The Fault in Our Pants: A Parody of The Fault in Our Stars

by Steve Lookner

  ***

  Unfortunately Augustus insisted on driving, to keep the surprise destination a surprise. In addition to the usual moving violations, he rear-ended a police cruiser at a stop light. But when the officer found out we had cancer he let us go and told us to have a great day.

  We parked behind the art museum and walked over to this park behind the museum that had a bunch of big sculptures. Augustus led me to a sculpture that looked like an enormous skeleton and had kids climbing all over it.

  “Rhapsody of Bones, created by Edvin Hevonkoski,” Augustus said.

  “Finnish?”

  “No, Dutch,” Augustus said.

  “No he’s Finnish,” I said. “It says right here on the plaque. From Finland.”

  Augustus frowned slightly. “Let’s eat,” he said. “I hope you like Dutch food.” From his backpack he pulled out some Swiss cheese, Belgian chocolate, and a chicken chimichanga.

  As we ate, I wondered what the meaning of the intended Dutch theme was. In the distance, a large group of kids played on Rhapsody of Bones, jumping from ribcage to skull and back again.

  “You know what I love about this piece?” Augustus said. “The bones are just far enough apart that it’s impossible for kids to resist jumping between them. Which means the sculpture basically forces kids to play on bones. Think of the symbolic resonances here, Hazel Grace. They’re endless.”

  I didn’t know which symbolic resonances he was talking about, and I’m not sure he did either. But that didn’t make what he said any less profound.

  “So,” Augustus said, “you are probably wondering why you’re eating intended-Dutch food next to an intended-Dutch sculpture with a boy wearing intended-Dutch clothing.”

  “It did cross my mind,” I said.

  “Hazel Grace, like so many children before you, you spent your Wish unwisely.”

  “I was eleven!” I said.

  “That is precisely the problem!” Augustus said. “You, like all the others, did not wait until your critical faculties had fully developed before making this all-important decision. But some people do wait. And when they are old enough, and when their mind is mature enough, and when their life experience is great enough, and when their self-awareness is deep enough, they realize what their one true Wish really is. And they still have their Wish left to wish for it.”

  “That’s a lovely soliloquy,” I said, “but how does it help me? As you know, I didn’t save my wish.”

  Augustus gave me a look. “But maybe someone else did.”

  “No way,” I said. “Augustus Waters, you are not proposing to use your wish on me.”

  “That’s right, I’m not,” Augustus said. “I used my wish when I was twelve.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “If you didn’t save your wish, then who’s the ‘someone else’ who did?”

  “Isaac.”

  “What good does Isaac’s wish do me?” I asked.

  “Isaac’s Wish is to visit Japan,” said Augustus. “That guy’s like the biggest Nintendo fan ever, not to mention manga and Godzilla. He wants to see where it all originated. Traveling there will be like his Pilgrimage.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” I said. “But to repeat: how does this help me?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, Isaac is blind. To Isaac, once he gets off a plane, Tokyo’s no different than Paris. Or Moscow. Or...Amsterdam.”

  “Augustus Waters, are you really proposing what I think you’re proposing?”

  “I’m not proposing it. I’ve already done it. Isaac’s on board and the Genies have given it the go-ahead. We’ll fly with Isaac on his trip to ‘Tokyo’, because obviously his wish would include bringing his two best friends along. And while he’s checking out ‘Tokyo,’ which we know is really Amsterdam, we’ll visit Van Houten. It’s a win-win for everyone: Isaac gets his Wish, and you get your Wish, and I get my Wish, which just so happens to be your Wish.”

  For a moment I just stood there in shock. I was really going to Amsterdam.

  “Augustus,” I said, “you’re not so bad.”

  “I bet you say that to all the boys who finance your international travel by setting up a fake trip for a mutual friend.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mom was folding my laundry and watching The View when I got home, because obviously since I had cancer there was no way I could fold my own laundry. I told her that Augustus was going to use Isaac’s Wish to take me to Amsterdam.

  “We can’t accept that from Augustus,” Mom said. “It’s too much. He’s a virtual stranger.”

  “A virtual stranger with a cock,” I said.

  “I’ll ask Dr. Maria,” she said after a moment.

  ***

  Dr. Maria said I couldn’t travel to Amsterdam unless I was accompanied by an adult intimately familiar with my case, which more or less meant either Mom or Dr. Maria herself. Dr. Maria lobbied hard for me to choose her over my mom. She said she was way more fun than my mom, and also told me she’d been on a trip to Spain with my mom and that all my mom wanted to do was stay in the hotel room. I had no reason to believe this claim was actually true. In the end, I chose Mom. Dr. Maria seemed a little pissed about this.

  When I told Mom I’d chosen her to come, she was initially hesitant. “But your father,” she said. “He’d miss us. And he can’t come with us because he can’t get time off work.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “You don’t think Dad would enjoy a few days of watching sports nonstop, ordering pizza, and Facebooking women he went to high school with who are now divorced and inviting them over?”

  “You do have a point,” Mom said. Finally, she started to get excited, buying guidebooks and planning our itinerary. “This is going to be great!” she said. “I haven’t looked forward to a trip this much since my trip to Spain with Dr. Maria!”

  That night, I was tired from sitting on the couch all day and watching TV, so I decided to go lie in bed and watch some TV. But I ended up just sitting there and worrying about the trip, specifically about the fact that I’d basically have to make out with Augustus if we went to Amsterdam. This seemed like an odd thing to be worrying about, since (a) It shouldn’t have even been a question whether I wanted to make out with him, and (b) Everyone knew that if you go on a trip with someone you’re thereby obligated to sleep with them on the trip, never mind making out.

  I took some comfort in the fact that Augustus had never actually tried to kiss me. Perhaps he was gay? If he could be my gay boyfriend, this really seemed like the best outcome of all.

  I kept going back and forth until at some point I realized I was overanalyzing things and needed an outside opinion. So I texted Kaitlyn. She called immediately.

  “I have a boy problem,” I said, and told her all about it, leaving out only Augustus’ name.

  “Just out of curiosity, how many legs does this boy have?” Kaitlyn asked.

  “Like, 1.4,” I said.

  “Augustus Waters,” she said.

  “Um, maybe?”

  “Well first let me assure you, having hooked up with him several times, he’s definitely not gay.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “Now about your not wanting to make out with him...remember Derek, who I was dating a month ago? He broke up with me because he decided we were fundamentally incompatible, and that if we kept going out we’d only get more hurt later on. He called it preemptive dumping.”

  It was obvious that Derek had just gotten sick of her and had made this up. But I ignored this and let her continue.

  “Maybe you see something incompatible in you and Augustus, and you’re trying to preempt the preemption,” Kaitlyn said.

  Like most female analysis of relationships, this was utter bullshit. But it did make me realize what was actually going on. I wasn’t having a premonition of hurting Augustus, I was having a postmonition. I was subconsciously thinking about the pain Caroline had caused him, and by staying distant from him I was trying to prevent him being hurt again.<
br />
  That got me thinking how my life’s main contribution to the world was to cause others pain. I saw how much suffering my having cancer caused my parents on a daily basis. Every pain I felt, they felt it even worse. And this would be nothing compared to when I was no longer here. My spiral of panic and distress was interrupted, however, by Mom’s announcing that dinner was ready.

  ***

  Panic and distress are not conducive to hunger, and neither is the taste of vegetarian food. Thus I was barely touching my black bean burger.

  “Is everything all right?” asked my Mom.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Pretty exciting that you’re going to Amsterdam,” Dad said. I noticed he had broken the no-phone-at-dinner rule and was surfing Facebook on his iPhone.

  “Uh-huh.” I said.

  “You’re being very teenagery tonight,” Mom said.

  “Duh. I’m sixteen. Am I not supposed to be teenagery?”

  “Honey,” Mom said, “what’s wrong?”

  “I’m a grenade, Mom. At some point I’m just going to blow up and hurt everybody close to me. Just like I’ve been hurting them all my life. That’s what’s bothering me. Okay?”

  “Oh Hazel,” Mom said, a tear dropping down her cheek. Dad was still surfing Facebook.

  “I’m going to my room,” I said, and got up to leave.

  “Hazel, wait,” Dad said. “Wait one second ‘til I send this message...sending sending sending sending...man, 4G is so slow...annnnnd sent.” He put down his phone and put his arm around me. “Hazel, look, you’re not a grenade,” he said. “That’s just silly. You’re the opposite of a grenade. You’re like the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima. You ruin a lot of people’s lives. But great benefit comes out of it.”

  I immediately felt better. Mom took my hand. “Hazel,” she said, “let me assure you of something: sure, your father and I have given up all of our adult hopes and dreams, and the possibility of a comfortable retirement. But it’s all been worth it to support your sixteen years of sitting at home watching TV.”

  I wanted to tell them how much they meant to me, but I was a bit choked up, and all I could manage was to hug them and say, “You’re the best.”

  ***

  While I was no longer freaking out about being a grenade to my parents, I was still a potential grenade to Augustus. I had to minimize the collateral damage. So I texted him.

  Hi, so okay, I don’t know if you’ll understand this but I can’t kiss you or anything. Not that you’d necessarily want to, but I can’t.

  When I think about you that way, all I imagine is the pain I’ll end up causing you. Maybe that doesn’t make sense.

  Anyway, sorry.

  He responded a few minutes later.

  No worries, I totally understand the not kissing. But we’re still cool with hjs & bjs etc., yes?

  I wrote back.

  No hjs & bjs etc. either.

  He responded:

  Bjs with a condom?

  I wrote back.

  Nope. Can’t.

  After a couple minutes, he responded:

  I was just kidding, Hazel Grace. Sort of. I understand.

  I was thinking of explaining more, but I just said:

  Sorry.

  My phone buzzed a moment later.

  Not as sorry as my penis.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I had been feeling fatigued even before talking to Augustus, because it had been a long day and because of the protein deficiency in my vegetarian diet. But after talking to Augustus I was completely worn out. I didn’t even brush my teeth or put on my pajamas. I just went directly into Maximum Sleep Mode.

  That is, until four in the morning, when I awoke with an apocalyptic pain in my head.

  ***

  I sorta remember Dad driving me to the hospital, and I also sorta remember wondering if this was it. But the first thing I clearly remember is waking up in the ICU, and my parents coming in and kissing my face repeatedly, and Mom telling me that this was actually not it. My apocalyptic head pain was simply due to a lack of oxygen, which was caused by fluid in my lungs, a liter and a half (!!!) of which had been drained from my chest. So I just needed to rest up and I’d be back to normal.

  It took me six days to get home from the hospital. I was feeling completely better after the second day, but Dr. Maria kept coming up with reasons I couldn’t go home, because she was still pissed I hadn’t chosen her to go to Amsterdam. Luckily for me, however, on the sixth day a nine-year-old boy with bone marrow cancer agreed to take Dr. Maria on his Wish Trip to Thailand, and she never said another word about Amsterdam.

  The night I got home, Augustus came by. “So I have good news and bad news,” he said. “The bad news is that we obviously can’t hit up Amsterdam until you’re better. But I talked to Isaac and the Genies and they’re cool with rescheduling whenever.”

  “That’s the good news?”

  “No, the good news is that while you were recovering, Peter Van Houten shared some more of his brilliant brain with us.”

  He handed me a folded piece of paper. When I opened it, I saw it had the letterhead of Peter Van Houten, Novelist Emeritus.

  Dear. Mr. Waters,

  I have just read your email, and I must say I am duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of the tragedy that has engulfed you and Hazel.

  Many would blame this state of affairs on your stars being crossed. But make no mistake: even if your stars and her stars were very different, the situation would still be the same. The real issue here, Augustus, is not your stars, but your penis and her vagina. If you both were not being led by your sexual organs, this entire sad scenario could have been avoided. Shakespeare had the right idea when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” But Shakespeare didn’t quite get it right. A better way to put it, and what Shakespeare should have written, is that the fault, dear Augustus, is not in our stars, but in our pants.

  Yours truly,

  Peter Van Houten

  ***

  Reading Van Houten’s email, I was reminded just how awesome it would be to talk to him in person.

  “Mom,” I said, “Can we ask Dr. Maria if I can go to Amsterdam next week? And if she says no, can we just find one of those doctors you can bribe to do shit?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We had a big Cancer Team Meeting a couple days later. Every so often, my doctors and social workers and physical therapists and whoever else got together around a big conference table and discussed my situation.

  For the first half-hour, the team talked about my current treatment and how effectively it was working, how long I had to live, blah blah blah. I can’t tell you exactly what they said, because I texted through the whole thing.

  Then they asked me if I had any questions, and I asked if I could travel to Amsterdam. The entire table literally laughed out loud.

  Then they realized I wasn’t joking. There was an awkward silence.

  But then Dr. Maria spoke. “I don’t see why not,” Dr. Maria said.

  The entire table except for Dr. Maria literally laughed out loud.

  “I’m serious,” Dr. Maria said.

  “Are you out of your mind?” said Dr. Simons.

  “Dr. Maria,” said Dr. Lin, “I have been working in the oncology field for over thirty years, and that is the single stupidest thing I have ever heard anyone say.”

  “Hey Dr. Maria,” said Dr. Henrikkson, “When you’re buying Hazel the ticket to Amsterdam, don’t forget to buy the ticket for the connecting flight to heaven.”

  The entire table except for Dr. Maria laughed out loud.

  “What are you a doctor of, having your head up your ass?” said Dr. Singh.

  The entire table except for Dr. Maria laughed out loud.

  “Dr. Maria? More like Dr. Moron-aria,” said Dr. Wilson.

  The entire table except for Dr. Maria laughed out loud.

  “More like Dr. Stupid Idiot,” sa
id Dr. Simons.

  The entire table except for Dr. Maria laughed out loud.

  “I’m Dr. Maria,” said Dr. Lin in a retarded voice, flailing his arms about. “I like sending cancer patients on transcontinental flights.”

  The entire table except for Dr. Maria laughed out loud.

  ***

  After the meeting, Dr. Maria pulled me aside in the hallway and apologized that the team hadn’t approved my trip to Amsterdam. She then told me that if I got her five hundred bucks she might still be able to make it happen.

  ***

  Augustus called that night after dinner. I picked up, saying, “Bad news,” and he said, “Crap, what?”

  I explained to him that the fate of the Amsterdam trip was now in the hands of Dr. Maria (because thanks to my parents, five hundred dollars was now also in the hands of Dr. Maria).

  Augustus moaned. “So much for my foolproof plan to get laid by having you agree to take a trip with me, thereby obligating yourself to sleep with me,” he said. He let out a sad sigh. “I’m gonna die a virgin.”

  “You’re a virgin?” I asked, surprised.

  “Hazel Grace, do you have a piece of paper and a pen?” he said. I said I did. “Please draw a circle, and label it virgins.” I did. “Now draw a smaller circle within that and label it people who’ve given themselves oral.” I did. “Now draw an even smaller circle within that and label it seventeen-year-old guys with one leg.”

  I laughed, and he laughed, and we proceeded to talk about Peter Van Houten’s amazingly brilliant analysis of Shakespeare in his letter, and even though I was in bed and he was in his basement, it really felt like we were back in that uncreated third space, a space where I could hold the interest of a really hot guy because he was still a virgin and hadn’t yet learned how to have game with women.