“You wiped everything down, right?” Poe says.
“Of course I did. Twice, just to be safe,” Will shoots back. “I mean, clearly, this wasn’t my idea, you know.”
I adjust the isolation gown over the top of my disposable scrubs, and yank open the door, squinting at them through my goggles.
Poe spins around on his skateboard to face me. “Man, Stella. Did I tell you how fiiine you look today?”
He and Will break out into laughter for the third time over my makeshift hazmat suit. I glare at them before glancing down the hallway.
“Still clear?”
He pushes off on his skateboard and slowly rolls past the nurses’ station, peering over the desk.
He shoots a thumbs-up in my direction. “Just hurry up.”
“I’m almost done!” I say, ducking back into the room and closing the door.
I eye the med cart, breathing a sigh of contentment over how meticulously organized it is. But then I see the desk his laptop is sitting on, which is so . . . not. I march over and grab a handful of colored pencils, putting them safely back in the pencil holder they belong in. I straighten up the magazines and sketchbooks, making sure they are in order by size, and as I do, a piece of paper falls out.
It’s a cartoon boy who looks a lot like Will holding a pair of balloons and forcing air into deflated-looking lungs, his face red from the effort. I grin, reading the caption under it: “Just breathe.”
It’s really good.
Reaching out, I gently trace Will’s lungs, like I do with Abby’s drawing. My gloved fingertips land on the small cartoon of Will, his sharp jawline, his unruly hair, his blue eyes, and the same burgundy sweatshirt he was wearing on the roof.
All that’s missing is the smile.
I look up at the wall, noticing he has only an old cartoon hung up right above his bed. Grabbing a tack from a small jar, I hang his cartoon on the wall below it.
The laptop dings and I blink, quickly pulling my hand away. Upload complete. I spin around, walking to his desk and unplugging his phone. Scooping everything up, I pull open the door and hold out the phone to the noncartoon Will.
He stretches to take it from me, fixing his face mask with the other hand.
“I built an app for chronic illnesses. Med charts, schedules.” I shrug casually. “It’ll alert you when you need to take your pills or do a treat—”
“You built an app? Like, built it, built it?” he cuts me off, looking from the phone to me in surprise, his blue eyes wide.
“Newsflash. Girls can code.”
His phone chirps and I see the animated pill bottle appear on his screen. “Ivacaftor. A hundred and fifty milligrams,” I tell him. Damn, I already feel better.
I raise my eyebrows at Will, who is giving me a look that’s not mocking for once. He’s impressed. Good. “My app is so simple even boys can figure it out.”
I saunter off, swaying my nonexistent hips confidently, cheeks warm as I head straight to the public bathroom on the other side of the floor that no one uses.
The light flickers on as I lock the door behind me. I rip off my gloves and grab some disinfectant wipes from a round bin by the door, scrubbing my hands down three times. Exhaling slowly, I rip everything I’m wearing off; the booties and the cap and the face mask and the scrubs and the gown. I shove them all into the bin, pushing them down and closing the lid before running to the sink.
My skin is crawling, like I can feel the B. cepacia looking for a way to slip inside and eat away at me.
I go to the sink and turn the handle, hot water pouring loudly out of the tap. I grip the smooth porcelain, looking at myself in the mirror, standing there in my bra and underwear. The handful of raised scars lining my chest and stomach from surgery after surgery, my ribs pushing through my skin when I breathe, the sharp angle of my collarbone made sharper by the dim lighting of the bathroom. The redness around my G-tube is worsening, an infection definitely starting to form.
I’m too thin, too scarred, too . . . I meet my hazel eyes in the mirror.
Why would Will want to draw me?
His voice echoes in my head, calling me beautiful. Beautiful. It makes my heart flip in a way it shouldn’t.
Steam begins to cloud the mirror, blurring the image. I look away, pumping the soap until it overflows in my hand. I scrub my hands and my arms and my face with it, washing everything away and down the sink. Then I apply some heavy-duty hand sanitizer for good measure.
I dry off, opening the lid on the second trash can and pulling out a bag of clothes that I carefully put there an hour earlier on my way to Will’s room. Once I’m dressed, I glance in the mirror one more time before carefully leaving the bathroom, making sure no one sees me exiting. Good as new.
* * *
Lounging on my bed, I eye my Monday to-do list warily but keep scrolling through social media on my phone instead. I tap on Camila’s Instagram Story, watching for the millionth time as she waves happily to the camera from a kayak, holding the phone over her head to show Mya paddling frantically behind her.
Most of my time since the secret hazmat operation has been spent vicariously absorbing Cabo through my classmates’ Instagram Stories. I went snorkeling in crystal-blue waters with Melissa. Sailing with Jude to see the Arch of Cabo San Lucas. Basked on the beach with a seemingly not-too-heartbroken Brooke.
Just as I’m about to hit refresh yet again, there’s a knock on my door and Barb pops her head in. She eyes my med cart for a second and I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming. “Have you been in Will’s room? His setup looks . . . awful familiar.”
I shake my head, nope. Wasn’t me. A perk of being a goody two shoes is that Barb will probably believe me.
I’m relieved when my laptop dings with a FaceTime notification, Poe’s picture popping up on the screen. I freeze before answering it, silently willing him not to say anything about Will as I spin my laptop around.
“Look who just got back from lunch break!”
Luckily, his eyes immediately travel over to see Barb standing in the doorway, and he holds back whatever comments he’s about to make.
“Oh. Hey, Barb.” He clears his throat. Barb smiles at him as he starts rambling on about pears flambé with some kind of reduction. I watch as she slowly closes the door, my heart pounding in my ears until I hear the gentle click of the latch sliding into place.
I exhale slowly as Poe gives me a look.
“Listen. I get what you’re doing. It’s nice.” He looks right into my freaking soul as usual. “But this thing with Will. Is it really the best idea? I mean, you of all people know better.”
I shrug, because he’s right. I do know better, don’t I? But I also know more than anyone how to be careful. “It’s only a couple of weeks, then I’m out of here. He can quit his treatment then for all I care.”
He raises his eyebrows at me, smirking. “Senate-level dodge. Nicely done.”
He thinks I’m crushing on Will. Crushing on the most sarcastic and annoying, not to mention infectious, boy I’ve ever met.
Time to change the subject.
“I’m not dodging anything!” I say. “That’s your move.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me because he knows full well.
“Ask Michael,” I shoot back.
He ignores me and changes the topic right back. “Please don’t tell me that the one time you’re finally interested in a guy, he’s a CFer.”
“I just helped him with his med cart, Poe! Wanting someone to live isn’t the same thing as wanting them,” I say, exasperated.
I am not interested in Will. I don’t have a death wish. And if I wanted to date an asshole, there are plenty without CF to choose from. It’s ridiculous.
Isn’t it?
“I know you, Stella. Organizing a med cart is like foreplay.”
He studies my face, trying to see if I’m lying. I roll my eyes and slam the laptop shut before either of us can figure out if
I am.
“They’re called manners!” I hear Poe’s annoyed voice shout down the hallway to me, followed by the sound of his door slamming shut a few seconds later.
My phone vibrates and I pick it up to see a text from Will.
Lovers’ spat?
My stomach flips again, but I wrinkle my nose, about to delete the message, and then the four o’clock reminder for the AffloVest pops onto my screen, a tiny animated pill bottle dancing. I bite my lip, knowing Will just got the same notification. But will he follow through?
CHAPTER 8
WILL
I carefully shade Barb’s hair, leaning back to look at the drawing I did of her holding a pitchfork. As I’m nodding in contentment, my phone begins vibrating noisily on my desk, making the colored pencils dance. It’s Stella. On FaceTime.
Surprised, I reach over to pause the Pink Floyd song on my computer, swiping right to answer the call.
“I knew it!” she says as her wide eyes come into view. “Where’s your AffloVest? You weren’t supposed to take it off for another fifteen minutes. And did you take your Creon? I’ll bet that’s a no.”
I fake an automated voice. “We’re sorry, you have reached a number that is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error—”
“You can’t be trusted,” she says, cutting into my killer impression. “So, here’s how this is going to work. We’ll do our treatments together so I know you’re really doing them.”
I tuck the pencil I was using behind my ear, playing it cool. “Always looking for ways to spend more time with me.”
She hangs up, but for just a second I swear I saw her smile. Interesting.
* * *
We stay on Skype for most of the next two days, and surprisingly it’s not all barking orders. She shows me her technique for taking pills with chocolate pudding. Which is freaking genius. And delicious. We breathe in our nebulizers, and do our IV drips, and mark off treatments and meds together in her app. But Stella was right a few days ago. For some reason me doing my treatments is helping her to relax. Gradually she’s becoming less and less uptight.
And, I won’t lie, even after two days, it’s way easier to get out of bed in the morning. I’m for sure breathing better.
On the afternoon of the second day, I start to put on my AffloVest, jumping in surprise when Barb busts through the door, ready for the usual four o’clock fight that we have over it. She always wins the brawl to get it on after threatening to confine me in isolation, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to get out of it.
I slam my laptop down, abruptly ending my Skype call with Stella as Barb and I stare at each other in a classic Old Western standoff. She looks from the AffloVest to me, the steel in her face melting away into a shocked expression.
“I don’t believe my eyes. You’re putting on your AffloVest.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, glancing at the compressor to double-check that everything is hooked up right. It looks fine to me, but it’s definitely been a while since I’ve done this myself. “It’s four o’clock, isn’t it?”
She rolls her eyes and pins me with a look.
“Leave it on for the whole time,” she says, before sliding out the door.
The door is barely closed before I fling my laptop open, calling Stella on Skype as I lie upside down off my bed, pink bedpan in one hand for mucus disposal.
“Hey, sorry about that. Barb . . . ,” I start to say when she picks up, my voice trailing off when I notice the dejected expression on her face, her full lips turning down into a frown as she stares at her phone. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, looking up at me and taking a deep breath. “My entire class is in Cabo for our school’s senior trip.” She turns her phone around to show me an Instagram picture of a group of people wearing bathing suits, and sunglasses, and hats, posing happily on a sandy beach.
She shrugs, putting her phone down. I can hear her vest vibrating through the computer, the steady hum in time with mine. “I’m just a little bummed I’m not there.”
“I get that,” I say, thinking of Jason and Hope and all that I’ve missed out on these past few months, living vicariously through their texts and social media feeds.
“I planned the whole thing this year too,” she says, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s probably planned every step she’s ever taken.
“And your parents? They’d let you go?” I ask, curious. Even before the B. cepacia, my mom would’ve axed the idea. Vacations from school have always been needle times for me.
She nods, curiosity filling her eyes at my question. “Of course. If I was healthy enough. Wouldn’t yours?”
“Nah, unless, of course, a hospital there is claiming to have some new magical stem-cell therapy to cure B. cepacia.” I sit up and cough a whole bunch of mucus into my bedpan. Grimacing, I lie back down. I remember why I kept taking this off before it could really get going. “Besides, I’ve already been. It’s beautiful there.”
“You’ve been? What was it like?” she asks eagerly, pulling the laptop closer.
The blurry memory swims into focus, and I can see my dad standing next to me on the beach, the tide pulling at our feet, our toes digging into the sand. “Yeah, I went with my dad when I was little, before he left.” I’m too caught up in the memory to process what I’m saying, but the word “dad” feels weird on my tongue.
Why did I tell her that? I never tell anyone that. I don’t think I’ve even mentioned my dad in years.
She opens her mouth to say something, but I quickly change the subject back to Cabo’s scenery. This isn’t about him. “The beaches are nice. The water is crystal clear. Plus, everyone is super, super friendly and chill.”
I see the dejection in her eyes growing over my rousing review, so I throw in a random fact I heard on the Travel Channel. “Oh, man, but the currents are so strong there! You almost never get a chance to swim, except for maybe, like, an hour or two every day. You just broil on the beach most of the time, since you can’t go in the water.”
“Really?” she asks, looking skeptical but grateful at my attempt.
I nod eagerly, watching as some of the sadness slides off her face.
We vibrate away, a comfortable silence settling over us. Except, of course, for the occasional hacking up of a lung.
After we finish using our AffloVests, Stella hangs up to give her mom a call and to check in on her friends in Cabo, vowing to call me back in time for our nighttime pills. The hours pass slowly without her smiling face on the other side of my computer screen. I eat dinner and draw and watch YouTube videos, just like I used to do to kill time pre–Stella’s intervention, but it all feels extra boring now. No matter what I do, I catch myself glancing over at my computer screen, waiting for the Skype call to come in as the seconds tick by at a glacial pace.
My phone vibrates noisily next to me and I look over, but it’s just a notification from her app, telling me it’s time to take my nighttime meds and set up my G-tube feeding. I look behind me at my bedside table, where I’ve already laid out a chocolate pudding cup and my meds, ready to be taken.
Like clockwork, my computer screen lights up, Stella’s long-awaited call coming in.
I hover over the accept button, stifling my smile as I wait a few seconds to pick up, my fingers tapping away on the trackpad. I click accept and fake a big yawn when her face appears on my screen, casually glancing at my phone.
“Is it time for the nighttime meds already?”
She gives me a big smile. “Don’t give me that. I see your pills behind you on your bedside table.”
Embarrassed, I open my mouth to say something, but shake my head, letting her have just this one.
We take our meds together, then get our tube-feeding bags out to set up for the night. After pouring the formulas in, we hang the bags, attach the tubing, and adjust the pump rate for how long we’ll be asleep. I fumble with mine, and glance over at Stella to make sure I’m doing it right. It
’s been a minute since I’ve done it myself. After that we prime the pump to get all the air out, our eyes meeting as we wait for the formula to make its way down the tube.
I start to whistle the Jeopardy! theme song while we wait, which makes her laugh.
“Don’t look!” she says when the formula gets to the end of the tube. She lifts her shirt up just high enough to attach her G-tube.
I look away, hiding a grin, and inhale sharply, flexing the best I can while I lift up my shirt and attach the tube to the button sticking out of my abdomen.
Glancing up, I catch her eye through the video chat.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I say, pulling down my shirt as she rolls her eyes. Her cheeks are just the tiniest bit red.
I sit down on my bed, pulling my laptop closer to me.
She yawns, taking her bun out, her long brown hair falling gently down, over her shoulders. I try not to stare, but she looks good. More like her videos. Relaxed. Happy.
“You should get some sleep,” I say as she rubs her eyes sleepily. “You had a packed few days of bossing me around.”
She laughs, nodding.
“Good night, Will.”
“Night, Stella,” I say, hesitating before pressing the end-call button and closing my laptop.
I lie back, putting my hands behind my head, the room seeming uncomfortably quiet even though it’s still just me in here. But as I roll over and turn out the light, I realize for the first time in a long time, I don’t really feel alone.
CHAPTER 9
STELLA
Dr. Hamid frowns as I lift up my shirt, her dark eyebrows knitting together as she looks at the infected skin around my G-tube. I wince as she gently touches the inflamed red skin, and she mumbles an apology at my reaction.
When I woke up this morning, I noticed the infection had gotten worse. When I saw the discharge oozing around the hole, I called her right away.
After a minute of inspection she finally stands, exhaling. “Let’s try Bactroban and see how it looks in a day or two. Maybe we can clear it up, huh?”
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