Invincible (17 page)

The combination of pot, adrenaline from almost getting murdered, and hanging out in the shadows with a cute boy makes me giddy. I am suddenly fearless. “Can I have a cigarette?” I say. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life.

Marcus raises his eyebrows as he pulls a pack from his back pocket and offers it to me. I pull out a cigarette out and place it between my lips. “Who
are
you?” he says as he lights it for me.

I inhale and cough like the amateur I am. I inhale again and force myself to keep the smoke in. I feel the poison enter my lungs. I welcome the sting. I fight my body's instinct to cough, to push the poison out. I smile at the ridiculousness of a cancer survivor smoking cigarettes. I am happy to be ridiculous.

I reach out my hand. “Evie Whinsett. Nice to meet you. Is your name really Alfonse?”

“I wish. That's just my alter-ego. My real name is Marcus Lyon.” We shake for much longer than necessary.

“Well, Miss Evie Whinsett, I was about to head back to the parking lot. Do you want to walk with me, or are you staying here to see if any other creepy guys come out of the shadows?”

“One is probably enough for today.”

We start walking. I am strangely not embarrassed by my cane. He doesn't even seem to notice it. He doesn't look at me with the patronizing stare of everyone who thinks I'm fragile. He offers me his arm when we get to the stairs and, without thinking, I take it. I let him help me. But with him, it doesn't feel like I'm surrendering. His help doesn't come with any baggage or expectations.

It has stopped raining. The world outside the tunnel is still empty and gray, except now Marcus is in it.

We walk without talking. I like the silence between us. I like not feeling pressured to fill it. I like that he keeps a flashlight in his car for emergencies. I like that he called me tough.

There are only two cars in the parking lot—my Mom's Prius and an old, banged-up gold Mercedes station wagon.

“That's Bubbles,” Marcus says.

“You named your car Bubbles?”

“My brother named her, actually. I inherited her from him. But she's the color of champagne and has an excellent disposition, so yeah, Bubbles. Isn't she beautiful?”

“She's . . . unique.”

“Which is the best kind of beauty, don't you think?”

“It's the only kind, really.”

Silence consumes us. This is the time we part. This is the time we say good-bye and then never see each other again.

“Well, bye,” he says. “Stay out of tunnels with broken lights.”

What would Stella do?

I am bold. I am girl who is fearless.

“Wait!” I say as he turns to walk away. He turns back around and I say, “Would it be weird if I asked you for your number?”

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

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

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 tomorrow 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

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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.”