Styx & Stones Page 3
I close the app and smile like a dick. Then I check the time on my phone and launch myself off the bed. “Mom?”
She bursts through the door in a robe with a towel over her head. There are suds on her face, like she was just washing it. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Can you drive me to the hospital?”
“What’s the matter?” She races toward me and places her hand on my forehead. “You’re not burning up.”
“I’m not sick, Mom.” I shove her hand away and roll my eyes, throwing on my hoodie and chucks. “I have group.”
“Oh my God.” She lets out an exasperated sigh and holds her hand to her chest. “You gave me a heart attack. I thought there was an emergency.”
“There is. I gotta get to group.”
Mom shakes her head. “I thought you weren’t going this time?”
I shrug, ignoring the way she studies me. “I am.”
“Okay, just give me five minutes.”
“We’re gonna be late.”
“Styx, I can’t go in my bathrobe. I have cleanser on my face, and a casserole in the oven.”
“Fine. I’ll drive myself.”
“No. Not on your life. I’ve seen the way you drive.”
“Dad lets me drive.”
“Your dad is just as bad a driver as you are. Why do you think he rides everywhere in the city?”
I shake my head and brush past. “I’ll wait in the car.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALASKA
After group, I wait in the restroom and scroll through my messages on IG so I won’t have to endure another interrogation from Styx. When ten minutes have passed, I exit the ladies’ and nod to the security guard by the entrance as I leave the hospital. I glance at the packed lot, surprised that outside it’s blissfully quiet while inside, nurses and doctors bustle about, trying to save lives.
The breeze caresses my face, and I pull my coat tighter around my body to ward away the bitter SF chill already in the air.
“Hey.”
I jump, startled. I thought I was alone out here, and I have no desire to talk to some creepy, homeless dude.
Slowly, I turn and find loner boy leaning against the wall, phone in hand, earbuds in. I hadn’t known he’d be in support group. Though we do chemo at the same hospital, so I guess it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise. Still, he sat through the whole thing like he was too good for it, too bored, and like his time was too precious to entertain a bunch of other dying kids.
“Hey,” I say, glancing at the parked cars in the lot, praying my mom will hurry up and save me from having to speak to Mr. We’re All Gonna Die Anyway for long.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He pushes off the wall and stands beside me. “So, group therapy. That’s some kind of bullshit, right?”
I laugh, despite myself. “Yeah, it really is.”
He pulls the buds from his ears, opens his satchel, and tosses them inside. “I was gonna skip this time ’round, but my mom insisted.”
I frown and study his face under the unflattering fluorescent light. To look at him, you’d never know he was sick. “You’re not the first person to say that to me today.”
He clears his throat. “Really? So, you have other cancer friends?”
“Is that what we are? Cancer friends?”
“It’s an exclusive club. Invite only.” He shrugs. “And it requires all members exchange phone numbers.”
“Really?” I laugh and fold my arms across my chest. “And how many members are in this club?”
“Right now? Just you and me. I’m the club president, so I guess that makes you treasurer and VP.”
“What if I want to be the president?”
“Can’t. Sorry. The president has to be impeached or die for you to get promoted, but hey, less than four short years and you’ll be running the joint.”
My smile vanishes. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make out like death is some big joke?”
“Isn’t it?”
“You know, there are plenty of other people in your position, who are just trying to live, and who aren’t making light of their illness.” I button my coat, because my hands need something to do other than punch him in his pretty face.
“Like you?” He raises a brow. The cool autumn breeze stirs his hair from his shoulders. The kid isn’t even wearing a coat. It’s like he wants to die. “Tell me, Stones, how should I treat my diagnosis? How should I behave so that you’re comfortable?”
“Like you actually give a shit. Like you actually want to live,” I snap. My words hang heavy between us. What is it about this guy that drives me so fucking crazy?
A humorless laugh escapes him, and he steps closer. His eyes bore into mine, but they’re not angry. No. His brow is furrowed, his mouth turned down at the corners, and his eyes? His eyes don’t just look sad—they are sadness. My heart pangs, my stomach twists, and he takes another step closer. So close his breath skims my face. So close we could kiss. “I want a lot of things that I’m likely never going to get.”
I inhale. He exhales. His warm breath brushes my cheek, and then he pushes past and walks to the car waiting at the curb. A car I hadn’t even noticed. He doesn’t look at me as the vehicle peels away, but the woman driving does—his mom, I guess. She smiles and waves, but Styx just looks straight ahead, as if he’s done with me. Dismissed. I’ve been dismissed by loner boy.
Oh, hell no.
***
I pick up my phone and open the Gram. Bypassing my feed and notifications, I open up my earlier message to @zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint.
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: You were right. Group therapy is the worst. Why didn’t you warn me?
I stare at the message, waiting for a reply. When it doesn’t come, I click on his profile and check out his page. His bio states: Music journo wannabe, will never grow up, kicked cancer’s ass once ... the bastard came back.
Black and white pics of concerts and rock stars litter his feed. There are also a lot of pictures of Zed Atwood from the band Taint in the throes of rock-god-dom. I guess it makes sense, given his handle, but there is some next-level hero worship going on here.
I scroll for far too long, hoping for just a glimpse of my mystery messager, but if he’s one of the guys in the bands pictured, I wouldn’t know. There’s not a single photo of one man on his own other than Zed Atwood, and I’m pretty sure I’m not talking to him.
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: I’m pretty sure I did.
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: Nope. No, you didn’t.
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: Yeah, I did.
God. Is every guy going through man-o-pause right now? Why are boys so argumentative today?
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: No. You said only that you were sitting it out this time. By the way, this other guy at group said he wanted to sit it out too, but his mom wouldn’t let him. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. Not.
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: So you’re making friends already, huh?
I remember the awkward conversation with Styx and groan out loud, and then cover my mouth so my parents won’t beat down my door asking if they can get me anything. I love them both dearly, but sometimes I hate all the hovering they’ve done since my diagnosis.
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: Urgh. Don’t even get me started on that guy.
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: What did he do? Hit on you at group? That seems kind of desperate.
I frown, wondering exactly what it was that set me off with Styx tonight. Sure, he’s blasé and abrasive, and if he wants to joke about his illness then what do I care? Only ... I do care. I don’t know him at all, yet I want to strangle the life out of him for being so flippant about his own, well ... life.
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: No, he didn’t hit on me.
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: Then he’s an idiot, because I’ve seen you. You’re hot.
I laugh.
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: Thanks. Wait,
are you hitting on me?
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: No. That would be totally inappropriate. I mean, I could be a seventy-year-old pedophile for all you know.
Oh God, he’s right. I don’t know if this guy is thirteen or thirty. My stomach knots. I don’t know him at all, but the idea of not speaking to him sends a pang of disappointment through me. It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to about the cancer stuff.
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: OMG! Are you a seventy-year-old pedophile?
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: LOL. No, but you should be careful who you talk to on the internet. Didn’t your parents ever teach you stranger danger? And does it count that every inch of me feels like a seventy-year-old?
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: But not the pedophile part, right?
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: Right.
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: I like having you to talk to about this stuff. It makes it ... easier ... you know?
@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: Yeah, I know.
CHAPTER NINE
ALASKA
At school, I sit at our lunch table. I search the cafeteria for Grace, and Eleanor, who are usually already here with fries and shakes, but they’re absent. Again.
I haven’t talked to Grace since our fight last week, and El texted a few times, but it’s clear she’s still avoiding me. Maybe I’m a cancer on my friends too.
I sip my strawberry shake. I love strawberry shakes, but today it makes me want to puke. I glance at my phone, send a text to my friends, and when I glance up, Styx is standing in front of me. I shove a few fries in my mouth to avoid having to speak to him.
He sits opposite me.
I glare, finish my fries, and swallow. “What the hell are you doing?”
He looks around and then back at me, pointing to himself and mouthing, “Me?”
“Why are you sitting here?” I take a pull from my straw, trying to dislodge the stuck fry in my throat.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this not the cancer table?”
I spit milkshake all over his face. A beat passes. I cover my mouth, trying to hide my laughter as strawberry milk drips off his hair.
“Guess not.” He picks up his tray and stands. I throw a French fry at him.
“Stay.” I bite my lip to keep from smiling. He sits, and stares down at the fat, pink drops that splatter his lunch with a pat, pat, pat. “Here. I have some wet wipes in my bag.”
“You carry wet wipes? Wow. I thought you were so much cooler than that.”
I shrug. “Never know when you’re going to have a makeup emergency. Or in this case, a funny-bastard emergency.” I hand him the wet wipes and he glances at the pack.
“Coco Betty?”
“They’re good for your skin, cruelty free, and expensive as fuck, and I’m poor now that I have cancer, go easy.”
He chuckles. “So, you think I’m a funny bastard, huh?”
“Well, bastard is true enough.”
“How come you didn’t sit with the rest of us in chemo for your first session? Afraid it’s catching?”
I throw another fry, which he plucks from mid-air. “Why would I want to sit with a bunch of old people and talk about how I’m going to die?”
“I’m not old people.”
“No, but you’re ...” I wave a hand over him and screw up my nose. “... you.”
“You wanna get out of here?”
“What? Cut class? With you?”
“Why the hell not?” He shrugs. “What are they gonna do? Ground us for life? Way I see it, with a tumor that size, you’ve got two years—three, tops.”
My smile fades. A frown crinkles my forehead and I grit my teeth. “Excuse me?”
“Cancer humor. You can only say shit like that to another cancer patient.”
“You’re an ass.”
“And you, Alaska darling, are lovely when you’re incited.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Your future boyfriend.”
I burst out laughing. I laugh so damn hard that my stomach aches. Everyone in the cafeteria turns to watch us, but I don’t care.
“I’m gonna try not to be offended by that soul-crushing laughter.”
I laugh harder. When I finally stop, I glance at him through my tears. Styx is grinning at me. “Okay.”
“Okay you’ll be my girlfriend?”
“No, dumbass. Okay I’ll cut school with you. But you better make this good.”
“Oh, it’ll be good.”
CHAPTER TEN
STYX
Shit.
I finally have the girl of my dreams willing to spend time with me, and I have no idea where the hell to take her.
I could take her home to Mom’s, but if she’s there we’ll likely get the third degree for cutting class. We could go to my dad’s, but there’s fuck all to do there besides drink. Not that I’ve ever been opposed to that, but chemo seems to be poison enough for now.
She closes the passenger door of my dad’s beat-up truck and grins. “So, where are we going?”
I swallow and draw a blank, choosing to start the engine so I don’t have to answer.
“You don’t have any idea, do you?” She laughs and opens the door. “You promised it would be good.”
“And it will,” I say. “I’m just getting a plan together.”
“You’re so full of it.”
“I’m not full of it.” I throw the truck in reverse and pull out of the lot. “This will be an afternoon like no other.”
“Uh-huh.” She grins. “I can’t wait to see how truly miraculous this afternoon is.”
Ten minutes later, we’re staring up at a blackened-out storefront in The Mission, and I’ll admit, if I didn’t know the owner and chef, I’d be glancing up at the restaurant with a grimace on my face too.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Alaska says.
“Nope.”
“I am not going in there.” She folds her arms in front of her chest. “For all we know this place is run by an axe murderer, and we’ll end up on the news. A cautionary tale for other kids wanting to cut school.”
“He’s not an axe murderer.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s like my uncle.”
Stones blanches. “Oh shit. I didn’t mean ...”
“Yes, you did. But he’s not really my uncle. Not by blood anyway.”
“So, he’s a creepy, touchy-feely uncle then?”
“Come on, Stones. Live a little.”
She scowls but steps across the threshold. With a grin, I follow her into the darkness. I’ve never been here without my parents, so I’m just praying I’m not wrong about Uncle Carlos.
“Hey, little Hendricks!” Carlos booms so loudly that all of the patrons turn their heads to give us a once-over.
“Hey, Uncle Carlos. How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain, ese. What about you? How you doin’ with the health stuff?”
“Er ...” I pull the collar of my T-shirt aside and show him the bandage covering a tube that feeds meds right to my vena cava. “Not so great.”
“Ah shit, that’s fucked up, bro.”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“This is Alaska.” I say. “She’s not my friend though.”
Carlos’ brows shoot skyward. “Your mamacita?”
“She wishes.”
Carlos laughs and shakes his head, while Alaska just glares at me. “Bueno, parece que tu mujer quiere matarte, hombre.”
Stones smiles sweetly and says, “I may kill him, but not until I’ve eaten.”
Carlos laughs, but I can only stare at her in shock. “You speak Spanish?”
“Fluently, duh! I did grow up five minutes from The Mission.”
Touché.
After the best burritos in San Francisco, we walk down Capp Street and head to Clarion Alley. Stones’ face lights up when we see all the murals. “This is my favorite street in SF.”
“Yeah?”
“I noticed. You did the mural at the back of school, right?”
“Yeah, I had some help though. It was a class effort.” She smiles. “Mostly I just do the sides of buildings or shopfronts here in The Mission. Or my bedroom walls and ceiling, though that usually freaks my mom out. I think she’s worried I’ll start taking over the rest of the house. She did let me paint the back fence though.”
“That’s awesome. I’d love to see it.”
“You will.”
Holy shit. Did she just give me an open invitation to her house?
Alaska stares up at a mural, completely oblivious to the effect her words have on me. I know I should be studying the surrounding colors and linework too, but she’s the only art I see.
“What I’d really love is to paint this alley,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Of course. It’s iconic.”
I shrug. “I guess. My mom knows the people who run it. She takes the pictures for their website, so I was down here every other week as a kid.”
“Your mom’s a photographer?” She stops, grabbing my arm in a vise grip. “Holy shit, your mom is Viv Hendricks?”
I frown, though this is usually the response I get when people figure out my mom is the Viv Hendricks. “You know her?”
“Are you kidding? Her work is amazing. That series she did on SF’s homeless epidemic? Wow! Do you know how lucky you are?”
I laugh. “Yeah. She’s alright, as far as parents go.”
“I would die to meet her.” Her eyes are wide as saucers. “You have to take me now.”
I thought you’d never ask.
I smirk. “You don’t waste any time do you, Stones? One date and already you’re inviting yourself back to my house.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“Sure it is.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks pink up, and I know I’ve riled her. Alaska turns back the way we came and exits the alley. I follow with a grin stretched from ear to ear.
This is definitely a date.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALASKA
@alaskasaerosoladdiction: Remind me again how poisoning my body is going to cure it?