Cures for Heartbreak by Margo Rabb

cancer guy, and my worries increased. “He was tired—that was the first sign. He had to lie down in the middle of the day. Then he had these red spots on his legs,” Gigi told us in the hallway one afternoon, remembering. “It happened when he was fifteen. I called the doctor and he said to come in right away. He knew what it was off the bat, I could tell from his face. But he ordered tests before he said anything. The tests came back, and sure enough: acute lymphocytic leukemia. Next thing I know we’re in the hospital.”
    Now, leafing through my father’s Green Springs brochure, I felt tired. I checked my own legs for spots.
    I was afraid that something could be in me too, ticking away, ready to strike at any moment. Or if not a disease, then an accident, coiled in the future like a cat waiting to spring. I’d lived all my life not worrying at all—never once had I worried about my mother having melanoma and dying in twelve days, or fifteen-year-olds catching fatal diseases. What an ignoramus! What a naive, unknowing, sheltered newbie.
    The cancer guy had spoken to me once. It was in the solarium, the day after his birthday party. He said, “I like your dad. He’s funny.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, and stared down at my book. The cancer guy was talking to me. To me . Why me? I tried to see myself in his eyes. It would probably make him happy to havea healthy, regular girl talk to him. I mean, what girls did he meet in here? Cancer girls?
    A wave of shame engulfed me. Shame that I was thinking these thoughts, that I kind of liked him, and I was afraid that the thing I liked was his cancer.
    I’d watched too many TV movies—I’d always felt sorry for those young main characters—and now here was one in front of me. Dying. He was dying . Of cancer . I couldn’t even wrap my mind around it. He was only four years older than me.
    He was kind of cute, though, despite the baldness and pale skin.
    He hovered beside me, waiting for me to say something. I forced myself to speak. “Did you, um, have a good birthday?” I asked. My voice sounded like an ad for Cheer laundry detergent.
    â€œIt was splendid,” he said.
    More shame, hot and sickening. I was such a doofus. To think that I found his cancer appealing, that I felt attracted to his horrifying tragedy like a gnat to light. A rubbernecker, that’s what I was. I’d been so mad at Melody Bly and those who’d wanted to crash my own grief party, and now I was doing exactly the same thing.
    I was disgusting. My face flushed; I gazed at my book.
    â€œWhat are you reading?” he asked.
    It was a romance novel entitled Larissa’s Love Royale, which I’d bought in the gift shop. It wasn’t one of those romanceswith a subtle cover that try to pass themselves off as ordinary books, either. No. This was all luscious bosom, gold embossed letters, and tanned male chestage, set on a Renaissance pirate ship. Why hadn’t I brought The Canterbury Tales, which we were reading in school, instead?
    Perhaps because it was hard to lose myself in Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages in the death ward.
    â€œUm,” I said, “nothing.” I kept gazing at my open book, maneuvering my arms to shield the page from his view. I was afraid to look at him. I tried to think of how to slip the novel into my book bag smoothly and non-embarrassingly when he said, “Well. Bye.” And he walked back toward his room.
    That was it.
    I didn’t even say bye back. I didn’t call after him, Wait! Sorry! Or Get well soon! Or Actually, I really like you!
    I replayed, rewrote, reimagined the scene in my head many times after that, developing it into further interactions with plot twists and revelations. In one version the cancer guy said he was in love with me and wanted one last hurrah before death. In another, he helped me with my homework while I consoled him with understanding