by Ali Novak
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Copyright © 2015 by Ali Novak
Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Jana Singer
Cover image © viki2win/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Wattpad, both my readers and the people behind the scenes, whose unwavering love and support made my dreams come true.
Chapter 1
Cara was clutching the latest edition of People as if it were the Holy Bible.
“If I didn’t have you to bring me magazines,” she said, “I’d go stir crazy locked up in this place.”
“I had to fight off some soccer mom for the last copy,” I told her. And I was serious. Fresh reading material was a hot commodity among inpatients and their families at the hospital.
Cara didn’t hear me. She was already tearing through the magazine, eager to consume her daily dose of celebrity gossip. Beside her, Drew was camped out in the room’s only armchair, staring down at his phone. From the scowl on his face, I knew he was either reading about last night’s baseball game or discovering that the spotty Wi-Fi was being particularly fussy.
Unlike a typical day at the hospital, today I actually had something to keep me occupied during visiting hours. After pulling a chair up to Cara’s bed, I started scrolling through the pictures I had taken with my new Canon. My parents had bought me the camera as an early birthday gift, and I had tested it out at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden this morning.
“God, could he be any more perfect?”
I looked over, and Cara had the magazine open to an interview with one of the guys from the Heartbreakers, her favorite band. The headline read “Bad Boy Still Breaking Hearts.” Underneath it was an abstract with a quote: “I’m not looking for a girlfriend. Being single is too much fun.” When I glanced back up, there was a look on Cara’s face—eyes avid, mouth partially open—that made me wonder if she was about to lick the page. I waited a moment to see if she would, but all she did was heave a sigh, the kind that implied she wanted me to give her a reason to gush over her favorite celebrity.
“Owen something?” I asked to be polite, but my attention was already focused back on my camera.
“Oliver Perry,” she said, correcting my mistake. I didn’t need to look at Cara to know she was rolling her eyes at me even though I had made my dislike of the band clear on multiple occasions, like every time she blasted their music through the house. I didn’t care enough about the Heartbreakers to learn their names; they were just another boy band whose popularity would sputter out as fast as it had shot up. “I swear you’re like a forty-year-old stuck in a teenager’s body or something.”
“Why?” I asked. “Because I don’t know the name of some boy-band member?”
She crossed her arms and glared. Apparently I had crossed the line. “They’re not a boy band. They’re punk.”
There were two reasons I didn’t like the Heartbreakers. First and foremost, I thought their music sucked, which should be explanation enough, but I had another reason: the Heartbreakers tried so hard to be something they weren’t, parading around as rockers when really, they were just a boy band. Sure, they played instruments, but no amount of vintage band tees and ripped jeans could mask the watered-down lyrics and catchy beats of songs that were undoubtedly pop. The fact that their fans had to constantly remind the world that the Heartbreakers were a “real” band only proved otherwise.
I pressed my lips together to keep myself from laughing. “Just because they site the Misfits and the Ramones as their inspiration doesn’t make them punk.”
Cara tilted her head to the side, eyebrows scrunched together. “The who?”
“See?” I reached over and grabbed the magazine. “You don’t know what real punk is. And this,” I said, gesturing down at the page, “is not it.”
“Just because I don’t listen to all your underground weird stuff doesn’t make you more musically cultured than me,” she responded.
“Cara,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “That’s not what I meant at all.”
“Whatever, Stella.” Cara slid the magazine back into her lap. She looked away from me, shoulders slumping. “Honestly, I don’t care if you don’t like them. I’m just in a bad mood because I wanted to go to their concert.”
The Heartbreakers had performed in Minneapolis this past month, and even though Cara had desperately wanted to go, she had decided not to purchase any tickets. It had been a tough decision, especially since she had been saving up for months, but in my opinion, it was the right one. Because, when it came down to it, it didn’t matter how much she wanted to go. Her body was giving her all the signs that she couldn’t—nausea, vomiting, and fatigue just to name a few—and she knew it. One important lesson that Cara’s cancer taught us was that there’s a time to be hopeful and a time to be realistic.
Two weeks had passed since Cara started her first round of chemotherapy. The treatment worked in cycles—three weeks where countless drugs were pumped into her body, followed by a rest period before the whole process started over again. Then, after the regular chemotherapy killed off all the bad stuff in her body, Cara would be zapped with a single round of high-dose chemo just to make sure the bad stuff stayed dead.
I was never really good at science, but Cara’s trips to the hospital taught me a lot. Ordinarily, chemo doses are restricted to small amounts due to the threatening side effects. A higher dose might kill the cancer, but it also destroys bone marrow, which I’ve learned is kind of essential to life. B
ut sometimes, regular chemo isn’t enough.
That’s how it was for Cara. After two recurrences, her doctors thought it was time for a more serious treatment, so once she received the high-dose chemo she would need to have an autologous stem cell transplant. An autologous transplant was where Cara’s own stem cells were removed from her bone marrow prior to her treatment. The cells were frozen and kept safe during her chemo, and they would be given back by a blood infusion. Without it, she wouldn’t be able to recover.
A small sigh escaped me, and I was careful with my words. “I’m sure there’ll be more concerts in the future,” I said and offered her a weak smile. “I’ll even go to one with you if you want.”
At this, Cara giggled. “Drew’s more likely to join a cheerleading squad.” At the sound of his name, our brother looked up and raised an eyebrow at Cara before returning to his phone.
“It was just a suggestion,” I added, but I was glad she found it amusing.
“You, at a Heartbreakers concert?” she said, more to herself than to me. “Yeah, right.”
At this, we both went silent. A thick kind of quiet settled around us; I could feel its weight bearing down on my chest, and I knew we were both thinking of stuff that was unhappy. Long days at the hospital tended to do that, and after a while, bad thoughts came more easily than the good ones.
A knock on the door pulled me back into my surroundings, and Jillian, Cara’s favorite nurse, stepped inside. When I saw her, I glanced up at the clock and was surprised to see how fast the day had disappeared.
“Stella, Drew,” she said, greeting the both of us. “How are you both?”
“Same as usual,” Drew said as he stood up and stretched. “You?”
“I’m doing well, thanks. Just here to check up on Cara.” To her she said, “You need anything, dear?” but Cara shook her head.
“Are you kicking us out?” I asked. Visiting hours would be over soon and that meant it was time for Cara’s nightly meds, which included penicillin and a long list of other stuff I couldn’t pronounce.
“No,” Jillian said. “You still have time, but I figured you’d want to run down to the cafeteria before it closes.”
The thought of food made my stomach rumble. I’d gone straight to the hospital from the sculpture garden, so I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. “That’s probably a good idea.” I wrapped my camera strap around my neck and stood up. “See you tomorrow, punk.”
I wanted to lean over and give her a kiss, but I couldn’t.
Cara had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It was a type of cancer that originates in lymphocytes—white blood cells—which are part of the body’s immune system. Normally, people with non-Hodgkin’s were treated as outpatients. They would come to the hospital on a daily basis to receive treatment before going home, and during her first two bouts of cancer, Cara was an outpatient too. Every day my mom would drive her to the hospital and her drugs were administered through an IV. It normally took about an hour, and sometimes Drew and I would tag along and do homework in the waiting room.
But Cara recently had complications with her appendix and it had to be removed. Since her white blood cell count was so low, her doctors were concerned she was at risk of infection, and she had to stay at the hospital for a few weeks. When we visited, we were required to wear masks over our mouths, and we couldn’t touch Cara because there was a chance we could get her sick.
I knew being away from home was hard for her, and it was frustrating that I couldn’t even comfort her with a hug.
“You know where to find me,” she said and rolled her eyes.
“Get some rest for me, okay?” Drew said in parting. Then he turned to me. “Ready? I’m hungry.”
“Yup,” I responded. “Me too.” We said one last quick good-bye, and then we were out the door, heading in the direction of the cafeteria.
“Think they’ll have those caramel pudding cups today?” Drew asked as we made our way down the familiar hospital halls.
“Man, I love those things,” I said, “but I doubt it. Haven’t seen any in a while.”
“Lame.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking about our day. “Pretty lame is right.”
• • •
Every day, Drew and I would mention one positive thing that had happened during the time we spent with Cara. The thing about hospitals is that they’re breeding grounds for fear. If you don’t constantly remind yourself about the good, the bad will seep in and take over. Because when one of your family members gets cancer, you all get cancer. It might not be the same kind, but it will still eat at you until there’s nothing left inside.
The tradition started when Cara was diagnosed the first time, back when we were freshmen in high school. It hadn’t really hit me that my sister was sick, that I could actually lose her, until she had a diagnostic treatment and stayed in the hospital while her doctors identified the location, extent, and stage of her cancer. Our mom brought Drew and me in to see her, and all around us were children in various stages of decline, some further along than others.
That was the first time I felt the fear. It buried its nails in my chest, lifted me clear off the ground, and said, “See those kids? Those kids are actually dying.” And that made me wonder—if my sister was here, did that make her one of those kids too?
“What’s your positive?” I asked Drew when we reached his old Honda Civic on the far side of the hospital parking lot. He was fiddling with his keys, and even though I knew my door was still locked, I yanked on the handle.
“The caramel pudding cup,” he said. The locks popped up with a click when he found the right key. “That shit was delicious.”
“A pudding cup?” I repeated as we both climbed into the car. “That’s your positive?”
“It’s that or the fact that the Wi-Fi was in an obliging mood today.”
I was battling with my seat belt, trying to untangle it and pull it forward, but Drew was being so odd that I let it fly back into place. “Are you being serious?” I asked as I stared at him. “Because I honestly can’t tell right now.”
“What does that mean?” he said. “Pudding cups are serious business.”
I blinked slowly and deliberately. Up until today, our positives had always been meaningful, something to keep us going. If pudding became the only redeeming part of our day, then we were in trouble.
Drew started laughing, and I smacked him on the shoulder. “Not funny,” I grumbled.
“I was only teasing, Stella. Lighten up.”
“Sorry,” I said, reaching for my seat belt a second time. “I only narrowly avoided making Cara cry today.”
“You know why she’s upset, right?” Drew asked me then. “She thinks she’s never going to go to one of their concerts.”
“Why does she have to be all negative like that?”
I didn’t expect Cara to be sunshine and roses all the time. In fact, she deserved the right to be angry with God or the universe or whoever had dealt her the shittiest hand of all. But I hated when she spoke in definites—I’m never getting out of here, I’m never going to college, I’m never going to see the Heartbreakers perform—like her death was already a done deal. It made me feel like I had no control over my life, like it really was all left up to fate.
“No, not like that,” Drew said. “Apparently there’s a rumor going around that the Heartbreakers are breaking up. Some kind of rift between the members.”
“Oh! Well, no surprise there,” I said, but I silently hoped that the rumors weren’t true. Shocker considering I wasn’t much of a fan, but I wanted to prove Cara and her definites wrong. She would see the Heartbreakers perform because she was going to get better.
Placing his hand on my headrest, Drew craned his neck to see if there was anyone behind us before whipping out of the parking spot at full speed. Visiting hours were officially over, and some of the hos
pital staff had already left for the night, so the lot was relatively empty. When we reached the exit, Drew swung the car into the left-turn lane and flicked on his blinker. We both just sat there for a second, neither of us talking, as we waited for a gap in traffic.
I remembered that Drew had yet to answer my question, and I was the first to break the silence. “So what is it then?” I asked.
“What’s what?”
“Your positive.”
“Oh, right,” he said, his head twisting back and forth as he checked to make sure there were no more oncoming cars. There weren’t, so he slammed his foot on the pedal and shot out onto the road. “I came up with an idea for Cara’s birthday present.”
“Really?” I asked. I turned my full attention to Drew. “What is it? Tell me.”
Not only was next Friday the Fourth of July, but it was also Cara’s eighteenth birthday. It was mine and Drew’s as well; we were triplets. Every year, we had a competition to see who could get each other the best present, and Cara normally out-gifted us. This year, Drew and I decided to team up and beat her, but so far, we had yet to come up with anything worthy of winning.
“Okay, you know how you’ve been going on and on about that photographer’s art gallery?” Drew asked, glancing at me. “The one that’s opening in Chicago?”
“You mean Bianca Bridge?” I edged forward in my seat. I had no clue what Cara’s birthday gift had to do with my all-time favorite photographer, but wherever Drew was going with this, I had a feeling it would be good.
Bianca was my inspiration and everything I wanted to be in life. As one of the most famous photojournalists of the modern world, she was known for eye-opening street photography that featured people from all walks of life. I had painted a quote from her on my bedroom wall, and all my best pictures were tacked up around it: “The world moves fast, changing everything around us with each new day. Photography is a gift that can keep us in a moment forever, blissfully eternal.”
Whenever someone asked me why I enjoyed photography so much, I would recite Bianca’s quote as if it were my own personal mantra. I was enthralled with the idea that, with one click of a button, I could somehow beat time.
