I heave a sigh. Before I left, everything was amazing, and now I feel so insecure. “Are you telling me to grow up?” I ask, a bit disgruntled.
“Nope,” she says with a slight smile. “I kind of want you to be my baby forever. You’re growing up, even if your dad, myself, and you aren’t ready for it to happen.”
“But you are saying that if I want something, I need to work hard to keep it.”
Mom grabs my hands and squeezes tight. “Not just work hard, baby, but fight. You’ve got to fight for what you want. You fought to beat this cancer. Everything else is so easy from there.”
“Is it?” There’s a hitch in my voice I can’t hide. “Because it seems like fighting for what you want can be really painful.”
“Anything worth having is.”
* * *
Nate doesn’t text me until the early evening hours. The seven hour time difference usually means I get a text in the middle of the night, which I read in the morning, and then one when Nate gets up in the morning, which is about tea time here.
I wonder all day whether Nate will bring up the party or whether I should. Mom gives me covert stares of worry as I pick at my food at lunch. The pale light of twilight settles in before I finally get a text, only it’s not Nate but his brother.
We partied late. Didn’t get to sleep until three this morning. Go easy on him.
Miss you. Heard you were coming over for my birthday.
After, I think. Have baseball. When will you be back?
Aug or Sept. Things are going well.
Great. We’ll have a rager when you get back. c ya soon.
Nate’s texts are followed on the heels of Nick’s, as if Nick told him it was safe.
Sorry I didn’t text you this morning. Slept in. Epic headache.
From an epic hangover?
How’d you guess? Nick?
No. North Prep telephone ring.
Milhawk’s basement. Had to do the shots that Nick couldn’t. Keeping him on the straight and narrow.
Sounds fun.
Three texts. No mention of the picture.
Missed you.
Me too.
Let’s Skype later. What time?
I don’t want to. He didn’t bring up the picture. Maybe he’d been too drunk, and he didn’t even know it was taken. Maybe. Whatever the excuse may be, my feelings are still hurt, and I want time to get over it. I don’t want to be that girl—jealous and clingy and needy. Not only would Nate not like that, but I wouldn’t have much respect for myself. So until I can get into the right frame of mind, I don’t want to talk to him in a setting where I’m apt to blurt out some baseless accusation.
Can’t. Treatment. Studies. In fact, I’ve got to run.
Sorry C. Should’ve gotten up early. Know that’s the best time for you.
It’s okay. Love you.
I power down my phone so I’m not tempted to read any responses.
“I’m going down to the game room,” I tell my mom. She waves a pen at me. All this technology and she still marks up reports with a pen.
The hotel is adjacent to the hospital, and many of the patients and their families stay here. There are mostly two or three room suites or mini apartments along with an indoor pool, gym, and a game room for the kids.
“New girl,” a voice barks when I walk into the room. The game room contains arcades, a pool table, multiple televisions with different game consoles, and, the favorite, a virtual reality room.
“You there,” the voice calls again. I turn and see a boy about my age sitting in a lounge chair just outside the VR room. I haven’t seen him before so he must be the new person.
Despite his rudeness, I stroll over because I’m one of the oldest of the under-eighteen set. Most of the kids here are younger, which makes it both bittersweet and a bit boring. Insolent or not, he’s more intriguing to me than the rest of the crowd.
As I draw closer, the fine features under his beanie cap look very familiar. “Oh, wait aren’t you—”
Before I can say his name, though, he cuts me off. “Yes,” he says with an imperious wave for me to come forward. Like royalty, I guess he expects me to genuflect or something. “Who are you?”
I’ve never been this close to someone famous. There were a few times we sat in the front row of a concert at the United Center, but this guy’s parents are on the cover of some magazine nearly every week. “Um, no one. I mean, Charlotte Randolph, but my parents aren’t famous . . .” like yours, I finish silently. I can tell he doesn’t want me to say their names out loud. Maybe no one else recognizes him here. I glance around and see that no one is paying us any attention. But if he stepped out in any U.S. mall, he’d be mobbed, and not just because of his parents’ fame but his own. His dark eyes and cut torso were part of a major label’s campaign last summer. It surprises me to see him here.