The John Green Collection (101 page)

“Do you have siblings?” I asked.

“Huh?” he answered, seeming a little distracted.

“You said that thing about watching kids play.”

“Oh, yeah, no. I have nephews, from my half sisters. But they’re older. They’re like—DAD, HOW OLD ARE JULIE AND MARTHA?”

“Twenty-eight!”

“They’re like twenty-eight. They live in Chicago. They are both married to very fancy lawyer dudes. Or banker dudes. I can’t remember. You have siblings?”

I shook my head no. “So what’s your story?” he asked, sitting down next to me at a safe distance.

“I already told you my story. I was diagnosed when—”

“No, not your cancer story.
Your
story. Interests, hobbies, passions, weird fetishes, etcetera.”

“Um,” I said.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who becomes their disease. I know so many people like that. It’s disheartening. Like, cancer is in the growth business, right? The taking-people-over business. But surely you haven’t let it succeed prematurely.”

It occurred to me that perhaps I had. I struggled with how to pitch myself to Augustus Waters, which enthusiasms to embrace, and in the silence that followed it
occurred to me that I wasn’t very interesting. “I am pretty unextraordinary.”

“I reject that out of hand. Think of something you like. The first thing that comes to mind.”

“Um. Reading?”

“What do you read?”

“Everything. From, like, hideous romance to pretentious fiction to poetry. Whatever.”

“Do you write poetry, too?”

“No. I don’t write.”

“There!” Augustus almost shouted. “Hazel Grace, you are the only teenager in America who prefers reading poetry to writing it. This tells me so much. You read a lot of capital-G great books, don’t you?”

“I guess?”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Um,” I said.

My favorite book, by a wide margin, was
An Imperial Affliction
, but I didn’t like to tell people about it. Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. And then there are books like
An Imperial Affliction
, which you can’t tell people about, books so special and rare and
yours
that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.

It wasn’t even that the book was so good or anything;
it was just that the author, Peter Van Houten, seemed to understand me in weird and impossible ways.
An Imperial Affliction
was
my
book, in the way my body was my body and my thoughts were my thoughts.

Even so, I told Augustus. “My favorite book is probably
An Imperial Affliction
,” I said.

“Does it feature zombies?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Stormtroopers?”

I shook my head. “It’s not that kind of book.”

He smiled. “I am going to read this terrible book with the boring title that does not contain stormtroopers,” he promised, and I immediately felt like I shouldn’t have told him about it. Augustus spun around to a stack of books beneath his bedside table. He grabbed a paperback and a pen. As he scribbled an inscription onto the title page, he said, “All I ask in exchange is that you read this brilliant and haunting novelization of my favorite video game.” He held up the book, which was called
The Price of Dawn
. I laughed and took it. Our hands kind of got muddled together in the book handoff, and then he was holding my hand. “Cold,” he said, pressing a finger to my pale wrist.

“Not cold so much as underoxygenated,” I said.

“I love it when you talk medical to me,” he said. He stood, and pulled me up with him, and did not let go of my hand until we reached the stairs.

•••

We watched the movie with several inches of couch between us. I did the totally middle-schooly thing wherein I put my hand on the couch about halfway between us to let him know that it was okay to hold it, but he didn’t try. An hour into the movie, Augustus’s parents came in and served us the enchiladas, which we ate on the couch, and they were pretty delicious.

The movie was about this heroic guy in a mask who died heroically for Natalie Portman, who’s pretty badass and very hot and does not have anything approaching my puffy steroid face.

As the credits rolled, he said, “Pretty great, huh?”

“Pretty great,” I agreed, although it wasn’t, really. It was kind of a boy movie. I don’t know why boys expect us to like boy movies. We don’t expect them to like girl movies. “I should get home. Class in the morning,” I said.

I sat on the couch for a while as Augustus searched for his keys. His mom sat down next to me and said, “I just love this one, don’t you?” I guess I had been looking toward the Encouragement above the TV, a drawing of an angel with the caption
Without Pain, How Could We Know Joy?

(This is an old argument in the field of Thinking About Suffering, and its stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries, but suffice it to say that the existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate.) “Yes,” I said. “A lovely thought.”

I drove Augustus’s car home with Augustus riding
shotgun. He played me a couple songs he liked by a band called The Hectic Glow, and they were good songs, but because I didn’t know them already, they weren’t as good to me as they were to him. I kept glancing over at his leg, or the place where his leg had been, trying to imagine what the fake leg looked like. I didn’t want to care about it, but I did a little. He probably cared about my oxygen. Illness repulses. I’d learned that a long time ago, and I suspected Augustus had, too.

As I pulled up outside of my house, Augustus clicked the radio off. The air thickened. He was probably thinking about kissing me, and I was definitely thinking about kissing him. Wondering if I wanted to. I’d kissed boys, but it had been a while. Pre-Miracle.

I put the car in park and looked over at him. He really was beautiful. I know boys aren’t supposed to be, but he was.

“Hazel Grace,” he said, my name new and better in his voice. “It has been a real pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Ditto, Mr. Waters,” I said. I felt shy looking at him. I could not match the intensity of his waterblue eyes.

“May I see you again?” he asked. There was an endearing nervousness in his voice.

I smiled. “Sure.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Patience, grasshopper,” I counseled. “You don’t want to seem overeager.”

“Right, that’s why I said tomorrow,” he said. “I want to see you again tonight. But I’m willing to wait
all night and much of tomorrow
.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m
serious
,” he said.

“You don’t even know me,” I said. I grabbed the book from the center console. “How about I call you when I finish this?”

“But you don’t even have my phone number,” he said.

“I strongly suspect you wrote it in the book.”

He broke out into that goofy smile. “And you say we don’t know each other.”

I
stayed up pretty late that night reading
The Price of Dawn
. (Spoiler alert: The price of dawn is blood.) It wasn’t
An Imperial Affliction
, but the protagonist, Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem, was vaguely likable despite killing, by my count, no fewer than 118 individuals in 284 pages.

So I got up late the next morning, a Thursday. Mom’s policy was never to wake me up, because one of the job requirements of Professional Sick Person is sleeping a lot, so I was kind of confused at first when I jolted awake with her hands on my shoulders.

“It’s almost ten,” she said.

“Sleep fights cancer,” I said. “I was up late reading.”

“It must be some book,” she said as she knelt down next to the bed and unscrewed me from my large, rectangular oxygen concentrator, which I called Philip, because it just kind of looked like a Philip.

Mom hooked me up to a portable tank and then reminded me I had class. “Did that boy give it to you?” she asked out of nowhere.

“By
it
, do you mean herpes?”

“You are too much,” Mom said. “The book, Hazel. I mean the book.”

“Yeah, he gave me the book.”

“I can tell you like him,” she said, eyebrows raised, as if this observation required some uniquely maternal instinct. I shrugged. “I told you Support Group would be worth your while.”

“Did you just wait outside the entire time?”

“Yes. I brought some paperwork. Anyway, time to face the day, young lady.”

“Mom. Sleep. Cancer. Fighting.”

“I know, love, but there is class to attend. Also, today is…” The glee in Mom’s voice was evident.

“Thursday?”

“Did you seriously forget?”

“Maybe?”

“It’s Thursday, March twenty-ninth!” she basically screamed, a demented smile plastered to her face.

“You are really excited about knowing the date!” I yelled back.

“HAZEL! IT’S YOUR THIRTY-THIRD HALF BIRTHDAY!”

“Ohhhhhh,” I said. My mom was really super into celebration maximization. IT’S ARBOR DAY! LET’S HUG TREES AND EAT CAKE! COLUMBUS BROUGHT SMALLPOX TO THE NATIVES; WE SHALL RECALL THE OCCASION WITH A PICNIC!, etc. “Well, Happy thirty-third Half Birthday to me,” I said.

“What do you want to do on your very special day?”

“Come home from class and set the world record for number of episodes of
Top Chef
watched consecutively?”

Mom reached up to this shelf above my bed and grabbed Bluie, the blue stuffed bear I’d had since I was, like, one—back when it was socially acceptable to name one’s friends after their hue.

“You don’t want to go to a movie with Kaitlyn or Matt or someone?” who were my friends.

That was an idea. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll text Kaitlyn and see if she wants to go to the mall or something after school.”

Mom smiled, hugging the bear to her stomach. “Is it still cool to go to the mall?” she asked.

“I take quite a lot of pride in not knowing what’s cool,” I answered.

•••

I texted Kaitlyn, took a shower, got dressed, and then Mom drove me to school. My class was American Literature, a lecture about Frederick Douglass in a mostly empty auditorium, and it was incredibly difficult to stay awake. Forty minutes into the ninety-minute class, Kaitlyn texted back.

Kaitlyn had the kind of packed social life that needs to be scheduled down to the minute. I responded:

Mom drove me directly from school to the bookstore attached to the mall, where I purchased both
Midnight Dawns
and
Requiem for Mayhem
, the first two sequels to
The Price of Dawn
, and then I walked over to the huge food court and bought a Diet Coke. It was 3:21.

I watched these kids playing in the pirate-ship indoor playground while I read. There was this tunnel that these two kids kept crawling through over and over and they never seemed to get tired, which made me think of Augustus Waters and the existentially fraught free throws.

Mom was also in the food court, alone, sitting in a
corner where she thought I couldn’t see her, eating a cheesesteak sandwich and reading through some papers. Medical stuff, probably. The paperwork was endless.

At 3:32 precisely, I noticed Kaitlyn striding confidently past the Wok House. She saw me the moment I raised my hand, flashed her very white and newly straightened teeth at me, and headed over.

She wore a knee-length charcoal coat that fit perfectly and sunglasses that dominated her face. She pushed them up onto the top of her head as she leaned down to hug me.

“Darling,” she said, vaguely British. “How
are
you?” People didn’t find the accent odd or off-putting. Kaitlyn just happened to be an extremely sophisticated twenty-five-year-old British socialite stuck inside a sixteen-year-old body in Indianapolis. Everyone accepted it.

“I’m good. How are you?”

“I don’t even know anymore. Is that diet?” I nodded and handed it to her. She sipped through the straw. “I do wish you were at school these days. Some of the boys have become downright
edible
.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?” I asked. She proceeded to name five guys we’d attended elementary and middle school with, but I couldn’t picture any of them.

“I’ve been dating Derek Wellington for a bit,” she said, “but I don’t think it will last. He’s such a
boy
. But enough about me. What is new in the Hazelverse?”

“Nothing, really,” I said.

“Health is good?”

“The same, I guess?”

“Phalanxifor!” she enthused, smiling. “So you could just live forever, right?”

“Probably not forever,” I said.

“But basically,” she said. “What else is new?”

I thought of telling her that I was seeing a boy, too, or at least that I’d watched a movie with one, just because I knew it would surprise and amaze her that anyone as disheveled and awkward and stunted as me could even briefly win the affections of a boy. But I didn’t really have much to brag about, so I just shrugged.

“What in heaven is
that
?” asked Kaitlyn, gesturing to the book.

“Oh, it’s sci-fi. I’ve gotten kinda into it. It’s a series.”

“I am alarmed. Shall we shop?”

•••

We went to this shoe store. As we were shopping, Kaitlyn kept picking out all these open-toed flats for me and saying, “These would look cute on
you
,” which reminded me that Kaitlyn never wore open-toed shoes on account of how she hated her feet because she felt her second toes were too long, as if the second toe was a window into the soul or something. So when I pointed out a pair of sandals that would suit her skin tone, she was like, “Yeah, but…” the but being
but they will expose my hideous second toes to the public
, and I said, “Kaitlyn, you’re the only person I’ve ever known
to have toe-specific dysmorphia,” and she said, “What is that?”

“You know, like when you look in the mirror and the thing you see is not the thing as it really is.”