She takes me off guard for a second, and I laugh, surprised by how up-front she is.
That really pisses her off.
“You rent by the hour, or what?” she asks, her dark eyes narrowing.
“Ha! It was you lurking in the hall.”
“I don’t lurk,” she fires back. “You followed me here.”
It’s a valid point. But she definitely lurked first. I pretend to be taken aback and hold up my hands in mock defeat. “With the intent of introducing myself, but with that attitude—”
“Let me guess,” she says, cutting me off. “You consider yourself a rebel. Ignoring the rules because it somehow makes you feel in control. Am I right?”
“You’re not wrong,” I shoot back before leaning against the wall casually.
“You think it’s cute?”
I grin at her. “I mean, you must think it’s pretty adorable. You stood in the hallway an awfully long time staring.”
She rolls her eyes, clearly not entertained by me. “You letting your friends borrow your room for sex isn’t cute.”
Ah, so she’s a real goody two shoes.
“Sex? Oh, heavens no. They told me they would be holding a slightly rowdy book club meeting in there for the better part of an hour.”
She glares at me, definitely not amused by my sarcasm.
“Ah. So that’s what this is about,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “You have something against sex.”
“Of course not! I’ve had sex,” she says, her eyes widening as the words tumble out of her mouth. “It’s fine—”
That is the biggest lie I’ve heard all year, and I’m practically surrounded by people who sugarcoat the fact that I’m dying.
I laugh. “ ‘Fine’ isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take common ground where I can get it.”
Her thick eyebrows form a frown. “We have nothing in common.”
I wink, having way too much fun pissing her off. “Cold. I like it.”
The door bangs open and Barb busts through, making both of us jump in surprise at the sudden noise. “Will Newman! What are you doing up here? You’re not supposed to leave the third floor after that stunt you pulled last week!”
I look back at the girl. “There you go. A name to go with your little psych profile. And you are?”
She glowers at me, quickly pulling her face mask back over her mouth before Barb notices. “Ignoring you.”
Good one. Ms. Goody Two Shoes has some spunk.
“And clearly the teacher’s pet, too.”
“Six feet at all times! You both know the rules!” I realize I’m too close and take a step back as Barb reaches us, coming into the space and the tension between us. She turns to look at me, her eyes narrowing. “What do you think you’re doing up here?”
“Uh,” I say, pointing at the viewing window. “Looking at babies?”
She’s clearly not amused. “Get back to your room. Where is your face mask?” I reach up to touch my maskless face. “Stella, thank you for keeping your mask on.”
“She didn’t five seconds ago,” I mutter. Stella glares at me over Barb’s head, and I give her back a big smile.
Stella.
Her name is Stella.
I can see Barb’s about to really ream me out, so I decide to make my exit. I’ve had more than enough lecturing for the moment.
“Lighten up, Stella,” I say, sauntering to the door. “It’s just life. It’ll be over before we know it.”
I head out through the doors, across the bridge, and down C Wing. Instead of going back the long way, I hop on a much shakier, nonglass elevator, which I discovered two days ago. It spits me out right by the nurses’ station on my floor, where Julie is reading over some paperwork.
“Hey, Julie,” I say, leaning on the counter and picking up a pencil.
She glances up at me, giving me a quick look, before her eyes swing back down to the papers in her hands. “Just what were you up to?”
“Eh, roaming the hospital. Pissing off Barb,” I say, shrugging and twirling the pencil around and around in my fingertips. “She’s such a hard-ass.”
“Will, she’s not a hard-ass, she’s just, you know . . .”
I give her a look. “A hard-ass.”
She leans against the nurses’ station, putting a hand on her super-pregnant belly. “Firm. The rules matter. Especially to Barb. She doesn’t take chances.”
I glance over to see the doors at the end of the hallway swing wide open again as Barb and the goody-goody herself step out.
Barb’s eyes narrow at me and I shrug innocently. “What? I’m talking to Julie.”
She huffs, and the two of them walk off down the hallway toward Stella’s room. Stella fixes her face mask, looking back at me, her eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second.
I sigh, watching her go.
“She hates me.”
“Which one?” Julie asks, following my gaze down the hallway.
The door to Stella’s room closes behind the both of them, and I look back at Julie.
She gives me a look that I’ve seen about a million times since I got here. Her blue eyes fill with a mix between Are you crazy? and something very close to care.
Mostly Are you crazy? though.
“Don’t even think about it, Will.”
I glance down at the file sitting in front of her, the name jumping out at me from the upper left-hand corner.
Stella Grant.
“Okay,” I say like it’s no big deal. “Night.”
I stroll back to 315, coughing when I get there, the mucus thick in my lungs and throat, my chest aching from my excursion. If I had known I was going to be running a half marathon all around the hospital, I might’ve bothered to bring my portable oxygen.
Eh, who am I kidding?
I check my watch to make sure it’s been an hour before pushing open the door. I flick on the light, noticing a folded note from Hope and Jason on the bleach-white standard-issue hospital sheets.
How romantic of them.
I try not to be disappointed they’re already gone. My mom pulled me out of school and switched me to homeschooling with a side of international hospital tourism when I got diagnosed with B. cepacia eight months ago. As if my life span wasn’t already going to be ridiculously short, B. cepacia will cut off another huge chunk of it by making my shitty lung function deplete even faster than it already has. And they don’t give you new lungs when you have an antibiotic-resistant bacteria running rampant inside of you.
But “incurable” is only a suggestion to my mother, and she’s determined to find the needle-in-a-haystack treatment. Even if it means cutting me off from everyone.
At least this hospital is half an hour away from Hope and Jason, so they can come visit me on a regular basis and fill me in on everything I’m missing at school. Since I got B. cepacia, I feel like they’re the only ones in my life who don’t treat me like a lab rat. They’ve always been that way; maybe that’s why they’re so perfect for each other.
I unfold the note to see a heart and, in Hope’s neat cursive, “See you soon! Two weeks till your Big 18! Hope and Jason.” And that makes me smile.
“Big 18.” Two more weeks until I’m in charge. I’ll be off this latest clinical drug trial and out of this hospital and can do something with my life, instead of letting my mom waste it.
No more hospitals. No more being stuck inside whitewashed buildings all over the world as doctors try drug after drug, treatment after treatment, none of them working.
If I’m going to die, I’d like to actually live first.
And then I’ll die.
I squint at the heart, thinking about that fateful last day. Somewhere poetic. A beach, maybe. Or a rowboat somewhere in Mississippi. Just no walls. I could sketch the landscape, draw a final cartoon of me giving the middle finger to the universe, then bite the big one.
I toss the note back onto the bed, eyeing the sheets before giving them a quick whiff to be
safe. Starch and bleach. Just the regular hospital eau de cologne. Good.
I slide into the squeaky leather hospital recliner by the window and push aside a heap of colored pencils and sketchbooks, grabbing my laptop from under a bunch of photocopied 1940s political cartoons I was looking at earlier for reference. I open my browser and type Stella Grant into Google, not expecting much. She seems like the type to have only the most private of Facebook pages. Or a lame Twitter account where she retweets memes about the importance of hand washing.
The first result, though, is a YouTube page called Stella Grant’s Not-So-Secret CF Diary, filled with at least a hundred videos dating back six years or so. I squint, because the page name looks weirdly familiar. Oh my god, this is that lame channel my mom sent me a link to a few months ago in an attempt to rally me into taking my treatments seriously.
Maybe if I’d known she looked like that . . .
I scroll down to the first entry, clicking on a video with a thumbnail of a young Stella wearing a mouthful of metal and a high ponytail. I try not to laugh. I wonder what her teeth look like now, considering I’ve never seen her smile.
Probably pretty nice. She seems like the type who would actually wear her retainer at night instead of letting it collect dust on some bathroom shelf.
I don’t think mine even made it home from the orthodontist.
I hit the volume button and her voice comes pouring out of my speakers.
“Like all CFers, I was born terminal. Our bodies make too much mucus, and that mucus likes to get into our lungs and cause infections, making our lung function de-teri-orate.” The young girl stumbles over the big word before flashing the camera a big smile. “Right now, I’m at fifty percent lung function.”
There’s a crappy cut, and she turns around on a set of stairs that I recognize from the main entrance of the hospital. No wonder she knows her way around here so well. She’s been coming here forever.
I smile back at the little girl even though that cut was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever seen. She sits down on the steps, taking a deep breath. “Dr. Hamid says, at this rate, I’m gonna need a transplant by the time I’m in high school. A transplant’s not a cure, but it will give me more time! I’d love a few more years if I’m lucky enough to get one!”
Tell me about it, Stella.
At least she’s got a shot.
CHAPTER 3
STELLA
I pull on the blue AffloVest, snapping it into place around my torso with Barb’s help. It looks an awful lot like a life vest, except for the remote coming out of it. For the quickest moment I let it be a life vest, and I stare out the window, picturing myself in Cabo on a boat with Mya and Camila, the afternoon sun glowing on the horizon.
The seagulls chirping, the sandy beach in the distance, the shirtless surfers—and then, despite myself, I think of Will. I blink, Cabo fading away as the barren trees outside my window swing into view.
“So, Will. He’s a CFer, then?” I ask, though that’s obvious. Barb helps me clip the last strap into place. I pull at the shoulder of the vest so it doesn’t rub into my bony collarbone.
“A CFer and then some. B. cepacia. He’s part of the new drug trial for Cevaflomalin.” She reaches over, flicking the machine on and giving me a look.
My eyes widen and I look over at my giant tub of hand sanitizer. I was that close to him and he has B. cepacia? It’s pretty much a death sentence for people with CF. He’ll be lucky to make it a few more years.
And that’s if he’s as dedicated to his regimen as I am.
The vest begins vibrating. Hard. I can feel the mucus in my lungs starting to slowly loosen.
“You contract that and you can kiss the possibility of new lungs good-bye,” she adds, eyeing me. “Stay away.”
I nod. Oh, I fully intend to do just that. I need that extra time. Besides, he was way too full of himself to be my type. “The trial,” I start to say, looking over at Barb and holding up my hand to pause the conversation as I cough up a wad of mucus.
She nods in approval and hands me a standard-issue pale-pink bedpan. I spit into it and wipe my mouth before talking.
“What are his odds?”
Barb exhales, shaking her head before meeting my gaze. “Nobody knows. The drug’s too new.”
Her look says it all, though. We fall silent except for the chugging of the machine, the vest vibrating away.
“You’re set. Need anything before I hit the road?”
I grin at her, giving her a pleading look. “A milk shake?”
She rolls her eyes, putting her hands on her hips. “What, am I room service now?”
“Gotta take advantage of the perks, Barb!” I say, which makes her laugh.
She leaves, and I sit back, the AffloVest making my whole body shake as it works. My mind wanders, and I picture Will’s reflection in the glass of the NICU, standing just behind me with a daring smile on his face.
B. cepacia. That’s rough.
But walking around the hospital without a mask on? It’s no wonder he got it in the first place, pulling stunts like that. I’ve seen his type in the hospital more times than I can count. The careless, Braveheart type, rebelling in a desperate attempt to defy their diagnosis before it all comes to an end. It’s not even original.
“All right,” Barb says, bringing me not one but two milk shakes, like the queen she is. “This should hold you over for a bit.”
She puts them on the table next to me, and I smile up at her familiar dark-brown eyes. “Thanks, Barb.”
She nods, touching my head gently before heading out the door. “Night, baby. See you tomorrow.”
I sit, staring out the window and coughing up more and more mucus as the vest does its job to clear my airways. My eyes travel to the drawing of the lungs and the picture hanging next to it. My chest starts to hurt in a way that has nothing to do with the treatment as I think of my real bed. My parents. Abby. I pick up my phone to see a text from my dad. It’s a picture of his old acoustic guitar, leaning against a worn nightstand in his new apartment. He spent the whole day setting it up after I insisted he do that instead of take me to the hospital. He pretended not to be relieved, just like I pretended Mom was taking me so he wouldn’t feel guilty.
It’s been a lot of pretending since the most ridiculous divorce of all time.
It’s been six months and they still can’t even look at each other.
For some reason it makes me want to hear his voice so badly. I tap on his contact info and almost press the green call button on my phone, but decide not to at the last second. I never call the first day, and all the coughing that the AffloVest makes me do would make him nervous. He’s still texting me every hour to check in.
I don’t want to worry my parents. I can’t.
Better to just wait until morning.
* * *
My eyes shoot open the next morning and I look for what woke me, seeing my phone vibrating noisily on the floor, having free-fallen off the table. I squint at the drained milkshake glasses and mound of empty chocolate pudding cups taking up practically the entire space. No wonder the phone fell off.
If we’re 60 percent water, I’m closing in on the remaining 40 percent being pudding.
I groan, reaching over the bed to grab my phone, my G-tube burning with the stretch. I gently touch my side, lifting my shirt to unhook the tube, surprised that the skin around it is even redder and more inflamed than it was before.
That’s not good. Irritations usually go away with a little bit of Fucidin, but my application yesterday didn’t seem to make a difference.
I put a bigger glob of the ointment on it, hoping that will clear it up, and add a note to my to-do list to monitor it, before scrolling through my notifications. I have a couple of Snaps waiting from Mya and Camila, looking sleepy but happy as they boarded the plane this morning. Both of my parents texted me, checking in to see how I slept, if I’m settled in, and saying to give them a call when I get up.
I’m about to
answer the both of them when my phone vibrates, and I swipe right to see a text from Poe: You up?
I shoot back a quick message seeing if he wants to have our usual breakfast date in twenty, before putting the phone down and swinging my legs over my bed to grab my laptop.
Less than a second later my phone buzzes with his reply: Yees!
I grin, hitting the nurse-call button by my bed. Julie’s friendly voice crackles through the speaker. “Morning, Stella! You good?”
“Yep. Can I get breakfast now?” I ask, turning my laptop on.
“You got it!”
The time on my laptop reads 9:00 a.m., and I pull the med cart closer, looking at the color-coded clumps I laid out yesterday. I smile to myself, realizing that this time tomorrow, after I get the beta version of my app fully up and running, I’ll be getting a notification on my phone telling me to take my morning pills and the exact dosages of each that I need.
Almost a year of hard work finally coming together. An app for all chronic illnesses, complete with med charts, schedules, and dosage information.
I take my pills and open Skype, scanning the contact list to see if either of my parents is on. There’s a tiny green dot next to my dad’s name, and I press the call button, waiting as it rings noisily.
His face appears on the screen as he puts his thick-rim glasses over his tired eyes. I notice that he’s still in his pajamas, his graying hair jutting out in every direction, a lumpy pillow propped up behind him. Dad was always an early riser. Out of bed before seven thirty every morning, even on the weekends.
The worry starts to slowly wrap itself tighter around my insides.
“You need a shave,” I say, taking in the unusual stubble covering his chin. He’s always been clean shaven, except for a beard phase he went through one winter during elementary school.
He chuckles, rubbing his scruffy chin. “You need new lungs. Mic drop!”
I roll my eyes as he laughs at his own joke. “How was the gig?”
He shrugs. “Eh, you know.”
“I’m glad you’re performing again!” I say cheerily, trying my best to look positive for him.
“Sore throat doing okay?” he asks, giving me a worried look.
Five Feet Apart Page 3
