by Amy Reed
“Who said I wanted to watch a movie?”
“We don’t have to watch a movie,” he says. “Why don’t we continue that conversation we were having earlier? About me quitting baseball so we can be together.”
I sigh. “I don’t want you to do that, Will.”
“Don’t you want to be with me?”
“Of course I want to be with you,” I say, but at soon as it comes out of my mouth I realize I don’t mean it. “I don’t want you giving up stuff for me. I want you to have your own life.”
“Evie,” he says, holding my hands in his, “you are my life.”
I want to run. I want to get out of here, away from him, away from the gaze of his eyes that see someone else when they look at me, someone who no longer exists. But instead, I kiss him. I kiss and kiss and kiss him. Maybe if I taste him, maybe if I feel his skin against mine, I can remember what I felt like before all of this. Maybe if we are just our bodies, I won’t have to feel whatever this is I’m feeling.
But he stops me. He pulls away and removes my hands from where they were attempting to unbutton his pants.
“What?” I say.
“I don’t think you’re ready.”
Again, the anger. Rage like a fireball burning through my body. “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” I pull my hands out of his and push him. I want to push harder. I want to shove him so far away that I can’t see him anymore, so he can’t look at me with those big blue eyes so full of pity, eyes that used to make me feel so beautiful but now just make me feel small. Invisible. Powerless.
“Evie,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” I say as I stand up.
“Honey, sit down. Let’s talk about this.”
I grab my cane and purse from the floor. “I’m done talking.”
“Okay,” he says. “You need space. I understand. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
“No. Don’t call me.”
“Or better yet, why don’t I come over? I’ll bring lattes and those cinnamon rolls you like.”
“Did you not hear me?” I shout. “I don’t want you to call me. I don’t want to eat cinnamon rolls with you. I’m done. It’s over. We’re over.”
“I know you don’t mean that. You’re just tired. You’ll feel different tomorrow after you get some rest.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel, Will.” I start hobbling to the door. “You have no idea how I feel.” I wish I could stomp away. I wish I could storm out, make a more dramatic exit than this lopsided shuffle. I wish my every move weren’t punctuated by the pathetic clackity-clack of my cane.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, getting up and rushing to open the door for me. He’s a gentleman even as I’m breaking up with him.
“Will,” I say, looking him straight in the eye so he can’t misunderstand. “Listen to me. I can’t be with you anymore. Too much has changed. We’re too different.”
He puts his arms around me and holds me close. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into my neck, the garlic and vinegar of dinner on his breath mixing with the musk of his cologne and threatening to suffocate me. “I love you and I know you love me. I’ll be here when you’re ready. We’ve been through so much. We’ll get through this, too.”
I pull away and just stare at him in disbelief, at that stupid grin that hasn’t faded. He’s so confident, so sure I could never stop loving him.
“Bye, Will,” I say, and walk out the door.
“Let me give you a ride,” he says.
“I live three blocks away. I can walk.”
“Let me walk you.”
“No.” I may not be able to stomp away, but I can slam the door behind me.
if.
Dear Stella,
At this very moment, your favorite fallen cheerleader is smoking a joint out her bedroom window like a real teenage rebel. Ha! Aren’t you proud of me? Scented candles are my new best friend, especially the ones that smell like gingerbread cookies. The only problem is they make me really, really hungry.
I had a lovely visit with my school principal today. I think my cancer-survivor sympathy may be starting to wear thin with the administration. Principal Landry thought of all the different ways to ask me how I’m doing, and I thought of all the different ways I could say “fine.” I could tell she was trying to seem caring, but really the point of the meeting was to tell me I’m in trouble because I’m failing my classes. Except the way she said it was a lot nicer: I’m not failing, I’m “falling behind.” I’ve been “lethargic in class” (i.e., stoned). And instead of saying I’m an ungrateful asshole, she said she’s disappointed that I haven’t accepted my teachers’ offers of help or been working with a tutor. “We’re a team, Evie! We all want you to succeed!”
But she’s missing one very important thing—I’m not on their team. No amount of their wanting me to succeed is going to make a difference if I don’t give a shit. They live in a fantasy world where the most important things in a teenager’s life are getting good grades and going to college, but no one realizes I stopped living in that world a long time ago. It isn’t real. None of it is real.
It’s over with Will, by the way. Another casualty of my survival, I suppose. I think it was over a long time ago, but I was a little too busy dying to notice. Like everyone else, he loved that dying girl more than he loves me. The girl who loved him back died in that stupid hospital and this new me rose out of her ashes, and I am so sick of his doting and chivalry, all his “honey”s and “sweetie”s. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. I feel pathetic when I’m with him. And I am sick and tired of feeling pathetic. I wish I could say I don’t even miss him, but that would be a lie. I miss us fitting together. I miss being part of an “us.”
But in happier news, I finally found where Mom’s been hiding my painkillers. What is it about drugs and sock drawers? She’s so blind, she doesn’t even notice the missing pills. I have a feeling I could get away with murder these days and she’d just pat me on the back and say I’m having a hard time adjusting to my new life and maybe I need a nap. Poor, sweet, loyal Mom.
The bad news is the bottle says only one refill left. I don’t know what happens after that. I don’t want to think about it. I’m trying to be careful with your weed, but it’s going a lot faster than I’d like it to. I’m going to have to figure something out soon. I sure as hell can’t go buying stuff from anyone at school. Not Evie Whinsett, Cancer Girl, squeaky-clean Will Johnson’s girlfriend (no, ex-girlfriend!), buying drugs from the bad kids! It would be a scandal! But maybe a little scandal is exactly what my life is missing.
Speaking of which, I called Marcus. I waited a couple of days to see if he’d call me, but then I figured, fuck it—I’m the one who asked him for his number, right? So I’m the one calling the shots, and if I feel like calling him I’m going to call him. I don’t care about being proper or playing hard-to-get, or any of those other stupid games. And FYI, he’s as hot on the phone as he is in person. He’s got this low, satiny voice and really smart, sarcastic sense of humor that makes Will seem so dull and childish. And guess what? We’re going out tomorrow. WE’RE GOING OUT TOMORROW!
I’m failing all my classes except art, but I’m not really worried about it. It’s pretty great how good I feel right now despite the fact that my life is kind of falling apart.
Love,
Evie
twenty.
I TOLD EVERYONE I’M VISITING CALEB AT THE HOSPITAL after school. Even Will, despite my repeatedly reminding him we’re broken up, feels entitled to this information, not to mention the fact that he still sits next to me at lunch and insists on carrying my bag. Everyone—Mom, Dad, Will, Kasey, Jenica—agrees visiting Caleb is an excellent idea, as if their opinion matters. I’m sure Caleb would also think it’s an excellent idea, but he knows nothing about it and I haven’t talked to him since the day I was discharged.
I keep thinking about this t
ime in the hospital a couple of days after I broke my leg. Some player from the Oakland A’s was coming in for a charity-visit-slash-publicity-photo op, and Caleb was freaking out like a little boy. He ran off to get his hat signed while Stella and I stayed in my room. I remember saying, “Could he be any more adorkable?” and Stella said, “You know he’s in love with you, right?” I told her to shut up, but she said, “He worships the ground you wheel on.”
Every time I ignore one of Caleb’s texts, I think of this, and it makes me sick. He keeps texting even though I never text him back. I have turned into such an asshole, and he is still so loyal, so forgiving.
“Tell Caleb I say hi,” Mom says as she drops me off in front of the hospital. “Give him a big hug for me.”
“I will,” I say. I walk slowly to the too-familiar sliding doors, waiting for Mom to pull away before I turn around and walk toward Telegraph.
I am meeting Marcus at a coffee shop. In preparation, I spent an hour last night rolling and rerolling a joint until it was perfect, which I will hopefully smoke with him. I practiced with the lighter to make sure I still know how to use it. Maybe this is not what normal people do before dates. But I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer normal, and I have a feeling Marcus isn’t either.
I am wearing Stella’s hat for extra strength. It helps me to not hyperventilate as I wait outside the café for Marcus to show up. It hugs my head and tells me to calm down. It says “Shut up” to the voice that keeps telling me he’s not coming. I lean against the side of the building as cool as I can. I poke at my phone to look busy. I pretend I’m texting something important.
“Hey,” says a familiar voice. I look up and Marcus is even better-looking than I remember. The sky is clear today, and it brings out the green in his eyes and the smoothness of his skin. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt for a boy band from the eighties.
I realize it’s been several moments since his greeting and I haven’t responded because I’ve been too mesmerized by his beauty. “Hey,” I finally manage to say.
“Cool hat,” he says.
“Cool shirt,” I say.
“Have you ever heard these guys’ music?”
“No.”
“It’s horrible. It’s like poison. It’ll make your ears bleed.”
“You’re a big fan, then?”
“The biggest.”
“Want to go inside?”
“Sure.”
So far, so good. One minute into our date and I don’t think I’ve humiliated myself too much yet.
I look around the café as we wait our turn to be at the counter. The place is full of hip, beautiful people staring at silver Apple laptops.
“I wonder what all these people are working on,” I say. “Novels? Dissertations?”
“Probably just fooling around on the internet,” Marcus says. He points to someone whose screen is facing us. “See, that guy is scrolling through someone’s vacation photos. And that girl is looking at pictures of cats.”
“They’re really good at pretending they’re working.”
“Yeah, they even bring books and stuff as props.”
“Evie?” someone who is not Marcus says. “Oh my god, you’re alive!”
I look up and my breath catches in my throat. It is Cole, Stella’s boyfriend, standing behind the counter waiting to take our order.
“Cole,” I choke out. “Hi.”
I want to run, but I don’t get the chance. Cole hurries around the counter and throws his arms around me and squeezes so tight I can barely breathe. Everything was going so well, but now worlds that were never supposed to meet are colliding.
“Marina,” he says to a woman behind the counter when he finally lets go. “Okay if I take five?”
“Sure, honey,” the woman says. “Take your time.”
“Want to go outside and talk?” Cole says eagerly, his eyes bright with emotion. “It’s so great to see you. You look so healthy.”
I look at Marcus, who is smiling but confused. “I’ll just be a couple of minutes,” I say. “Go ahead and order.”
“Let me get yours, too. What do you want?”
“A latte. Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
I hold my breath as I follow Cole outside.
“That’s not Will, is it?” Cole says. “He doesn’t look anything like what I pictured.”
“No, that’s not Will.”
“Did you guys break up?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry. Stella said you were so in love.”
He said her name. “Things change, I guess.”
“Evie, it’s so good to see you.” He hugs me again. I just want to get this over with. The longer it lasts, the closer we are to talking about it. About her.
“I tried to get into the hospital when I found out Stella died,” he says. I can’t do this. I can’t listen. I need him to shut up. I need him to stop saying her name. “Dan called to tell me, even though I know he wasn’t supposed to, but somehow Stella convinced him. Her parents didn’t invite any of her friends to the funeral. Can you believe that?”
I can’t breathe. Fear turns into claws that strangle me from the inside.
“Evie?” he says. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I say. And before I have a chance to figure out why I said that, I start crying.
This is not supposed to happen. I am not supposed to be this weak.
Cole throws his arms around me and I hug him back. It feels so good to be in someone’s arms who knew her. It almost feels good to be crying, to share this pain with someone who understands. I could have been doing this all along with Caleb. We could have been helping each other get through this together. I need to call him. I need to make things right between us. I need him.
“I miss her so much,” I say, and it feels like the only honest thing I’ve said since I’ve gotten out of the hospital.
“Me too.” Cole sniffles. “In some ways, her being in the hospital got me ready. I already had some practice getting used to her being gone. But no one can ever really be ready for something like that.” He takes my hand. “I never had a chance to thank you. For that night when you set up the Skype date for Stella and me. I can’t tell you how much that meant to us. It was the last time we got to talk.”
That seems so long ago, back when I was someone else. Back when I was someone kind and generous. Back when the world still had Stella in it and I was supposed to be dead.
This is not safe. Talking to Cole is not safe. Letting him in will only hurt both of us. I feel myself harden. Whatever opened up inside me when I saw him closes. My tears dry.
“I have to go,” I blurt out. I need to flee. I need to escape before more memories come.
“Oh,” he says, flinching. “Okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but it’s too late. I can’t take it back. I want to scratch my eyes out. “It was good to see you, Cole. Really good to see you.” I start backing away. I wish he would stop looking at me like that, with such kindness and warmth, as if I deserve it.
“Her hat looks good on you,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Maybe we can get together sometime,” he says. How could he want to hang out with me, when it’s my fault she’s dead? She never would have snuck out that night if it weren’t for me. I was the reason she put herself at risk.
“I have to get back to my friend,” I manage to say without breaking into tears.
A sudden fury burns through me. Wait a minute—it’s Cole’s fault too. He shouldn’t have agreed to pick us up. He knew it was dangerous. He knew Stella could get sick, but he did it anyway. How could he be so selfish?
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “I guess I have to go back to work.”
I can’t even meet his eyes when I say good-bye. My feet feel like lead as I walk back into the café, and I can feel Cole’s eyes burning their sadness into the back of my neck. I am a horrible person. He didn’t deserve that. He loved her as much as I did, maybe even more. He
deserved kindness. He deserved someone who would at least hug him back. Why did I have to be so mean?
I find Marcus sitting at a table with our drinks. “Can we go outside?” I say, trying to look as cheerful as possible. “It’s such a beautiful day, we should go somewhere, don’t you think?” Somewhere far from here. Somewhere without walls. Somewhere I can smoke this joint burning a hole in my purse. I must get out of here. Now.
“Sure,” he says. “Let me just get these to go.”
I walk out the door without telling Cole good-bye. I take deep breaths. I count in—one, two, three, four. Out—one, two, three, four. I struggle to keep myself from bolting down the street.
“Who was that?” Marcus says as he meets me outside. “You looked like you saw a ghost.”
“Nobody,” I say, but that is so, so far from the truth.
Marcus doesn’t push it. He says he has the perfect place to take us.
“The graveyard?” I say as Marcus turns left off of Pleasant Valley into Mountain View Cemetery.
“Have you ever hung out here?” he says. “It’s the most peaceful place in all of Oakland. Trust me. It was designed by the same guy who did Central Park in New York City.”
We climb the hill on a narrow, winding road, passing ancient gravestones and giant, ornate tombs like little stone palaces, with famous Bay Area names—Ghirardelli, Merritt, Crocker, Chabot, Tilden.
“Some of these are a hundred and fifty years old,” Marcus says.
“I never knew this place was so big.”
“Yeah, it’s the whole side of the hill. I love going for walks around here. Especially at night.”
“They let you in at night?”
“Well, no. Not really. I sort of let myself in.”
We finally crest the hill and Marcus parks on the side of the road next to a grassy area under a huge, old oak tree. “Wow,” I say as I take in the view. “You can see the whole Bay from up here.” It is so similar to another perfect view, one that burned itself in my memory the night that changed everything. I see the same outlines and shapes, the same landmarks, but this one is full of colors and textures and details, while the other was made of just darkness and light.
