noticed how his fingers dangled loosely between his knees, like he was not the least bit rattled by me. It was hard to believe I could threaten to hurl, and any kid would be taking this whole scenario so well. "You're not going to call nine-one-one on me, are you?"
"Not unless you want me to."
"No way. I just want—" My gut whirled until I thought my stomach was in my brains. I thought,
I just want some goddamn
control. Probably because he had just babbled that word. "I want to ... to sleep."
"Go ahead."
I watched his hands flip, like he had shrugged.
Yeah, so I can meet some ... Sally who swallows forks and knives right in front of you.
"I can't sleep here."
"I don't bite."
"You're too nice," I said.
"I'm too nice."
I didn't catch the sarcasm in his voice until he started giggling again.
He thinks I'm nice, ha. I'm really selfish ... If I bother people I'll lose them, and I want to keep them, which is not the same as being nice. It would feel pretty great ... to bother just one person ... somebody I didn't care about so much...
"I had cancer in junior high." I gripped the corner of the pillowcase—watching for a twitch, a squirm, a something.
His eyes merely missed a blink as they widened for a second. He said, "Okay..."
I waited, but he had nothing to add. "So ... you ever know anybody with cancer?"
He nodded. "I've had friends with AIDS. There's a certain type of brain cancer associated with that. Couple of friends..."
AIDS.
Gayness, drug abuse, runaways ... the terms
should
put me on edge,
I thought hazily. But talking to someone my own age who knew about anything this serious ... it gave me a rush. I reached out, grabbed hold of his fingers, and squeezed them. I waited for him to pull away, but he kept staring absently at the corner.
He finally asked, "So, you've never had a support group? A counselor? Friends who had the same thing?"
I tried to remember what happened in eighth grade. "My mom kept saying the chances of a recurrence were slim, like, less than one in five. She needed to forget the whole thing—"
"Jesus." He pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand I wasn't turning to sludge and kept his eyes clamped shut. When he opened them, they were full of something—anger, maybe. I guessed he thought I should have been in a support group.
"Yeah, well. I could have talked myself blue in the face to someone, and it wouldn't have helped my
real
problem."
"What's your
real
problem?"
"That I'm afraid it's come back." I just started spewing again—how tiredness had turned to dizzy spells and how I had not felt like fainting since chemo. He looked concerned but not horrified. I had just told him some stuff that would make most of my friends politely freeze in horror.
"How old are you?" I asked suddenly. The feeling rushed through me like maybe he was, somehow, a lot older. Maybe he was really college age but his running away set him back. He listened like a grown-up—like he was expected to do something constructive and not just join in my pity fest.
His mind seemed to stop concentrating, but his eyes looked weary. He rolled them. "How old am I? I'm
ancient.
" His laugh sounded tired.
"What do you mean?" I figured he probably meant something like
It's not the years; it's the mileage.
But he didn't answer. He trudged around the mattress and flopped down on the other side. He blinked at the ceiling a bunch of times.
His hair fell back on the pillow, giving me a chance to look at him more closely than I had dared in school. He had one of those baby noses that blended into his cheeks without a single flaw. His dark brown eyelashes, impossibly long, made me think of a toddler who hadn't grown into his face yet. So much maturity coming through such innocent features—that froze me, reminding me of some sci-fi story I had read of an old man stuck in a child's body.
"'Ancient' ... That's a funny comment." I finally ran a finger down his peachy cheek and came back with equal sarcasm. "Do you even
"Not unless you want me to."
"No way. I just want—" My gut whirled until I thought my stomach was in my brains. I thought,
I just want some goddamn
control. Probably because he had just babbled that word. "I want to ... to sleep."
"Go ahead."
I watched his hands flip, like he had shrugged.
Yeah, so I can meet some ... Sally who swallows forks and knives right in front of you.
"I can't sleep here."
"I don't bite."
"You're too nice," I said.
"I'm too nice."
I didn't catch the sarcasm in his voice until he started giggling again.
He thinks I'm nice, ha. I'm really selfish ... If I bother people I'll lose them, and I want to keep them, which is not the same as being nice. It would feel pretty great ... to bother just one person ... somebody I didn't care about so much...
"I had cancer in junior high." I gripped the corner of the pillowcase—watching for a twitch, a squirm, a something.
His eyes merely missed a blink as they widened for a second. He said, "Okay..."
I waited, but he had nothing to add. "So ... you ever know anybody with cancer?"
He nodded. "I've had friends with AIDS. There's a certain type of brain cancer associated with that. Couple of friends..."
AIDS.
Gayness, drug abuse, runaways ... the terms
should
put me on edge,
I thought hazily. But talking to someone my own age who knew about anything this serious ... it gave me a rush. I reached out, grabbed hold of his fingers, and squeezed them. I waited for him to pull away, but he kept staring absently at the corner.
He finally asked, "So, you've never had a support group? A counselor? Friends who had the same thing?"
I tried to remember what happened in eighth grade. "My mom kept saying the chances of a recurrence were slim, like, less than one in five. She needed to forget the whole thing—"
"Jesus." He pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand I wasn't turning to sludge and kept his eyes clamped shut. When he opened them, they were full of something—anger, maybe. I guessed he thought I should have been in a support group.
"Yeah, well. I could have talked myself blue in the face to someone, and it wouldn't have helped my
real
problem."
"What's your
real
problem?"
"That I'm afraid it's come back." I just started spewing again—how tiredness had turned to dizzy spells and how I had not felt like fainting since chemo. He looked concerned but not horrified. I had just told him some stuff that would make most of my friends politely freeze in horror.
"How old are you?" I asked suddenly. The feeling rushed through me like maybe he was, somehow, a lot older. Maybe he was really college age but his running away set him back. He listened like a grown-up—like he was expected to do something constructive and not just join in my pity fest.
His mind seemed to stop concentrating, but his eyes looked weary. He rolled them. "How old am I? I'm
ancient.
" His laugh sounded tired.
"What do you mean?" I figured he probably meant something like
It's not the years; it's the mileage.
But he didn't answer. He trudged around the mattress and flopped down on the other side. He blinked at the ceiling a bunch of times.
His hair fell back on the pillow, giving me a chance to look at him more closely than I had dared in school. He had one of those baby noses that blended into his cheeks without a single flaw. His dark brown eyelashes, impossibly long, made me think of a toddler who hadn't grown into his face yet. So much maturity coming through such innocent features—that froze me, reminding me of some sci-fi story I had read of an old man stuck in a child's body.
"'Ancient' ... That's a funny comment." I finally ran a finger down his peachy cheek and came back with equal sarcasm. "Do you even
Similar Books
