Send Me a Sign(26)

“We talked about movies, didn’t we?” I asked after a pause. “You were making a list of movies I needed to see. And music. You talked about bands I’d never heard of.”

“Maybe that’s why you kept falling asleep.” Gyver pulled me closer and I nuzzled drowsily against his chest. “I made lots of lists. Bands, movies, things to do when you got out of the hospital.”

“What’re we going to do?” I wanted to stay awake and have this conversation—it felt important—but I was so sleepy and comfortable.

His voice hushed. “Anything. Everything. I want to do everything with you, Mi.”

“Can I see these lists?” I murmured, an escapist yawn splitting the final word in two.

“Not tonight. We’ve got time.”



“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Mrs. Russo fretted as she showed me where to stack the mail and how she’d gathered the plants on the kitchen table so I could water them while they were away for a week in Martha’s Vineyard. The routine hadn’t changed since I started plant sitting in second grade.

“I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re feeling too tired, it’s okay to miss a day.”

This was proof I shouldn’t tell people; Mrs. Russo doubted my ability to empty a mailbox and fill a watering can.

“I’ve managed to keep myself alive so far; I don’t think a dozen plants will be too tricky.” I smiled, she didn’t.

“Dearest, take a seat. Do you have a minute?” She fussed in the fridge, serving me a large dish of tiramisu. “Can you eat this?”

I reached around the island and grabbed a fork from the drawer. “I can if you don’t tell my mom.”

She smiled, poured a glass of milk, and sat across from me. “I’ve wanted to talk to you since your diagnosis, but I haven’t found a moment where you weren’t guarded by my son or your mom.”

I dragged my fork through the dessert, mixing the powdered top into the creamy layer. “About what?”

She put a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were all sympathy with no trace of their police-chief sternness. “This hiding thing you’re doing, it isn’t good. You’re sick. You’ve got leukemia. Hiding it, lying about it, those are forms of denial.”

“I know I’m sick.” The dessert curdled in my mouth.

“And I know your parents. I know you.” She paused. “This is your time to kick your feet and make a fuss. Cry, yell, do something. You’re allowed. It’d be healthy.”

The irony of the word “healthy” snapped me out of the pity cocoon I’d started to build. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“Leukemia is not fine. Not accepting you’re sick isn’t fine. Your stoicism and the lies—Mia, you have to tell people.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” I crossed my arms. “You think I don’t know I’m sick? I couldn’t forget if I wanted to! Whether or not other people know—that’s my choice. I don’t need or want people judging me.”

“I’m not judging, but you need to focus on getting well, not waste energy pretending everything’s okay for your parents or your friends.” She pulled me close and I relented, clutching a handful of her sundress so she couldn’t let go.

This comfort felt a bit like betrayal; Mom would hate this whole conversation. She’d say Mrs. Russo was meddling; that this wasn’t sympathy, it was pity.

I let myself linger for another few seconds before I pulled away from the embrace and swallowed a sob. I couldn’t go down that pathetic, sloppy, poor-me path. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. I just needed to try little harder and do a better job of faking it until the pieces of my life fell back into place.

“I’m fine,” I repeated.

“And I’m here. Whenever you need me. I believe you can beat this. I pray for it and I believe it.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Now eat—you’re far too skinny.”





Chapter 13

I tugged at my T-shirt and yoga pants; they didn’t fit like mine anymore.

“Hil, I can’t tumble.” Dr. Kevin had forbidden it, and my secret backyard attempts were displayed in a blackish bruise across my butt and left thigh.

“What?” Her eyebrows arched and she crossed her arms.

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to meet her eyes. The old Mia didn’t back down from Hil. Of course, she didn’t have to lie as often either. But I’d prepped for this one. “I pulled something in my knee running in Connecticut. I can still cheer, but the doctor said no tumbling until it’s healed.”

Hil pressed her lips into a thin, shiny line and I braced myself, but a new girl spoke first. “So all of Ally’s talk about Mia being the best tumbler ever and she can’t even tumble?”

Hil spun around and the girl choked off midgiggle. “And you’re so great, Sarah? Maybe if you’d spent all summer training instead of bitching, you’d be close to as good as Mia is. No, never mind, you wouldn’t. And even when she’s not tumbling, Mia’s a more important part of this squad than you’ll ever be.”

Sarah blinked and backed away. I touched Hil’s arm and she turned. “Get a doctor’s note for Coach Lindsey and don’t run if it will make your knee worse. I want you tumbling ASAP.”