Page 10 of Styx & Stones

“And you need to lighten up. It’s only death, Stones.”

“Fine then. You wanna talk death and be all flippant about it? What’s your survival rate?”

“Four years.”

I swallow hard, regretting the question. Four years.Four years?That can’t be right.

“The first time.”

First time? Oh my God. He’s been through all of this before. Does that make it worse this time around? I dart out my tongue and wet dry lips. Nausea rolls through my belly, and I wonder if it’s the chemicals pumping through my system or the fact that Styx is so blasé about his life expectancy that makes me want to puke. I don’t want to ask, but the question is hanging in the air between us, and it would be weird if I didn’t.

“And now?” My voice cracks over the words.

He shrugs, glancing down at his magazine. His hands grip the spine until his knuckles turn white, the only sign he’s no longer feeling as confident as he was just a second ago when we were discussing my sickness. “Who the fuck knows?”

“They didn’t give you an estimation?”

“They didn’t have to.”

“What does that—”

“It means, Stones ...” He grins and leans forward. “... that patients my age who have metastatic ARMS positive with PAX3-FOXO1 fusion are pretty much fucked.”

I glance between him, Harley, and the other patients all staring at us. “So if the chemo doesn’t work, then why the hell are we here?”

“Chemo, radiation, surgery. They’re all just steps we take to make our loved ones feel better.”

Jan nods. “Amen.”

The others remain quiet, staring down at their phones, tablets, books, or magazines, no doubt wishing they were somewhere else. I wish I was too. “So you don’t believe any of this helps?”

“Honestly? No.”

“Then why come to chemo at all?”

“Because it beats the shit out of Chem pop quizzes, and dodging jocks like Cole Meyers in the hall who’re too stupid to realize what they have.” He holds his magazine almost reverently, and tucks it inside his messenger bag. “Besides, it’s a good place to pick up chicks.”

“Cute.” I raise a brow and lean back against the headrest. “But I’ll hold out for a guy who has a little more time up his sleeve.”

Styx laughs, obnoxiously loud. His eyes sparkle with mirth. He’s quite possibly the strangest kid I’ve ever met. This conversation is morbid, odd, and a part of me can’t believe I just said that to a boy who’s terminally ill, and yet, I can’t stop smiling.

“Ah, Stones. You’re hilarious, but I was talking about Jan.”

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