Send Me a Sign (30 page)

I didn’t know what to say. The cafeteria was noisy now, filled with unconcealed gossip:
I would’ve bet it was anorexia. My money was on drugs. Can you believe he’s dating her? Why?

Hil was clenching and unclenching her fists and my heart was beating much too fast. My throat tightened, so even if I’d known what to say, I couldn’t have spoken.

Hil broke our staring contest with a voice that quavered. “I’m supposed to be your best friend. Best friend! And you hide something like this from me for months?”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t want your pity or—”

“I’m sorry too. Sorry I wasted so long worrying what I’d done to offend you and make you shut me out. For as much time as you spend complaining about your mom, you’re turning into a fabulous mini-her. Congratulations, you don’t have my pity. You don’t have my friendship either. I’m done.”

When she stormed away this time I didn’t follow, but Lauren did. Ryan was engrossed in a conversation with Chris, a hand on his shoulder. Ally was wailing. I felt like the epicenter of a disaster.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I looked at our Spring Girl, but she wasn’t sunny or optimistic right now; her normally impeccable hair twisted in a sloppy knot, splotches on her cheeks, tear-smudged mascara.

“I didn’t really tell anyone. It wasn’t personal.”

Her eyes hardened and her voice lost its dreamy edge. “Wasn’t it? Lauren says you didn’t tell me on purpose. You didn’t trust me to keep it a secret, right?”

I took a deep breath to offer denials, but she wasn’t done talking. “I thought we were friends,” she whispered. Hurt radiated through her tears. She looked so breakable right now and we’d always gone out of our way to protect Ally, but I was exhausted. Everyone wanted something from me and I didn’t have the energy to satisfy even my most basic needs—like breathing. My chest was so tight.

“We are friends.”

“Really? Doesn’t seem like it. Mia, you might
die
—how could you not tell us this?”

Her words awoke the fear that lay coiled in my stomach. Fed by Dad’s manic research and Mom’s new worries, the fear hissed of my own frailty. It wasn’t something I needed reminding of, or something I could control.

I sucked in a breath and blinked back tears. “You’re right. I might.” The words were bitter in my mouth, toxic enough to make me nauseated. My voice was flat and expressionless, my mind shutting down and detaching from this hellish situation.

She wailed. “Don’t you … Don’t you even care?”

What did caring have to do with it? It was beyond my control—and all my focus needed to be on standing upright, breathing. I didn’t even have the energy to look her in the face, so I watched her jeans.

They turned and walked away from me, breaking into a run when she was a few steps from the door. I wanted to chase her, to apologize and tell her everything—starting with
I’m sorry
and
I’m so scared
but I couldn’t move.

What had I done? Ryan and Chris had stopped talking and were watching me with matching horrified expressions.

Ryan recovered first. “Mia, sit. You’re shaking so hard I don’t know how you’re standing.” He led me toward a chair at my empty table.

I sat, but then stood back up. “I need to go get Ally.”

“Sit. I’ll go. Chris, stay with Mia?” Ryan waited for his nod, then headed across the room.

“He won’t know where to find her,” I babbled toward Lauren’s abandoned banana. “She’s probably in the girls’ locker room. He won’t look there.”

“What the hell, Mia?” He wasn’t looking at me, but also studying the lunches strewn across the table. He began to stack the yogurt cups and Diet Cokes on an empty lunch tray. “Can you at least put your hair back on?”

“It’s a wig.” It was tangled from being balled in my fist, but I more or less settled it on my head.

“No shit, it’s a wig. You didn’t think to tell me any of this this morning when we had our little locker talk?”

“I hadn’t even told Hil yet. I wanted to tell her first. And not like this.” I rested my forehead on the lunch table, not caring if it was germy or sticky. I didn’t have the energy to face another round of accusations.

“So, you’re using Ryan, you made Hil cry, and you’ve got cancer. Anything else?”

“Using Ryan?” I forced my chin up so I could look at him. “It’s not like that. He knows I’m sick, he’s always known I was sick. He’s been to the hospital.”

“Hospital? You’ve got a deadly illness and you’ll date him, but you don’t love him? Damn.”

“I like him a lot. And I might love him someday. I just don’t yet.” I realized I was rationalizing, but couldn’t stop. “People don’t have to like each other equal amounts. If you and Hil started dating right now, you’d like her more. Would that make her evil?”

“That’s different.” He stood and I followed; I couldn’t be in this room of stares and whispers any longer.

“Why?”

“Because she’s not dying!” he thundered. “Are you? Do you know what that’d to do to him? To Hil? She can’t handle that.”

Part of me respected Chris’s reaction—at least he was honest and hadn’t responded with false optimism.

“I didn’t ask to be sick.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” He threw the lunches in the trash, tray and all. “He’s my best friend and she used to be yours. Shit! Where does that put me?”

I shut my eyes and answered his question along with all the ones stomping through my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Chapter 39

I packed up my cheerleading uniform that night. There was no sense in keeping up that charade anymore. Now my performances took place off field, where I pretended to be untouched by the scrutiny and whispers of my classmates. Dodging their questions and teacher concern was a specialized skill set, and I was a black belt. I sat in class, I stared down the gossipers and shrugged off the attention-seeking sycophants, and I alienated anyone who was sincerely sympathetic.

Ryan didn’t do big shows of sympathy. At least not when it came down to choosing between his friends—my former friends—and me. If I wanted condolences about Gyver’s continued distance, I bet he’d have found plenty to say about that, but about everyone else he was pretty quiet. I’d wanted him to come running, to hold me and tell me everything would be okay, to offer to skip the rest of the day and take me home so I could hide beneath my covers.

Instead he squeezed my hand and walked me to class. “Okay, that was bad yesterday, but how’d you expect them to react? They’re hurt.”

I hurt too. And my cell stayed silent, like I’d never been a girl whose phone seemed alive with buzzes and chirps. The shopping bag containing my uniform still sat in my locker, taunting me each time I retrieved books:
you used to be this girl; you used to be happy
.

“Good. I thought I’d have to call and tell you to turn these in and I already deleted your number from my phone,” Hil said when I finally worked up the strength to hand it to her on Thursday.

“I know you’re mad, but don’t be like this. Just because I’m not on the squad doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Newsflash, you and I haven’t been friends for a while. All you did today was turn in the uniform that marked you as a person worth noticing.” She shook the bag, then shoved it in the bottom of her locker.

“Hil—” I pleaded.

“No! You’ve always acted like you were better than us: with your perfect grades and perfect parents. You thought you were smarter and kinder and prettier.”

“Not prettier—” I clasped a hand to my mouth, realizing what I’d implied.

Hillary narrowed her eyes. “One of these days Ryan’s going to dump you, and Gyver’s going to stop looking like he wants to jump in front of a train for you. Then what will you be left with?”

“Apparently,
not
my best friend,” I retorted.

She wilted. “How could you not tell me?” She slammed her locker and ran down the hall before I could answer.

What would I be left with? Her words haunted me as I drove the sleepy streets of East Lake, circling the body of water the town was named after. I didn’t want to go home and deal with Mom’s anxious energy. Ryan was stuck at soccer practice.

What would I be left with? Gyver had judged, Ryan was distracted, but it was Hil’s question that made me pause. Cancer had cost me so much: friendships, grades, cheerleading, my whole sense of who I was. I needed to know: Would I beat this and have time to fix things?

Press gas. Pump brakes. Turn wheel. Flip turn signal. Pause at stop signs. These things were automatic. I could do them without thinking, which was good because my mind was spinning too fast for thoughts to develop into coherence. My eyes stared out the windshield, seeing other cars and keeping appropriate distances but not registering anything. Not until long after my gas light was on and beeping persistently. Then I looked around and didn’t immediately recognize where I was. I wasn’t in East Lake. I was probably pushing the boundaries of Green Lake too. Edging closer to Hamilton and the bigger highways. There was a gas station within sight on my left, attached to a run-down strip mall that I studied while the numbers next to the dollar sign spun upward and the pump glugged gas into my car. An insurance agency. A cash for gold place. A dollar store. And a psychic’s sign.

The pump beneath my hand jerked to a stop, and I had to force my eyes away from the gold lettering on a teal background so I could unhook the nozzle and close the gas cap on my car.

I’d been searching for a way to know the outcome, and this was a clear sign: a four-leaf clover found under a lucky horseshoe. Or a black cat walking under a ladder on Friday the thirteenth. I wouldn’t know which until I went inside.

I expected scarves and crystal balls, like I’d pass through the modern glass door and face the flaps of an ancient gypsy tent. Not so. It resembled my dentist’s waiting room. There were potted plants, generic landscapes on beige walls, industrial carpeting, and a TV tuned to Lifetime. A large L-shaped desk sat in the center of the room; one arm covered with a computer and printouts, the other with tea things, crystals, and a stack of worn tarot cards. A large woman with frizzy gray hair was seated behind the desk. She smiled and turned off the TV.

“Are you here for a reading, dear?” Her soothing voice sounded too young for her wrinkled face and knobby knuckles.

“I guess.” My hand wouldn’t release the door despite the heat whooshing past me into the cool, late October afternoon.

“Ah, first timer. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” With effort, she pushed herself out of her chair, plugged in an electric teakettle, dimmed the lights, and pressed Play on a stereo. Exotic music filled the air—Gyver would know the instruments and origins; I found it distracting.

“Come. Sit. Let’s do a tarot and tea leaf reading; that’s a good start.”

I let the door slip from my fingers. It banged closed and
I startled forward. A printout of prices was displayed in an ornate frame on the corner of the desk. I fumbled in my purse and pulled out a twenty. She hummed as she slid it off the desktop, then began to shuffle and organize her deck of tarot.

“You need to keep in mind that each new card affects the others. The meaning won’t be clear until all cards are laid out. Their order, orientation …”

She continued her explanation, but I found it hard to hear her over the pulse hammering in my ears. After this, I’d know. I’d be able to breathe and relax and maybe start processing all of the thoughts I kept forcing aside. I’d know if we should have the college conversations Dad began and Mom terminated. I’d sit Ally and Hillary down, explain why I’d been so horrible, but tell them not to worry because soon …

“Do you understand?” she asked, gripping my hand with hers. The deep purple-black of her nail polish was disturbing against my pale skin.

I nodded. Soon I would understand everything.

“Good. I need to center myself before we begin.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, audibly.

I looked at the deck and my anticipation decayed into terror. The longer she kept her eyes shut, the more ominous the tarot cards appeared. My lip found its way between my teeth.

“I am ready.” She opened her eyes and stared at me. “Let’s begin.”

She flipped the first card with a flourish. It showed a couple in an Adam and Eve posture. “Ah, the Lovers,” she intoned, caressing a dark nail across the title written at the bottom.

I leaned in, curling my hands around the desk. I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.

She turned the next card: the Tower—a building struck by lightning, people falling. I shivered as I searched the alarming illustration for symbolism.

The third card didn’t need a label. As soon as she’d moved her hand and revealed a skeleton mounted on a white horse, I knew. The letters D-E-A-T-H at the bottom were superfluous.

I didn’t want to know anymore.