Five Feet Apart(21)
He and Will break out into laughter for the third time over my makeshift hazmat suit. I glare at them before glancing down the hallway.
“Still clear?”
He pushes off on his skateboard and slowly rolls past the nurses’ station, peering over the desk.
He shoots a thumbs-up in my direction. “Just hurry up.”
“I’m almost done!” I say, ducking back into the room and closing the door.
I eye the med cart, breathing a sigh of contentment over how meticulously organized it is. But then I see the desk his laptop is sitting on, which is so . . . not. I march over and grab a handful of colored pencils, putting them safely back in the pencil holder they belong in. I straighten up the magazines and sketchbooks, making sure they are in order by size, and as I do, a piece of paper falls out.
It’s a cartoon boy who looks a lot like Will holding a pair of balloons and forcing air into deflated-looking lungs, his face red from the effort. I grin, reading the caption under it: “Just breathe.”
It’s really good.
Reaching out, I gently trace Will’s lungs, like I do with Abby’s drawing. My gloved fingertips land on the small cartoon of Will, his sharp jawline, his unruly hair, his blue eyes, and the same burgundy sweatshirt he was wearing on the roof.
All that’s missing is the smile.
I look up at the wall, noticing he has only an old cartoon hung up right above his bed. Grabbing a tack from a small jar, I hang his cartoon on the wall below it.
The laptop dings and I blink, quickly pulling my hand away. Upload complete. I spin around, walking to his desk and unplugging his phone. Scooping everything up, I pull open the door and hold out the phone to the noncartoon Will.
He stretches to take it from me, fixing his face mask with the other hand.
“I built an app for chronic illnesses. Med charts, schedules.” I shrug casually. “It’ll alert you when you need to take your pills or do a treat—”
“You built an app? Like, built it, built it?” he cuts me off, looking from the phone to me in surprise, his blue eyes wide.
“Newsflash. Girls can code.”
His phone chirps and I see the animated pill bottle appear on his screen. “Ivacaftor. A hundred and fifty milligrams,” I tell him. Damn, I already feel better.
I raise my eyebrows at Will, who is giving me a look that’s not mocking for once. He’s impressed. Good. “My app is so simple even boys can figure it out.”
I saunter off, swaying my nonexistent hips confidently, cheeks warm as I head straight to the public bathroom on the other side of the floor that no one uses.
The light flickers on as I lock the door behind me. I rip off my gloves and grab some disinfectant wipes from a round bin by the door, scrubbing my hands down three times. Exhaling slowly, I rip everything I’m wearing off; the booties and the cap and the face mask and the scrubs and the gown. I shove them all into the bin, pushing them down and closing the lid before running to the sink.
My skin is crawling, like I can feel the B. cepacia looking for a way to slip inside and eat away at me.
I go to the sink and turn the handle, hot water pouring loudly out of the tap. I grip the smooth porcelain, looking at myself in the mirror, standing there in my bra and underwear. The handful of raised scars lining my chest and stomach from surgery after surgery, my ribs pushing through my skin when I breathe, the sharp angle of my collarbone made sharper by the dim lighting of the bathroom. The redness around my G-tube is worsening, an infection definitely starting to form.
I’m too thin, too scarred, too . . . I meet my hazel eyes in the mirror.
Why would Will want to draw me?
His voice echoes in my head, calling me beautiful. Beautiful. It makes my heart flip in a way it shouldn’t.
Steam begins to cloud the mirror, blurring the image. I look away, pumping the soap until it overflows in my hand. I scrub my hands and my arms and my face with it, washing everything away and down the sink. Then I apply some heavy-duty hand sanitizer for good measure.
I dry off, opening the lid on the second trash can and pulling out a bag of clothes that I carefully put there an hour earlier on my way to Will’s room. Once I’m dressed, I glance in the mirror one more time before carefully leaving the bathroom, making sure no one sees me exiting. Good as new.
*
Lounging on my bed, I eye my Monday to-do list warily but keep scrolling through social media on my phone instead. I tap on Camila’s Instagram Story, watching for the millionth time as she waves happily to the camera from a kayak, holding the phone over her head to show Mya paddling frantically behind her.
Most of my time since the secret hazmat operation has been spent vicariously absorbing Cabo through my classmates’ Instagram Stories. I went snorkeling in crystal-blue waters with Melissa. Sailing with Jude to see the Arch of Cabo San Lucas. Basked on the beach with a seemingly not-too-heartbroken Brooke.
Just as I’m about to hit refresh yet again, there’s a knock on my door and Barb pops her head in. She eyes my med cart for a second and I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming. “Have you been in Will’s room? His setup looks . . . awful familiar.”
I shake my head, nope. Wasn’t me. A perk of being a goody two shoes is that Barb will probably believe me.
I’m relieved when my laptop dings with a FaceTime notification, Poe’s picture popping up on the screen. I freeze before answering it, silently willing him not to say anything about Will as I spin my laptop around.