Instructions for Dancing(61)

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It’s been twenty-one days since I found out that the boy I love is going to die. I want to say that every passing day is better than the one before, but it’s not true.

There are places my mind refuses to go. Exactly when does he die, and how? I remember my vision of Archibald and Maggie standing in an open field, snowflakes drifting in the air around them, watching a coffin being lowered into the ground. How will they survive the death of their grandson? How will his parents? Kevin and Jamal and all his other friends? Will he know it’s going to happen? Will he suffer? What will his last thought be?

Sometimes I want to call him and tell him the truth. But telling him would be cruel. Just because I’m burdened with this awful knowing doesn’t mean he should be. I remember the round of Tipsy Philosophicals we played at our first bonfire, the one where we first kissed. I asked everyone if they’d want to know when and where we were going to die. X said no. He said it would take the fun out of everything. I said yes, that it was always good to be prepared.

Sometimes I want to call him and tell him the other truth, which is that I love him and I always will. But telling him that would also be cruel.

What would I say?

I love you, but you’re going to die, so I can’t love you?

I can’t because I’m scared I won’t survive the pain? Or, that’s not right. I’m not scared I won’t survive the pain. I’m scared the pain will never end and I’ll have to live with it forever.

The problem with broken hearts isn’t that they kill you. It’s that they don’t.





CHAPTER 55





The Fish and the Water



I’VE BEEN IN my room and in bed with the lights off for basically the entire weekend when Mom knocks on my door.

“Come bake with me,” she says. “I’m making bread pudding.” She’s wearing her Kiss the Cook apron.

“I’m not really in the mood,” I say, burying myself even farther under the blanket.

“Well, you’re doing it anyway,” she says, pulling my blanket off. I know from her tone that I don’t have a choice.

As soon as I get downstairs, she points to the recipe and hands me a stack of measuring cups and spoons. “You do the dry ingredients.”

I get the sugar and cinnamon from the pantry.

She waits until I’m busy cubing bread to say what she wants to say: “I want you to tell me what happened with you and X.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. I grab another slice of bread and keep on cubing.

We’re back to communicating in sighs. Hers now is Frustrated. “I’m your mother, and I know something happened. I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me.”



All I want to do is go back to bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist. “You first,” I say.

She’s been whisking eggs, but now she stops to look at me. “Me first what?”

“You want me to talk to you, but you never talk to me.” I measure out the sugar and pour it into a bowl. “How many times have I tried to get you to talk to me about Dad?”

“This again?” she says, and restarts her whisking. “The business between me and your father is between me and your father.”

I don’t mean to cry, but tears are suddenly welling behind my eyes and in my throat, like they’ve always been there waiting. “You’re not the only one Dad left. He left me and Dani too.” I drop the measuring cup onto the counter. “He left us too.”

The air between us is shocked. She looks stunned and then devastated. Her hand flutters to her hair and then to the whisk and back to her hair again. “Sweetheart,” she says. She pushes the bowl away and pulls me into her arms. “Don’t cry, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

I pull away from her. “Why does everyone keep telling me not to cry when there’s plenty of things to cry about? Why do you and Dani act like everything is fine?”

She looks down at the counter, presses her fingers into it. “How do you want me to act?”

“I want you to stop pretending that everything isn’t terrible now. Why aren’t you angry with him? Why won’t you talk about it?”



She sighs again, but this one isn’t frustrated or angry. It’s a release. “You want to know why I won’t talk about it?”

I nod.

“Because mothers take care of their children, not the other way around. I wipe your tears. You’re not supposed to wipe mine.”

She looks at me and her eyes are stark and filled with tears she won’t let fall.

“I was devastated when your father told me what he was doing. I felt like someone reached into my chest and—” She stops herself and sucks in a breath. “Anyway. You think I wasn’t angry with your father? I was angry. Sometimes I’m still angry.” Her voice is soft, but the pain in it is loud, louder than it’s ever been. “I didn’t talk to you because I was trying to protect you. You and your father were so sweet together. I didn’t want this thing to change the way you felt about him.”

How have I managed to be so wrong?

I thought she wasn’t feeling enough. It turns out she was feeling everything.