Send Me a Sign (22 page)

Mom poured herself a cup of coffee. “When I can’t fit in my pants, I’m blaming your raisin bread. It’s sinfully good. Right, Mia?”

I
um-hmm
ed, but my legs began to bob under the table. I couldn’t fake it right now, and if I didn’t leave soon, she’d notice. “Can I go wake Gyver?”

“Absolutely. Tell lazy boy it’s time to join the living,” Mrs. Russo said.

I knocked twice before I heard a noise that was half-groan and half-snarl. “It’s early, Mom.” His voice was muffled by the door and maybe a pillow.

“It’s Mia,” I said to the doorframe.

“Mi? What?” Less muffled; perhaps the pillow had been removed.

“Can I come in?” I waited five quiet seconds. “I’m coming in.”

Gyver sat up and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. His hair was an anarchy of black locks and the pillowcase had left creases on his cheek. He was shirtless. One foot and part of his calf were sticking out from under his blanket, making it clear he didn’t wear pajama pants to bed either.

“Hi,” I said shyly, sitting down in his desk chair.

“You’re in my bedroom. In your pajamas.” His words were sleep-slowed and rusty.

“Yeah,” I agreed, waiting for his inevitable innuendo.

Gyver blinked. “And you’ve been crying. What’s wrong, Mi?” He sat up straighter, alert.

“Nothing.”

He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing really. At least, nothing that matters. My mom wants me to get my hair cut today.”

He raised the other eyebrow.

“Cut off,” I clarified.

He nodded and waited. Were the Russos born with magical listening powers or did they cultivate them?

“It’s superficial, but I like my hair. I don’t want to wear a wig and I don’t want to be sick.” I was making trails in his carpet with my big toe. “Go ahead, tell me I’m being shallow.”

“C’mere.” He patted a spot next to him.

“Um … what do you have on under there?”

He grinned. “Would you like me to show you?”

When my cheeks lit up with blushes, he laughed and amended, “I’m joking, Mi. I’ve got boxers on. Come here, would you? I’ll stay safely under the covers.”

I sat on his bed—the way he’d sat on my hospital one. He gave me a sleep-warm hug. “You okay? You want to cry?”

“Did that already. I’m just so tired of it all, Gyver.”

He leaned his cheek against the top of my head; I could feel the heat from his bare chest radiating through my pajamas. “I worry about you, Mi. It seems like you’re more worried about people
finding out
you’re sick than the fact that you
are
sick.”

I heard him, but I didn’t have an answer. I continued to
fidget: tracing lines with my fingertips on the inside of the arm he’d wrapped around me.

“Maybe you should give them a chance. If your friends aren’t there for you when you need them, what good are they?” he asked.

I needed to push things back to safe waters—I should push away from him. I forced a laugh. “Maybe you just make it too easy; I don’t need them when I’ve got you.” I’d planned to add “and Ryan,” but my voice betrayed me and I was suddenly nervous. “We should go downstairs. Mom’s waiting in the kitchen.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both.”

“So I guess I can’t pull you under these blankets and take advantage of your fragile emotional state.” Gyver laughed at my startled expression and rolled away from me to reach for something on the far side of the bed—revealing a pair of light-blue boxers decorated with purple musical notes. My cheeks burned again. I shifted my gaze and tried to shift my thoughts.

“Here.” Something landed in my lap. I looked down at a black newsboy cap with a band logo on the front. “I got it last night, but it’ll look better on you.”

He gently brushed my hair back and placed it on my head. My “thanks” was breathless.

“No problem. Now, can you get out of my room so I can get dressed? If you’re going to wake me up early to go to a salon, the least you can do is properly fortify me with caffeine first.”

“What? You don’t have to—”

“Go.” Gyver nudged me through the blanket with his foot.

“You don’t have to beg. I’ll come with you—but most public places require pants. And I require coffee.”

I forced myself to laugh, half-relieved and half-disappointed to be leaving his room. “I’ll have a mug ready for you.”

“Yes, please. And Mi?” I paused at the door and turned around. Gyver grinned. “I caught you checking out my boxers. Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

My face blazed again: embarrassment plus anger. I pulled the door shut—loudly—and headed downstairs to make him an overly sweet cup of coffee.

Chapter 29

“Be honest.” My posture was debutante perfect in the salon chair. “Do I look like an anorexic alien?” I hadn’t seen myself yet, but I could imagine a huge, bald head on a too-skinny neck.

Mom was horrified. “No! Of course not. You look beautiful.”

Gyver spun my chair toward the mirror. “Actually, you’re kinda right—as usual.”

Mom was more horrified. “MacGyver! My daughter certainly doesn’t. You don’t, kitten.”

I looked at Gyver’s reflection; he was making faces behind my back. I laughed nervously and lowered my eyes to my own face, sucking in a deep, loud breath.

“Your eyes look bigger,” offered the optimistic stylist. “You’ve got killer blue eyes.”

“Exactly!” Mom agreed emphatically. “Once you put on your wig, no one’ll know.”

She held it out, but I ignored her and continued to study the large-eyed, bareheaded girl in the mirror. I twisted the chain around my neck, pulling the charm out from under my smock so I could slide it back and forth while I processed.

“What’s that?” Gyver frowned, reaching for the pendant.

“Is that new?” Mom also leaned in to inspect the gold heart.

“Ryan gave it to me last night.” I pulled away from Gyver’s grasp and tucked it self-consciously under my shirt. He’d surprised me with it after the game—when I’d bailed on Lauren’s party and yet another of his rain check dates—pressing a small jewelry box in my hand while I was still making excuses. I knew I was probably supposed to respond with, “Yes, I’ll go out with you,” but I couldn’t hide my disappointment that
my
necklace wasn’t inside the green velvet case.

Ryan had looked disappointed too, saying, “I’m still here, Mia. I know you thought I’d run after seeing you in the hospital, but I’m still here. Trust me.” I’d kissed his cheek and asked for help with the clasp, but it felt different on my neck. A heart wasn’t good luck. What does it signify if you lose your lucky charm?

“Your boyfriend?” asked the stylist. “How pretty! You’re lucky to have such a nice guy. I wish my boyfriend bought me jewelry.”

Gyver snorted.

“She is lucky!” Mom gushed. “He’s handsome, thoughtful, and last year’s junior prom king. Now let’s try the wig.”

Instead I put on Gyver’s hat. “I think my scalp needs to settle.”

Mom blinked. “Oh. That’s fine. It’s not like anyone’s going to see you in here.” She scanned the empty salon. “Do you want to wait in the car while I pay?”

I nodded and yanked off the smock before the stylist could undo the snaps. Gyver took the keys from my mother and put a hand on my shoulder as we walked out.

With the doors shut, me in the backseat, Gyver in shotgun, and the radio tuned to one of his stations, I took the hat off. My head felt exposed and prickly. “Awful?”

Gyver leaned against the headrest, eyes closed and singing along with a song while he rolled a guitar pick between his fingers. “Are you compliment fishing? Because you couldn’t look awful if you tried.”

I put the hat back on. “I wish you’d be serious.”

“You look fine.”

“Fine? I hope Ryan’s okay with ‘fine.’” I was crushed. What did I want Gyver to say?

He opened his eyes and scanned me from the top of the hat down to the heart pendant. “So Ryan’s your boyfriend now? It’s official?”

“What?” I stopped fussing with the rim of the hat and looked at him. “No, Mom just refuses to listen, and I’m sick of correcting her.”

“What kind of game are you playing, Mi?”

“Game?”

He turned around in his seat, searing me with intense eyes. “You’re jerking the guy along. Either you like him enough to
date him or you don’t—so either go out with him or let him go while he’s still got some dignity left.”

I pulled the hat brim lower and stared at my fingernails. When I had I let them get so ragged? “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not like that.”

Gyver nearly yelled his response. “I know exactly what I’m talking about—you’re going to break his heart.”

I scoffed. “I am not going to break Ryan’s heart. He doesn’t care that much.”

Gyver paused for a second, his voice dropped to a deep whisper. “Well, if he doesn’t care, why’s he doing all this?”

Why was Ryan doing this? I could think about that later, right now I was too focused on Gyver and too unsettled. “He’s hardly the only thing I’m worried about. Does it look real or will people guess? What if Ally and Hil find out? How do I keep a wig on while cheering?”

“Enough.” He held up a hand—the pick held between pointer and middle finger—and shut his eyes again. “Didn’t you hear? It makes your ‘killer blue eyes look bigger.’ Are you really going to make me tell you you’re gorgeous, so you feel good about yourself for Ryan? You know I think so. I need a much bigger dose of caffeine if you’re going to be whining about The Jock and the cheerbitches.”

If his eyes had been open, he would’ve seen how much his words hurt, but he only sighed and rubbed his closed lids.
I spent hours locked behind my bathroom door with the wig and the arsenal of products Mom bought to care for it. I ached to call Hil, have her come do hairstyling-goddess tricks and tell me honestly how I looked. She’d hug me and allow a five-minute cry if it was awful, then say “that’s enough” and tell me her plan to make bald the newest trend. But after our fight yesterday, I couldn’t convince myself to press the buttons to bring her to my dramafest. Probably because I was scared she wouldn’t come.

I needed to believe that even withered, ashen, and bald, I didn’t look too repulsive. I left the bathroom, trying to convince myself that I didn’t need my clover necklace to keep me safe, but I paused again to check myself out in the foyer mirror.

It was gone. Replaced by a framed floral print. I stepped into the dining room; the decorative mirror in there was also missing. Ordering the wig hadn’t been Mom’s only preparation for today. How long had she been planning this?

Mom came in while I studied the dining room’s new Monet print. Did she fake her smiles too? Her face looked falsely cheerful as she asked, “What are you up to tonight?”

“No plans.” I shook my head, hyperaware of the whisper of the wig against my cheeks.

“No plans?” She frowned. “Call Hil, see what she’s doing.”

“They’re all going over to Bill’s house, and I don’t feel like going out.” I didn’t want to leave the house until my hair grew back.

“Have them over here instead. I haven’t seen anyone but Lauren in ages. What’s everyone up to these days?”

I stared at the painting, a decoration to hide the ugly truth. My mouth tasted sour. “Lauren had a party last night. Other than that, I wouldn’t know. I’ve barely seen them, I have no clue what’s going on in their lives.” My voice climbed octaves as I lost my battle with tears.

“That’s not true, kitten.” She patted my back. “You see them at school and practice.”

“It is true! My whole life is illness and lies. I hate it!” I pulled the wig from my head and whipped it at the ground. “And that? It’s just another lie—another thing to hide. I don’t know my friends anymore, and I can’t even tell them why!”

Mom retrieved the wig with trembling hands. I thought she was reaching to hug me, but instead she returned the wig to my head. I flinched away.

She rubbed her temples and looked at me—really seemed to see me—for the first time since my diagnosis. She winced. “It breaks my heart to see you so unhappy. When you decided not to tell your friends, I thought it’d make it easier on you. But it hasn’t, has it? Maybe you’ve gone too far with the secrets—your father never thought it’d work.”

Her change of heart stunned me like a slap. I grabbed the back of a chair. “I don’t know how to tell them now,” I whispered.

Mom looked exhausted. “It’s been a long, emotional day. We don’t need to decide anything right now. Wait and see if you still feel this way tomorrow.”

Not lying anymore—the idea was liberating and terrifying.
It seemed too late to tell. I couldn’t casually slip “By the way, I’ve got leukemia” into a conversation.

“I need to talk to Lauren.”

Her smile was back, relieved. I let her fix my wig. “Good idea. Invite her over.”

I nodded and wandered back to my room. Lauren wouldn’t be honest and I wasn’t in the mood for what she thought I wanted to hear. So I dialed Ryan. He looked at me more than anyone these days; his reaction would tell me everything and maybe give me the answer to Gyver’s question: Why was he doing this?

I hoped to catch him before he went out, but from the sound of his “Hey. I knew you couldn’t last a night without me” he was already a few beers in.