Dessert First (14 page)

He had the language down, from our clinical trial scavenger hunt. “Not unless you put my name first. I'm the test subject, so I outrank you.”

“Fine, but you have to follow the test protocol. First, invite me over. Then, I make brownies, then you eat them.”

“In the interest of science,” I said, “okay.”

Five minutes later, Evan was at the door. Skippy barked to announce him, then tail-wagged himself into a frenzy when he saw it was Evan. I opened the regular door, but kept the screen door closed, with Skippy jumping against it, while I made Evan confirm he had no cold, sniffles, fever, headache, swollen lymph nodes, or any other kind of sick.

“I don't even have athlete's foot,” he said. “That's Tyler. I only have boredom, from three days without you.”

I missed Evan, too, although I wasn't brave enough to say that. But I have plenty of boredom antibodies, from sitting through high school classes, so I let him in. He brought the box of brownie mix and ice cream in a fabric grocery bag, along with the other ingredients, milk and eggs. And Tylenol, which he said he researched and could be used on top of ibuprofen to fight headache and joint pain.

“Wow. Remind me some time that you're awesome.”

“I'm awesome,” he said. “And you haven't even tasted my brownies.”

After I gobbled two Tylenols, I hunted down a bowl and a square baking dish, and we preheated the oven to 350, like it said on the box. Along with headache medicine and the brownie ingredients, he brought a dark washcloth. He rolled it up, got it wet, and put it on my forehead while I flopped down onto pillows on the cool kitchen floor to watch him make brownies. Skippy dashed between us, nudging Evan to persuade him to drop ingredients, then dog-snuggling me on the floor.

“This isn't right,” I said. “You'll make me feel worthwhile—that'll leave me confused.”

He stopped mixing ingredients. “Are you fishing for a compliment? Like, for example, I think you're great—and cute. When you're not headache-scrunching your face.”

Did that mean he thought I was cute? Or was that just an example of a compliment I'd fish for? If he
did
think I was cute, how come he hadn't resisted the year before, when Tracie had dragged him away, time after time? I couldn't untangle that snarl while I had a headache. It would give me a bigger one. “No. If I want a compliment, I'll ask. Like, for instance, tell me I'm brave and noble and this will make Beep well.”

“You're brave, and noble, and I hope this makes Beep well.”

“Hope? Skinn . . .” Oops. I almost called Evan Skinnyboy, which I only call him when I'm Cipher. My headache was making me stupid. “Even if it's by the skin of his teeth, this
better
make Beep well. Give me a guarantee here, Evan.”

“Sorry. No guarantees.” He finished mixing ingredients. Before, I'd shared with him the real odds. “I'm not going to lie.”

“Then double crap, there goes that. I also wanted you to tell me I'm funny.”

“You are funny, but only when you're not running yourself down. Why do you do that?”

“Saves time. I like to get it in, before the Tracies do. Also, to get rejection out of my system, before Beep gets my stem cells.”

“How about you go easier on yourself?”

“Sorry, can't understand you. Did you lapse into French?”

Evan made a frustrated noise, and poured the ingredients into the baking dish.

“Make sure it's fully cooked,” I said. “It's got eggs, so if you don't cook it all the way, it could kill Beep.”

“I'll cook it all the way,” he said, cranky. “My
brownies
, in you, won't kill Beep.”

Right. “They won't.” Evan was being great to me, and I was being a jerk. “I'm afraid my stem cells will. Kill Beep. Or not save him. Which is the same.” At his concerned look, I went on. “Sorry. I have a headache, and I'm worried. That I'll kill my brother with my cells. I'm not real entertaining.”

“Lie down on the couch. You're not supposed to entertain. I'll rub your forehead.”

“You don't have to do that.” Butterflies. With little hammers. Attached to their wings.

“It's part of the clinical trial. Headache cure.” He put the brownies in the oven and set the timer. I lay down on my back on the long couch in the front room, bending my legs so there was some couch left for Evan. He put the cold, rolled-up washcloth back on my forehead. He sat next to me on the couch and started rubbing my head on the sides, little circles with the tips of his fingers, on my temples.

“Evan.” My headache was actually less, and I couldn't feel any ankle or knee or wrist pain anymore. Instead I felt tingly. “I owe you a Massive Lifetime Favor. You can call it in anytime.”

“Well—” he said.

“For anything except making me write songs with you, before the end of your friend-probation.”

He sighed, a long one. But he kept rubbing my temples. Then he started stroking my hair, running his hand over it, then combing through it with his fingers. Wow. Wow. Wow.

I wanted to lie there forever like that. I wanted to push my head further into his hands. I shifted.

“Relax. It's part of the protocol.”

I tried to. “It's good I have a headache. Otherwise this would be too nice.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.” It was hard to explain, even to myself. Because Beep had cancer. Because Evan might get dragged off again by some other girl. Because it didn't fit my life. Because he flirted so much with Cipher online, I couldn't trust him. Or because it could lead to other things, or all of the above. “But it's mmmmmmmmm.” I snuggled toward him. The smell of baking brownies was filling the house, warm and wonderful.

“I even make follow-up house calls.”

I was silent, enjoying him stroking my hair. Then my mind went off in a different direction, worried about the transplant. “This is Beep's last shot. What if it doesn't work?”

He stopped. I guess that was too serious for him, too. “You'll know you did your best.”

No
.
I'll know my best wasn't good enough.
But I didn't say that to Evan. I might suffer from depression, but I don't want it to be contagious.

Evan leaned over. He was moving his face toward mine.

Skippy jumped up, landed on my chest, and started dog-licking me instead. I made a weird “Aack” noise. The oven buzzer went off.

“Uh, brownies.” I'm so good with clever things to say. I felt nervous and warm, along with being achy. I sat up.

Evan exhaled and went to get the brownies out of the oven.

I pointed out a seat at our kitchen table, when the brownies were cool enough to eat. “Sit there.” Then I sat on the opposite side. I don't completely know why. The steel scooper was slightly shaky in my hand, so I put it in the ice cream carton he brought. “So—here's how you do it. We're eating dessert first. And even before that, we take our ice cream in our bowls and mash it and stir it with our spoons so it's creamy and perfect to go with warm brownies.”

We did, and it was warm and wonderful, even with the aches, to sit with Evan, eating the brownies he made and the ice cream he brought. Then, while I lay down again with my little damp forehead compress, Evan rinsed the bowls and pan and spoons and put them in the dishwasher and cleaned up the counter, so there was no mess to annoy Mom.

He started to pack up the eggs and milk.

“Uh, could you leave some milk?” I was embarrassed. “For my cereal in the morning?”

“You don't have milk?”

“Yeah, but like three weeks old. By now, it's chunky style.”

Evan pulled ours out of the fridge. Then, because he's a guy, he opened the cartoon and sniffed it. “Eww.” He wrinkled his face and poured it down the sink, watching the slow gloppy splatter with fascinated horror. “That's cottage cheese.” He sniffed again. “From dead goats. Zombie dead goats. It's
moving
.” He washed it down the sink and ran the disposal and rinsed out the carton and put it in the composting. He put the good milk he'd brought into our fridge.

“My hero. Saved me from a headache and boredom and zombie dead goat milk.”

“You're my hero,” he said. “Trying to save Beep.”

“Only if it works. Not if it kills him instead.” It's only in Beep's shooter videogames you get to be a hero by killing people. I was being such a downer. I wanted to be friendly and fun and funny, but somehow my words all got stuck on honest.

I stood up, and Evan walked over, until he was really close. He put his arms around me. I was looking right into those pretty brown eyes. He licked his lip, a quick nervous flick of the tongue. He leaned his face toward me with his lips slightly open. He looked scared. I could feel his breath on my skin. My heart was beating really fast. All I had to do was lean into it.

I tilted my head down instead. Put my forehead on his shoulder. “I need a hug,” I said. “I'm scared.” And I was, actually shaking. If we kissed, right before I donated bone marrow to Beep, what if the donation didn't go well and Beep got sick? Would I be afraid forever that it was because I got germs from Evan?

Evan hugged me. “Scared about Beep?”

“Yeah,” I said. That was one of the things I was scared about. We hugged each other, but awkwardly, because somehow our arms weren't in the right place, like we needed more practice. The alarm went off on my phone, startling us both. Time to take more ibuprofen. And Mom would be home soon. Probably best if she didn't find me wrapped around Evan. “I, uh. Probably time to go,” I said. But I didn't stop hugging him, and he didn't stop hugging me.

Finally, I let go, and then he did, and I took a step back. My headache was back. I walked him to the door, looking down.

When he left, I closed the screen door, and put my hand up on it. “Thanks.”

Evan put his hand on the other side, so we were touching hands through the mesh. “My pleasure.” He kept his hand there. After a long, long pause, I finally dropped mine.

“You have to keep being my friend.” I swallowed. “If my cells don't work and Beep dies. Because I'll really need you. And I might not be my friend anymore.”

“Okay.” He looked somehow sad. “Always.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but didn't, then gave me a little wave.

I watched him go, and, with the headache building again, instead of thinking
that was awesome
, I felt more depressed, like I'd gotten in my own way and screwed things up that could have been even more awesome.
Not quite good enough, Kat.
I hoped it wasn't a bad omen for the transplant.

Mom blew three and a half gaskets over Evan stopping by. Typical. But it was like she was speaking Sanskrit—her lips were moving, but only ancient nonsense came out. She was upset about “no supervision” with Evan here. Also, didn't I know I shouldn't get exposed to germs? And why had he come over? Another thing—brownies aren't nutritious.

I said I'd given Evan the health grilling before letting him in, and reminded her I wasn't Rachel—so there was no making out involved—and added that, since I had to eat dinner with Tyler's family once a week, I hung out a bunch at Tyler's unsupervised, and Tyler was also technically a boy, even when his parents weren't around.

“That's different,” Mom said.

“How?” It hurt my head to raise my voice, but I did anyway. If stupidity was contagious, Mom would make me a moron right before I gave my dumb cells to Beep.

“Tyler's not Evan.”

And I'm not Mom, which only made it harder to understand her insane babbling, especially since Evan studied with me at Tyler's.

“What?” I gave Mom my you're-not-making-sense look and sat up, which made my headache worse. “Never mind. It
was
weird having Evan here—someone in our house who cared that I had a headache and who tried to do something about it, who even brought milk so I have something to put on cereal. Completely different. From everyone around here.”

“I left you girls grocery money,” Mom said, ignoring the rest.

“Rachel did the shopping. Remember? The vegan?” It was like talking to Dad, all of a sudden. “She bought
almond
milk.”

“You could use that.”

I snorted. “If God meant us to drink milk from almonds, he would have given nuts cow udders.” I looked at Mom. “It's bad enough he lets nuts have daughters.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Mom's you're-out-of-line-young-lady voice doesn't work on me. “It means I have a killer headache and have to go lie down, to concentrate on growing blood cells for tomorrow's ‘harvest.' Because that's all I am around here—a blood bag. So stop upsetting me, messing up my only usefulness.”

I stormed off to my room and slammed the door, which, with my headache, bothered me more than it did Mom.

But I left my sports bottle behind and was supposed to be drinking lots of water. After my brain-rattling door slam performance, I wasn't slinking back downstairs to get it.

Five minutes later, Mom came upstairs to bring me my sports bottle and also to explain or apologize, but I didn't want to get into another fight, so I told her I'd just lie in the dark and maybe we could go through that some other time, when my head didn't feel like it was mashed under a collapsed bridge.

• • •

After dinner, when my headache was pounding even worse, and my elbows and knees ached, Rachel knocked on my door. I couldn't remember the last time that happened.

“Brought you ibuprofen,” she said.

“Thanks.” I was surprised. “How'd you know?”

“You were moaning. Wimp.”

“I was not.”

“No,” she smiled. “I read about the side effects online. And saw your blog posts.”

“Thanks.” It was almost time for another dose of ibuprofen. I washed them down with water out of my sports bottle. “What do I owe you?” I joked, not knowing what else to say about Rachel being nice.