Page 16 of Part of Forever
“Where does she think you are?”
“Hanging out with Shawn, but in town, not all the way up here. But anyway, thanks for coming. I knew you’d figure that Shawn was involved and I know you don’t like him.”
His fingers turn white again as he grips the steering wheel. “Why are you with him?” he whispers a few moments later.
“I’m not, not really,” I whisper back, tugging on my fingers. Seconds ago, I wanted him to ask me this, why I’m trying to date Shawn, and why I called him to pick me up. But suddenly I’m too tired to have this conversation. I can’t add this conversation to the list of things that happened today.
“Help me understand then.” He nearly pleads. “I thought this year would be our year. You and me. Did all that stuff we said before Paris not matter? Did our kiss mean nothing to you? Instead you’re trying to date that jack—jerk?”
I’m stunned for a minute—what am I supposed to say to that?That I thought it would be our year, too, that I hoped it could be, but that after our kiss my mom got after me about dating him? “You know it meant something to me, Tucker,” I finally say.
“Do I, though?” The words slice through me. “Then why do you want him to be your boyfriend and not me? You know how I feel about you, and up until Paris, I thought you felt the same.”
“I did.” I’m watching him now, and as we pass under a street light, I see that he is pale. “I do. But it’s better this way.” Why am I trying to convince both of us of that? While I was waiting for him to come pick me up, I was thinking about being brave and not letting Mom control my life.
I have cancer now though,I remind myself,soitisbetter this way.
He chokes. “Better for who? Your mom? You can’t let her control everything about your life, Rosie.”
He’s right. I know he’s right, but admitting that will change everything between us. And what if things go badly and then he and I aren’t even friends anymore?
I can’t come up with anything else to say, so we’re silent the rest of the way home.
Dad is waiting up when I get back to the house. “You have a good time with Shawn?” he asks.
“Yup,” I say stiffly, as we hear Tucker’s truck pulling out of the driveway. “It was great.”
He doesn’t ask me why Tucker brought me home, and I’m thankful for that. I head upstairs and lie down on my bed, fully clothed, and that’s when the tears finally start to flow.
7
It’sDad’s idea to go out for lunch.
I spent the morning sleeping, thanks to my late night, and we haven’t talked about yesterday at all. It feels weird though, to be out in public like this. Yet also not weird, because it’s just sous. Dad copes with hard things by eating good food, and since my parents don’t love cooking, eating out is just kind of what we do. Even when things are weird and sad and we have to talk about the tumor that’s growing by my liver.
We’re sitting at South of Nick’s, waiting for our entrees when Nathan finally breaks the silence.
“Remember that time we drove up the coast because Rosie didn’t believe the ocean was that big?” Nathan asks, smiling at the memory.
I would smile, too, if it didn’t make me think about having cancer the first time around.
“Yes,” Dad says, before I can shut down this particular conversation. “And then you both cried when we said it was time to turn around and drive back home.”
Nathan laughs. “I only cried because I liked beingin the car; it meant I could watch movies on that little portable DVD player we had.”
I see Mom’s eyes light up. “I’d forgotten about that thing. I was so busy that trip, trying to come up with the routines for our next show at the studio.”
“You were pretty cranky,” Nathan says.
“I was not,” Mom argues.
Dad chuckles. “You were kind of cranky. Then on the way home, Rosie threw up all over.”
I bury my face in my hands. “That was not my proudest moment.” I want to say that I threw up because I was so nervous about having cancer, that even though I was only seven, I knew it was something big and scary. But I don’t want to talk about being sick right now, especially when I feel fine. I want to keep on pretending that it doesn’t exist—if only my brain would get the memo.
Everyone laughs and our food arrives, so we don’t have to talk about how I’m sick again, or my possible treatment plans, or my future with dance. My stomach flips as I stare at my veggie enchilada.
I hadn’t thought about what this means for dance yet. It’s taken every moment since I was in remission to get to where I am now. Surgery plus recovery time will not make my body stronger. I’m going to have to work even harder when I get to Paris—if I get in—just to be at the level I’m at now.
