Nick laughed. And Quinn realized this was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh. It was like bubbles rising.
* * *
After school, a weird thing happened. Quinn went on Instagram to look for this video of a play her old basketball team had invented. “Superslick,” they’d called it. Quinn wanted to show it to Carmen. She found the video no problem. It was on Paige’s feed, because Paige had been the one recording, and Paige never deleted anything. After Quinn copied the video she started scrolling through Paige’s posts, something she hadn’t done in months. Quinn came upon a photo of Paige and her mother, their faces pressed close together, smiling the same toothy smile. The caption read, Prayers for my mom, pls. Her cancer is back after 5 years in remission. #cancersucks #devastated.
Quinn’s heart stopped right there. She hadn’t thought about Paige’s mom’s cancer since third grade. That was when she’d been diagnosed. That was when she’d had her chemo and her radiation and both her breasts removed. Quinn remembered going over to the Braskys’ house with her own mom, bringing casseroles and cookies and flowers. Paige’s mom had been amazing through the whole thing. Quinn couldn’t remember her crying. She couldn’t remember her complaining or saying Why me? What Quinn remembered was the day Mrs. Brasky called Paige and Tara and Quinn into her bedroom. “I want you girls to see something,” she said. And Paige’s mom unbuttoned her shirt to show them the tattoos she’d had inked onto her chest after her mastectomy. Blues and greens and purples and yellows. Flowers and leaves and stars and moons. “When you think of my cancer,” Paige’s mom said, “I want you to always think of this. Abundant beauty. The gift of life.”
That was what Quinn was thinking about right now. Paige’s mom’s tattoos. How beautiful they were.
I’m so sorry, P, Quinn said in her message to Paige, because no matter what had happened between them, no matter how unfairly Paige had treated her in eighth grade, their friendship went back a long time, all the way to diaper dance. Give your mom a big hug from me. Love, Q.
After Quinn closed out of Instagram, she texted Nick. Can I come over?
Nick: Sure. U ok?
Quinn: Yeah. B there in 20.
She would have asked her mom to drive her, but Mo was at the Cove, attending yet another therapy team meeting to ensure that Julius wasn’t planning to BASE jump off any more roofs.
* * *
“I want you to tattoo my head,” Quinn said.
Nick’s eyebrows shot straight up. It was kind of cute. “Pardon?”
“You heard me,” Quinn said. She flung Sasha off and onto Nick’s new rug, dark blue to match his new comforter.
“Um…,” he said. “I’m not a tattoo artist.”
“Not a real tattoo. Just … you know … an ink drawing. With lots of color. It doesn’t have to be my whole head. Just whatever you think would look good.”
“Whatever I think would look good.”
“Yeah. Something abundant and life affirming.”
“Abundant and life affirming.”
“Is there an echo in here?” Quinn said.
Nick blinked at her.
“I know this is weird, but I don’t feel like explaining it right now. Can you just roll with it?”
“Oh, I can roll with it. You’ve seen me roll.”
“Are you making a wheelchair joke?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ve never heard you joke about your wheelchair.”
“I’ve never heard someone ask me to tattoo their head. What kind of pen should I use?”
“I don’t know. Any kind.”
“Not any kind. I don’t want to poison you.”
Quinn smiled. “You’re not going to poison me.”
“Your skin is the largest organ in your body. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“It’s true. And I’m not going to Sharpie the largest organ in your body.”
“Just do something small,” Quinn said. “I’ll survive.”
“Small and abundant and life affirming?”
“Yes.”
“Right.” Nick huffed out a breath. “No pressure.”
“No pressure,” Quinn said. “No one’s going to see this but us.”
Nick walked across the room to get his art kit.
Quinn perched on the edge of his bed. “I like your new comforter,” she said. “It’s spongy.”
“I like you sitting down,” he said, walking back over, uncapping a pen. “You’re making me feel tall.”
“Someday you will be.”
“Maybe.”
“You will,” she said. “When you get your new legs with the computerized knees.” Quinn lowered her voice. “Better … stronger … faster.”
“Have you been watching The Six Million Dollar Man?”
She shrugged. “I might have caught another episode.”
“Yeah, well. It could be a while before I’m Steve Austin.”
“That’s okay. It could be a while before my hair grows back.”
“Right,” Nick said. “I need you to stop talking now. So I can concentrate.”
“Okay.” Quinn closed her mouth. Her eyes, too.
“Try to stay still.”
“Nkay.”
When Nick stepped closer she could smell his shirt. Like soap and earth. She could feel his hands on her shoulders, steadying himself. She could feel the tip of his pen on her scalp, just above her left ear, the slightest tickle. Quinn held her breath. She didn’t want to laugh.
“You said color, right?” he said.
“Mm-hmm.”
Quinn kept her eyes closed as the tickling continued. She heard Nick switch pens. Once. Twice. She lost count of how many switches. She breathed in his smell. She felt the warmth of his chest just inches from her face. She wondered if he could feel her breath.
“Nick?”
“Shhh,” he said. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.” Quinn kept her body still and her eyes closed. “That night Julius threw the pizza. When I walked you to the car. You said something that sounded like ‘I like juice.’ Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you said?”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“You know what I said. Now stop talking. I’m almost done.”
Quinn smiled into Nick’s shirt.
She had no idea how long it took. But when he was finished, he held up his phone camera so she could see. About two inches above her left ear, stretching its wings wide, was a bird. It was a miniature replica of the bird on his wall, but this one was in color. Purples and golds and greens and blues, each feather blending into the next. It was tiny and delicate and perfect. It was like a jewel, right there on her head.
“I love it,” Quinn said.
“You do?”
She looked at him. “It’s exactly what I wanted. And I didn’t even know what I wanted.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Will you take a picture? Just of the bird, not my whole head.”
“I like your whole head.”
“Well, I like your bird.”
Nick took a picture.
“Take a bunch,” Quinn said.
He took some more.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
When Nick handed back Quinn’s phone, their fingers touched. And then, suddenly, they were holding hands. It wasn’t at all what Quinn had expected to happen. She was caught off guard, so she said something stupid. “I like your hair, how it wings out on the sides.”
Nick smiled. “I like juice.”
* * *
Quinn was rolling down the street on her skateboard, feeling the wind on her face. She hadn’t expected any response from Paige to her Instagram message, because Paige and Tara had basically gone AWOL after she moved. But here was Quinn’s phone, pinging in her pocket. Here was Paige’s text: Got ur message on i
g. It meant a lot to my mom. Thx.
Quinn sat down on the curb and texted back. Ur welcome. How is she?
Paige: Not gr8. She’s on a new chemo cocktail. It makes her really tired and nauseous.
Quinn: I’m sry.
Paige: Me too.
Quinn: Tell her I’m thinking abt her.
Paige: I will. Then, for the first time in what—two months?: How r u? Ur fam? Ur new school?
For a second, Quinn considered telling Paige everything: about Gigi’s broken hip, and Mo’s new studio, and Phil’s rules, and Julius up on the roof, and Ivy and Carmen and Lissa, and Nick’s legs, and Tommy’s nose, and the basketball team, and the bird on her head. She thought about taking a chance and letting Paige in again. But the truth was, Quinn’s feet were itching to get back on her skateboard. So she tapped out a quick reply: All’s good.
Paige: I’m glad. I really am, Q.
Quinn left it at that. She powered down her phone and hopped back on her board. Maybe she would text Paige tomorrow. But right now, the road was calling her name.
CHAPTER
24
QUINN SAID WHAT SHE NEEDED TO SAY TO GET NICK to the art show on November fifth. She told him that she’d made some art.
It was true, technically. Quinn’s fourth-period art teacher, Mr. Diaz, had asked every student in his studio classes to submit something for the show, and Quinn had submitted her self-portrait. This was kind of hilarious because she couldn’t draw eyes or noses, or, well, anything resembling a human face, so she had drawn herself from behind. She had drawn her old ponytail, long and thick and hay colored, using three different shades of yellow pastels. And then, because she hadn’t known what to do with all the blank space around her head, she’d decided to make it an aquarium. She’d wanted it to look like she was standing in front of the tank, watching the fish. Fish were easy to draw, so she’d made ten of them, all swimming around, one with his mouth open so wide it looked like he was trying to eat her head. Mr. Diaz had laughed when Quinn unveiled her self-portrait to the class. Laughed, out loud, in front of everyone. “No, Quinn, you misunderstand me,” Mr. Diaz said when he saw the look on her face. “I’m not laughing in derision. I’m laughing in delight. This is … whimsical.”
Well, Quinn didn’t know how whimsical it was. And she didn’t care how many people laughed at her old yellow ponytail hanging on the wall tonight. That wasn’t why she was here.
Where was Nick, anyway?
“Do you see Nick?” she asked her mom, who had wanted to come tonight, too, even though Quinn had warned her about the silly self-portrait. Mo insisted on leaving Quinn’s dad and Julius at home for a “boys’ night” while she and Quinn experienced a “night of culture.”
“Mom,” Quinn said, pulling her mother away from a sixth grader’s lopsided clay pot displayed on a shelf. “Help me find him.”
They walked from room to room. Because the art show was grades six through twelve, Mr. Diaz and the middle-school art teacher had needed a lot of wall space, so they were using Gulls Head Congregational Church as their gallery.
“Isn’t that Nick over there?” Mo said finally, pointing to the other side of the fellowship hall.
Quinn looked. There he was, wearing a pale blue oxford shirt, hair winging out at the sides. Quinn’s stomach did that thing it did now whenever she saw him. It wasn’t a flip, exactly. It was more like a slow roll.
Nick didn’t notice Quinn. He was saying something to Tommy, who had his arm around a dark-haired girl in a strapless black dress. Quinn knew who this was because Nick had told her. This was Marisol, the Brazilian exchange student. Tommy had asked her out as soon as he was ungrounded. Marisol was beautiful, Quinn had to admit, wide-eyed and pouty-lipped, with long, shiny curls. Well … good for Tommy.
Quinn raised an arm and managed to get Nick’s attention. Nick waved. Quinn gestured for him to come over.
Mo wandered off to examine more lopsided pots.
It took a while for Nick to roll his way across the room. There were a lot of art gawkers to navigate around. He had to stop. Wait. Say excuse me. Back up. Stop again. Why the wheelchair? Quinn found herself thinking. Why not the legs?
He finally rolled up to her. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Good turnout.”
“Yeah.” Quinn looked around, feeling her new Red Sox cap, snug around her ears.
Nick rocked back in his seat, popped a wheelie.
“I have to ask,” she said.
“What?”
Quinn opened her mouth. The words were right there on her tongue. She wanted to know. She really, really did. But then it hit her. Asking Nick Why the wheelchair? would be like him asking her Why the hat? Sometimes Quinn just felt like wearing a hat instead of a wig. Like tonight, she just didn’t feel like dealing with wig tape, and she didn’t want to have to explain her choice to anyone. Maybe that’s how it was for Nick. Maybe he just felt like using his chair at the art show. Maybe tomorrow he’d put on his legs.
“Are you ready to have your world rocked?” she said.
Nick smiled. “You’re that good of an artist, huh?”
“Follow me.”
It took a while to find what Quinn was looking for. There were so many walls, so many people to steer around. They had to pass Quinn’s self-portrait on their way. She wasn’t surprised when Nick laughed. She didn’t mind. And she didn’t mind that he wanted to take a picture with his phone, of Quinn in her new Red Sox cap, standing next to her old yellow ponytail getting eaten by fish. That wasn’t why they were here.
“Come on,” she said. “I need to show you something.”
“Wasn’t that it?”
“Nope.”
They wove through the bodies. Wove and wove until Quinn finally spotted it: the blue frame. She’d picked it out special.
“There,” she said.
“Where?”
Quinn pointed five feet in front of her.
Nick pushed his wheels forward. Pushed again. “Is that…?”
“Yeah.” She smiled at the wall. She couldn’t stop smiling.
It was Nick’s bird, shimmering like a jewel. It was Quinn’s head, just the smallest rectangle of bare skin. So small, if you didn’t know what it was, you wouldn’t know. It was a secret, like the dozens of tiny hairs that were just starting to sprout up under Quinn’s Red Sox cap. She hadn’t told anyone about the hairs yet, not even Nick. Later, she would. But not now.
“‘Bird in Flight,’” Nick said, reading off the placard on the wall. “‘By anonymous.’” He looked at Quinn. “Anonymous, huh?”
“You said you don’t do shows.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, then.”
“Thank you,” Nick said. His voice came out gruff, but Quinn knew he wasn’t mad. He was the opposite of mad. He reached out his hand and she took it. “Come here,” he said. She let him pull her backward, into his lap.
Quinn inhaled. Quinn exhaled. She could smell his smell. She could feel the warmth of his body through her jeans.
He didn’t hug her or anything, just rested his arms on the armrests.
They were both quiet. After a minute, he said, “Don’t worry. No one’s looking at us.”
“I don’t care if they are,” Quinn said. She leaned back against his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” she said.
They sat there, just the two of them, looking up at Nick’s bird, feeling the flutter of wings.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU to my incredible editor, Joy Peskin, who continues to challenge me to be a better writer, no matter how many drafts it takes.
Thanks to my agent, Rebecca Sherman, for her steadfast support from the wings, to Morgan Dubin and Johanna Kirby, for their publicity and marketing prowess, and to Elizabeth H. Clark, for her amazing cover design.
To Doodle Barton, Mary Baker, Danielle Gross, Kelli Marcellus, Paige Bean, Karen Holcomb, Kate Anth
ony, and anyone else who ever held a séance in my living room during a sleepover, thank you for summoning all the best spirits.
Thanks to my meditation mamas—Kerry, Dori, Katie, Happy, Mags, Stephanie, Jen, Tracy, and Sarah—for listening to me vent and reminding me to breathe.
Happy Marino, you get double thanks for sharing your knowledge of autism, especially the alternative therapies. You are a gem.
Thank you to Dr. David Antonetti for allowing me to pepper him with questions about traumatic crushing injuries and bilateral transfemoral amputations while he was trying to coach baseball.
To my students at Farr (“Fah”) Academy, for teaching me to appreciate a wicked Boston accent.
Thank you to Sue Anthony, magister meus, miris Latine.
To my college art professor, who laughed at my self-portrait and then apologized to me later, in a note he sent through campus mail: thanks for the story material.
Thank you to the beautiful Sanah Jivani, who sent me a letter when she was fifteen that was so brave and powerful I had to write this book.
Thank you to Kuj, and Jack, and Ben, and Emma—my home team—for keeping the cheers and pizza coming.
Thank you to my parents, Barbara and George, for teaching me to love words. How could I not become a writer?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natasha Friend is the award-winning author of Where You’ll Find Me, Perfect, Lush, Bounce, For Keeps, and My Life in Black and White. She lives in Madison, Connecticut, with her family. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph