Send Me a Sign(7)

“I’m going to meet everyone at Iggy’s,” I announced as I poured juice.

“Iggy’s? Will Ryan be there? Oh, I bet he’ll send you flowers in the hospital.” She clapped her hands together and said, “How sweet!” like it had already happened. Choosing cheerful oblivion, a Mom trademark.

“Maybe.” I kept my face blank. “I don’t know if the hospital’s really Ryan’s scene. It’s not exactly going to be fun.”

“Kitten, I know that, but I’m sure you girls will still manage to create plenty of drama.”

“The hospital isn’t summer camp.” I kept my annoyance carefully controlled. She’d been there when Dr. Kevin explained treatment: remission induction—a.k.a. a month’s stay in the hospital so they could administer chemo and do other painful, awful things. “I don’t know if I’m going to be up for girls’ nights.”

“Of course you are.” But her smile weakened. She stood and brushed some hair out of my face, a transparent attempt to feel my forehead. Maybe she understood a little.

“I haven’t even told them.”

Mom touched my hair again, then frowned at my bruised arm. Her voice was slow, thoughtful. “What if you don’t tell them just yet? Maybe you should wait and see how things go. Give it a few days—and if you feel up to visitors, then you could call them.”

“Not tell them?” I was filled with sudden shame, like cancer was my fault and something to hide. “Dad, what do you think?”

“It’s your illness, Mia. You get to decide who you want to know.” This was as close as he ever came to disagreeing with Mom.

“I already told Gyver.”

Mom fluttered her fingers in dismissal. “Gyver’s different. We told his parents this morning. But maybe hold off on your friends; you don’t know how treatment’s going to make you feel. You might want privacy.”

“But you told the Russos?” I curled my fingers over my newest bruise, hiding it from sight as I realized how my mother saw it: a blemish and a dark sign of things to come.

“It couldn’t be helped. I’ve decided to take a leave of absence from the firm until induction’s done.” She shifted her shoulders in a show of self-pride. “Vinny Russo would know something was up when all of a sudden I didn’t carpool and wasn’t at work.”

“Maybe I won’t tell the girls right now,” I said, looking from Mom’s nod of agreement to Dad. Hil would want to know everything. Everything. And I didn’t have all the answers yet. Or the energy to sit through an interrogation.

Dad picked up a pamphlet off the table. “If you’re not ready to tell people, that’s okay. There’s an article here comparing a diagnosis to mourning, because there are sta—”

Mom interrupted. “We’ll beat this. Because, kitten, you can do anything. You are smart and brave and beautiful and you have friends and family who all love you very much.” Her voice was chipper as ever—a throwback to her own days as a cheerleader—but her eyes were wet.

I did what was required when Mom gave one of her my-daughter-is-a-superhero pep talks; I smiled and agreed. Although I had to bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that none of the characteristics she named had magical anti-cancer properties. I couldn’t think my way healthy, and despite her focus on cheerleading and beauty, leukemia isn’t a popularity contest.

“I’ve got to get in the shower. I’m meeting the girls at noon.”

“Don’t be too long. We’re leaving for the hospital at three,” Dad reminded me.

Mom said, “And kitten, remember what we discussed.” She put a finger to her lips and raised her eyebrows.

Was it even possible to keep my cancer a secret? I needed a sign.





Chapter 5

My friends and I always ate at Iggy’s. Not because the food was better than any other diner’s, and not because the fifties décor of record albums and black-and-white-checkered floor tiles was anything special. We ate here because we always had—and the cheerleaders before us had too. We were guaranteed a booth with almost no wait, and they never kicked us out for spending too long gossiping over a basket of fries and Diet Cokes.

It was always the four of us—we called ourselves the Calendar Girls. Back in middle school we’d decided birthdays weren’t enough, so we’d each chosen a season to be celebrated. Hillary Wagner’s dark hair and icy attitude made her winter. Ally Wells’s sunshine and frequent tear-showers made her spring. Lauren Connors’s red hair and ghost-pale skin linked her to fall.

I was easygoing. I was carefree. I was summer. Technically it was my season; if I wanted the girls to spend the next month in my hospital room, they would. Just like we’d campaign to make sure Lauren would be Fall Ball queen, Hil would be crowned at the SnowBall, and Ally would wear the queen’s sash at prom. My wish was their command until the first day of school—but what did I wish for?

“I have an idea,” Hil announced once Lauren returned from visiting a group of boys in another booth. “But it won’t work unless we all agree.”

“Should we be nervous?” asked Ally.

“No,” said Hil. “Well, maybe Lauren.”

When Lauren squeaked, “Wait, me?” Hil laughed and said, “Joking.” We each had our role within the group: Lauren’s constant need for reassurance was balanced by Ally’s need to be needed. Hil’s outrageous schemes counteracted my pragmatism.