I needed to believe that even withered, ashen, and bald, I didn’t look too repulsive. I left the bathroom, trying to convince myself that I didn’t need my clover necklace to keep me safe, but I paused again to check myself out in the foyer mirror.
It was gone. Replaced by a framed floral print. I stepped into the dining room; the decorative mirror in there was also missing. Ordering the wig hadn’t been Mom’s only preparation for today. How long had she been planning this?
Mom came in while I studied the dining room’s new Monet print. Did she fake her smiles too? Her face looked falsely cheerful as she asked, “What are you up to tonight?”
“No plans.” I shook my head, hyperaware of the whisper of the wig against my cheeks.
“No plans?” She frowned. “Call Hil, see what she’s doing.”
“They’re all going over to Bill’s house, and I don’t feel like going out.” I didn’t want to leave the house until my hair grew back.
“Have them over here instead. I haven’t seen anyone but Lauren in ages. What’s everyone up to these days?”
I stared at the painting, a decoration to hide the ugly truth. My mouth tasted sour. “Lauren had a party last night. Other than that, I wouldn’t know. I’ve barely seen them, I have no clue what’s going on in their lives.” My voice climbed octaves as I lost my battle with tears.
“That’s not true, kitten.” She patted my back. “You see them at school and practice.”
“It is true! My whole life is illness and lies. I hate it!” I pulled the wig from my head and whipped it at the ground. “And that? It’s just another lie—another thing to hide. I don’t know my friends anymore, and I can’t even tell them why!”
Mom retrieved the wig with trembling hands. I thought she was reaching to hug me, but instead she returned the wig to my head. I flinched away.
She rubbed her temples and looked at me—really seemed to see me—for the first time since my diagnosis. She winced. “It breaks my heart to see you so unhappy. When you decided not to tell your friends, I thought it’d make it easier on you. But it hasn’t, has it? Maybe you’ve gone too far with the secrets—your father never thought it’d work.”
Her change of heart stunned me like a slap. I grabbed the back of a chair. “I don’t know how to tell them now,” I whispered.
Mom looked exhausted. “It’s been a long, emotional day. We don’t need to decide anything right now. Wait and see if you still feel this way tomorrow.”
Not lying anymore—the idea was liberating and terrifying. It seemed too late to tell. I couldn’t casually slip “By the way, I’ve got leukemia” into a conversation.
“I need to talk to Lauren.”
Her smile was back, relieved. I let her fix my wig. “Good idea. Invite her over.”
I nodded and wandered back to my room. Lauren wouldn’t be honest and I wasn’t in the mood for what she thought I wanted to hear. So I dialed Ryan. He looked at me more than anyone these days; his reaction would tell me everything and maybe give me the answer to Gyver’s question: Why was he doing this?
I hoped to catch him before he went out, but from the sound of his “Hey. I knew you couldn’t last a night without me” he was already a few beers in.
I tried anyway. “I need to talk to you.”
Someone cranked the volume on a crappy rap song; I could barely hear his “What’s up?”
“I got my hair cut today …”
Chris was yelling: “Winters, you’ve got to check this out, man.”
“Yeah?” said Ryan. “Cool.”
Was that for me, or Chris?
“I’m bald. They shaved my head,” I snapped.
“Bald? What?” Ryan semicovered the phone with his hand, I heard a muffled “Be right back” and a door. It wasn’t much quieter in whatever room he’d gone into. “Bald?”
“Bald,” I repeated.
“Maybe we should talk later. It’s loud and … bald? Shit.”
He didn’t really wait for me to answer. Or maybe it was so noisy he thought he’d missed my agreement. “I’ll call you later.”
A final burst of party noise, Ally’s laughter, Lauren’s half-whiny “Wait for me!” and the line was dead. It didn’t sound like they missed me at all.
Damn it.
Gyver was right. I did need to know why Ryan was doing this—clearly it was all about the pursuit. And now that what he chased was broken, there was no reason for him to run after me.
Well, screw him. I didn’t need Ryan Winters. I needed the one person who’d never have a run-and-hide reaction to me.
“You decided to go out?” Mom smiled as I passed her with my coat on.
“Just next door. I need to talk to Gyver.”
“Oh.” She didn’t bother to hide her disappointment, so I didn’t bother to stick around and finish the conversation.
Mrs. Russo answered my knock. “Mia, twice in one day.”
“Is Gyver home?” I stepped into her kitchen—as usual, it smelled of cooking.
“He just left for a show. Do you want to call him?” She pointed to the phone I still clutched.
“No, it’s okay. We got in a sort of fight earlier and I wanted to tell him he was right about Ryan.” I didn’t know why I was saying this, except the Russos radiated such comfort that I always felt compelled to go confessional around them.
“Ryan?” Mrs. Russo looked up from her cutting board. “Oh, that’s right, the boyfriend. Your mother thinks he’s quite the catch.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He never was and now he’s definitely not going to be.” I was surprised by how raw I felt. How badly I hadn’t wanted Gyver to be right. How far I’d allowed Ryan into my heart and how much damage he’d left behind.
“Hmm.” She held up a piece of tomato and I let her feed it to me. “And this is what you came over to tell Gyver? Maybe you should call him.”
I chewed and considered it. “Maybe I’ll just show up and surprise him. I haven’t seen Empty Orchestra in months.”
“You should! It would make his night.” She touched my cheek before adding, “Meagan’s there, too, so you’ll have someone to watch with.”
I shrank away from her hand. “She is?” I had no problem admitting I was wrong to Gyver, but not in the middle of a date. I didn’t want to see Meagan look at him or him look at her. Or both of them look at me with pity. The images wouldn’t leave my head—him on stage and her an adoring fan. Would he play the M.A. song? Would he dedicate one to her? Would his electric eye contact, which always made me feel like I was the only girl in the room, be focused solely on her?
“It’s all right. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“You sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure.” I pointed to the ingredients laid across the kitchen’s island. “Can I help?”
“I’m just making sauce. The garlic’s simmering, it’s just chopping and stirring.”
She looked at me. “The wig is good. You can’t even tell. I knew and it took a few minutes to remember.”
“Thanks.” I fiddled with a green pepper and sighed.
“You don’t want to go home.” She placed a cutting board on the counter in front of me. “Why don’t you stay and I’ll teach you to make ravioli.” She handed me a knife and nodded at the pepper.
“I’m sick of pretending all the time,” I admitted. “It’s exhausting, and I’m already exhausted. I can’t do it tonight.”
“Your mother loves you, but she doesn’t give you much room to be human.”
“She just wants me to be happy.”
“You’re allowed to be sad and scared. Cancer’s a sad, scary thing. Experiencing those emotions isn’t going to hurt you.”
I nodded and let the truth of her words sink in as I sliced the pepper into irregular chunks.
It wasn’t easy—even while mixing, kneading, and rolling the ravioli dough and listening to Mrs. Russo explain the secrets to making pasta—to forget that I was wearing a wig and teenage social life was
going on without me.
“I’m going to tell my friends I’m sick,” I announced.
“Good.” Mrs. Russo wiped her hands on a towel and hugged me. “I’m proud of you. There are much better ways for you to be spending your energy.”
Suddenly it all seemed possible. Standing in a kitchen that smelled of oregano and acceptance with Mrs. Russo stirring, humming to herself, and holding out spoons for me to taste, I felt hopeful. I felt relieved.
Mr. Russo wandered in from the family room where he’d been watching the History Channel. He took the lid off the saucepan and inhaled, then leaned in and kissed his wife on the cheek. “This is what I like to see: my two favorite ladies making my favorite foods.”
He pinched my cheek and poured himself a glass of milk. Poured me one as well. “How are you doing, mia piccola bambina?”
He hadn’t called me that in years, not since I’d kicked him in the shins and told him I wasn’t “piccola,” I was a “big girl.” I smiled at the memory, at him.
“I’m fine,” I said. For the first time in months, I meant it.
I was asleep, dreaming about ravioli and concerts, when those images were invaded. Replaced by Ryan’s picture and ring tone. “Hello?”
“You sleeping?” There was alcohol heaviness in his voice.
“A little bit.” I pulled myself upright and tucked a pillow between my head and the headboard. My bald head. The day began to trickle back into focus. I wasn’t mad at Ryan, but I was disappointed. We were done with whatever it was we hadn’t officially started.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll come over tomorrow.” He wasn’t drunk, just buzzed-mellow.
“That’s okay, you don’t have to,” I was too tired to give the words a this-isn’t-a-suggestion cadence, but figured hanging up gave the same message.
A car pulled into Gyver’s driveway. I cracked the window to hear Meagan’s voice call good-bye and him whistling under his breath as he headed inside.
Things didn’t seem as shiny anymore, or as easy. I didn’t feel as resolved. I sent Lauren a text: Call me when you get up, then scrunched down under my covers and willed my brain to stop thinking and my eyes to shut.
Chapter 30
I woke up wanting a lazy, kick-around Sunday. I pulled on my oldest cheerleading sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants. I grabbed Gyver’s hat—Mom had made it clear how she felt about me walking around bareheaded.
“Notice how I let you sleep in?” Gyver asked as I entered my kitchen. “Friends don’t wake up friends before noon.”
“What are you wearing?” Mom asked.
I shrugged. “It’s my lucky sweatshirt. Hi, Gyver.”
“You look homeless. People are going to think we can’t afford to clothe you. That sweatshirt’s going to disappear when it goes down to be washed—I’ll buy you a new one.”
“She looks fine,” said Gyver. “I could lend her much worse if you want.”
Mom ignored him. “What can I get you, kitten? Do you want breakfast or lunch?”
“I’ll get it.”
Mom hesitated, a hand on the refrigerator door.
“Didn’t you want to rake out the flowerbeds?” I asked. She’d said something like that at dinner. “I can make myself a sandwich.”
“I’ll supervise,” added Gyver.
Mom smiled and shut the fridge. “All right, I’ll go. But retire the sweatshirt, m’kay?”
I busied myself with gathering plates and making PB&J sandwiches: two for Gyver and one for me. “How was the show? Did you have a good night?” I asked when his patient silence became torturous.
“Yeah. From the sounds of it, not as eventful as yours.”
“Your mom told you?
“Yeah. I was supposed to wait and bring you some ravioli, but”—he shrugged—“I wanted to see you.”
I stared at my plate, not hungry for the sandwich or ravioli.
He leaned forward, sympathy radiating off him. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“You were right. When I thought about why Ryan was letting me ‘jerk him around,’” I made weak air quotes and swallowed, “it was never about liking me—I was just a challenge. His reaction to my haircut made that clear.”
Gyver shut his eyes for a second, rubbed their lids before looking at me with the Russo intensity. “He doesn’t deserve you, but I can’t believe he doesn’t like you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I pinched crumbs off my crust and rolled them into balls.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Pressed his lips tight. Stood up. Leaned against the back of his chair. Opened his mouth again. Shut it. Sat down. Nodded.
I touched his knee. “Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so.’”
He closed his hand over mine. “Let’s get out of here, Mi. Go do something.”
Escape sounded perfect. “Something from one of your lists? Can I see them yet?”
“Let’s get them and go.” He stood and held out a hand.
“You get them and I’ll change.”
“Why? You’re fine.” Gyver tilted his head and looked at me.
“I look like a grub. If I try and leave the house like this, Mom’ll throw a fit.”
“Suit yourself—but you look fine.”
“Be right back.”
When I returned to the kitchen in jeans, sweater, and wig, Gyver was bent over the fridge. “Hungry again?” I teased. “Or are you finding a place for my sympathy pasta?”
“Your mom said to help myself. What’s sympathy pasta?” Ryan straightened and turned.
“What are you doing here?” I stepped back.
“You didn’t answer your phone.” Ryan shut the fridge. “What’s going on?”
“That’s a good question.” Gyver stormed into the kitchen and stepped between Ryan and me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Back off. What’s the matter?” Ryan looked from Gyver’s glower to my lip chewing.
Gyver grabbed his arm. “I think you’d better go.”
Ryan shook off his grip and turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Did I miss something?” He reached for me, but Gyver blocked his arm. Ryan snapped, “Chill out. What does this have to do with you?”
Gyver’s voice came out as a growl. “She doesn’t want you.”
“Maybe,” Ryan admitted with a shrug and a half grin, “but I’d still rather hear it from Mia.”
They both looked at me. Ryan’s eyes were lined with frustration. Gyver’s flamed with protective anger, but as I extended our gaze, the corners of his mouth twitched with victory. My hand strayed to fiddle with my necklace and paused on the still-unfamiliar shape. Was it an unlucky charm? Or had I overreacted?
“I need to talk to Ryan. I’ll call you in a little while, Gyver.”
Gyver’s half-formed smile faded. He left. He didn’t say good-bye, didn’t look back when I called his name.
Ryan took a step toward me and touched my crossed arms. “So … want to tell me what that was all about?”
“Look, I said I’d give you a chance, and I did. I don’t really know what else to say.”
“A chance? Is that what you call it when you cancel all my dates and hire Russo to play some messed-up version of bodyguard? I’m trying here—are you?”
Ryan’s hand slipped off me and he slumped into a kitchen chair. “I give up. You’ve already made up your mind; it doesn’t matter what I do.”
The resignation in his voice made my stomach clench. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees so I wouldn’t go wrap them around him. I had to remind myself: he’d disappointed me. He didn’t want me.
“Why are you doing this? Is the chase that fun? What do you think’s going to happen if I say yes?”
“Fun? Do I look like I’m having fun?” His laughter cut through me. “If I wanted a girl who’d get naked as soon as I winked at her, I’d go for Lauren or Hil. I want you. I thought you’d figured that out by now.”
“Hil? Are you crazy? S
he’d rip your balls off before she’d let them near her.”
Ryan shrugged and climbed out of his chair to sit across from me with his back against the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, but who cares—that’s not the point. You’re mad about something.”
“Well, yeah.” I tapped my head self-consciously.
“Because of how I reacted about your hair? What’d I do wrong? It looks good, by the way. Way better than I expected.”
Now that he said it, I felt stupid. Especially since he was looking at me with unguarded appreciation. “‘Bald? Shit!’ wasn’t really what I wanted to hear.”
“You surprised me. I’m no good with stuff like that. I’m trying, but I’m no good with it. You’ve got to give me some warning.” He stretched and touched my wig with a cautious finger. “I can’t even tell. It looks like your hair and even feels real.”
“It is my hair. It’s just no longer attached.” I wanted to lean into his palm or tuck my head under his chin, but didn’t know how he’d react, or how the wig would. Or if I should even be thinking things like that.
“Will you take it off? Is that a weird thing to ask? I bet you’re still beautiful without hair.”
I stiffened. That I hadn’t expected. The whole point of the wig was so no one would see me bald. And didn’t Ryan only want a glossy, perfect version of me?
My fingers were clumsy as I pulled it off. I could feel my shoulders creeping up toward my ears and I kept my eyes glued to the bottom of Ryan’s sneaker.
“Wow. I was right.” I looked up. He still had that bedroom smile on. “You know that supersexy model with the shaved head, Syrena something? She’s got nothing on you.”
My exhale sounded like a sob and he crept over and put his arms around me, not at all tentative as he pressed his cheek against my head. “Sorry I hurt you yesterday.”
Send Me a Sign Page 16
