Five Feet Apart(9)

I toss the note back onto the bed, eyeing the sheets before giving them a quick whiff to be safe. Starch and bleach. Just the regular hospital eau de cologne. Good.

I slide into the squeaky leather hospital recliner by the window and push aside a heap of colored pencils and sketchbooks, grabbing my laptop from under a bunch of photocopied 1940s political cartoons I was looking at earlier for reference. I open my browser and type Stella Grant into Google, not expecting much. She seems like the type to have only the most private of Facebook pages. Or a lame Twitter account where she retweets memes about the importance of hand washing.

The first result, though, is a YouTube page called Stella Grant’s Not-So-Secret CF Diary, filled with at least a hundred videos dating back six years or so. I squint, because the page name looks weirdly familiar. Oh my god, this is that lame channel my mom sent me a link to a few months ago in an attempt to rally me into taking my treatments seriously.

Maybe if I’d known she looked like that . . .

I scroll down to the first entry, clicking on a video with a thumbnail of a young Stella wearing a mouthful of metal and a high ponytail. I try not to laugh. I wonder what her teeth look like now, considering I’ve never seen her smile.

Probably pretty nice. She seems like the type who would actually wear her retainer at night instead of letting it collect dust on some bathroom shelf.

I don’t think mine even made it home from the orthodontist.

I hit the volume button and her voice comes pouring out of my speakers.

“Like all CFers, I was born terminal. Our bodies make too much mucus, and that mucus likes to get into our lungs and cause infections, making our lung function de-teri-orate.” The young girl stumbles over the big word before flashing the camera a big smile. “Right now, I’m at fifty percent lung function.”

There’s a crappy cut, and she turns around on a set of stairs that I recognize from the main entrance of the hospital. No wonder she knows her way around here so well. She’s been coming here forever.

I smile back at the little girl even though that cut was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever seen. She sits down on the steps, taking a deep breath. “Dr. Hamid says, at this rate, I’m gonna need a transplant by the time I’m in high school. A transplant’s not a cure, but it will give me more time! I’d love a few more years if I’m lucky enough to get one!”

Tell me about it, Stella.

At least she’s got a shot.





CHAPTER 3


STELLA


I pull on the blue AffloVest, snapping it into place around my torso with Barb’s help. It looks an awful lot like a life vest, except for the remote coming out of it. For the quickest moment I let it be a life vest, and I stare out the window, picturing myself in Cabo on a boat with Mya and Camila, the afternoon sun glowing on the horizon.

The seagulls chirping, the sandy beach in the distance, the shirtless surfers—and then, despite myself, I think of Will. I blink, Cabo fading away as the barren trees outside my window swing into view.

“So, Will. He’s a CFer, then?” I ask, though that’s obvious. Barb helps me clip the last strap into place. I pull at the shoulder of the vest so it doesn’t rub into my bony collarbone.

“A CFer and then some. B. cepacia. He’s part of the new drug trial for Cevaflomalin.” She reaches over, flicking the machine on and giving me a look.

My eyes widen and I look over at my giant tub of hand sanitizer. I was that close to him and he has B. cepacia? It’s pretty much a death sentence for people with CF. He’ll be lucky to make it a few more years.

And that’s if he’s as dedicated to his regimen as I am.

The vest begins vibrating. Hard. I can feel the mucus in my lungs starting to slowly loosen.

“You contract that and you can kiss the possibility of new lungs good-bye,” she adds, eyeing me. “Stay away.”

I nod. Oh, I fully intend to do just that. I need that extra time. Besides, he was way too full of himself to be my type. “The trial,” I start to say, looking over at Barb and holding up my hand to pause the conversation as I cough up a wad of mucus.

She nods in approval and hands me a standard-issue pale-pink bedpan. I spit into it and wipe my mouth before talking.

“What are his odds?”

Barb exhales, shaking her head before meeting my gaze. “Nobody knows. The drug’s too new.”

Her look says it all, though. We fall silent except for the chugging of the machine, the vest vibrating away.

“You’re set. Need anything before I hit the road?”

I grin at her, giving her a pleading look. “A milk shake?”

She rolls her eyes, putting her hands on her hips. “What, am I room service now?”

“Gotta take advantage of the perks, Barb!” I say, which makes her laugh.

She leaves, and I sit back, the AffloVest making my whole body shake as it works. My mind wanders, and I picture Will’s reflection in the glass of the NICU, standing just behind me with a daring smile on his face.

B. cepacia. That’s rough.

But walking around the hospital without a mask on? It’s no wonder he got it in the first place, pulling stunts like that. I’ve seen his type in the hospital more times than I can count. The careless, Braveheart type, rebelling in a desperate attempt to defy their diagnosis before it all comes to an end. It’s not even original.