Invincible

  His lips break into a grin. “Not weird at all.”

  I pull out my phone. He tells me his number and I type it in. I text: This is the girl you found in the dark. “Now you have mine, too,” I say.

  “All right, then,” he says. Somehow I stay standing as I melt into his eyes. “Until later, Evie Whinsett.”

  “So long, Marcus Lyon.”

  He walks to his car on the other side of the parking lot as I get into mine. We meet head-on as I turn to exit. Before he passes me, Marcus flashes his high beams, catching me in the light, and rolls down his window. I can hear him yell, “You’re a star!” I’m suspended in his high beams, glowing, all lit up. Then he drives away, taking the light with him.

  For a moment, I am blind as my eyes adjust.

  “Nice job, Stella,” I whisper to the darkness.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  nineteen.

  IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT AND I’M SITTING AT A TABLE WITH WILL AT “our restaurant.” For the last two years, whenever I’ve been out of the hospital and well enough to eat, we’ve come here at least once a month. I used to think it was romantic, going to the same place all the time, ordering the lamb kabobs for him and the veggie combo plate for me and switching halfway through. But now it seems boring, like we’re an old married couple who’s been together for fifty years. And if we’re going to have an “our place,” shouldn’t it be somewhere special and intimate, a place no one knows about, somewhere we discovered together? The food here is good and all, but it’s big, loud, crowded, and kind of a Bay Area mini-chain. I’m pretty sure they premake everything at a central location and assemble it at each restaurant when it gets ordered.

  The waitress comes to take our order and Will orders the same thing he always gets. I order something new.

  ‘You’ve never gotten that before,” he says when the waitress leaves. He looks concerned, like I’ve just told him I feel sick.

  “I feel like trying something different,” I say, but I can tell he’s still worried. It’s such a small thing, but it seems like part of something bigger, proof that Will refuses to accept that I’ve changed, that I’m not the same Evie he fell in love with.

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. The firm grip I used to love now seems crushing. “You seem distant tonight,” he says. Maybe it’s the three pills I took before he picked me up. Maybe it’s because I don’t really want to be here. Maybe it’s because I can’t stop thinking about Marcus.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I truly am. I should be better to him. I should love him more. I should love him as much as I used to.

  “It’s okay,” he says, and beams, always so forgiving. “You’re going through a lot. It must be so hard adjusting back to normal life.”

  “It is.”

  “I want to help you. I want to make it easier for you.”

  “I don’t know if it’s something you can fix, Will.”

  He shakes his head like he thinks I’m silly. Of course he can fix it. He’s Will Johnson, boyfriend extraordinaire. “I have a surprise for you,” he says. I half expect him to pull out more red roses. “I quit baseball. I can be with you more now. I can take care of you.”

  Oh my god.

  “No, Will. You can’t do that.”

  Our food arrives. The skin on my pomegranate chicken is brown and gelatinous with sauce. I am so not hungry.

  “It’s okay, Evie. Baseball was never really my sport, anyway. It was just something to do in the spring when football’s over. I’d rather be with you.”

  “But I have physical therapy after school all the time.”

  “I thought it was over now.”

  “My appointments with the therapist are over, but I still have to do it on my own.” This is only partially a lie.

  “I can come to the pool with you. I can help.”

  “Will, I don’t think—”

  “Let’s stop talking about it, okay?” he says with that same confident grin, the one I used to find so comforting, but now it strikes me as condescending. “Let’s just enjoy our dinner. We can talk about it later.”

  I don’t say much through the rest of dinner. Will doesn’t even seem to notice. He fills the silence with updates on movies he’s seen, gossip about people at school, other things I’m having a hard time caring about. When he puts his arm around me as we walk to his car, I am startled by a surge of anger. It starts in the pit of my stomach and burns all the way up into my eyes. I have to remind myself that this is Will. This is my boyfriend. This is the guy I’m supposed to be in love with.

  “Want some ice cream?” he says as we approach the block-long line of young couples waiting for the overrated Berkeley artisan ice cream shop that’s not nearly as good as my favorite, Tara’s, just down the street in Oakland. I am usually proud to be part of one of these pretty, wholesome couples. But not tonight. Tonight I feel like an imposter.

  “Let’s just go to your place,” I say. “Your folks still do that thing Friday nights?”

  “Sure.” He smiles sweetly. “Okay, honey.”

  Before I got sick, and during my periodic windows of recovery, Friday night was our special night. Will’s parents have some weekly Christian mingle thing they do at church, so Will and I would have the house to ourselves for three hours while they drank decaf coffee and ate stale cookies. I couldn’t wait to run up to his room and spend the night in his arms.

  But when we get there, he leads me to the living room and asks what kind of movie I want to watch.

  “Who said I wanted to watch a movie?”

  “We don’t have to watch a movie,” he says. “Why don’t we continue that conversation we were having earlier? About me quitting baseball so we can be together.”

  I sigh. “I don’t want you to do that, Will.”

  “Don’t you want to be with me?”

  “Of course I want to be with you,” I say, but at soon as it comes out of my mouth I realize I don’t mean it. “I don’t want you giving up stuff for me. I want you to have your own life.”

  “Evie,” he says, holding my hands in his, “you are my life.”

  I want to run. I want to get out of here, away from him, away from the gaze of his eyes that see someone else when they look at me, someone who no longer exists. But instead, I kiss him. I kiss and kiss and kiss him. Maybe if I taste him, maybe if I feel his skin against mine, I can remember what I felt like before all of this. Maybe if we are just our bodies, I won’t have to feel whatever this is I’m feeling.

  But he stops me. He pulls away and removes my hands from where they were attempting to unbutton his pants.

  “What?” I say.

  “I don’t think you’re ready.”

  Again, the anger. Rage like a fireball burning through my body. “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” I pull my hands out of his and push him. I want to push harder. I want to shove him so far away that I can’t see him anymore, so he can’t look at me with those big blue eyes so full of pity, eyes that used to make me feel so beautiful but now just make me feel small. Invisible. Powerless.

  “Evie,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I say as I stand up.

  “Honey, sit down. Let’s talk about this.”

  I grab my cane and purse from the floor. “I’m done talking.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You need space. I understand. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  “No. Don’t call me.”

  “Or better yet, why don’t I come over? I’ll bring lattes and those cinnamon rolls you like.”

  “Did you not hear me?” I shout. “I don’t want you to call me. I don’t want to eat cinnamon rolls with you. I’m done. It’s over. We’re over.”

  “I know you don’t mean that. You’re just tired. You’ll feel different t
omorrow after you get some rest.”

  “Don’t tell me how I feel, Will.” I start hobbling to the door. “You have no idea how I feel.” I wish I could stomp away. I wish I could storm out, make a more dramatic exit than this lopsided shuffle. I wish my every move weren’t punctuated by the pathetic clackity-clack of my cane.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, getting up and rushing to open the door for me. He’s a gentleman even as I’m breaking up with him.

  “Will,” I say, looking him straight in the eye so he can’t misunderstand. “Listen to me. I can’t be with you anymore. Too much has changed. We’re too different.”

  He puts his arms around me and holds me close. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into my neck, the garlic and vinegar of dinner on his breath mixing with the musk of his cologne and threatening to suffocate me. “I love you and I know you love me. I’ll be here when you’re ready. We’ve been through so much. We’ll get through this, too.”

  I pull away and just stare at him in disbelief, at that stupid grin that hasn’t faded. He’s so confident, so sure I could never stop loving him.

  “Bye, Will,” I say, and walk out the door.

  “Let me give you a ride,” he says.

  “I live three blocks away. I can walk.”

  “Let me walk you.”

  “No.” I may not be able to stomp away, but I can slam the door behind me.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  if.

  Dear Stella,

  At this very moment, your favorite fallen cheerleader is smoking a joint out her bedroom window like a real teenage rebel. Ha! Aren’t you proud of me? Scented candles are my new best friend, especially the ones that smell like gingerbread cookies. The only problem is they make me really, really hungry.

  I had a lovely visit with my school principal today. I think my cancer-survivor sympathy may be starting to wear thin with the administration. Principal Landry thought of all the different ways to ask me how I’m doing, and I thought of all the different ways I could say “fine.” I could tell she was trying to seem caring, but really the point of the meeting was to tell me I’m in trouble because I’m failing my classes. Except the way she said it was a lot nicer: I’m not failing, I’m “falling behind.” I’ve been “lethargic in class” (i.e., stoned). And instead of saying I’m an ungrateful asshole, she said she’s disappointed that I haven’t accepted my teachers’ offers of help or been working with a tutor. “We’re a team, Evie! We all want you to succeed!”

  But she’s missing one very important thing—I’m not on their team. No amount of their wanting me to succeed is going to make a difference if I don’t give a shit. They live in a fantasy world where the most important things in a teenager’s life are getting good grades and going to college, but no one realizes I stopped living in that world a long time ago. It isn’t real. None of it is real.

  It’s over with Will, by the way. Another casualty of my survival, I suppose. I think it was over a long time ago, but I was a little too busy dying to notice. Like everyone else, he loved that dying girl more than he loves me. The girl who loved him back died in that stupid hospital and this new me rose out of her ashes, and I am so sick of his doting and chivalry, all his “honey”s and “sweetie”s. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. I feel pathetic when I’m with him. And I am sick and tired of feeling pathetic. I wish I could say I don’t even miss him, but that would be a lie. I miss us fitting together. I miss being part of an “us.”

  But in happier news, I finally found where Mom’s been hiding my painkillers. What is it about drugs and sock drawers? She’s so blind, she doesn’t even notice the missing pills. I have a feeling I could get away with murder these days and she’d just pat me on the back and say I’m having a hard time adjusting to my new life and maybe I need a nap. Poor, sweet, loyal Mom.

  The bad news is the bottle says only one refill left. I don’t know what happens after that. I don’t want to think about it. I’m trying to be careful with your weed, but it’s going a lot faster than I’d like it to. I’m going to have to figure something out soon. I sure as hell can’t go buying stuff from anyone at school. Not Evie Whinsett, Cancer Girl, squeaky-clean Will Johnson’s girlfriend (no, ex-girlfriend!), buying drugs from the bad kids! It would be a scandal! But maybe a little scandal is exactly what my life is missing.

  Speaking of which, I called Marcus. I waited a couple days to see if he’d call me, but then I figured, fuck it—I’m the one who asked him for his number, right? So I’m the one calling the shots, and if I feel like calling him I’m going to call him. I don’t care about being proper or playing hard-to-get, or any of those other stupid games. And FYI, he’s as hot on the phone as he is in person. He’s got this low, satiny voice and really smart, sarcastic sense of humor that makes Will seem so dull and childish. And guess what? We’re going out tomorrow. WE’RE GOING OUT TOMORROW!

  I’m failing all my classes except art, but I’m not really worried about it. It’s pretty great how good I feel right now despite the fact that my life is kind of falling apart.

  Love,

  Evie

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  twenty.

  I TOLD EVERYONE I’M VISITING CALEB AT THE HOSPITAL after school. Even Will, despite my repeatedly reminding him we’re broken up, feels entitled to this information, not to mention the fact that he still sits next to me at lunch and insists on carrying my bag. Everyone—Mom, Dad, Will, Kasey, Jenica—agrees visiting Caleb is an excellent idea, as if their opinion matters. I’m sure Caleb would also think it’s an excellent idea, but he knows nothing about it and I haven’t talked to him since the day I was discharged.

  I keep thinking about this time in the hospital a couple of days after I broke my leg. Some player from the Oakland A’s was coming in for a charity-visit-slash-publicity-photo op, and Caleb was freaking out like a little boy. He ran off to get his hat signed while Stella and I stayed in my room. I remember saying, “Could he be any more adorkable?” and Stella said, “You know he’s in love with you, right?” I told her to shut up, but she said, “He worships the ground you wheel on.”

  Every time I ignore one of Caleb’s texts, I think of this, and it makes me sick. He keeps texting even though I never text him back. I have turned into such an asshole, and he is still so loyal, so forgiving.

  “Tell Caleb I say hi,” Mom says as she drops me off in front of the hospital. “Give him a big hug for me.”

  “I will,” I say. I walk slowly to the too-familiar sliding doors, waiting for Mom to pull away before I turn around and walk toward Telegraph.

  I am meeting Marcus at a coffee shop. In preparation, I spent an hour last night rolling and rerolling a joint until it was perfect, which I will hopefully smoke with him. I practiced with the lighter to make sure I still know how to use it. Maybe this is not what normal people do before dates. But I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer normal, and I have a feeling Marcus isn’t either.

  I am wearing Stella’s hat for extra strength. It helps me to not hyperventilate as I wait outside the café for Marcus to show up. It hugs my head and tells me to calm down. It says “Shut up” to the voice that keeps telling me he’s not coming. I lean against the side of the building as cool as I can. I poke at my phone to look busy. I pretend I’m texting something important.

  “Hey,” says a familiar voice. I look up and Marcus is even better-looking than I remember. The sky is clear today, and it brings out the green in his eyes and the smoothness of his skin. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt for a boy band from the eighties.

  I realize it’s been several moments since his greeting and I haven’t responded because I’ve been too mesmerized by his beauty. “Hey,” I finally manage to s
ay.

  “Cool hat,” he says.

  “Cool shirt,” I say.

  “Have you ever heard these guys’ music?”

  “No.”

  “It’s horrible. It’s like poison. It’ll make your ears bleed.”

  “You’re a big fan, then?”

  “The biggest.”

  “Want to go inside?”

  “Sure.”

  So far, so good. One minute into our date and I don’t think I’ve humiliated myself too much yet.

  I look around the café as we wait our turn to be at the counter. The place is full of hip, beautiful people staring at silver Apple laptops.

  “I wonder what all these people are working on,” I say. “Novels? Dissertations?”

  “Probably just fooling around on the internet,” Marcus says. He points to someone whose screen is facing us. “See, that guy is scrolling through someone’s vacation photos. And that girl is looking at pictures of cats.”

  “They’re really good at pretending they’re working.”

  “Yeah, they even bring books and stuff as props.”

  “Evie?” someone who is not Marcus says. “Oh my god, you’re alive!”

  I look up and my breath catches in my throat. It is Cole, Stella’s boyfriend, standing behind the counter waiting to take our order.

  “Cole,” I choke out. “Hi.”

  I want to run, but I don’t get the chance. Cole hurries around the counter and throws his arms around me and squeezes so tight I can barely breathe. Everything was going so well, but now worlds that were never supposed to meet are colliding.

  “Marina,” he says to a woman behind the counter when he finally lets go. “Okay if I take five?”

  “Sure, honey,” the woman says. “Take your time.”

  “Want to go outside and talk?” Cole says eagerly, his eyes bright with emotion. “It’s so great to see you. You look so healthy.”

  I look at Marcus, who is smiling but confused. “I’ll just be a couple minutes,” I say. “Go ahead and order.”