Page 32 of Styx & Stones

“Yes, darling,” Mrs. Stone says. “How are you?”

“Styx?” Stones sits up, glances between us, and rubs her temples. “What are you doing here?”

“You were dodging my calls.”

“Do you need anything, Alaska?” her mom asks, sipping from her glass. I kind of wish she’d stop hovering and let me talk to her daughter.

“I’m fine, Mom.” Alaska runs her hands through her hair. Several deep blue strands come away. “I wasn’t ghosting you. I had a seizure, dumbass.”

“I know that now.”

“If you kids need anything—snacks, a wheatgrass juice, herbal tea—let me know.”

“Mom,” Alaska snaps. “Can you go already?”

Her mother’s face is blank as she looks between us and then her throat bobs, her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and she nods. “Okay, well, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Mrs. S.”

Stones’ mom leaves the room, closing the door behind her, and Alaska flops back on the bed and puts her pillow over her head.

“Does she always drink at eleven a.m.?” I ask.

“It’s a new thing she’s doing since my diagnosis.”

“You should go easy on her.”

“I know. I just can’t stand the way she hovers now.”

“I get it, but this disease is terrifying for parents too. Sometimes they don’t get that we’re forced to become adults, and we have to make some very adult decisions about our bodies, and our futures. Sometimes we’re more ready for those decisions than they are.”

She slides the pillow off her head and frowns. Her eyes are rheumy with unshed tears.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“What isn’t wrong?” Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and seep into her hairline. “The scan yesterday showed that the tumors have grown.”

“Shit. How bad?”

“Grade two, but there are a lot more undefined clusters now. Seems little dude threw a rave at his new home and his friends never left.” She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “They’re consulting with some specialist from London because they don’t know how to operate.”

“Scoot over,” I say. She does and I lie down beside her, pulling her into my arms. “Do you know why I call you Stones?”

“Because you thought it was a clever play on my last name?”

“No, because you’re a badass who takes no fucking prisoners. Freshman year, you poured your pink milkshake over Chad Hoover because he fat shamed Alison Park in the cafeteria.”

“Well, he was a douche, and all she had was a fucking salad on her plate.”

“All true, but in a cafeteria with three hundred kids—myself included—you were the only one to do something about it. That takes stones, babe.”

“Anyone else would have done the same.”

“No, they wouldn’t. They didn’t.” I slide my fingertips up and down her arm in lazy strokes. “Even I did nothing but look on because I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself. You’re not afraid to be seen, you’re not afraid to do the hard things—the moral things. You’re a fucking rock star, Alaska, and you’re going to kick the shit out of cancer’s ass.”

“I’m not sure anymore.”

“Come on.” I slide out of bed and tug her hand. “Get up. Get dressed.”