Send Me a Sign

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Really.”

  “Well then, it looks like I’ve got some catching up to do … that is, if you want to tell me.” She looked almost timid, adjusting and readjusting the shoulder strap of her purse.

  “I’d like that.” We exchanged smiles, and Dad patted my hand before taking her arm and leading her out of the room.

  That left me facing the counselor. She looked at me from behind thick lenses with an expression both patient and compassionate. I thought about Mrs. Russo’s comments. “Are you going to tell me it’ll help to talk? Because I have a lot to say …”

  Chapter 51

  I woke Tuesday afternoon to a gentle but persistent poking in my shoulder.

  “I’m up, I’m up,” I grumbled, swatting away someone’s hand.

  “Finally,” Hil answered. “I’ve been sitting here for almost two hours, and I have to go soon.”

  I scooted over on the bed and she climbed up next to me. We leaned against each other, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and stared at the wall in front of us.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she reflected with a wry laugh. “Remember all our plans for a perfect senior year?”

  “Do you get why I couldn’t tell you?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t have let me mope. You would’ve gotten the whole squad to—I don’t know—shave their heads in solidarity. You would’ve been there for me. Right?”

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “I didn’t want to be held accountable. Lauren let me wallow in self-pity and hide from this—at least at first she did. And if she had a bad reaction when I told her and she rejected me, oh well. I didn’t think I could handle that from you.”

  “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’m going to be fine.” Each time I said it, I was more confident it was true.

  “Promise?” Hil turned to look at me, her face overwhelmed by her large, worried eyes.

  “I can’t promise, but everything looks good and I believe I’ll get better.”

  She gave me a smile. “That’s good enough for me—I’ve never seen you not meet a goal. I mean, you even got Ryan Winters to beg to be your boyfriend.”

  “Is he okay?” He had kept his word and hadn’t visited. My fingers traced the chain around my neck. It didn’t feel right to wear Ryan’s heart post-breakup, but I needed to fidget, so the chain stayed. I’d punched a hole in one of Gyver’s picks and wore that instead.

  Hil rolled her eyes. “He’s Ryan Winters; there are already new hook-up rumors. Though I think they’re more girls’ wishful thinking than truth. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Mostly, he and Chris have been locked away doing ‘guy stuff.’ What do you think that even means?”

  “We watch musicals and eat chocolate; maybe they eat wings and watch war movies?” I suggested, then giggled. “But seriously, how awesome would it be if they’re at Chris’s watching Annie or Grease?”

  She threw her arms around my neck; I hugged back just as greedily. “God, you’re not allowed to go AWOL again, Summer Girl. Okay? Whatever happens, you tell me!”

  “Deal,” I agreed.

  She let go. “Welcome back. Also, I expect you to come out for winter cheerleading. We can figure out how to deal with missed practices. We can’t figure out how to miss you.”

  Before I could respond or tear up, she added, “Though it totally sucks you can’t tumble, because the new recruits are hopeless at it.”

  I laughed and shook my head. Hil would always be Hil. From the hallway I heard Mary Poppins Nurse—Mariah—call, “Hello, handsome.”

  My favorite voice responded, “How’s our girl today?”

  I turned to Hil. “Gyver’s coming. You have to be nice. Gyver’s my …” I trailed off. Boyfriend didn’t seem right, not strong enough. “Gyver’s mine.”

  Hil laughed, her throaty, haughty laugh. “Gyver’s always been yours. Why do you think I wanted-slash-hated him so much?”

  “Can you be satisfied with every other male? What about Chris?”

  “Am I the biggest hypocrite for hiding him all fall and giving you grief about dating?”

  “Yes, but it really wasn’t so hidden—we all knew. Play nice with him; he’s crazy about you.” I would’ve said more but Gyver knocked and entered.

  I smiled like a fool; I couldn’t help it. “Hey.” My voice was whispery, girly, ridiculous.

  “Hey, Mi.” He answered with a matching smile and extended eye contact before acknowledging the impatient girl beside me. “Hi, Hillary.”

  “Hey, Mac ‘n’ Cheese.” She wiped her cheeks, smoothed her hair, and stood.

  “You know, I don’t actually like that name,” he said, but his voice was amused, so I relaxed back against my pillow.

  “I know.” She gave me, then Gyver, impromptu hugs and walked to the door, turning around and grinning at our shocked expressions. “I’ll call you later, Mia.”

  Gyver claimed his spot and my hand. “Hi.”

  “Speaking of calls, I called you from the dance.”

  “I know. I called back, and Hillary answered from the ambulance. I drove here like a maniac.”

  “I thought you didn’t pick up because you were mad.”

  “No. That’s not why.” Gyver took my hand in both of his. I could see a flush creeping up his cheeks.

  “Why?”

  “It’s embarrassing. You know, this is what I always thought your hospital room should look like.” He pointed to the cards, flowers, and stuffed animals, sent by classmates and crowding all flat surfaces.

  “Nice try, but I’m not that easily distracted. You, embarrassed? This I’ve got to hear.” I tugged on his hand.

  “I didn’t answer because I was out in my backyard.”

  “Why? It was freezing.”

  When he didn’t continue, I snuggled closer and pouted. He kissed me on the nose. “Your necklace. You told me you’d lost it, and the jewelers were closed.”

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t lose my necklace in your backyard.”

  Gyver studied our entwined hands. “I was looking for four-leaf clovers.”

  “What? You’re not serious. In the dark?”

  “I had a flashlight.”

  I tried not to laugh and failed. “Why? Why in the world?”

  “I thought maybe if I found one for you, you’d cheer up and feel less hopeless.”

  “Gyver Russo! I believe someone’s always telling me I put too much faith in superstitions. And”—I deepened my voice in a poor imitation—“I make my own luck.”

  His grin was full of mischief. “I can’t wait to get lucky with you.”

  “Gyver.” I groaned. “You’re ridiculous!”

  He started to retort, but I cut him off with a finger to his lips. A finger I began to trace around his mouth with a feather-light touch.

  His puzzled look turned to concern as I began to lean in. He put a hand on either side of my face and warred with impulses to pull me close and push me away. “Mi, we can’t.”

  I smiled and leaned still closer, fitting myself into the space between his arms, the space that felt like sanctuary. These were the words I’d been waiting all day to tell him. “I asked. My counts are good.”

  This time there were no ice cream accidents and no fevers. If I had been attached to a heart monitor, I’m sure it would have set off every racing-pulse alarm.

  But I wasn’t.

  There was nothing to interrupt, nothing to interfere, and nothing between Gyver’s and my lips but a few inches of empty air.

  And then there wasn’t even that.

  There were Gyver’s hands sliding up my neck, his thumb caressing my jawline and his fingers sliding around the back of my head, tilting up my chin and lowering his mouth to mine.

  We didn’t bump noses, or grind teeth, or mash lips. There wasn’t that period of awkward learning—because it was Gyver and it was me, and there was no one who knew me better, no one I’d ever know so well.


  It was sweet and fierce and many things my mind and body couldn’t name. The type of kissing that eclipsed all prior kisses—the type of kissing I hoped to be doing for a very long time.

  And when Gyver and I finally pulled apart, his face was flushed and we were both the best kind of breathless. I knew exactly how he felt and what he was thinking: more. We both leaned in for a second kiss at the same instant—and this, I decided, was the very best sign.

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve always daydreamed of writing an acknowledgments page, much in the way that actors dream of giving Oscar acceptance speeches. And now here’s my chance! Even better, I get to type this while wearing pajamas instead of an uncomfortable gown and heels. Lucky for me there’s neither a live audience nor aren’t-you-done-yet? music because I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the many, many people who have helped me reach this stage, and it’s making me a little teary eyed.

  Huge, from-the-bottom-of-my-heart-accompanied-by-hugs-and-baked-goods thank-yous to the following people:

  My team at Walker—Emily Easton, Mary Kate Castellani, Laura Whitaker, Patricia McHugh, Jill Amack, and everyone else there who worked to bring Mia’s story to the shelves.

  The dreamiest of dream agents, Joe Monti, as well as Barry Goldblatt, Tricia Ready, and the rest of the BG Literary family. Regina Forever.

  Jenny Southard, my go-to person for all things medical, and Kari Olson, whose patience with my radiology questions was truly impressive. Any mistakes are my fault. All medical brilliance is theirs.

  My friends who forgave me when I canceled plans to stay in and write and were waiting to hang out when I needed to get away from my computer. And my fellow writers who read these pages and pushed me to be my best: Jonathan Maberry, Nancy Keim Comley, Kerry Gans, Katie Foucart, Leah Clifford, Tiffany Emerick, and Stacey Yiengst.

  Team Sparkle—a.k.a. Scott Tracey, Courtney Summers, Victoria Schwab, Emily Hainsworth, Linda Grimes, and Susan Adrian—I owe them my sanity. Especially Emily, who read this manuscript more times than I can count and never lost her enthusiasm for Mia, Gyver, and co—have I told you how pretty you are?

  The Apocalypsies—I couldn’t imagine sharing this publication adventure with a better group.

  Andrew McMahon—for being an inspiration with his music and his leukemia survivorship and for permission to use his lyrics—as well as to Ellie Waite for doing all the permissions paperwork! For those who are interested in more information on Andrew’s story and his work promoting awareness about cancer in young adults, please look into his charity, the Dear Jack Foundation. (www.DearJackFoundation.com)

  The Mysza family. You are my superheroes. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you, miss Morgan, and send you all love.

  And, finally, for my family. To my parents and siblings for putting up with my endless princess and puppy stories as a child. To my Schmidtlets, who were nappers when I needed to revise and snugglers when I needed to pace and brainstorm. And St. Matt, thank you for being so … saintly and putting up with me through this whole crazy process. I love you.

  Copyright © 2012 by Tiffany Schmidt

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  First published in the United States of America in October 2012

  by Walker Publishing Company, Inc., a division of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.

  Electronic edition published in October 2012

  www.bloomsburyteens.com

  Break Myself

  Words and Music by Andrew Ross McMahon

  Left Here Publishing (ASCAP)

  All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured Used by Permission

  Reprinted by Permission of Andrew McMahon and Left Here Publishing

  Superstition

  Words and Music by Stevie Wonder

  © 1972 (Renewed 2000) JOBETE MUSIC CO., INC. and BLACK BULL MUSIC

  c/o EMI APRIL MUSIC INC.

  All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured Used by Permission

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Walker BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Schmidt, Tiffany.

  Send me a sign / by Tiffany Schmidt.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Superstitious before being diagnosed with leukemia, high school senior Mia

  becomes irrationally dependent on horoscopes, good luck charms, and the like when her life shifts

  from cheerleading and parties to chemotherapy and platelets, while her parents obsess and lifelong

  friend Gyver worries.

  [1. Leukemia—Fiction. 2. Superstition—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction.

  4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Family life—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 6. Secrets—Fiction.

  7. Pennsylvania—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S3563Sen 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2012005070

  ISBN 978-0-8027-3406-8 (e-book)