by Jen Malone
Alex laughs and ducks out the door I’m holding for us. “Each one is worse than the last. What was last night’s, Lia? Something about invisible ink.”
“Oh, I’ve heard him ask that one before,” Sibby answers, before I can. “Did you ever wonder how you’d know if your invisible ink pen ran out of ink?”
They both groan, but my pulse starts racing as I remember something I read about last month.
“Can I borrow your phone, T-rex? Mine’s at five percent.”
“Does that mean I’m driving?” he asks.
I trade him the keys for his cell and open his browser as I slide into the back seat and stretch out, completely distracted by my search.
“Uh, I guess I’ll take shotgun then,” Sibby says, amused.
Her words barely register, because I’ve found the article I wanted and am reading through it closely while ideas tumble over each other in my mind. They’re both staring at me when I look up a minute later. Alex hasn’t even started the car.
“What just happened here?” Sibby asks, waving her hand to indicate my entire head.
“A stroke of genius,” I answer, half my brain still on my idea. “It would take a freaking miracle to pull off, though.”
“I believe in miracles!” Sibby proclaims. She elbows Alex when he doesn’t agree fast enough for her liking.
“What she said!” he offers, rubbing his side. “Do all Australians have such pointy elbows?”
Sibby buckles her seat belt. “I don’t know. Should we call Hugh Jackman and ask about his?”
“Well, he’s Wolverine so his sharp parts are on his—”
“You guys, seriously,” I interrupt. “Would you want to help me?”
Sibby and Alex exchange looks.
“What does she think we’ve been trying to do all this time?” Sibby asks him, one hand over her mouth and speaking in a stage whisper.
Alex’s shrug is exaggerated for effect. “Hiding right here in plain sight.”
Hiding in plain sight. The universe winks at me again, another sign I’m on exactly the right track with this idea.
30
LATER THAT NIGHT, I STAND WITH MY HAND HOVERING IN THE air outside the tiny alcove off our dining room that my mom turned into her (very cramped) home office when I was little.
Partly the hovering is habit. Mom’s rule for Alex and me was always, “Pause here and consider whether whatever you need is worth interrupting me for. If there aren’t bodily fluids involved, I expect your conclusion to be no.”
And partly it’s sheer apprehension.
Knock, knock.
“Come in!”
I turn the knob and enter, my pulse racing. Which is ridiculous, it’s just my mom. It’s not the person who has me nervous, though. It’s what I’m about to ask her.
“Is that popcorn?” she asks, her eyes widening.
“Air popped with spray butter. Zero Weight Watchers points.” I use my free hand to slide my iPad out from under my armpit and set the bowl on her coffee table. Mom clears aside a slew of file folders to make room for me next to her on the leather love seat.
“I must have been really into my project—I didn’t even hear that popping,” she says.
“Whatcha working on?”
She gestures at the piles of paperwork. “Trying to get things in order to pass on some of my caseload to a coworker.”
Hearing her talk about giving up her cases makes my throat ache a little, but far less than it did last week. Selfishly, I want my mom around right now, and I guess I’m finally ready to admit it. Although if she’s going to suggest moving to Tennessee next, I will have something to say on the matter.
But she merely glances at my iPad. “Did you want to show me something?”
“Kind of.” I bite my lip, buying time.
Bravery, not bravado. Be vulnerable—it’s your mom. There is no safer person to test the waters with; she’s obligated to love you no matter what.
I straighten my back against the cushion. “Actually, I wanted to see if you might have time to watch a few things with me.”
“These aren’t soldiers sneaking into their kids’ school assemblies in mascot costumes, are they? Because I am fresh out of tissues in here.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that, but we still might need to track some Kleenex down at some point.”
She tucks a leg under her and scoots closer. “Well, I don’t know whether to be intrigued or scared. Let’s see it.”
I don’t turn on my screen just yet, though. Instead, I force myself to get out the words I’d rehearsed in the kitchen while I waited for the kernels to pop.
“So you know how you said that thing the other night—morning, I guess—after the hospital, about not being able to be stronger for me? How you wish you had all the answers?”
She’s taken aback. She shifts now, tugging down her skirt and glancing to the side before settling her gaze back on me. “Yeah?”
I inhale, then force out my breath. “The thing is, I don’t have any answers either. Which will surprise exactly no one, I know.” My laugh is weak and Mom’s eyes soften on mine, waiting for me to go on. So I do, following a shaky exhale. “But the bigger part is, I, um, I also haven’t been letting myself ask the questions. And, uh, I think I have to start doing some of that now.”
I need to look away to get these words out, so I busy myself unlocking my iPad screen and opening up the YouTube app. “I, um, I bookmarked a bunch of TED Talks by people who’ve had near-death experiences or been diagnosed with terminal diseases and, uh, a couple by people explaining different religions’ takes on what happens when, uh, when someone dies, because . . . because I think I need to let myself go there and, um, I was hoping—” I’m too choked up to continue and when I pause to collect myself, Mom’s hand settles over mine.
It’s exactly the encouragement I need to get the last bit out. “I was hoping maybe we could learn how to let it be personal together.”
Mom’s eyes are already filled with tears threatening to spill as she nods over and over.
Words With Friends notification:
QuitWithTheT-rex has just played: ENROUTE for 22 points
31
IT PAINS ME TO ADMIT THIS, BUT IT TURNS OUT I HAVE NOT given Dying Girl enough credit.
She’s a lot of things I’m not (doe-eyed, ethereal, wise beyond my years) and one big thing I refuse to ever become (sweetly and resignedly accepting of her death sentence), no matter how things progress with my BA from here. But she does have one superpower I underestimated: she can command some serious help when she needs it.
“He’s not even late yet. You’re being annoying, you know that, right?” Sibby asks.
“Yup. Ask me how many shits I give?” I pace the parking lot abutting my mural, impatient for my brother to show up so we can get this project underway.
“Zed-E-R-O?” she replies, staring up at the brick wall that is about to be turned yet another color. Bye-bye, plain white. Hello, chalkboard paint.
Bitterly, some of the help Dying Girl gets is given with pity.
I may not be wise, but I am smart—enough to realize the concessions the arts commission and the restaurant group behind Zuzu’s Petals made for me are ones they probably would never, ever have considered under “ordinary circumstances.”
Such as letting me convince them I need to do my design in chalk, even if that means a new, permanent design will have to be painted in its place later this summer (if we can even get the chalk one to last that long).
Such as bumping up the budget by $200 to fund a swimming pool cover on a roller.
Such as allowing me permission to temporarily mount that on the roof of the building, so I’ll be able to unfurl it to protect the chalk from the elements as I work and, after the reveal, any time there’s rain in the forecast.
But sweetly, some of it is given with pure heart.
Such as Alex coming back again this weekend to assist. Such as Sibby declaring that nothing dramatic w
ill go down on her watch without her participation.
“There he is!” Finally, finally, I catch sight of Mom’s hatchback with my brother behind the wheel. He pulls into the lot and he’s scarcely parked before I yank open his door.
“What, did you detour to walk the Freedom Trail? That text saying your flight landed is over an hour old!”
He holds up his hands as he slides out. “Relax! I’m here now. Mom needed us to swing by her office on the way back from the airport so she could pick up some paperwork she needed. Apparently she’s doing a deep dive into case stuff she’s trying to wrap up; said we’re on our own for dinner.” He lifts his chin at Sibby. “Hey. I see you’re dealing with some cuckoo here.”
Sibby smiles at me. “She’s cute when she acts all Picasso-y.”
I roll my eyes at both of them. “Tease all you want, just do it while you lend a hand. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow and the next day and there aren’t extra hours to spare as it is, so the roller has to be completely installed and both coats of chalkboard paint have to go on TODAY.”
Alex’s gaze sweeps over the wall. “Wow. That’s quite a lot to paint.”
“Twice,” Sibby adds.
“And we have to assemble the roller,” I remind them. “It shipped in pieces and the instructions are all in Chinese.”
Alex faces me. “Is that hyperbole or are you being serious?”
“Oh, I wish it was hyperbole.”
“You know who speaks Chinese, don’t you?” he asks.
I stare back at him, at a loss. “Noooooo. Should I?”
“Will.”
My jaw drops. “Damn, Alex. Will’s Thai, you asshole. It’s not the same thing.”
Alex rolls his eyes at me. “Thanks, I hadn’t realized. It’s not like he’s my best friend or something. Which is how I know he took Mandarin as his language elective all through high school. Now who’s the asshole?”
Sibby snorts a laugh and I have to duck my head and murmur, “Okay, sorry.”
“So? It’s okay to call him to help out?” Alex asks.
He and Sibby both watch me as I consider. It’s a little awkward that I kissed the boy the last time we hung out (oh, and also dragged him to the beach at night, accused him of burying me, stripped to my underwear in front of him, and had him drive me to the hospital for a possible liver transplant), but if we can put all that aside, I wouldn’t complain about having Will around today. Not one bit.
In fact, when I texted him a week and a half ago, in the midst of my epic mope, I believe his exact response to my thanking him for being there when I needed someone was: Happy to do the same any time you do again. I’m a text away. So he did offer already . . .
“Yeah, see if he’s around,” I say, hiding a small smile.
Sibby jumps up and down and claps. “I finally get to meet Fuckskillet!”
Alex looks up from typing on his phone and mouths, “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Never mind. Sibby’s just being Sibby.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “You love me.”
“He’s in,” Alex says, a few seconds later. “I told him we could pick him up before swinging by the store for the paint supplies.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow as I gesture to Mom’s car. “No way all four of us are fitting in there plus the roller plus everything else I ordered through Dad.”
Alex sighs. “Fine. I’ll go get the stuff and Will. Just means you’re stuck waiting on me again.”
Sibby flutters her eyelashes. “Oh, Alex. You’re worth the wait!”
He rolls his eyes at her and I pretend to puke.
I wait for Mom’s car to turn onto the street before I turn on Sibby. “You’re not suddenly into my brother, are you?”
“Yeah, nah, luv—the brother’s best friend trope is all yours.”
I nudge her. “It’s not like that.”
She nudges me right back. “Why not? Maybe? You said the kiss was hot, right?”
“I mean, it was, but I wasn’t exactly myself that night and I’m mostly hoping he kissed me back for the same reason I initiated it to begin with—because it felt right for that moment.”
“I’d be happy to ask him for his take on it,” Sibby offers.
“Don’t you dare! I’m counting on you to be casual.”
She examines her fingernails. “Good thing casual’s my middle name.”
I have to laugh at that. “About the farthest thing from. Hey, while we wait, want me to help proofread the Prom with a Purpose website once more before you take it live?”
“Obviously.”
We’re still bent over Sibby’s phone a half hour later, when my brother pulls back into the empty lot. It’s loaded with supplies, including a long cardboard box hanging out the open hatchback. And Will.
He crosses the lot and smiles at me before sticking out his hand to Sibby.
“Hey, I’m Will.”
“Oh yes, I’m well aware. Sibby.”
“Your accent . . . are you . . . British?”
Sibby chafes at this. “Hardly! Proud Aussie, through and through.”
“Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!” Will responds.
“Oi, oi, oi!” she answers, shaking her fist in the air.
He grins at her. “I was just kidding with the British thing. Amelia’s told me all about you.”
“Thank fuck,” she says. “I was just about to clobber her.”
I step closer. “Amelia, huh?”
He fixes his familiar smile on me again. “Hi, Decks. Amelia’s only for when I’m talking about you to someone else.”
Sibby and Alex begin unloading supplies from the car, but Will pulls me to the side and asks, “Hey, so . . . are we good?”
“I’m good if you’re good,” I tell him.
“Totally,” he says. “I’m glad you guys reached out; I wasn’t sure when I’d get the chance to ask if you knew that President Ford was a former fashion model who was once on the cover of Cosmo before he changed careers and went into law!”
My bark of laughter holds relief inside it—today’s gonna be okay. “Somebody’s been doing their homework!”
“What can I say, I’m the curious type.”
Turns out, so am I, Will Srisari, so am I.
“Okay, are we getting down to business here or what? I was promised power tools would be involved, so gimme!” Sibby declares, rubbing her hands together.
“Plenty of those in the back seat,” I tell her. “I’m thinking two of us should take the box with the pool cover roller up to the roof, while the other two get the first coat of chalkboard paint onto the bricks? Anyone have a preference? I kind of want to be up on the roof, personally, since I’ve already painted that entire wall once and I’ll be spending a whole lot more time on that ladder after today.”
“Will has to do the roller too because he’s the only one of us who can read the directions,” Alex reminds us.
“Boo. No power tools for me,” Sibby says, pouting.
“I’m the one forcing you to be here today, so I can totally paint if you’d rather—” I begin, but she puts a hand on her hips and points to the building.
“Go!” She punctuates her word with a smile, so I know she’s really okay.
Alex volunteers to help Will cart the box up, which I’m grateful for because even without carrying anything heavier than a cordless drill, it takes me twice as long as it would have a month ago to climb the stairs. But for once I’m not trying to cover my symptoms, even from myself.
After Alex heads back down to paint alongside Sibby, Will and I spread all the pieces out and begin trying to make heads or tails of the assembly. At first we work in relative quiet, only speaking to give the other instructions, but finally we reach a point where we’ve sorted out what we need to do pretty well, and Will says, “I hope there’s a moratorium on the whole Scout’s honor thing at this point, because I really want to tell you that I have tons of respect for what you’re doing here. Alex told me you were planni
ng to explore some of what’s been going on with you through this mural and I think that’s gonna really resonate with people when they see it.”
I pretend to be very absorbed in fitting two pieces together while I school my expression to something neutral, but my stomach churns because Will just confirmed exactly what I’ve been so worried about—everyone is going to look at this mural expecting some brilliant statement from me about how it feels to be dying or what it all means.
I’ll never be able to escape being Dying Girl.
And short of painting “It freaking sucks and it’s senseless and messy and complicated so thanks for coming, but I got nothing for you!” up there, there’s nothing I have to offer them.
“Uh.” I literally have no idea how to respond.
“Sorry—if you’re still not wanting to talk about this stuff—”
“It’s fine.” I give him a friendly smile to let him know he hasn’t overstepped, though I’m snorting hard at myself on the inside. It’s fine, says the girl who, prior to the last week and a half, has been actively and acutely avoiding the topic at all possible costs. I’m such a phony.
Although I really am trying more now; Mom and I have been logging serious video time this week.
“I get it. Most people consider it a pretty taboo subject,” Will says. “Which never used to be the case—during Victorian times, little girls were given death kits for their dolls that had mourning clothes and play coffins, so they could play ‘funeral.’”
“I’m sorry, why do you know that?”
“You’re not the only one carting around useless factoids, Decks,” he says, grinning at me.
I hit his arm. “Mine aren’t that morbid, though.”
Will shrugs, and adjusts the position of the roller so it’s snug up against the edge of the roof. Then he leans over the edge and calls down, “Hey, we could use some extra sets of hands for this next part,” before turning back to me and asking, “Sure, but at the same time, it’s healthy to have the topic out in the open, right?”
I mean, can I really argue? Watching TED Talks and listening to podcasts has actually been helping me some. Only a little. It’s not that the idea of my dying doesn’t scare me anymore—god, it terrifies me beyond belief—but being able to put language to some of the mysteries surrounding the concept of death is helping.
