Send Me a Sign (15 page)

In the car Ally was quick to bring up my trip to the office. “I can’t believe Mr. Bonura had you sent to the office—it’s the first day! What if you’d gotten lost on the way to class?”

“I’m a senior. I know where classes are.”

“But still. He’s … he’s such a tool!” Ally didn’t swear or use objectionable language. “Tool” was a major show of loyalty.

Before I could think up an innocent cheer question to keep Ally chatting, she sucked on her lip and spoke slowly, “Hil’s pissy about it, but she’ll get over the Ryan thing; this single-seniors idea is totally a Keith reaction. You really should say yes to Ryan.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You like him! How many times have you told me you felt slutty for hooking up with him? And, really, all you ever did was make out, which is, like, nothing. I thought this is what you wanted.”

“Yeah, but …” I sighed and scratched a bug bite behind my knee.

“But what? Last year every other week you were promising if Ryan didn’t ask you out, you were done with him. And then every time you kissed, you beat yourself up. What changed?”

“Nothing.” Everything.

“Did something happen in Connecticut?”

“What?” I stared at her blankly for a moment. “Oh. No, nothing.”

“You’re different since you came back. You sure nothing happened? I’d be the last one to judge you if you hooked up with someone. Don’t get upset, but you know he did.” Her face was a portrait of concern and sympathy.

“Different how?” Mine must’ve been painted with panic.

“Let go of your necklace and relax! That’s what I mean; you’re so tense all the time! But about weird things, like you don’t drink … and Ryan. And you didn’t flip about your haircut.”

“I did when it happened.” I touched my head self-consciously. Mom had sent the bagged hair to the wig maker. No one expected my fragile strands to endure my next round of chemo.

Ally shrugged and turned her lime-green VW Bug onto my street—a row of matching two-story, four-bedroom colonials in a line as straight as a Monopoly board. Gyver’s house stood out because of the police cruiser in his driveway; mine for having the most overly landscaped yard—flowerbeds strategically scattered from the mailbox to the front door.

“This Ryan thing, though. How much time did we spend talking about him last year? Are you really going to say no because of Hil?”

“It’s not that.” My eyes filled. It wasn’t just Hil’s pact; it was leukemia, and Gyver, and twelve types of doubt about why Ryan really asked.

“Oh, don’t cry. I’m sorry! Mia!”

I smeared my tears and makeup with the back of my hand.

“I think it’s good he asked.” She pulled into my driveway and fished a tissue out of her purse. “It shows he’s got good taste. And maybe it’s that potential thing you were talking about. If you’re not into him anymore, then tell him no, but don’t because of a silly agreement.”

“I don’t know what I want.” I checked my makeup in her visor so Mom wouldn’t pounce when I walked in the door.

“I’ll tell Hil to back off, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” She gave me an awkward seat belt hug. “Love ya, Mia! I’ll call later in case you want to talk.”

I was exhausted by the demands of the day, bruised from Ryan’s collision and cheer practice. By the time she called, I was asleep.

Chapter 18

“How’re you feeling? You look good, considering …” The words were an ice bath; they left me shivering and gaping, because they hadn’t been offered by a doctor, nurse, or one of my parents. Not even a teacher or Principal Baker. They’d come from Meagan Andrews. She’d said them in the middle of history class.

It was the second week of school, and I was finally relaxing into a routine. Granted it was a routine that included trips to guidance, two skipped practices because I’d been too tired, and I-want-you-to-know-I’m-here-for-you comments from my teachers. Each day felt like a magic trick, convincing people to look at one thing so they missed what was going on behind the curtain—but Meagan’s question had shattered the illusion.

“What are you talking about?” My voice dropped to a razor-blade whisper. I pretended to be absorbed by the timeline of the Roman Empire on the board.

Meagan leaned across her desk, conquering the aisle between
us. “I know about your leukemia. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Gyver told you?” He was by the pencil sharpener but turned at the sound of his name. “You can’t tell anyone,” I hissed at her. Without waiting for a response, I walked up to Mr. Yusella. “I need to go to the nurse.”

“Oh. Oh!” He swallowed a worried breath. “Do you want someone to walk you?”

I shook my head and hurried out the door. Before I’d made it past three classrooms, Gyver caught up. “What’s going on? You okay?”

“I trusted you.” I had to wrap my arms around my stomach to get the words out. Everything inside felt broken. I couldn’t believe he had betrayed me—to
her
. But why wouldn’t he? If he wrote her songs, why wouldn’t he tell her secrets?

“What are you talking about, Mi?” He held open his arms to embrace me, but instead I rained weak fists against his chest.

“I can’t believe you told her.”

“Who?” He took both my fists in one of his hands, and with the other drew me into a hug. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Who do you think? Meagan Andrews. She knows, Gyver, she knows.” My face was slick with tears, which I wiped against his Velvet Underground T-shirt.

“I didn’t tell her. You know I wouldn’t.” He rubbed my back and released my hands; they dropped to my sides.

“I need to go home.” I couldn’t be in school when Meagan told everyone. I couldn’t face their scrutiny and overwhelming pity.

“Okay. Let’s go.” Gyver’s hand around my shoulder supported and propelled me outside to his car. I couldn’t do anything but bite my bottom lip and shake my head. All those weeks of hiding and lying and I was going to be exposed … by her? Would it change how Gyver felt? Would he go home and add a verse about M.A.’s life-ruining tendencies?

“It’s going to be okay,” he reassured me.

I shook my head and reached for him. He drove one-handed to my house.

“Your dad’s home.” He pointed to his car in my driveway. “I’ll head back to school and let them know you weren’t feeling well.”

My eyes grew wet, but I nodded.

“Do I need to tell your cheer friends?” he asked.

I nodded again and continued to chew my lip.

“It’s going to be okay.” With one finger he reached out and touched my lower lip, easing it from the clutch of my teeth. “I promise. Try not to worry.”

I got out and trudged up the steps.

“I’ll stop by after school,” Gyver called from half in, half out of his car. I waved a limp hand and resumed kneading my lip with my teeth.

It was a long afternoon. Dad was out of his depth once he confirmed I had no temp. “Mia, kiddo, people were bound to find out.”

“No, they weren’t!”

“Did you really think you could keep it a secret?”

“Yes,” I gasped through a fresh tide of tears. “Mom thought I could too.”

“Your mother means well, but she’s …” He paused and passed me a box of tissues. “She’s struggling with the reality of your illness. I’ve tried showing her some books and charts … Well, you know how sensitive she is. But this keeping your cancer a secret, it’s not really a long-term solution.”

“I’m not ready,” I responded, annoyed he had higher expectations for me than Mom did.

He made me a cup of chamomile tea. When I ignored it and cried harder, he said, “Hang on,” disappeared into his office, and reappeared with a pack of Oreos. “Don’t tell your mother.”

I smiled in spite of myself, took a cookie, and twisted it apart. I ate the creamy half and dunked the naked chocolate side in the milk Dad set on the table.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded and stared at the crumbs floating on the surface of the milk.

“Good. Now let’s look at this logically.” He lifted my chin. “You can’t control everything. If people find out, they find out. And sick or not, you’re a person to be respected.”

I gripped the cookie too tightly and it crumbled all over the table. How could I explain that my image was the only thing I could control? Only, thanks to Meagan, I couldn’t.

The door opened, and both of us looked guiltily to the
cookies. “I’ll take the heat,” Dad reassured me. But it wasn’t Mom, it was Gyver.

“They make health-food Oreos? Are they as awful as that tofu ice cream?” He hesitated before reaching for one.

“These are the all-processed kind. Don’t tell her mom, but we needed some artificial flavoring today.” Dad gave Gyver a sheepish grin.

“Sure.” Gyver shoved a cookie in his mouth and dunked a second in my milk before he even took a seat. “I let the office know and told Ally you had a migraine.”

“Thanks.”

Gyver pointed to the box of tissues on the table and the discard pile in my lap. “Enough of that. I talked to Meagan. She won’t tell anyone.”

“Really?” I latched myself around his neck, scattering tissues on the floor and knocking the Oreo out of his hand.

“Easy there, Mi. It’s no big deal.” Gyver laughed at my awestruck expression and reached around my back to help himself to another cookie.

Dad cleared his throat. “Well, it looks like you’re in good hands. I guess my work here is done.” He gathered the cookie and tissues off the floor and poured Gyver his own glass of milk before leaving. “I’ll be in my office.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I squeezed Gyver around the neck again.

“You’re—choking—me.” He laughed. I relinquished my stranglehold and returned to my own seat.

“Spill!” I ordered.

“It wasn’t hard. Meagan’s cool. I told her you didn’t want
people to know and she apologized and promised she wouldn’t say anything.”

“You’re the best!” I quashed the urge to hug him again—once he mentioned Meagan, I no longer felt like I had a right to.

“I know. But it’s no biggie. After all, it’s my mom’s fault she knew. Mom works with Meagan’s dad, did you know that?”

I shook my head. “So, you two, you’ve hung out a lot?”

“Well, yeah. Anyway, what I was going to say was Meagan’s brother, Max, had leukemia too. When Mom first found out you were sick—before she knew it was a state secret—she asked Officer Andrews about treatments and stuff.”

“Her brother?”

Gyver looked down and his dark hair obscured his eyes. “Yeah. It was years ago. Don’t worry about him, worry about you. I hate seeing you upset like this, Mi. Just tell—”

I held up a hand to stop him. I didn’t want a lecture. “She seems nice,” I managed.

I was proud of myself for the effort, but unnerved by the way my insides twisted when he crunched a cookie and nodded. “She’s great. You’d like her.”

I highly doubted that. “Thanks again—for everything today.”

“If I tell you it wasn’t a big deal for the third time, will you believe me?”

“It’s a big deal to me. I don’t know how to show you how grateful I am.”

“I can think of a few ideas.” Gyver arched his eyebrows.

“Don’t you have homework?”

He stood and grabbed another cookie. “I was just going to suggest you drive tomorrow. And maybe write my English essay.”

“I’ll drive, but you’re on your own with Dostoyevsky. I’ve got my own essay to write.”

“See you later, Mi.” He squeezed my hand and left; leaving me alone with my relief, uneasy thoughts about M.A. and Gyver, fingers that tingled from touching his, and a renewed conviction that I really, truly needed to get over him.

Chapter 19

I couldn’t handle school today. Staying home, I texted.

After hunting for the stupid letters, I pressed Send and collapsed on my pillow. I was drifting off when my phone chirped. No, I didn’t want a response; I wanted sleep.

I sighed and flipped it over: BRT.

Be right there? Which part of my two-word message had he interpreted as a request for visitors? I rubbed my eyes and began a response: You don’t—

But I could already hear him in the kitchen, his morning voice rusty as he greeted my parents. “I’ll take that up to Mi.”

“Thanks. Quiet though, she might be asleep.”

Wishful thinking. I kept my eyes open but didn’t bother sitting up when he and Mom entered my room. “Kitten, look who I found in the kitchen.”

“Hi.”

Gyver filled my bedroom door, his eyes more alert than I’d
ever seen them before nine a.m. He balanced a kitchen tray and his mug of coffee. “Hey, Mi. Are you okay? Do you want this?” He nodded toward the tray. It was loaded with juice, fruit salad, toast, a bottle of water, organic cardboard toaster pastries, and granola bars: an arsenal of food for a patient who had no appetite.

I shook my head. Gyver placed it on the floor and sat on the corner of my bed. Mom hovered by my desk. Both of them stared at me like they were decoding a puzzle written on my face.

“I’m just tired. Dr. Kevin said I would be.” I’d slept all weekend, bailing on cheering on Friday and Saturday’s party with a weak excuse of food poisoning. I’d felt recharged enough for school Monday and Tuesday. Enough to feel jealous of everyone’s party stories: Chris peed in a house plant; Lauren hooked up with Bill’s older brother; a JV cheerleader broke up with her boyfriend, so Ally spent the night comforting her and Hil ordered the linebacker ex to leave—even though the party was at the house of one of his teammates. Ryan had, according to Hil, spent the night pouting and texting. While I doubted the first part, I had a half-dozen Saturday night texts from him—all clever variations of date me. I’d spent Sunday morning trying to come up with a response: trying, and failing, and avoiding him at school like some reverse game of hide and seek.