Styx & Stones

by Carmen Jenner

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ALASKA

  Three hours into my first chemo session, and I’m bored out of my brain. Mom leaves to stretch her legs and grab a coffee. I’d go too, if it weren’t for the damn IV in my arm and the giant pole that’s attached to it. It might garner a few strange looks.

  “All I ever see is you,” the hero says from the TV as he sweeps the heroine off her feet and lays one on her.

  Fucking rom-coms.

  “Bullshit,” I whisper-yell at the TV and make a gagging sound. “You were totally chatting up some other chick a minute ago.”

  “Hey.”

  I flinch, glancing in alarm at loner boy standing inside my curtained cubicle. His head is covered in a knit cap, his shirt is too big, his jeans are slim but baggy in the right places, and his flannel shirt is tied around his waist. He looks like an emo Jughead Jones. If Jughead carried a chemo pole.

  “Hey,” I say flicking off the TV.

  “Bad time?”

  “Just cursing Hollywood for their unrealistic viewpoints on romance. You?”

  He shrugs and shoves a hand in the pocket of his jeans. “Just tryin’ not to die.”

  I laugh so loudly, and so unexpectedly, that I snort. I raise my PICC line in the air and say, “Cheers to that.”

  “I didn’t know you were—”

  “Don’t.” I shake my head. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry. I swear to God if one more person says, ‘I’m sorry’, I’m going to slap them.”

  “Actually, I was gonna go with, ‘I didn’t know you were such a heartless bitch.’” He tilts his chin toward the TV. “But sure, we can go with sorry if you want to make it all about you.”

  I gape at him. I don’t know whether he’s being serious or not. I don’t think any guy has ever talked to me like that.

  “Styx Hendricks, you leave that girl be, you hear?” Carissa comes marching down the hall and slides my curtain back. “We don’t need you scaring her off on her first day.”

  “Just initiating the welcome wagon, Carissa. Don’t worry, though; she’s not the neighborly type.”

  “Go sit your butt down, boy. I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

  “See ya, ’round, Stones.”

  “It’s Stone. Singular,” I say with a bored expression. “Alaska Stone.”

  He grins and mock-bows, almost toppling his pole in the process. “I know.”

  ***

  The day after my chemo session, I can barely move. For a treatment which is supposed to save my life, it sure feels like it’s killing me. I lie in bed and watch the turning leaves of the Ficus through the window. I’ve felt nauseous off and on, but the real killer is the splitting migraines. Nothing new there; that was what led to my diagnosis in the first place. I slide my phone off the nightstand and pull up IG. I’d told my followers I wanted to document my whole experience, but I feel like shit, so no way am I appearing on camera today without a filter.

  “Hey, Aerosol Addicts. Alaska here. No, chemo didn’t make me grow giant puppy-dog ears; they come to you courtesy of the fact that my face will totally break the internet if I film without some type of filter right now. And not at all in a Kim K way. So, here’s the deal ... chemo sucks. Cancer sucks.”

  I sit up and wince when every muscle in my body screams for me to stop.

  “Yesterday, I went for my first treatment. It was terrifying, but still not a scary as I expected. Kinda weird though. When I walked in, the other patients were laughing and practically singing Kumbaya. It was a bit shocking at first; I think I expected everyone to be strapped to beds and screaming in pain while some mad scientist blasted our bodies with X-rays.” I laugh at my own ignorance. “Pretty stupid, right?”

  I shake my head and clear my throat. “Anyway, I watched a couple of tragic rom-coms with my mom, took a nap, and stalked Noah Centineo’s Insta, and Snapchat. A lot. Overall, it wasn’t as bad as I expected.

  “Today though? Today sucks. I can barely move. Everything hurts—even my eyelashes have all the negative vibes. I’m sure it gets easier as time goes on. Or, at least, that’s what I hope, but for now I’m going to take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to be in school, and this bitch is going to take a goddamn nap. Later, Addicts.”

  I sign off, barely having time to put my phone down before the lethargy wins and drags me under.

  Chemo, cancer, and the tumor taking up residence in my brain might suck, but naps?

  Naps are king.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALASKA

  The first three days after chemo are hell. My life is an endless cycle of pain and puke and feeling halfway dead. By day four, Grace and Eleanor come to visit. I’ve seen my two best friends exactly three times since my diagnosis, and our texts have been awkward AF. I need them right now, but they’ve been ghosting me.

  “So what have you guys been up to?” I blurt out while Grace is telling me all about how her latest crush gave her a pencil—and his number—when she dropped hers during their Chemistry pop quiz.

  Grace frowns, and Eleanor looks down at her shoes.

  “Coach is pushing us really hard for Cheer,” Grace says.

  “Yeah, we’re practicing all the time now.” El nods. “We barely made an appearance last night at Cole’s, and I have no idea how we’re going to get away for Grace’s party.”

  “You went to Cole’s?”

  “Yeah,” Grace says, shrugging off my question. “He had a thing last night, but it was just a small group of friends.”

  El scoffs. “Um ... the whole school was there.”

  “Except those with cancer, right?”

  “Oh.” El shakes her head and her cheeks turn pink. “I mean, it was just a handful of people really, but you know when Cole Meyers and his friends are in a room, it feels like a lot of people.”

  “You guys don’t have to lie to me. It’s not like I didn’t see the evidence of it on Snapchat. By the way, Grace, nice work making out with my ex. Of course, I found kissing Cole was like the equivalent of making out with a wet log, but you looked like you were really getting into it, you know?”

  “It just happened; it wasn’t intentional. And we would have invited you, but we didn’t think you’d want to come.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want to come to a party with my best friends?”

  “Because you’re sick,” she snaps. “How do we know if you’re up for partying? Doesn’t chemo like ... make you puke twenty-four-seven?”

  “No,” I lie. Technically, I have spent the last few days puking my guts up, but I hear it’s supposed to get better. “And you could have asked.”

  “Sorry,” she says, sounding not sorry at all.

  “Grace,” El chides.

  Grace stands, grabs her backpack, and slings it over her shoulder. “I have to go. I’ve gotta help my mom with her event tonight.”

  “But you said we were going to hang at Cole’s after this?” Eleanor grabs her bag too.

  “Change of plans, El.” Grace shoots her a glare that says, “You’re too dumb to live.”

  “You guys should definitely go.” I sigh and shake my head. “I’m tired anyway.”

  “For the record, Al,” Grace says. “I was going to invite you to my birthday party.”

  I cock my head to the side. “Was?”

  “Am. I am going to invite you. I just wasn’t sure if you’d be okay.”

  “Why? Because I have a brain tumor, or is it because you don’t want me puking on the cake? You know, since I do it so often?”

  “Whatever,” she says, and storms toward the door. “Come or don’t come. I don’t care.”

  “Great,” I say sarcastically. “See you there.”

  Eleanor grimaces. “Bye, Al.”

  “See you, El.”

  She walks to the door and stops, turning to me with a sad smile. “I really am sorry.”

  I shake my head, fighting back the tears that sting my eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

  El leaves and closes my b
edroom door behind her. A beat later, they’re whispering outside in the hall. Their footsteps retreat to the stairs and Grace says, “God, it’s like the chemo killed her personality.”

  My tears spring free, thick droplets that splatter against my duvet. I flop back on the bed and wish for the cancer in my brain to disappear.

  Oh, and for better friends.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ALASKA

  Thirty minutes into my second chemotherapy session and we’re all seated in a circle. Mostly, it’s just a bunch of old people, one really hot guy who looks like a freaking supermodel, me, and ... Styx Hendricks.

  I look up from my phone to find him watching me.

  “So ...” Styx leans forward in the chair opposite mine. “What are you in for?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Cancer?” He squints, staring at the bag with my medicine. I grab my pole and turn it away from him. “What kind of cancer?”

  “Oh, um ... diffuse astrocytoma.” I shake my head and explain in English. “Brain tumor.”

  “Told ya. Pay up, Jan.” He makes the one-handed, universal sign for bring it—which I guess also doubles for give me my fucking money.

  Harley—the cute older guy—glances between me and Styx, chuckles, and goes back to reading his Better Gardens magazine.

  “You bet on what type of cancer I have?”

  Styx’s gaze slides back to mine. “Yeah. So?”

  My hands ball into fists. “So what kind of people are you? Who does that?”

  “Bored chemo patients,” he says with a level glare. “They do that.”

  “You’re sick.”

  He laughs. “I’m sick, you’re sick, we’re all sick here.”

  I clench my jaw together. These people are crazy. Heartless and cold. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I will not let him see me cry. No matter how callous he is. No matter how much I don’t like him. “Well then, since you’re all so open about discussing my cancer, what the hell do you have?”

  “ARMS.”

  “Arms? You have cancer of the arms?”

  Styx rolls his eyes and shuts his magazine, no doubt preparing to school me on all of the things I don’t know about this stupid disease. “Alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma—ARMS for short.”

  “Never heard of it.” I tilt my chin.

  “I don’t suppose you would have. I’m one in a million, baby.” He pats his abdomen, stroking the worn fabric of his T-shirt. “Peritoneum. Don’t bother trying to make them out—my little tumor friends are invisible unless you have X-ray vision. Though you’re welcome to slip your hand under my shirt and feel my abs, just to make sure.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “And you need to lighten up. It’s only death, Stones.”

  “Fine then. You wanna talk death and be all flippant about it? What’s your survival rate?”

  “Four years.”

  I swallow hard, regretting the question. Four years. Four years? That can’t be right.

  “The first time.”

  First time? Oh my God. He’s been through all of this before. Does that make it worse this time around? I dart out my tongue and wet dry lips. Nausea rolls through my belly, and I wonder if it’s the chemicals pumping through my system or the fact that Styx is so blasé about his life expectancy that makes me want to puke. I don’t want to ask, but the question is hanging in the air between us, and it would be weird if I didn’t.

  “And now?” My voice cracks over the words.

  He shrugs, glancing down at his magazine. His hands grip the spine until his knuckles turn white, the only sign he’s no longer feeling as confident as he was just a second ago when we were discussing my sickness. “Who the fuck knows?”

  “They didn’t give you an estimation?”

  “They didn’t have to.”

  “What does that—”

  “It means, Stones ...” He grins and leans forward. “... that patients my age who have metastatic ARMS positive with PAX3-FOXO1 fusion are pretty much fucked.”

  I glance between him, Harley, and the other patients all staring at us. “So if the chemo doesn’t work, then why the hell are we here?”

  “Chemo, radiation, surgery. They’re all just steps we take to make our loved ones feel better.”

  Jan nods. “Amen.”

  The others remain quiet, staring down at their phones, tablets, books, or magazines, no doubt wishing they were somewhere else. I wish I was too. “So you don’t believe any of this helps?”

  “Honestly? No.”

  “Then why come to chemo at all?”

  “Because it beats the shit out of Chem pop quizzes, and dodging jocks like Cole Meyers in the hall who’re too stupid to realize what they have.” He holds his magazine almost reverently, and tucks it inside his messenger bag. “Besides, it’s a good place to pick up chicks.”

  “Cute.” I raise a brow and lean back against the headrest. “But I’ll hold out for a guy who has a little more time up his sleeve.”

  Styx laughs, obnoxiously loud. His eyes sparkle with mirth. He’s quite possibly the strangest kid I’ve ever met. This conversation is morbid, odd, and a part of me can’t believe I just said that to a boy who’s terminally ill, and yet, I can’t stop smiling.

  “Ah, Stones. You’re hilarious, but I was talking about Jan.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  STYX

  I sit at my desk, my computer on, the cursor flashing. I have some stupid English lit paper due next week, and I’m pretty sure both my teacher and I know it’s not getting done, but sometimes going through the motions fools me into thinking that school is something I need to further my life goals. My parents, my teacher, and I all know it’s bullshit. I go because it’s just one less thing my mom has to worry about. Besides, it’s where Alaska is, so where the hell else would I be?

  I close my laptop, grab my phone, and pull up her Instagram account. Her story is a video from twenty-two hours ago. She’s lying in bed, holding the phone out at arm’s length. I turn the volume up and flop down on my mattress. My stomach churns and revolts, and I squeeze my eyes tightly closed as the pain shoots through my abdomen.

  “Another not-so-fun fact about cancer, Addicts, is that food tastes weird now. My mom’s shoving all of these green juices down my throat—and I couldn’t stand that shit at the best of times, but now, I get cravings for it. Maybe the radioactivity in my body is just begging for more green stuff so I can become like Mr. Burns in that episode of The Simpsons.” She laughs and nearly drops the phone. “Anyway, I’m gonna take a nap, because another fun cancer fact—all I want to do is sleep. Between the thunderclap migraines and the chemo, it’s a wonder my parents haven’t pulled me out of school, but Dad’s super Korean, so he’s all ‘you must get a formal education.’ Good grades, good college equals good job. I don’t know if anyone’s told him I might not make it long enough to graduate.”

  Her smile vanishes. My heart is ripped right out of my chest. I think about dying a lot, but I don’t think about Stones dying. I just thought she’d be one of the lucky ones; she’s a fighter, a fucking warrior. Maybe she’ll live long enough to earn that coveted titled of survivor. Maybe she won’t. But I never thought of a world without her in it.

  “See you soon, Aerosol Addicts.” She blows a kiss to the camera, but it lacks her usual ’tude.

  I start typing a message.

  @zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: My dad is a serial wheatgrass juicer. WTF is wrong with parents TD?

  Shit. I just slid into her DMs with the stupidest handle ever. God. Now I can never let her know it’s me. I stare at the screen for way too long and then throw it on the bed with a huge exhalation.

  A beat later, it chimes.

  @alaskasaerosoladdiction: Hey, nice handle. I know, right? Parents are weird.

  I read the message several times, trying to see more in it than is actually there, hoping for her to take just a hint of interest. I’m a total girl right now.

  @zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: T
hanks. I’ve been meaning to change it for years, but it’s a real lady-killer.

  @alaskasaerosoladdiction: I bet.