Tears stream down my face. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t think…” I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
Tate, who gave a wild YEEHAW when I shouted, is now trying to lift me off the bench.
“VICTORY LAP!” he shouts. “BE RIGHT BACK, MAYA AND CARL!”
I scream but let him grab me and run me once around the room flung over his shoulder.
“High five! Give the newest Yalie a high five!” he yells, and smiling white-haired British tourists do, one after another. Finally he flings me back on the bench, collapsing next to me.
“Whew. That’s a lot easier at sea level.” He puts his head down and pants like a dog.
“Mami? Dad? You still there?” I ask, focusing back on the screen.
“Of course! We are so glad to celebrate this with you! Isn’t technology amazing? We can all be together!” Mami says, and she means it, I know.
But still, a little of the joy leaks away, and I lean forward. “I miss you so much, I wish—” I shut up, but not fast enough.
Mami looks, just for a second, desperately sad, then her smile is back. Dad puts an arm around her.
I make myself think about Yale, about this news. Next to me, Tate rubs my shoulder. “Hey, guys, hope you’re eating fish tacos and avocado and fresh fruit every single day!” he says. “Also, Carl, feel free to take my surfboard out if you’re looking to shred some gnarly waves while I’m gone!”
We all laugh, especially Dad, who would never surf in a million years. And everything is okay again.
We talk for a few minutes, and they promise to reply to the email with my acceptance and forward the information about start dates and roommates and dorms. The excitement thrums again, and I can give them a real smile before we blow kisses and say goodbye.
Afterward, I lean against Tate, staring at the fire in the woodstove. It’s late, and there are only embers left. The room is cold and getting colder, and we’re the only ones here.
He holds out a fist, and I bump it. “Yalie. Way to rock it, Keller.”
I shrug, feeling weird. Tate hasn’t gotten in anywhere but State yet, and I can’t help wondering if he’s…not jealous, because he wouldn’t want to go to Yale. But worried. Or something.
* * *
—
Later, once we’re each in our mummy bags on either side of our room, I try to ask him. He’s been there for me through all of it…the stress over scholarship applications, the freak-outs over Mami. And I want to make sure he knows he can talk to me. Lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, it’s embarrassingly hard to figure out what to say. RoseAndTate, as always, but somehow the words still won’t come. Finally I speak.
“Are you…Have you checked with your mom lately to see if there’s been any news?”
He grunts. “Nothing good. One waitlist. One rejection.”
I’m silent, trying to figure out what to say that’s not patronizing or stupid.
He speaks again. “It’s fine. I don’t care, Rose. Seriously. State’s got some good programs, if that’s where I end up.”
I lean on one elbow. “I know. There’s actually a higher percentage of Fortune 500 entrepreneurs from state universities than—” But he cuts me off.
“I told you. It’s fine. I’m psyched for you, but I’m not worried.”
I sigh, wanting to leave it. But it’s Tate, and I need to try. “But you are worried. I mean, you’re barely sleeping—I know you’re awake, because I hear you get up and walk around and read with your flashlight! And when you do sleep, you’re having nightma—”
“ROSE. Fuck! Enough.” He shuffles around and turns on his headlamp, blinding me for a second before pointing it at himself. He’s trying to smile, but I can tell he’s annoyed, Tate on the Edge.
My stomach clenches. Rose the Unhelpful.
“Seriously. This is the face of someone who’s not freaking out about college, okay? I swear.” He takes a deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth—then smiles. He doesn’t look mad anymore, but still.
I don’t believe him. Tate the Impervious, Tate Always Energized has been thrashing and whimpering in his sleep. And when we’re not talking and laughing, he’s Tate Drained and Depleted, staring at nothing until I nudge him and we start to talk again. But he doesn’t want to talk about it, and okay, maybe a best friend who just got into the college of her dreams isn’t the best person to talk to.
Or maybe I’m a chicken.
“Fine! You’re perfect in every way. Put out the light already,” I say, making my voice light. “This is the face of someone who wants to go to sleep!”
“God, getting into Yale has made you so bossy,” he says, turning out the light. But I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Good night, Yale girl. You’re awesome; you know that, right?” he says, once we are both snuggled back into the darkness.
I smile. “Whatever. Yale’s later. Right now it’s you and me and Mount Everest. Everything else—even Yale—is going to have to wait until after the summit.” That’s all I say, but I hope he hears what I mean, that I don’t want to be anywhere but here, that for the moment, everything else is less important than RoseAndTate, getting to the top, together.
Chapter Twelve:
Tate
(Four Months Earlier) January 30
Palo Alto, California
30 feet above sea level
I’m the luckiest guy on Earth, according to everyone at the hospital and school. And I’m really trying to be that guy. I go back to classes, bug Ronan about whether he’s got moves smooth enough for Chessa the Barista, and do my physical therapy like a good boy.
Also, I try to stay away from Rose so I don’t have to look at her and lie about how Oh. So. Lucky. I feel.
I hurt all over. It’s like my own personal hell, complete with little Hieronymus Bosch devils poking and prodding and putting me in liquids that are too cold or too hot for comfort. Alas, the orgies aren’t part of my physical therapy program. Insurance regulations, probably.
I’ve been coming to Bradford Rehabilitation Center for the past two weeks. Even though the banner outside the building says they’re the official rehab center of the 49ers, there are no football players here. Nor cheerleaders who sustained a pulled groin doing a split, either, which is what Ronan and I dreamed might be waiting for me when he drove me here my first day. No, everyone’s ancient. Broken hips, mostly, although there are a few youngsters with knee replacements. Today’s my last appointment, my graduation day, before they send me away to break myself into pieces on another mountain.
“You want me to hang around?” Ronan asks when he drops me off. “I can chill here if you need me. I brought Veronica.” Ronan named his computer after his favorite porn star, which I find hilarious, since he’s usually working on his novel, a weird super-religious epic that takes place in ancient Ireland.
I give him a fist bump. “Nah, you’re good to go. My dad’s picking me up, and we’re doing dinner. You know, bonding time.”
Ronan grimaces. He knows Dad well enough to know there’s an agenda here. It’s always a variation on the theme of Come-on-Tate-time-to-man-up.
Of course the irony is that he’s right. I need to get over myself and figure this out. Every night’s a repeat: shitty nightmares where I fall again and again, stumbling on the sidewalk or walking down stairs but continuing to drop, until I spiral into a full-on panic. But I will not be that guy, the guy who—once again—needs the shrink, the extra help, the sympathy and understanding. I fucking won’t do it. I can’t tell him, and I can’t tell Rose.
I get out of Ronan’s SUV, slowly lowering myself down from the seat, trying not to land hard on my ankle, which is still weak and feels shitty. As Ronan peels out of the parking lot, I see a baby-blue car turning in.
Rose. She drives through the crowded lot before sliding the car into a
spot way down by the corner. I stand like someone planted me, watching her. We’ve seen each other plenty these past few weeks. We’ve had class together, where I arrive just in time to slide into my seat before the bell. We’ve sat in the cafeteria, where I make sure to sit at least two seats away from her. We’ve stood around after school with a group of friends and bantered. But we haven’t been alone since she left my basement, the day I got home after the accident.
She walks toward me, and it takes forever. Tall and thin and broad-shouldered, she walks like she always does, fast and strong, her crazy long legs moving toward me while I stand here like some broken-down car. I don’t watch her much, I realize. Truthfully, I don’t stand still much, and if I’m standing still with Rose, it’s probably because she’s way above me on the other side of a rope. But as she gets nearer, I can see each detail of her, each freckle on her face, the way her wrists stick out of her long-sleeve tee shirt because her arms are always too long for normal sleeves (monkey arms, she calls them), her braided leather belt she bought in Bolivia when we climbed there last summer. The bruise on her cheek is almost gone, and her curls are held back by a turquoise headscarf thing that is the same bright blue as her eyes. She’s chewing hard on a cuticle, really gnawing on it.
“Hey,” she says, when she gets close. “Thought you might want company in there.”
She’s trying to be casual, but I can tell she’s nervous. Her nervousness makes me feel weird. Are we both avoiding each other? Why is she avoiding me? I smile and offer my arm, like we’re going to a fancy event.
“How nice to have an escort. I should have brought you a corsage,” I say, and we start in. She walks slowly to match my pathetic pace. Rose has been here with me before. In tenth grade I broke my arm, not climbing but messing around after school. I was freaking out over not being able to climb or play ball or anything, but Rose came with me to meet the physical therapist so she could see how my exercises were supposed to be done. She worked with me on those exercises every night. I was back climbing a full month before any doctor thought I would be. I wonder if she thinks she can whip me back into shape again.
As we get to the automatic doors, Rose stops abruptly. Since her arm’s through mine, I stop too. We’re so close to the entrance that the doors open in a blast of air conditioning but then when we don’t move, close again.
“Tate, I…” She pauses.
Open. Close. We stand at the threshold.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around. My mom’s been feeling really bad…but that’s no excuse.” She stops again.
The doors keep doing their thing. I’m ready to grab her and walk through them already, but I want to hear what she’s trying to say.
“I’m sorry though. I’ve been a shitty friend,” she says finally. She looks up at me. “I guess I thought you wanted time, but I should have, I should be there for you—”
I cut her off. “Rose, stop. You didn’t do anything wrong. I wanted to be left alone. I can’t…” The words almost break out of me. I can’t climb Everest. But I don’t say it. The truth is I could. I just don’t want to.
“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” I say, but I’m chickenshit, and I say it quietly, so quietly that Rose moves forward to hear me.
The receptionist has apparently gotten upset with our disregard of the neurotically oversensitive doors, which keep opening and closing. She swings out the door toward us, her face stormy.
“If you don’t mind—” she starts.
“We’re coming in,” Rose says, as I’m about to say she should leave and spare us any more of this hideous awkwardness. “Tate has an appointment, and I’ll be staying with him.”
Inside, I watch her watching me, her eyebrows mushed together as she takes note of how the therapist makes me lift and lower, again and again, until my arm trembles and sweat drips down my face. And in a rush I realize, with an icy wave of fear, that no matter what I do, no matter whether I climb or quit, she’ll be on Everest, facing whatever it throws at her. She’s still going. And I’d be left behind, scared shitless that something will happen to her.
“What’s wrong? Tate? Hey, stop the exercises for a minute!” Rose says, up from her seat and crouching down in front of the torture chair I’m strapped into.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” I say.
The PT glances up from my chart for a second and shrugs. “We’re about finished anyway,” he says and glances over at Rose. “Did you have any other questions? Are you thinking about a career in physical therapy?”
Rose shakes her head, eyes still on me. “No. I just wanted to see how Tate is doing. I wanted to make sure he’s okay.”
I stand, and I’m pissed that my legs won’t stop trembling. It’s been a brutal session, and, if I’m honest, I know I worked harder than I needed to and probably should have. I wanted Rose to see me working that hard. I want her to know I’m trying.
* * *
—
Dinner with Dad is predictably annoying. I don’t think he means to be a parody of douchey fatherhood, but somehow when he opens his mouth, Jordan Russo is incapable of stopping the flow of bullshit. First come the “interested questions about life” so that I know he cares about me. Then he segues into “when I was your age” tales from the past. Finally, we move on to the “barely veiled frustration” section of the evening, when he presses me again and again on working harder, reaching out to colleges to see if I can turn in additional portfolios, and other ways that I could do better if I only tried.
I attempt to keep my temper, but my answers get shorter and shorter until I snap out, “Mind your own business and leave me to my fucking life!” and we finish our pho in silence.
Awesome.
In the car on the way home, he talks on and on about how soon we leave for Nepal, how amazing it will be to actually see Everest, how he can’t wait to see me tackle that mountain like the beast that I am. It’s his idea of an apology, I guess. But it feels like he’s handing me a box of scorpions.
I’m down in the basement after, using Xbox like the soothing drug that it is, when Rose stops by the house. Something’s happened, something bad, that’s clear. But she asks about dinner, about my sore muscles, about homework, until I interrupt.
“Enough. What’s wrong?” I lean forward on the couch.
“It can wait. How are you feeling?” she asks, but her face is grim.
“Seriously, you’re a crap liar, Rose. What is it? Did you hear back from Yale?”
She shakes her head, but her eyes are bleak, and I can feel my heart beating faster, and, fuck, everything still hurts so much. Today’s PT session was definitely overkill.
“I’m imagining a hundred seriously awful things, so can you just tell me?” I say finally.
Rose straightens her back, moving away from me. “It’s…Mami finally got a diagnosis. And…” She shakes her head, tears pooling in her eyes.
Fuck. No. Not Maya. Not a giant universe-shaped hole in Rose’s world. I reach a hand out, but Rose twists her fingers together in her lap.
“It’s not…I mean, it could be worse. But it’s…not good. She’s got MS. Multiple sclerosis.”
I take a breath and my ribs burn. “I don’t…sorry. What exactly is that?”
Rose shakes her head. “MS is when the body’s immune system attacks the nerve coatings in the brain and spinal cord. There are times that are bad and times when everything’s in remission, but there’s no cure. And it can get progressively worse. Sometimes it’s not that bad, but sometimes…” She stops talking.
Then she looks at me. “She can’t climb anymore, Tate. It affects her mobility, and she can’t…She won’t ever…” She clamps her lips shut and bites down hard, but tears pour down her cheeks.
Without thinking about my ribs or sprained wrist, I lean forward and grab her, and she falls into me like she’s been waiting, barely surviving, unt
il she can collapse. My muscles are so sore, but I hold her as tightly as I can, rubbing her back with my nonsplinted arm, trying to think of something to say.
And I’m an asshole, the worst kind of friend in the world, really, because even as my best friend’s heart is breaking and a woman I’ve known my whole life gets a horrible life-changing diagnosis, there’s a tiny part of my brain exploding with hope. Because maybe this—this terrible, unwanted, shitty thing that has nothing to do with me—maybe it’s enough to keep me from having to rope in and climb again.
But Rose’s voice, muffled into my shoulder, knocks back any selfish hope I was feeling. “We’re still going, Tate, that’s a definite. The first thing Mami said was that there was no way on this Earth she would let us give this up. She made me promise. But God, Tate, going without her…” She breaks down and sobs some more.
And I tighten my arm around her and try to take deep breaths because it’s clear, it’s crystal fucking clear, that I’m going to climb this mountain with Rose.
Chapter Thirteen:
Tate
April 11
Namche, Nepal
11,290 feet above sea level
So far, since we got to Nepal, I’ve almost convinced myself that I’m on vacation, that all we’re doing is trekking up crowded trails with way too many middle-aged tourists and guides and porters carrying crap tons of gear on their backs. That it’s a gift—a get-out-of-jail-free card for the last months of high school, a chance for me and Rose to laugh and eat our carefully rationed Twizzlers and talk do-you-remember for hours. The altitude bugs me less than it bugs anyone else, and other than the occasional nightmare, it’s all good. Really good.
But today we’re climbing.
Above All Else Page 8
