Send Me a Sign

by Tiffany Schmidt

  She blinked, and for a moment her glare slipped to a wince.

  I slid my gaze from her to Gyver, offering my next words to both of them. “My life is none of your business. Leave me alone.”

  And then I walked away.

  Gyver followed. Hil did not. Even if she’d wanted to, her pride would never let her chase me in front of the other cheerleaders.

  “Mi.” His voice was soft but condemning. “You don’t mean that. Don’t be an idiot; think about what you’re doing.”

  I’m letting go! I cried inside. And you make that too hard. “Just leave me alone. Please. I just want you to leave me alone,” I whispered.

  His face transformed into a stony fury I’d never seen before. “Fine. I’m done, Mia. Done. You’re not who I thought you were.” I watched him walk away from me, then turned and stumbled in the opposite direction.

  I entered the first door I came to: the gym. Something about my face stopped Ryan in mid-drill. He froze with his hand extended toward the baseline, then stood and jogged to me. “You okay?” he asked, ignoring his coach’s whistle and calls.

  I constructed a smile from the scraps of my self-preservation. “I missed you.”

  “That’s all? Nothing’s wrong? ’Cause Coach’ll have my ass if I don’t get back to practice.”

  “Can I have your keys? I don’t want to wait. My parents are out to dinner with the Russos. Have someone drop you after practice; we’ll have the house to ourselves. No interruptions today, I promise.” My manic sentences without breathing were more crazed than sexy, but I couldn’t pause. If I did, I’d think about what Gyver’d said. What I’d said … “How long till practice is over?”

  Ryan inhaled. “Maybe I’ll fake an injury and come with you now.”

  I laughed, but Coach Burne didn’t. “Winters! If you don’t stop flirting and get back to work, your ass won’t leave the bench till basketball season. Now, five extra.”

  Ryan grinned. “I’ll do ten extra, but I’ve got to get my keys out of my gym bag first.”

  I threw up in the parking lot. Gagged on the taste of my words—of the words said and those that remained unsaid. I woke up every morning with the intention of fixing things—but got into bed every night with the knowledge that I’d only made them worse. I couldn’t see any way to come back from what had happened today—I’d pushed Hil even further away. And Gyver.

  I’m done.

  I pulled Ryan’s car over and vomited again on the side of the road. My chest felt tight; it was hard to breathe. Maybe I was getting sick. I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t think about any of it. I got back in the car and drove home at a reckless speed.

  I showered, smearing on lavender lotion and plying eye makeup with a hand so shaky, a smudged-smoky look was inevitable. Only, instead of looking bedroom-sexy, it made me hollow eyed and haunted. I ransacked my pajama drawer—looking for something that didn’t emphasize my jutting ribs and collarbones—and settling on Ryan’s rugby shirt and ruffled boyshorts Hil had dared me to buy last spring.

  I hated the idea of losing it bald, but decided that was better than my wig falling off during, which had almost happened last time. I knotted a pink scarf over my spotty fuzz.

  Then I paced. And flipped through college catalogs—Dad had removed last year’s sticky notes and retabbed them with schools close to home. I paced more. Tried to prevent guilty Gyver thoughts from invading. Paced to the kitchen and unlocked the door. Tried to coax Jinx upstairs to keep me company. When I’d first gotten sick, she’d shadowed my every move. Lately she’d stayed downstairs and avoided me. Even my cat was judgmental. I gave up and paced back to my bedroom. Lit candles.

  Midstride I was winded. I sat at my desk and tried to catch my breath. Then curled up on my bed when it wouldn’t be caught. I gasped and wheezed. Then fell asleep.

  When I woke the candles were cold. Ryan’s car was gone.

  Flipping on my lights, I blinked at a note on my pillow.

  Wouldn’t let myself wake you–—even though

  I wanted to. God, you’re sexy.

  Call me when you get up.

  I love you,

  Ryan

  I dug my phone from the bottom of my school bag. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he answered. “You know, you’re going to give me a complex. Or drive me crazy.”

  “Where are you?” I could hear voices in the background.

  “Chris’s. We’re doing a guys’ night. Poker and guy movies.”

  “Porno?” I asked, not even trying to hide my disgust.

  He laughed. “Um, no. That’s not really a group thing. I meant blood-and-guts movies. The kind you hate.”

  “Oh. Oops. Will you come back over?”

  “Not tonight. I’m going to hang with Chris.”

  “Really?” I was used to be right there.

  “Not tonight,” he repeated. “I just … I need a break. Things have been a little … intense. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” My voice was small. If I lost Ryan, I’d have nothing. What ever he needed, he could have, because I needed him. “It’s no big deal. Say hi to Chris. Have fun.”

  Chapter 42

  “Kitten, it’s been great to see you so energetic lately,” Mom said as I walked in from a “study date” with Ryan on Sunday. Really we’d been the annoying couple groping in the back of the movie theater, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Right now my energy was of the caffeinated variety. I’d made Ryan stop for a large espresso post-film. She didn’t need to know that either.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I hugged her and went upstairs, leaving her complaining to Dad about how Jinx kept peeing outside her litter box and Dad responding with the results of my latest kidney function tests.

  I’d always played the role of obedient daughter, but now I’d taken the charade to a new level. They didn’t know how often I was breathless and exhausted, or see that my smiles only extended to the edges of my lips.

  I was a puppet, strung up with panic, yet still performing when I had an audience. Gyver saw straight through it, or he had back when he was looking at me, before he let my apologies land in unanswered voice mails, e-mails, and knocks on his door. Ryan knew. How could my parents be so oblivious?

  Even Principal Baker recognized something was wrong, stopping me in the hallway on Tuesday afternoon when I was wandering during English. “Miss Moore?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m concerned with what your teachers are telling me. They’re still not seeing the types of changes we discussed at our meeting on Friday. Is everything all right? Would you like to meet with Ms. Piper?”

  I cursed at my shoes. “I’m working on it. I just get so tired.”

  “I think it’s time to have your parents in to sit down with all the teachers and reevaluate your needs. Mia, you’re going to need these grades for college.”

  “Just give me a little time,” I begged. “Then, if I don’t fix things, you can call.”

  “You have until next Friday. That’s nine school days to show me some improvements,” he said. “But if you don’t get it together by the Fall Ball, I’m calling and we’re having a meeting.”

  The week blurred by in a flurry of motion. Gyver refused to acknowledge me. He didn’t even look in my direction—as if he were already getting used to the idea of sitting next to an empty desk. He pretended I didn’t exist; I pretended not to notice I was weaker or that my heart sprinted and my lungs clenched.

  I was tired. All the time. Racing pulse and tight chest hadn’t been symptoms before, but they were constant now. These had to be signs I was sicker. Did it show in my blood counts? Would they be able to tell I was a lost cause when I went in for my second round of consolidation chemo in two weeks? Was that why Dad shut himself in his makeshift planetarium after long phone calls with Dr. Kevin?

  I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t sleep. When I tried, I choked on the things I wouldn’t live to experience or woke up sweaty and breathles
s.

  Only once did I lose post-psychic detachment—when I unearthed last year’s Halloween costume during a two a.m. cleaning binge. I stared at the sequined honeybee tube dress and wondered what happened to the costumes Lauren picked for this year. I couldn’t remember what they were or if I’d been school/hospital/home on Autumn Girl’s favorite holiday.

  I sobbed as I threw the costume in the trash and covered its yellow-and-black stripes with the ratty cheerleading sweatshirt Mom hated. All my pictures of the Calendar Girls were boxed and hidden; the costume had been an emotional ambush. I’d be more prepared next time.

  “Don’t you miss them?” Ryan asked on our way to lunch on Friday, his head tilted to the side, his fingers woven through mine. I clung to him; he was the only thing grounding me to this school, where I drifted through the halls like a ghost already. People’s eyes slid over and around me, uncomfortable with my pallor, too-thin body, and vacant eyes.

  “Why do I need them? I have you.” I offered this with a smile and a peck, but they were empty words and a hollow kiss. He pretended to believe me, but his eyes tightened with recognition.

  I did miss them, especially as the hallways filled with talk about the Fall Ball. Their names were on the ballot. Mine wasn’t.

  “Do we have to go?” I asked Ryan at lunch.

  “I kinda have to—I’m on the court. You don’t want to? You used to live for this sort of thing.”

  “You go; I’ll stay home.” I poked holes in my sandwich.

  “Don’t be like that. We’ll have fun.” He put a hand on my knee. “Promise.”

  “What’s he promising now?” Chris interjected. “The moon, stars, and everlasting bliss?”

  “Something like that,” I answered, a fake smile forming automatically on my lips, though it was hard to maintain because my chest hurt, my lungs felt flattened.

  “But Ryan, you promised me those same things last week—you man-whore!” Chris grinned and swiped my apple.

  “Tell Mia Fall Ball will be fun,” Ryan prompted.

  “Of course it will,” Chris scoffed. “Just picture me in the crown and dancing like this.”

  I laughed at his robot and running man and when he moved behind Bill and began to grind. Laughed because it was expected. I tangled my fingers in my necklace: under the table I was tapping a pulse with my foot.

  Ryan joined in, but there was desperation in his laugh and on his lips when he pressed them against mine and whispered in my ear, “We’ll have fun. Promise.”

  I squeezed his fingers and tried to believe him. We all had our coping methods. Gyver had his anger. Mom had her obsession with finding me the perfect dress for the Fall Ball. Dad had his star maps and phone calls to doctors. I had Ryan.

  I still needed him, but did he still want me? By the end of the day, my hand ached from how tightly I gripped his, but it was getting harder to convince myself that we still worked.

  “Promise,” Ryan repeated. His coping method: self-deception.

  Chapter 43

  Gyver’s desk was empty on Monday. I’d decided the night before to ask him for calc help. He might be furious, but I couldn’t imagine he’d say no. In my plans, he’d help me and, more importantly, forgive me. Getting Mr. Bonura and Principal Baker off my case would just be a bonus. But Gyver wasn’t in any of our classes.

  On Tuesday, dizzy panic compelled me to ask Meagan.

  “He’ll be home this afternoon. He’s visiting colleges.” Her face was a blend of judgment and pity. “I know it’s none of my business, but fix things with him, okay?”

  “I tried, but he won’t talk to me,” I mumbled.

  “Keep trying, then. Hillary managed to apologize to him, and it’s not like they’re friendly. You know how much he cares for you.”

  Hil apologized? He’d accepted her apology but not mine? I swallowed past the tightening in my throat. “Did he tell you I didn’t know about Max? I feel awful about the hospital.”

  “It’s okay,” Meagan answered, but she was suddenly engrossed in her calc notes.

  I excused myself to go to the bathroom and went home instead. Gyver’d left on college tours. Last year we’d planned our route together. We’d spent afternoons with Dad making spreadsheets and sending away for catalogs.

  He’d gone without me. It was a sign he’d accepted next fall I wouldn’t be around to matriculate with him.

  There was a note in the kitchen when I got home. I read it out loud as I pulled off my itchy wig. “‘Mia, I’ve got a house showing at 4:30. I’ll pick up dinner on the way home. Love, Dad.’” I grabbed a can of cat food.

  “I guess it’s just you and me, Jinx.” But despite the humming can opener, she wasn’t twining between my legs.

  “Jinx?” I carried the can over to her bowl. It was full with food from the morning. Maybe she’d gotten shut in my room. It’d happened before; I’d come home from practice to find her yowling. She’d also shredded a shirt out of boredom. I hoped I hadn’t left anything on my bed.

  But my door was open. “Jinx? Jinxsy?” She was curled up on the spare pillow. When I nudged her, she raised a lethargic paw toward me.

  “Hey, bud, aren’t you hungry?” She sneezed in my face. “Gross! Jinx!” Instead of stretching or leaping from the bed, she shut her eyes. I stopped wiping off cat snot and looked at her: nose and eyes streaming green mucus.

  “Jinx?” I picked her up; she didn’t curl closer or fight to get down. She lay limp. I called Dad. No answer. Mom’s cell was off. Gyver didn’t pick up, but his car was back in his driveway.

  “Hang on, Jinx.” I tucked my sweatshirt around her before walking out my door and across my driveway to the Russos’.

  I pounded and pounded before he answered. I could see my mess of a reflection in the door’s window; tears had painted my cheeks three tints of splotchy sadness. Jinx hadn’t reacted to the cold or the noise of my banging.

  Gyver had been mid-workout. His black T-shirt was adhered to his chest with sweat, but I launched myself at him anyway. Or tried to; he held me off with one hand. “What do you want?”

  My breath seized in my lungs, caught on his physical and verbal rejection.

  I pulled back a flap of sweatshirt sleeve to expose Jinx’s oozy face. “She’s sick. No one’s home. I don’t know what to do.”

  Gyver looked from her pathetic furry face to my pathetic sobbing one and pulled me into his kitchen. He told me to “sit,” took Jinx in one arm, looked up the vet’s number, and picked up his phone. He spoke assuredly in the receiver, pausing to ask me, “Has she eaten?”

  “Not today. Dad gave her dinner last night; I don’t know if she ate.”

  “We’ll be right in.” Gyver hung up the phone, grabbed his keys and a sweatshirt, and headed out. He didn’t look back, but paused on the porch to shut and lock the door behind me.

  I opened the passenger door. Gyver handed me his sweatshirt. “Put this on. It’s too cold.”

  “You’re wear—” I started to protest, but agreement was faster. I pulled on his sweatshirt. It pooled around me in piles of excess fabric. I shoved the sleeves up my arms, and Gyver handed me the bundle containing Jinx. She opened an eye and yowled.

  “Do you want to go get a hat or your wig?” he asked, his hand paused on the ignition.

  I shook my head. “We need to go. Please, please be okay, Jinx.”

  Gyver fastened his seat belt and looked at mine. As soon as I’d buckled it, he pulled out of the driveway and tore through the streets to the animal clinic.

  I attempted one conversation. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

  Gyver looked over—made eye contact for the first fractional second since he’d opened his door—then turned back to the road with a clenched jaw and white-knuckled grip. “I don’t know. God, she’s thin. How long’s she been sick?”

  “She hasn’t. I didn’t …” Guilt kept me mute for the rest of the drive.

  Chapter 44

  The guilt grew to tremors as the vet examined Jin
x and gave me options: put her down humanely or try and manage her pain with medications that would make her groggy and disoriented.

  “Maybe you should wait until your parents are here before you make any decisions.”

  “But she was fine yesterday,” I protested.

  The vet’s eyes examined me as well: my stubbly, patchy head, circled eyes, tiny frame drowning in Gyver’s sweatshirt. His voice was full of pity. “Jinx is a very sick cat, Mia. She’s in the final stages of kidney failure. Maybe if you’d caught this sooner, but a lot of cats don’t have outward manifestations. We have no way of knowing, and unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do at this stage.”

  I hadn’t noticed. When was the last time I’d made time for Jinx? Done more than complain about her shedding? She used to sit on my lap while I did homework, but I hadn’t done any in a while. I saw her when she slept on the pillow next to mine, but Jinx had become impatient with my nighttime mania and started sleeping downstairs.

  She’d been suffering and I hadn’t noticed. The thought made me gag. My legs faltered. Gyver pointed to a chair and blocked my view of the exam table where Jinx shivered and vomited.

  “Why don’t I give you a few minutes to make your decision?” the vet said while mopping up the mess. “I’ll go try your parents again. Come find me when you’re ready.” He gingerly picked up Jinx and set her on a clean blanket on the table.

  It was impossible not to make the connection between my dying cat and me. She was sick. She was in pain. And there was no way I could help her. She stared at me through barely open eyes. Did I have enough courage to be merciful?

  “Do you want to wait for your parents? Your dad might be home soon,” Gyver said.

  I didn’t answer, but went to stand beside her at the table. I was too busy memorizing the whirl of hair on her nose and the contrast between her eraser-pink tongue and midnight fur.

  “We could bring her home now, and you could come back later with your parents. Or you could try the drugs,” he suggested.