Side Effects May Vary (7 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers

Alice.

Then.

“H
arvey, I appreciate you being here,” I said, taking a seat at my kitchen table.

I had seen Harvey at school, but I hadn't talked to him since last week when I told him I'd been diagnosed. In the last year, his obnoxiously curly hair had relaxed into waves, but his face would always have that permanently sleepy look to it. His thin, muscular build had finally stretched past my five foot nine by at least two or three inches. When we were kids, Harvey used to say we were going to get married, as if it was predetermined, like the color of your eyes. “Not going to happen,” I would say. “You're shorter than me, and girls can't marry boys shorter than them.”

When I told him, last week, that I had leukemia, it was the first time that the cancer had belonged to me, the first time the news was mine to share. His optimism broke me, but I didn't have time to be broken.

“Yeah, why aren't you in school right now?” he asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.

I guess he wasn't impressed when I phoned the school claiming to be Natalie and said that there was a family emergency. The good boy that he was, Harvey had turned his phone off during school hours, so I went about getting him out of class the old-fashioned way. After turning his phone on, he would have found this text from me: CALL ME. And call me he did, but amused he was not.

“Faked sick. Told my parents I didn't feel well. They propped me up on pillows with stacks of magazines, Sprite, and a bag of mini marshmallows.”

“Seems a little callous, Al, don't you think?”

“What do you mean
callous
?”

“You just found out you have leukemia, and you lied to your parents about being sick. I think they're on edge enough as it is without you lying to them so you can skip school.”

In light of recent developments, I could see his point. “I hadn't thought of that.” And really I hadn't. Technically, I hadn't lied. I had leukemia, therefore I was eternally unwell. I only took advantage of my circumstances, but still, a small bit of guilt twisted in my stomach.

I'd stayed home for two reasons. One, to snoop around my mom's office, which yielded no evidence of her cheating. And two, I needed time to gather my thoughts. Since being diagnosed, no one had left me alone, and I just wanted one day. Dad had been home twice to grab “some stuff” he'd forgotten. I knew he was here to check on me, and him not saying so irked me.

“I needed the house to myself.”

I scooted my chair closer to Harvey. Animosity seeped through his roll-with-the-punches exterior. Turning into him, I pressed my full body against his side and placed a hand on his thigh. His resolve crumbled beneath my touch and his whole body tensed. I loved the way this control over him made me feel. The feeling scared me, but not enough to do anything about it, because now all I felt was assurance and purpose.

“I need your help.” I told him with my hand still on his thigh.

He watched my hand. “With what?”

“I'm sick. You know that. And because of that, there are some things I need to do, and I need to know that you'll be there to help me when the time comes.”

“What do you mean,
things
?”

I shrugged.

“What do you mean, like, a bucket list?”

“Well, I guess you could call it that, but I think Just Dying To-Do List has a better ring to it.”

“No,” said Harvey, his voice solid. “Those are for old retired people.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, shaking his head; my hand fell away. After a moment, he threw his arms up and said, “God, what the hell, Al? This is so screwed up. You don't talk to me for a year and now—no, this is ridiculous.”

He didn't get it yet. He didn't get that the blood inside of my body was revolting against me. He hadn't been there for the cold sweats in the middle of the night. He wouldn't have to go through chemo so that he could be infused with the very thing that was killing him. I had to make him understand this, for me. “Harvey, what about ‘I have leukemia' don't you get? I mean, maybe we should all have a list. You could get hit by a car tomorrow and die a virgin.”

“How would you know if I'm a—?”

“Harvey.”

He looked the other way, out the window above the sink.

“Harvey, if I . . . if I die and you don't help me with this, you will always regret it. Doing these things with you, that's part of my list in a way.” I bit down on my lip. “Maybe there are some things that you want to do with me that are on your list, ya know?”

He sat in silence, watching his fingers, woven together in his lap. “What's on the list?” he asked, his voice low and scratchy.

“I can't tell you.”

He laughed to himself in a sad way and rubbed his eyes. “You want me to help you with a list of things you won't disclose to me.” He leaned forward and bit the skin around his thumb. “Classic.”

“I would tell you on a need-to-know basis.”

Writing down a list and showing it to Harvey made this thing more tangible and more of a commitment.

“This isn't going to be, like, riding a horse bareback down the beach type of shit, is it?”

I smiled and leaned in to him, only a few breaths between us. “No,” I said. “No, it's not.” Cancer would take away plenty. My hair, my body, my life. What I'd never realized, though, was that there was one privilege to dying: the right to live without consequence.

“I'm in.” He said it like it was inevitable, like he could say no, but it wouldn't matter.

“You won't regret it.”

“You have a plan, though, right?”

“I'm still working on the logistics.”

“But—”

“Harvey,” I said, my voice low. “Trust me.”

I knew what this looked like. It looked like I was using Harvey. But here was the reality of the situation: the minute my life went from semipermanent to most likely temporary, I decided to latch on to everything in my world that had always been permanent, and for me, Harvey was so permanent he was concrete.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers

Harvey.

Now.

T
oday was Alice's first day back in school. I didn't see her until third period. I wanted to pick her up that morning. I could feel us slipping again, like freshman year. But this time was different. It was worse. This time there was so much more to lose. Last night, I told her I loved her. I'd said it in a no-big-deal kind of way. She'd always known, and I'd practically said it before she went into remission. But last night I needed her to know in case there was ever any doubt.

When she entered the classroom, her eyes traveled the rows of desks and barely flickered with recognition when she saw me sitting in the third row. She wore a red beret, baggy jeans, and a striped purple sweater that I recognized from seventh grade. Alice was always thin, but now she was transparent. Still, even in her mismatched ensemble, she looked cool.

She walked down the aisle without acknowledging me. Just when I thought she was going to pass me by altogether, she slid into the desk I'd saved for her. She sat with her legs crossed at the knee and with her head on her desk, one hand resting beneath her cheek and the other arm stretched out so far it hung off the desk. And closed her eyes.

Last night, she'd acted so bizarre, and before that she'd avoided me for weeks. I could understand, in a way. I saw how all of this might be difficult for her, like the shock of a bright light in the middle of the night. But now, here at school, her avoidance felt so deliberate. And she seemed . . . mousy, which was the most un-Alice word I could think of.

Before the final bell rang, Celeste appeared in the doorway with Mindi at her side, who happened to be in this class.

With a vicious smile, Celeste whispered in Mindi's ear. She nodded and walked past us to the back of the classroom, kicking the leg of Alice's desk on her way.

Alice startled a little, but turned to see the back of Mindi's head and then spotted Celeste outside the entrance to the classroom.

They had this weird girl moment. No one said a word, and the only thing that broke their stare was Margaret Schmidt—class treasurer and member of the world's saddest color guard—as she shouldered her way past Celeste.

Margaret gasped when she saw Alice. “We all thought, like, you know, that you were still sick.” Margaret's springy curls bounced, not because she was moving, but because they seemed to move with energy. Dennis said she probably snorted her prescription Adderall every morning. “So, are you better?”

The whole class turned.

Alice watched each of their faces and seemed to shrink back a little. “That's what they tell me.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Margaret, clutching her notebook to her chest. “That's so incredible. It's, like, a miracle.”

Alice bit her lip and nodded.

More students—who I was sure Al had never spoken to in her life—began to crowd her desk, like they hadn't even seen her until Margaret Schmidt had to make a goddamn scene out of it.

“Yeah,” said Doug Halbert. “My dad talked about you in church on Sunday.”

“Could you feel it? Like, the cancer?” asked Tasha Wenters.

Yeah, she can feel the earth orbiting too.

It was rapid-fire. Two girls leaned on my desk trying to get a better look.

“How soon will your hair grow back? My aunt's didn't grow back the same,” said some guy I couldn't see but wanted to kick the shit out of.

I was overwhelmed, so I knew it could only be that much worse for Alice. She didn't answer any of them, not based on what I could hear. And I don't think the fuckers even cared because none of them even gave her a chance to respond.

Some were genuinely nice. Things like, “I'm glad you're okay,” or “I prayed for you,” or “If you need help catching up on schoolwork, let me know.”

I wondered if every single class Alice had been to today had been like this one.

“Class, seats.”

A teacher. Thank God.

While Mr. Slaton settled into his desk, the thrum of voices leveled out and everyone trickled back to their desks. Alice trained her eyes on the top of her desk. One lone pencil sat tucked behind her ear. She squeezed the back of her neck, her fingertips going white. I wanted to protect her.

Mr. Slaton clapped his hand loudly against his desk, giving one last warning for everyone to shut up before roll call. He called name after name and then Alice.

“Miss Richardson?” called Mr. Slaton.

She barely moved at the sound of her last name.

“Welcome back,” he said, smiling. “I'm sure you've heard this a thousand times today, but we're glad to have you back. Quite a bit to catch up on. See me after class. We'll get you squared away.” He waited for her to nod, before smiling and calling the next name.

If it hadn't been for the Algebra 2 book on my desk, I wouldn't have been able to say exactly which class I'd been sitting in for those forty-five minutes. I spent the entire period staring at Alice, and Alice spent the entire period pretending to sleep—I could tell by her breathing. (Weird, I know, but I'd seen her do a lot of sleeping in the last year.) When class was dismissed, she stood and waited for Mindi to pass her. With her shoulder, Alice rammed her from behind. Mindi tripped and dropped her books. I picked one up and then practically ran over her to try to catch up to Alice, but she didn't stay after class like Mr. Slaton had asked her to. She disappeared, making whatever loomed between us grow a bit bigger.

I searched for her all day, but she didn't show up for any of the other classes we had together. After last period, I turned my phone on and found I had a voice mail from Martin explaining Bernie had gotten tied up in court and they wondered if I could give Alice a ride home. I would have been cool with giving Alice a ride, if I could find her in the first place.

I covered every square inch of school, including janitorial closets and girls' bathrooms, in forty-five minutes. Alice was nowhere in sight. I even checked the groundskeeper's shed out past the track. I'd done as much looking as I could on foot and decided to head out to the parking lot.

Her phone sent me to voice mail over and over again. She was probably screening my calls. Either that or her phone was dead. Both were entirely plausible options. I left four voice mails. My artfully composed messages sounded something like this:

Voice Mail One: “Alice.”

Voice Mail Two: “It's me, Al. Where. Are. You?”

Voice Mail Three: “I'm sorry, where did you say you were again?”

Voice Mail Four: “Alice, in case you were wondering, you're not in the guys' bathroom, but whoever was here last pissed all over the floor. I'm really hoping that wasn't you. I give up. I'll be in the parking lot.”

The cold air slapped me in the face, and I slid my gloves on, pulling the collar of my jacket up around my face to shield my cheeks from the burning wind. As I ran down the aisles of cars belonging to kids staying late for rehearsals and practices, I saw two figures sitting on the ground huddled together between a truck and an old Cadillac. I thought I recognized a spot of red on one of their heads, so I doubled back. I found Alice sitting on the freezing pavement, but without her beret on. Her cheeks and nose were bright red. And looking at her made my bones chatter even more.

“Hey,” she mumbled and wiped her running nose in the crook of her elbow. “This is Eric,” she said nodding to the guy sitting next to her.

From where he sat on the ground I could tell he was scruffy and broad with thick muscles. Thicker than my body could carry. Basically, he was all the shit you didn't want to see in the guy sitting next to the girl you love. He was more man than boy, and he wore Al's beret, while her nearly bald head was exposed to the freezing cold. Either he was even more selfish than Al or he was that stupid.

“Hey, guy,” he said.

Guy?
Who called people that? There was something slightly familiar about him. “Are you in any of my classes?” I was really hoping this guy wasn't some creepo Alice had picked up in the parking lot.

“It's possible,” he said, shrugging his shoulders with a calculated effortlessness. “I guess I'm new.”

“Eric, this is my . . . this is Harvey.”

I flinched. “But you can call me
guy
.”

Alice crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She was not amused.

Then it dawned on me. “Study hall! You were in my study hall last Monday. Did you get moved to Johnson's study hall or something?” I'd only seen him the once.

“Something like that,” he said, not even looking at me, but at Alice, like it was some kind of private joke only they shared.

I wanted to drive an entire continent between them, but instead I extended my gloved hand. Scruffy man-boy stared lamely like it was some kind of inanimate object.

“Right . . . okay,” I said, stuffing my hand in my pocket and directing my attention to Alice and away from His Royal Scruffiness. “Al, I've called you a billion times. I'm supposed to give you a ride home.”

“I'll meet you at the car.” She didn't even look at me; her eyes were locked on Eric Guy.

“I parked far away.”

“Sure, yeah.” She gave me a small smile.

I shook my head at her, but she'd already turned back to Eric. “I'll be right back.”

I pulled the car to the front of the lot, giving the heater a chance to warm up. With her back turned to me, I could see Alice had no intention of getting into the vehicle anytime soon. She was talking to Eric Guy. She couldn't talk to me, but she could talk to this asshole. So I honked. For thirty seconds straight. And then one more honk for good measure. Alice turned, and narrowed her eyes at me.

Normally, I would have given her an apologetic smile, but not today. I rolled down my window and breathed in the cold fresh air. I gave her a grin so big I was sure she could see all thirty-two of my teeth. She rolled her eyes and continued on with Eric Guy.

“Alice, come
on
!”

She held a finger up to me while Eric Guy grabbed her hand and pulled a permanent marker out of his back pocket. As he was about to press the marker to her palm, she pulled her hand back like she'd changed her mind.

I exhaled.

But then she took the marker from his hand and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, scribbling her name and number down the length of his forearm. She tossed the marker to him and sauntered over to my car with a prowling grin on her face.

She slammed the passenger door shut. “Hey, guy!” I yelled through my still-open window. “The hat!” I said motioning to my head. “Hand it over.” Alice punched me in the thigh. “Now.” He took his time walking to the car, trying to make a sad display of James Dean cool, and tossed the hat into my lap.

“I'll be calling you, Allie.”

“Her name's Alice, you turd,” I said and sped off.

“Jesus, Harvey. What's your problem?”

“You're my problem!” The words were out of my mouth before I could calculate them. “You are so obviously my problem.” I paused. “Why are you acting like nothing happened between us when something did?”

She didn't answer. So we acted like adults and gave each other the silent treatment. Her eyes followed the blur of trees and buildings outside her window as her fingers traced patterns on her seat. It felt good—standing up to her, like I'd won something. But that didn't last for long.

When I dropped her off, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, a small gesture that she knew would appease me. I hated myself for letting it be this way, and I hated her for making it this way. But, really, I loved her, and that hurt the worst of all because I was tired of being her debris.