospital?” I ask.
“A charm,” she tells me. She holds up her wrist again and this time, instead of her veins, I notice the old silver bracelet she used to sleep and shower with when she was little.
I walk toward her bed and she holds it up for me to see.
“It’s a dancer,” she says, and points out a charm.
I study it. A silver girl with a long dress and a bun striking a ballroom pose. “A dancer?” I ask.
“Private joke,” she says. I sit on the end of her bed. “I told him about my charm bracelet and how I kept it over the years. We were talking about things we loved when we were kids. He remembers stuff like that.”
“He sounds like a good friend,” I say.
She nods, pulling her wrist back and studying the dancer.
“He’s a really strong person. And so easy to talk to. Probably because of his mom. He’s so, I don’t know, hopeful, I guess.”
“Yeah.” I can’t think of anything to say so I improvise. “I didn’t see him at school today.”
“No. His mom wanted him at the hospital.” She pauses. “He said she never asked him to do that before.”
“He must be worried,” I say softly, and hope it’s the right thing to say. I’m so new at this. I need instructions. I need to download something off the Internet. How to talk to people who have cancer and not sound like an insensitive jerk.
“Yeah,” Kristina pauses. “He’s a nice kid. I mean, he’s not that young. I like him. He’s easy to talk to about stuff.”
Shame creeps through me for not being easier to talk to.
“Your friends at school are so worried.” I tell her.
She closes her eyes. “Of course they are. I have cancer. They’re supposed to be. It’s expected.”
I wonder about her choice of words. “No, they really are. They don’t know what to do. They want to do something to help. Gee wants to collect money to buy you the newest iPhone. She thinks it might make you better.” I snort but she gives me nothing. “I told her not to. That you didn’t want one. Maybe you should talk to them. You know, call Gee or someone. It might help. She’s kind of your best friend, isn’t she?”
“No.”
It’s funny that Kristina never had one person. A BFF. I guess it’s Jeremy now.
“Gee wouldn’t be able to handle seeing me sick. Anyhow, I don’t want to talk to anyone from school. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
“How do you know what she can handle? Having friends around is important to you. She wants to see you. It doesn’t matter how you look.”
“It always matters, Tess. They don’t know me. Not really. No one does.” She opens her eyes. “Well, except Jeremy. He sees more than the volleyball star. The hair and the makeup and clothes. He even sees more than the cancer now, you know? He talks to me. He takes the time to ask questions, to understand who I am. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“Wow. I didn’t know you were that close.” I smile but it hurts a little. Jeremy can be something for her that I can’t.
“Did you talk to him? About, you know, your leg.”
A tiny smile turns up her lips and then disappears. “That I might lose it? Yeah. A little.” She giggles but it’s weak and she covers her mouth with her hand. “He said if I do, I’ll be on Dancing with the Stars. You know. Like that lady who was married to Paul McCartney and only had one leg.” She holds up her wrist again. “That’s what this is for. To show me what I can do, no matter what.”
I smile. It makes me feel better, thinking about that. Kristina dancing on TV.
“He made me a bet.”
I nod, remembering what he said at the hospital. “What?”
She doesn’t answer. I hear Mom shouting from the kitchen but we both ignore her. I wait for Kristina to tell me more about the bet but she doesn’t. “He said I’ll be the oldest one in the nursing home and all the old men will be secretly in love with me.”
“He totally has a crush on you,” I tell her.
She lifts her shoulder but it’s barely perceptible. “Maybe. A little. But it’s not really like that. He’s a good guy. It’s sweet. We’re friends.” She slides over her covers until she’s flat out on her back again, staring up at the ceiling. “Really good friends.”
I have an urge to tell her about Melissa. About how my best friend turned out to be someone I don’t even know. That maybe she was right about her. But it’s not the time or the place. This isn’t about me.
Kristina looks at me and her lips turn up. “He told me he has a friend who thinks you’re pretty.”
I blush and then laugh, but warmth settles in my stomach. I guess that it’s Clark and I want to ask, but don’t.
I lower my eyes. “His friend obviously needs glasses.” I hope she’ll tell me he already has them.
“No. It’s true, Tess. You are pretty. You look great in that outfit. You should explore this side of you a little more. Try a little makeup. You could be even prettier if you tried a little.”
Familiar resentment crawls into my bones and I suddenly feel gawky. Pretty is her territory. Not mine. I don’t want to listen to it and long to flee but then she smiles, though her eyes have the saddest expression I’ve ever seen.
“Remember when I was pretty?” she says.
My anger disappears. I prod inside for strength. I pretend to contemplate her question.
“No,” I finally answer. “I can’t say that I do remember when you were pretty.” And then I grin at her and she gives me a fake death stare.
“Don’t be stupid. You’re stil
l pretty,” I tell her. “Just more hard core. Like a punk rocker on crack except without rad clothes or good taste in music.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re the one who listens to bad music.”
I point at the posters on her wall and roll my eyes with exaggeration.
“You ever notice no one ever says I’m smart?” she asks.
“Totally.”
She sticks out her tongue and then runs her hand through her hair. Long strands of it come out. Bigger clumps than is normal. We both stare at it.
I reach out and take it from her hand. “It’s only hair,” I say. “It’ll grow back.”
I stand up, gripping her hair in my fist. It feels weird and my eyes fill with tears. I hurry for the wastebasket and throw it inside, and blink hard and fast before I turn around to head back to her bed.
I sit down again. “People like labels. You’re pretty, I’m smart. It doesn’t mean you aren’t smart too. Dad thinks you’re smart. I heard him.” I grin. “He told me you’re too lazy to use your brains, but smarter than you let on.”
She snorts. “Thanks a lot.” And then looks serious. “You’re okay, you know that. We’re just different.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m mute and you have verbal diarrhea.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be nicer to me when I’m sick?”
“Is that what you want?” I ask her.
She smiles again. “Not really, but yes. Besides, you’re not so mute anymore.”
I take a deep breath, trying to find courage. “I’m here for you,” I blurt out and then duck my head as shyness overcomes me.
She closes her eyes then and her breathing slows, as if our conversation exhausted her. “I know,” she says. Then she rolls over away from me, onto her side. Our conversation is obviously over. “Can you tell Mom I’m sleeping and I’ll eat something later?”
“Yeah, sure.” I push myself up from her bed and stare at her back. My heart aches but I stand straighter.
“Can you tell her Jeremy is coming over later?”
“Sure,” I say.
After I scarf back food with Mom, I head to my room. I pull out my sketch pad and my favorite pencil and examine my work in progress. I’ve shaded in explosions from the volcano but they’re not vivid enough. I’ve used shadows to show the lava running but the perspective isn’t working. My feelings aren’t spilling onto the page. I add a few lines and squint, trying to make the lava flowing from the image run right off the page.
It’s not working.
Nothing seems to be working. I feel completely and utterly useless and put my sketch pad down.
chapter eleven
A few days later, clumps of Kristina’s hair continue to fall out. Huge clumps. Soon, there are only a few strands on her head. It would be almost comical if it weren’t so heartbreaking. Finally, one day I hear her in the bathroom. There’s buzzing. The razor. When Kristina comes out, her head is round and shiny and bare. She looks smaller. Mom follows behind her, wringing her hands in front of her, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Kristina doesn’t smile anymore when I go to her room to see her. She doesn’t get out of bed unless she has to. Her energy is low and her mood lower. She sleeps or stares at the wall, her back to the door. Sometimes I hear the TV that Mom went out and bought for her room, breaking her rule that TVs should never be allowed in bedrooms. There are exceptions.
She won’t answer the phone or talk to anyone who calls, yet it seems like the phone is constantly ringing for her. Mom talks to the mothers who call for their worried daughters and soon the daughters start calling for Mom to hear how Kristina is doing. Mom lies.
Jeremy pops over every day after school though and he’s pretty much the only person Kristina talks to.
When he leaves, she locks her bedroom door and only comes out when Mom forces her to eat. She refuses the laptop and all her friends at school keep telling me she hasn’t been online since she’s been home.
Mom is becoming more and more freaked, which makes for a very clean house and lots of running miles on her newest sneakers. The house overflows with freshly made healthy snacks but Kristina isn’t interested in food. Only enough to keep Mom off her back.
I don’t know how Dad feels about the dark cloud hanging over our house, because he’s usually gone to work when I get up in the morning and isn’t home until after supper or even later if he’s golfing. He’s avoiding Kristina, which makes me furious, but I don’t have an outlet for my anger.
Hiding in my own room pretending to be busy with studying, it’s all about trying to draw, fiddling with the volcano, trying to complete the image that is trapped in my brain. It’s like there’s a fly buzzing in my head. I reach for it, flail at it, try to trap it, but can’t quite capture it. When I’m not failing at sketching, I’m book binging. I’ve read a full fantasy trilogy since Kristina came home and Melissa stopped being my best friend.
Strangely, I’m also the one becoming a computer addict now. I have more friends on Facebook than Kristina does. Almost every person at school has added me. My notoriety has more to do with Kristina than me, but it still blows me away how everyone is writing things on my wall, asking me questions, and sending me virtual flowers and funny questionnaires.
It’s a weird mix of intimacy and anonymity, having virtual friends. I finally get the whole attraction to the Internet thing. Having conversations online is easier; so is hiding behind a mouse and the keys on my keyboard.
One morning when I’m online, my chat window opens and pings. NICK E wants to chat. I hold in a scream and turn the computer off, my heart racing as if I’ve been caught unwrapping all the gifts under the Christmas tree on December 24.
When I get to school, I keep my head down in real time, but people I hardly recognize call my name and say hi, like I’m a friggin’ celebrity because my sister has cancer. Kristina’s friends hunt me down for daily updates and I grit my teeth and lie. Tell them she’s fine.
I’m standing at my locker feeling all alone and missing the idea of Melissa being there waiting for me like she used to, wishing for a real live friend, when Clark walks up to my side.
“Hey,” he says.
My hero.
“Superman.” I greet him with a smile.
He grins and pushes his glasses up on his nose. “At your service, Lois Lane.”
He waits for me and then we walk down the hallway together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Melissa is nowhere in sight, but the ghost of her presence weighs on my mind. I wonder if she’s watching from a distance. What she thinks about me and Clark hanging out. If she knows that some guys aren’t scary. Some guys make really good friends.
I wonder if she hates me.
We pass Nick in the hall and I wave, determined to pretend it wasn’t me who shut off the computer when his name came up on chat. Nick lifts his hand, but turns and leans down and says something into the ear of a blond standing beside him. Bree Silver.
When Clark and I enter Mr. Meekers’s room, he eyeballs me and calls me to his desk where he’s sitting, reading a book. He stands and speaks down to me in a quiet voice, presumably so the other kids rolling into class or already seated can’t hear our conversation.
“We need to have a serious talk, Miss Smith. I heard you’ve been skipping classes?” He gives me an evil stare but doesn’t crack me. “I’ve been pulling for you to become an esteemed member of the Honor Society, but the selection committee is very strict. We can’t make exceptions for you if you’re not meeting the requirements.” He clears his throat and stands taller. “And I haven’t seen you up on any of the volunteer lists.”
My heart skips a beat. I want to defend myself. I want to give him the full, lengthy explanation. Bullet-point my excuses. It’s not my fault. It’s Kristina’s fault. Her and her stupid cancer. My parents don’t care. No one is worried about me. Or what I want. It’s all her. I want to tell him I’d join the committees and volunteer, but between trying to cram in school work,
dealing with my sister, my Mom, and my absentee father, I don’t have time.
I open my mouth to defend myself but close it.
Images play in my head. Kristina throwing up on the first day of chemo. Her heartbreaking face, trying to be brave, but so afraid. I see her bald head and hear her tell me how she liked being pretty. As if pretty is forever a past tense for her. I hear her ask if I think she’s smart. I’ve always had smart. I own it. Even if Mr. Meekers won’t see it.
I stand tall and almost look him directly in the eye. He’s only got an inch or two on me. I still have smarts. I know that. Even if the Honor Society faculty advisor doesn’t. I take a deep breath and make a final deal with God.
I give up the Honor Society. Just please let my sister be okay.
I guess my priorities decided to shift without my even wanting them too.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Meekers,” I tell him. “But my sister is sick. And right now, that’s the most important thing.”
Well, that and the Oswald Drawing Prize, but I can’t even talk to him about it or consult him about my problems with the sketch because he sucks as an art teacher. And a faculty advisor.
I take my seat as he glares at me, but eventually his eyes glaze over. He ignores me and instructs the entire class to get to work on our clay projects. He doesn’t leave his seat once to offer anyone advice or assistance on their work. He ignores the buzz of conversation as long as it stays at a reasonable volume. Mr. Meekers doesn’t bother with dirty details like involvement with his students. He’s an ass. An ass who is not on my side.
I wonder if the lines are dividing everywhere.
chapter twelve
After school when I walk in the house, Mom runs straight for me at the front door. Babbling.
“I got back from my run a few minutes ago. She’s in her bedroom. Burning up. I called Dr. Turner but she hasn’t called me back.”
We both run to Kristina’s room. Kristina has a washcloth draped over her forehead. She’s lying still and she’s so pale and thin, she looks almost dead.
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