Send Me a Sign(4)

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.”





Chapter 3

“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.