CH. 20

page 28

Emily's mad at me, I think. She came over for my birthday for the first time in weeks and we just sat there in silence. I tried talking to her about the new book I read but she started to cry. Apparently I'm being really brave about my situation and she just wishes there was more she could do to help me. I don't want to have this conversation. I haven't cried in years, so why should she get to? It's weird how other people care more about my illness than I do.

She told me about how she read this blog a girl with cancer started and it changed her life. I hate when people try to piggyback on other people's personal triumphs. Emily thinks being weepy and motivational is the right thing to do when someone is sick, but it's really not. I just don't know how to say that to her.

Apparently there's a lot of people like me out there who would just love to read my thoughts about my disease. I find that hard to believe. My own family doesn't like it that much. She told me she would help me set up a blog but I said no. I may not have a lot of activities to occupy my time but the last thing I want is to become her project.

page 30

Dad called today. I think he deliberately called after Leo's bedtime so he wouldn't have to talk to him. Adelaide hasn't talked to him since he left us, so he knows better than to ask me to put her on the line.

"Had a good birthday, kiddo?" he asks, voice tired.

I want to ask whether he had a long day or whether he just doesn't want to talk to me.

"It was fine," I lie. I hate that he still calls me kiddo. It's the same thing he called me since I was fourteen.

"Is your Mom around?"

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"Yeah, put her on."

I wordlessly pass the phone to her. He didn't even wish me a happy birthday. If my next birthday is this unhappy, I think I'll kill myself. It's not the first time this thought has crossed my mind, but I usually banish it. Today, I want to let it greet me like an old friend.

page 33

Dad always wanted to travel further than the shanty on the beach we rented every summer or the trips to Connecticut to visit his in-laws. He never said it but we all knew that my illness put an end to those dreams. If it wasn't the hospital expenses holding us back, it was the fact that sitting in a car for longer than an hour made my bones feel like someone was chipping away at them with a tiny hammer and the residual splinters of bone were travelling through my bloodstream.

When I was nine, before I was officially diagnosed, my school teacher told our class to make a collage of someplace we wanted to visit. I procrastinated on the assignment and when I woke up in the middle of the night realizing what I had forgotten, I went straight to Dad's chair in the living room and began rummaging through the wicker basket of magazines and postcards next to it. Since Dad couldn't go anywhere, his friends sent him things from their vacations. Glossy postcards from far-off places like Machu Pichu and the Eiffel Tower. Dad was what Mom fondly called an "armchair traveler".

He never said a word when he discovered the childishly cut-out holes in his magazines. But I know he must have noticed them straightaway. The next day, I felt bad and waited for him to say something. He acted like everything was normal.

When I was fifteen he and Mom got divorced. My punishment came six years late. I wish he had just yelled at me.

page 40

"Wow, Hanna," Adelaide says, staring at me with weird unblinking eyes. "You look so pretty."

I should be offended that she sounds so disbelieving but instead I smile. She's always underestimated me. In a fit of anger, I chopped off all my hair into an angled, blunt bob.

"HANNA!" my mom screams from the bathroom. I wince; she must have noticed the foot-long chunks of white-blond hair in the wastebin.

page 42

Addy is feeling generous. She has put some lipstick, concealer, and eyeshadow in a little box in the bathroom. I walked in expecting to be mad at the mess she'd left behind but instead I am pleasantly surprised. I can see where the angle of the lipstick has rounded from use and there are tiny finger-impressions in the eyeshadow but I don't even care that she gave me her cast-offs. On a yellow daisy Post-it she's written in pink gel pen "For my UHMAZING sister Hanna".

I can't wait to tell Chick about this.

page 49

"I don't like it," Chick says after a long pause.

I purse my lips. Doesn't he know how good I look? My hair is straightened and Addy evened out the ends. She let me borrow her diamond earrings and she outlined my lips with red pencil and then filled them in with a glossy red Mac lipstick. It's brand new and I'm secretly thrilled she let me use it first. I wanted to ask if I could keep it, but I know she's not that generous.

"You don't look like you. It's not bad," he hastens to say. "But you look weird."

I blink back tears. The camera resolution is sucky so he can't tell.

"Um, so I actually had something I wanted to ask you?" he continues, playing with the cord on his hoodie. "I have prom in a few months."

"Cool." That's what I always say when someone says something I can't relate to because I've never experienced it.

"Wouldyouwannagowithme?"

I think something has gone wrong on his end with the Skype session. "What? I didn't catch that."

"Don'tmakemeaskagainohmygodHannageez."

"Chick! It's all garbled!"

"Would you go to prom with me?"

I have no idea what to say. "Chick," I say finally, tightness in my chest that for once has nothing to do with my disease.

"You don't have to say anything right now." He keeps awkwardly pulling with the cord. "I know it's probably selfish to ask."

"No, it's not. I'll ask my Mom, okay?"

He visibly brightens. "Okay."

I know I won't ask. No matter what, I'm getting to his prom. Even if I have to hitchhike.

page 56

It's almost unbelievable how pretty I feel.When I tell Addy, she laughs and says, "When you look good on the outside, you feel good on the inside, too." I feel like that should be flip-flopped, but she's actually smiling at me and I don't want to do anything to wipe the smile off her face.

Emily's words come back to me out of the blue. Blogging. Never something I considered before, but I feel like a brand new person, so maybe I should try new things now too. I've traded my shapeless, lumpy sweats for trendy printed leggings. My face is always photo-ready. It's the right time, I think.

I borrow Leo's camera without asking and take a few quick headshots. I don't think about it, just sign myself up for a free website and post a picture of myself. My face smiles back at me, looking healthy and happy. I love looking happy. One day I might even feel like it.

Cyn re-read the words on the page, tears traitorously welling in her eyes. She closed her eyes, but she felt a drop of wetness slide down her cheek anyway.

She hadn't thought about her dad in years, and now Willa's thoughtless story had brought it all rushing back painfully. Like Hanna, she'd been the middle child of the family, and had thought as children usually do, that their parent leaving them was somehow their fault. Her mother had assured her that it wasn't the case, but Cyn knew that her dad wasn't able to cope.

As a teenager, Cyn had been brought home by the cops no less than five times, had shoplifted once, and had been caught smoking in her bedroom twice. She had been surly and worn too much black eyeliner and listened to raucous music. She had screamed at her parents and she had once cut her arm with a razor just to make a point when her mom wouldn't let her go away with her boyfriend on Spring Break.

Her dad had remarried a younger woman with twin boys who were perfect in every way. He only called her on her birthday when he remembered and it was usually kept to under two-minutes because he didn't want his new wife to think he was clinging on to his old life. It was pathetic, actually. He was pathetic.

Cyn leaned against the headboard of her bed and drew her knees up to her chest. Willa knew that. Willa knew all of it. Why would she use it to write her book? Why would she allege Hanna (Cyn?) had done something to drive away her father?

On impulse, she grabbed a pen from her desk and scrawled over the entire offending page. Trust no bitch.

Author's Note: So now the cat's out of the bag! Did Willa do anything wrong? Is she even consciously aware of what she's done? Is Cyn taking things too far? Could she have handled things better? If you were Maryam, how would you mediate between your friends? Thoughts are welcomed :) Also, click that lovely little star. You'd make my day!