Page 13 of Styx & Stones

CHAPTER EIGHT

ALASKA

After group, I waitin 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? Cancerfriends?”

“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?”