Authors: Tiffany Schmidt
Gyver didn’t answer, just steadied me and hurried me out the door, down the grass slope, and into his black Jeep, which was still running at the edge of the nearly empty parking lot. Most people parked on the other side of the woods, so they could escape out the back and run if needed. Gyver barely stopped for me to shut my door before he pulled out and sped away. I waited for him to speak. He didn’t.
It was dark in his car. And quiet. The party lights and noise faded as we traveled around the lake and back toward town. It was too dark to see the titles of the CDs stored on the visor above my head. Too quiet for comfort. I couldn’t handle silence; I’d gone to the party to escape, so I wouldn’t have to think about what I learned today—and what would happen tomorrow. Not that I understood tomorrow’s agenda. I still couldn’t grasp what the doctor had told me. I understood the individual words, but strung together in a sentence they no longer made sense.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to comprehend anything yet. I
wanted to hide from the truth for as long as possible. So while the doctor told my father about treatments and my mother sobbed on the shoulder of some supportive nurse, I’d tuned out and planned my outfit for the party we’d just left.
Parties and I were a predictable fit, like Gyver and his music. I reached up and grabbed one of his CDs—it could be any of his custom playlists: Songs for Studying, Rhythms for Rain, An Album for Algebra.
He liked alliterative titles. And names. Walt Whitman, Galileo Galilei, Harry Houdini, Arthur Ashe. And me, Mia Moore. Was that why we were so close? If I’d been named after Dad’s mother instead of Mom’s, would I be sitting in his car right now? Maybe my name was his sign.
But Gyver didn’t look for signs the way I did, and he’d laugh if I suggested this.
He wasn’t laughing now. He fixed his frown on the road, and I studied the CD I twirled on my finger. I wished, not for the first time, that his car had an iPod hookup so I could see the contents of his playlists.
It didn’t matter; the first song that played would be a sign—and I needed something to point the way. Should I tell him? Could I tell him? I hadn’t said the words out loud yet.
I slipped the disk into the CD player and pressed shuffle to add another layer of chance: track six.
A few notes floated out of the speakers and I leaned forward on the seat to catch them. The song began thin, a light piano repeating, fleshed out with the quietest tapping on a cymbal and a background layer of electric guitar.
Before the lyrics began, however, in the pause while I held my breath waiting for the first words, Gyver reached over and switched the stereo off.
“Let’s talk,” he said.
I twisted my fingers in my necklace, clutching the clover-shaped pendant.
Gyver glanced at me and sighed. “It’s just a song, Mi. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want you looking for hidden meanings and all that crap.”
He knew me too well. Hopefully well enough to know I couldn’t let this go. “But what is it?”
“It’s a bad CD selection.” He pressed Eject, turned on the overhead light, held up the disk, then read the title while I squinted at his smudged lefty letters. “Anthems for Anger. You’re already weirdly quiet and you’re going to get all superstitious. What’s up? Talk to me.”
“I need to hear it.” A tidal wave of panic battered against the blockades I’d reinforced all day. Something, anything, was liable to tear them down and leave me useless. “I picked it—I’ve got to hear it.”
“Mia, it’s just a stupid song.” Gyver’s voice was rough with frustration. He used his elbow to hit the window-down button and bent his wrist back to throw.
“Don’t!” I snatched at his arm and we veered onto the dirt shoulder. My elbow slammed against my door as we jerked to a stop. A few feet from us was a blur of pine trees, and beyond that, water. The builders hadn’t yet bulldozed nature on this side of East Lake, but unless there was a sudden drop in the
number of couples moving from New York or Philly to raise their kids in our sleepy, postcard-perfect town, these trees had a limited life expectancy.
Life expectancy.
“Dammit, Mia! Do you want to kill us? What’s wrong with you tonight?”
I was glad it was dark in the car—too dark to see the emotion I knew would be carved into his forehead, making his brown eyes blaze. Gyver was a master at intimidating stares, and his frown would be all it took for me to crack and spill everything. My fingers started to tremble. I untangled them from my necklace, sat on my hands, and waited him out—let him curse under his breath and squeeze the wheel with a one-handed death grip.
“Fine. You’re not going to listen to anything I say until you’ve heard it, are you? It’s ‘Break Myself’ by Something Corporate.”
“I don’t know it—I may need to hear it more than once.” I rubbed my elbow. It was already bruising, a reminder of what I wasn’t telling him.
“Be my guest.” Gyver thrust the CD in, punched the Advance button, then twisted the volume to an uncomfortable level.
It was a male singer and he started quietly, but I knew I was in trouble before he’d finished the first verse. I was sniffing before the chorus. It was starting to be too real.
I’m willing to bleed for days … my reds and grays so you don’t hurt so much
And crying before the refrain.
I’m willing to break myself. I’m not afraid
.
I was afraid. Terrified.
“Do you need to hear it again?” Gyver growled as the final notes echoed through the SUV. I shook my head and he turned off the stereo. My ragged breathing was the only sound in the Jeep. “It’s just a song. They aren’t even a band anymore. What’s going on with you?”
“It’s been a long day,” I whispered, then changed the subject before he could ask why. “Is the party going to be busted?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d want underage drinking on your perfect record right before college apps. You’re lucky you’re so bewitchingly gorgeous and I couldn’t resist rescuing you.” He poked my knee and smiled at me.
I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t drinking. I just needed a night out.” A last night.
“You had a cup.”
“Of water.”
“And I’m sure The Jock’s playing quarters with apple juice.”
“Ryan! The girls! They’re going to worry about me. Do you think they got caught? I’ve got to call.” With everything else clamoring in my brain, I’d forgotten them.
“Why?” Gyver scoffed.
“’Cause he’s—”
“He’s what? Your date when it’s convenient for him? Your hook-up buddy? How exactly would you define it?”
“It’s casual,” I mumbled. “I’m not sleeping with him.”
“He’s an ass. You can do better.”
“It’s no big deal. And you should talk—either you have some impossible standard no East Lake girl can meet, or you get off on disappointing the ones who ask you out.”
Gyver laughed and shrugged.
We were friends. Just friends. We’d been friends our whole lives. He’d seen me in footie pajamas and heard our mothers discuss my first training bra and the more embarrassing “milestones of womanhood.” His mom made me a cake when I got my first period—there was no chance he’d ever see me that way. Besides, I had Ryan. Sort of. And my dating life wasn’t a priority right now. I’d almost forgotten. My breath caught in a mangled sob.
“Calm down. I’m sure The Jock’s fine. He’s a fast runner. Your cheer-friends too.”
“You should’ve warned everyone else.” I wasn’t too worried; we’d never gotten caught before.
“You’re lucky I was allowed to get you. I begged for a ten-minute head start to pick you up. I had to pull the old Halloween photo of us dressed up as Sonny and Cher off the fridge and bring up how you chased down the sixth grader who stole my candy.”
“Gyver, I just needed …” My voice was shaking.
I’m not afraid
.
“What? What do you need, Mi? I’ve been patient. Tears over a song? That’s extreme, even for you. Even if you were drunk—”
“It was water.” I wasn’t sure yet. I wasn’t ready to tell everyone. But he wasn’t everyone. He was Gyver. I needed a sign. Or a distraction. “Why isn’t that band together anymore?”
“Something Corporate? The lead singer wanted to pursue a solo project. Then he got leukemia. You’ve heard some of his new band’s music. Jack’s Mannequin?” He searched my face for recognition. “No? I’ve played it for you. You like it.”
I gripped the seat with both hands. “What’d you say?”
“You like Jack’s Mannequin?” Gyver reached toward his CDs, but I shook my head.
“Before that.” I hadn’t meant to whisper, but it was all the volume I could manage.
“He made a new band? He got leukemia? His original band was called Something Corporate? What part?”
Signs don’t get much clearer than that. “I’ve got to tell you something.”
“Can we stop somewhere? I hate talking in the car; I never know where to look. I know you have to watch the road, but I feel like I’m having a conversation with the side of your face and you’re talking to the windshield.”
Gyver eased his car into the parking lot for East Lake’s “beach.” It closed at sundown, and the only other things on the pavement were litter: sunblock bottles, deflated floaties, snack wrappers.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to begin. I took a sip from the water bottle in his cup holder. It was out of a need to do something, not thirst. I choked it down with an awkward coughing noise.
He snorted. “You okay?”
I didn’t want to tell him what was strangling me—saying the news aloud would make it real. I pulled my knees up and tucked them beneath my chin.
Gyver’s hair looked blue black in the glow of the parking lot’s lights. His face was a series of beautiful angles and shadows, but I could still see him as he’d been: the little boy who’d been bullied in elementary school for being named MacGyver after a cheesy eighties TV show about a guy who liked duct tape. I’d defended him then, and he’d been my best ally ever since. I needed him now.
“Remember about a week ago when you asked if Hil and I were cat fighting—because I had bruises?” I regretted my choice of openings; annoyance spilled across Gyver’s features.
“I was joking. What’s Hillary have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, but your comment made me notice how much I’m bruising.” I held up my elbow as proof; showing him the purplish bull’s-eye that marked the spot I’d just banged on the door.
Gyver touched it with two cool fingers. “Are you okay, Mi?”
“No.” I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, the fear that piled like stones in my stomach. “I’ve also been really tired and I had a fever. Mom and I went to the doctor and he took some blood. He called me back the next day for more. We went to Lakeside Hospital for tests yesterday—they took a sample of bone marrow from my hip. Today we met with the head of oncology.” I felt detached, as if narrating the details of someone else’s life.
“What is it? Just tell me.” His hand curled around my arm, hitting the bruise, making me wince.
“Leukemia,” I whispered, the word sharp and acidic in my mouth.
“Leukemia?” His eyebrows had disappeared under tousled hair, and his face and voice were pleading.
I forced myself to continue. “It’s called acute lymphoblastic leukemia. ALL for short. It’s blood cancer; my body’s making lots of bad white blood cells. They’re called blasts—and they’re crowding out all of my good cells.” I parroted the words the doctor used that afternoon. My voice was emotionless, but my arms were trembling. I squeezed my knees tighter and tipped my head against the cool glass of the window in a last-ditch effort to blink back tears. I hadn’t cried in the doctor’s office. Hadn’t on the drive home. Hadn’t while getting ready. But with Gyver, it seemed like the only thing left to do.
“What do the doctors say? Mi?” He sounded little-boy lost, like the first time we’d watched
Bambi
.
I stared at the car’s ceiling, speaking around the stutters in my breathing. “It’s aggressive. That’s the word they kept using. ‘An aggressive form of cancer,’ ‘its spread is aggressive,’ ‘we need to start aggressive treatment immediately.’” I shut my eyes and tears traced salt lines down my face.
“That’s why I went to the party tonight. I just needed to feel normal for a few more hours. Before my life becomes a mess of chemo and doctors and drugs.” The last barrier between me and detachment fell, and the doctor’s words hit with suffocating reality. “God … I have cancer.”
He tugged on my elbow and pulled me toward him. I resisted at first; his sympathy would make it harder to stop crying. His other hand closed on my shoulder, and I surrendered, allowed him to draw my head to his chest and fold his arms around me.
I could feel the thud of his heart through his T-shirt, interrupted by the convulsions of my sobs and his unsteady breathing.
It grew hot in the car—late-June-in-Pennsylvania humid—and I couldn’t tell tears from sweat. I needed to stop. To calm down. I couldn’t go home blotchy and terrified. I unclenched my fingers from a fistful of his shirt, sat up, and focused on slowing my breathing and tears. I took another sip of his water and asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m mentally shouting every swear word I know.” He rubbed his forehead with both palms, then leaned back against the seat and shut his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Am I okay? Am I okay? Of course not, but who cares? How are
you
? What does all this mean?”
“I don’t really know … I haven’t had much time to figure it out. We’ve got piles of brochures at home, and Dad’s already ordered every book he can find.” My fingers were at my throat, twirling my necklace in frenzied loops.
“So what do we do?”
His “we” filled my eyes again and I couldn’t answer.
“Mi? What happens next?”
“I check into the hospital tomorrow for more tests. I’m not coming home for a while, like, at least a month. Probably not till August. Dr. Kevin—that’s my doctor, my oncologist—said they’d keep me there so I don’t pick up infections.”
“A month! What about school? Are you going back in September?”