Send Me a Sign (12 page)

“Like you’d ever flunk anything.”

“I got a C on a pop quiz in bio freshman year,” I reminded him.

“And you cried for hours. You’re crazy.” He traced a lazy hand up and down my arm.

“I’m motivated,” I corrected. “You should talk—isn’t your GPA three hundredths higher than mine?”

“I don’t know. Who keeps track of that?” Gyver leaned his head against mine.

“We talked about movies, didn’t we?” I asked after a pause. “You were making a list of movies I needed to see. And music. You talked about bands I’d never heard of.”

“Maybe that’s why you kept falling asleep.” Gyver pulled me closer and I nuzzled drowsily against his chest. “I made lots of lists. Bands, movies, things to do when you got out of the hospital.”

“What’re we going to do?” I wanted to stay awake and have this conversation—it felt important—but I was so sleepy and comfortable.

His voice hushed. “Anything. Everything. I want to do everything with you, Mi.”

“Can I see these lists?” I murmured, an escapist yawn splitting the final word in two.

“Not tonight. We’ve got time.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Mrs. Russo fretted as she showed me where to stack the mail and how she’d gathered the plants on the kitchen table so I could water them while they were away for a week in Martha’s Vineyard. The routine hadn’t changed since I started plant sitting in second grade.

“I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re feeling too tired, it’s okay to miss a day.”

This was proof I shouldn’t tell people; Mrs. Russo doubted my ability to empty a mailbox and fill a watering can.

“I’ve managed to keep myself alive so far; I don’t think a dozen plants will be too tricky.” I smiled, she didn’t.

“Dearest, take a seat. Do you have a minute?” She fussed in the fridge, serving me a large dish of tiramisu. “Can you eat this?”

I reached around the island and grabbed a fork from the drawer. “I can if you don’t tell my mom.”

She smiled, poured a glass of milk, and sat across from me. “I’ve wanted to talk to you since your diagnosis, but I haven’t found a moment where you weren’t guarded by my son or your mom.”

I dragged my fork through the dessert, mixing the powdered top into the creamy layer. “About what?”

She put a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were all sympathy with no trace of their police-chief sternness. “This hiding thing you’re doing, it isn’t good. You’re sick. You’ve got leukemia. Hiding it, lying about it, those are forms of denial.”

“I know I’m sick.” The dessert curdled in my mouth.

“And I know your parents. I know you.” She paused. “This
is your time to kick your feet and make a fuss. Cry, yell, do something. You’re allowed. It’d be healthy.”

The irony of the word “healthy” snapped me out of the pity cocoon I’d started to build. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“Leukemia is not fine. Not accepting you’re sick isn’t fine. Your stoicism and the lies—Mia, you have to tell people.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” I crossed my arms. “You think I don’t know I’m sick? I couldn’t forget if I wanted to! Whether or not other people know—that’s my choice. I don’t need or want people judging me.”

“I’m not judging, but you need to focus on getting well, not waste energy pretending everything’s okay for your parents or your friends.” She pulled me close and I relented, clutching a handful of her sundress so she couldn’t let go.

This comfort felt a bit like betrayal; Mom would hate this whole conversation. She’d say Mrs. Russo was meddling; that this wasn’t sympathy, it was pity.

I let myself linger for another few seconds before I pulled away from the embrace and swallowed a sob. I couldn’t go down that pathetic, sloppy, poor-me path. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. I just needed to try little harder and do a better job of faking it until the pieces of my life fell back into place.

“I’m fine,” I repeated.

“And I’m here. Whenever you need me. I believe you can beat this. I pray for it and I believe it.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Now eat—you’re far too skinny.”

Chapter 13

I tugged at my T-shirt and yoga pants; they didn’t fit like mine anymore.

“Hil, I can’t tumble.” Dr. Kevin had forbidden it, and my secret backyard attempts were displayed in a blackish bruise across my butt and left thigh.

“What?” Her eyebrows arched and she crossed her arms.

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to meet her eyes. The old Mia didn’t back down from Hil. Of course, she didn’t have to lie as often either. But I’d prepped for this one. “I pulled something in my knee running in Connecticut. I can still cheer, but the doctor said no tumbling until it’s healed.”

Hil pressed her lips into a thin, shiny line and I braced myself, but a new girl spoke first. “So all of Ally’s talk about Mia being the best tumbler ever and she can’t even tumble?”

Hil spun around and the girl choked off midgiggle. “And you’re so great, Sarah? Maybe if you’d spent all summer
training instead of bitching, you’d be close to as good as Mia is. No, never mind, you wouldn’t. And even when she’s not tumbling, Mia’s a more important part of this squad than you’ll ever be.”

Sarah blinked and backed away. I touched Hil’s arm and she turned. “Get a doctor’s note for Coach Lindsey and don’t run if it will make your knee worse. I want you tumbling ASAP.”

“Thanks.” My eyes strayed to where Sarah whined to another freshman; Ally was headed over to do damage control.

Hil released a slow breath. “I meant it—we need you. You’re the heart of this squad and camp wasn’t the same without you.”

I hugged her, but she brushed me off. “You might as well go home—the rest of the practice is tumbling; it’s a waste of time for you to be here.” Having dismissed me, Hil stomped off to critique a sophomore with bent elbows.

I drove a roundabout route home, then sat at the kitchen table and watched for the mail truck. It was just collecting mail, but I was glad to have something on my calendar that wasn’t a trip to the doctors for endless blood work to test liver function, kidney function, and always, always white blood cell counts.

The only other things on the kitchen calendar were the first day of school, cheerleading, and a red circle around September 21. Mom, Dad, and I all knew what it meant, and none of us needed to have the words “chemo” or “hospital” staring down while we ate breakfast.

School would at least be something distracting. Right now cheerleading filled my mornings, but my afternoons were empty. The girls came over some days but were preoccupied with back-to-school shopping. I wasn’t allowed at the mall—it was number eight on Dad’s list of germiest places. Avoiding it required a complicated series of lies and excuses—made slightly easier by Mom’s online shopping sprees. I could honestly say I had no need to buy any more new clothes.

I embraced the mail collecting and plant watering and tried to ignore how weird it was to be in Gyver’s house without him. It was weird just to
be
without him, and I’d begun carrying one of his guitar picks in my pocket—something to hold on to when I was stressed or lonely.

The mailbox was nearly empty today, just a catalog, a bill from the cable company, and a red bug crawling across a college brochure. Were all ladybugs lucky, or did it need to have a certain number of spots? I tried to remember as I gently nudged it off the envelope and onto the mailbox post.

I tossed the mail and paper on the Russos’ counter. The plants were still damp from yesterday. It occurred to me that Gyver’d been in my bedroom recently, but I hadn’t seen his since elementary school. Would it be like Ryan’s—the smell of sweat and a shrine to all things athletic? Not likely. Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped off my flip-flops, stepped through the archway connecting the Russos’ kitchen to their dining room, and crossed to the stairs.

The floor plan was identical to ours. I knew which door at the top of the stairs led to the bathroom and the master suite. I
stood in front of the door that would’ve been mine if this were my house. In this house, it was his.

And it was just like him—slightly disheveled, but more attractive because it wasn’t orderly. The walls were green beneath the music posters. I touched the corner of the Radiohead one from the concert we’d attended last year. Ticket stubs everywhere. There were spools of blank CDs on his desk and burned ones scattered about. Favorite and local bands were interspersed with Gaiman, Auster, and Bradbury novels in a wide bookcase that took up most of the space under the two windows facing his bed. A few photos were stuck on the corkboard and on his bureau. Some of the pictures were of Guyver and me; some were of family; most were from concerts he’d played in or attended. I resisted the urge to edit the photos, taking out the ones where I looked hideous or had braces. I couldn’t look at his bed without imagining him on it and blushing, so I turned my attention to his desk.

More ticket stubs. Wristbands from clubs. His laptop with band stickers on the cover. An external hard drive to back up his music. There were sticky notes and paper scraps in his undecipherable handwriting. Sheet music—mostly printouts of songs he was learning, but also a few pages that were covered with pencil marks.

I picked up the top sheet, a smudged mess of notes that didn’t make sense to me. The notes only reached the third line of music bars, and there was an angry slash across the page. The second sheet was full, not just of notes but lyrics as well. Lyrics that were incomprehensible, just a couple of legible
words: sweet, soft, held, kiss, mine. A love song? By Gyver? I blushed and studied it, picking out additional words: the, for, first, now. Nothing revealing. At the top, in all capitals—which he used when he was trying to be neat—he’d printed:
“FOR M.A.”

For ma? Gyver didn’t call his mother “ma.” No, there were periods there; definitely M period, A period. My hand shook as I replaced the paper and backed out of the room. I closed the door and leaned on it. The hallway felt small, like the walls were tightening. Gyver—the boy who’d visited every day in the hospital, whose voice chased away my fear, and whose hands knew just when to hold me—wasn’t mine. I couldn’t swallow and I felt sick—but this time I couldn’t blame it on the chemo. I couldn’t blame it on anything but my own stupidity.

Back in my own room an hour later, I was still studying the yearbook. There were four girls with the initials M.A. attending East Lake. A fifth graduated last June, but Maggie Arturo had been on the squad and was a Hillary clone, definitely not Gyver’s type.

Mindy Adler was attractive, but she smoked … and not just cigarettes. That wasn’t Gyver’s thing. Maddy Appiah made it clear she didn’t like boys. Michaela Abbot was a cute soccer player, but she’d been a freshman last year; I doubted they’d met.

Not that I’d needed sixty minutes to figure this out. Or even sixty seconds. Meagan. Meagan
Andrews
. Her activities were listed beneath the yearbook photo with her glossy brown hair neatly tucked behind a headband and Lacoste polo shirt: student council, eco club, jazz band. She had a carefree smile on
her face. The same smile she’d given Gyver at Iggy’s. It felt like it was mocking me. I slammed the cover so I wouldn’t have to look at her. I’d never realized how much I disliked her.

Stupid! I’d almost thought … He’d said, “We’re just friends” to Nurse Hollywood; but I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Though that was in the hospital, where I’d been drugged and delusional. This was real life. And there was Ryan to think about—though I really didn’t want to right now.

And in real life, Gyver and I didn’t make sense—not as a couple. What would the Calendar Girls say? Plus I’d agreed to Hil’s stupid stay-single pact. And my mother, with her dreams of
Most Attractive Couple, Most Popular
, and all those other superficial superlatives she’d received her senior year! I couldn’t expose him to their scrutiny.

Trade his friendship for something riskier? Could I even handle a relationship right now on top of everything else? He’d probably be better off with stupid Meagan; she didn’t come with as much baggage.

And if I failed to be everything he deserved, I’d hurt him.