We Are All Made of Stars by Rowan Coleman

pain.
    â€˜Or we could talk some more about Ben and his true intentions towards …’ Stella teases.
    â€˜I thought you were sensitive,’ I tell her. ‘I thought you were like Anna Karenina in scrubs.’
    â€˜No idea – is that a film?’ Stella asks me. ‘What film character would you be? Maybe you and Ben would be like Baby and Patrick Swayze …’
    And suddenly it seems like the best idea to go and sit next to Issy and ask her what bands she is into, and try not to draw attention to her grave health, which at least is something I am adept at.
    â€˜So on a scale of one to ten, how awful is this?’ I ask, nodding at Ben wailing away.
    â€˜I like it, actually,’ Issy says. ‘I like noise, almost any noise, but not Accordion Man – he’s just wrong.’
    â€˜Ha! I call him Accordion Man too.’ We grin at each other. ‘What music do you like?’ I ask.
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know, whatever is on Mum’s iPod. I prefer to read, really.’
    â€˜Me too,’ I exclaim, and this time she beams. ‘You have great taste.’
    â€˜I don’t really have any taste at all,’ she confesses. ‘Just a lot of time on my hands – and not enough, all at the same time … I’ll read anything and mostly I like it, but I do like some authors better than others. Books are a bit like time travel, aren’t they? They can pick you up out of your life and put you in someone else’s. It’s just a shame that at some point you always have to come back. So what’s wrong with you? You look OK, to be honest.’
    The question takes me by surprise.
    â€˜Me? Cystic fibrosis. It’s like having a really shitty lung infection and constipation for your entire life, which is usually quite short. But, you know. It’s not …’ I gesture vaguely, realising that I’ve taken us down a path that only a minute ago I had been reminding myself not to engage with. Do not mention mortality to the dying kid.
    â€˜Cancer,’ she says. ‘Which is fucking shit.’ She widens her eyes a little after swearing, looking as if she might get into trouble. I glance at her mum, who is sitting next to her with what I assume is Issy’s little sister in her lap, and I lean in a little closer.
    â€˜Yeah, what a cunt,’ I say, and she laughs, clasping her hands over her mouth.
    â€˜You can’t say that!’
    â€˜I think you’ll find I just did.’ I lower my voice a further notch. ‘But don’t tell your mum.’
    Ben has the room in the palm of his hand; there’s a little boy, someone’s grandson, I think, dancing around his legs, and he’s got Edward and Saul, two of the older patients, clapping along – even if they are each keeping their own particular time. Without warning, I feel this unexpectedly intense rush of affection towards him for rescuing this evening from a well-meaning but undertalented volunteer and filling this room with laughter, instead of the usual polite enduring applause. Sometimes I forget how wonderful he can be.
    Sensing Issy watching me watching him, I drop my gaze.
    â€˜He’s good looking.’ She nods at Ben, who is still caterwauling at the top of his voice. ‘Is he a good kisser?’
    â€˜He’s not my boyfriend!’ I say, sounding about fourteen myself. ‘Plus, boys are overrated. Books are so much better than boys, trust me.’
    â€˜Have you had a lot of boyfriends, then?’ she asks me curiously.
    â€˜At least eighty-seven,’ I tell her. ‘Well, OK, two, and both of them were …’ I glance at her mother, who is pretending not to be listening to every word, as her younger daughter gets up and joins the little boy in frantic dancing. ‘Cunts.’
    Issy laughs again, this time loud enough to make Ben raise an eyebrow at us, which makes her laugh even more and blush, the splash of colour