Sing Me to Sleep

Stuff starts showing up on his profile. He hasn’t posted since before that night with me, but his friends start adding messages. There’s one from his AYS ex: You’re going to make it. I love you. That one makes me scream.

Blake posts, Hang in there, bud. It’s going to work this time.

There’s a bunch of Come back soon! and We miss you! kind of stuff.

At least I know he’s alive somewhere. I don’t post. No way. Too public. Too humiliating that I don’t know what’s happening. That he doesn’t want me to know. Won’t let me know. I stuff his inbox with private messages that get more and more pathetic as each day passes.

It’s sounding more medical—scary medical. I’m so stupid. If I would have joined the AYS like Derek wanted, I’d be chummy enough with those girls to have a link independent of Derek to find out what’s going on—no matter what he’s told them I can’t hear.

I think about phoning Blake. Try it once. He doesn’t answer. Derek’s orders? I don’t know.

How can he do this to me? Just cut me off. I’m his girlfriend, aren’t I?

Maybe not.

His ex posted “I love you” on his wall for all the world to see.

Maybe he’s back with her. Maybe he thinks I’m with Scott. Maybe he’s paying me back.

No. He believed me that night. I’m sure. I have to keep believing. He’ll appear in my driveway on his bike like he always has before. Be patient, keep loving him—keep resisting Scott.

Scott’s not making it easy. He’s there at school, every day, warm and friendly and real. His muscular shoulder is right next to me all the time, bumping into me. He’s always joking around. No way can I let him suspect what’s going on with Derek. If he offered to comfort me, I’d let him and then what would I tell Derek?

I delude myself, pretend everything is cool and that I know where he is and what’s up. I send Derek a dozen texts every day, email him what’s up with me. No questions. No complaints. He’ll be back. Any day. Any second. I almost convince myself.

I download the sheet music he sent me for “Beth’s Song,” study it, hum the melody with a pen poised ready for inspiration, but I can’t fool myself that much. I throw down the pen and stare at the wall.

I search my room—gather up all my pathetic efforts at song writing that I meant to burn. Maybe I can pull something from one of these. I read through my scrawls.I’m bones, blood, and flesh

Not clay to be pounded. . . .

I bleed when you wound me. . . .

Can this be me?

Taking the stage for gold dreams. . . .

Touch the sky?

Who am I kidding? . . . The dream turns to dust

As I bow to do your bidding. . . .

Can she be beautiful?

Will all the people love me ? . . .

Beautiful prince who says

He’ ll keep me warm—

I come to the verse I wrote after the prom about Scott: The scent of you on my fingers / Makes me crazy while it lingers.

Scott loves me. Scott wants all of me. He doesn’t expect me to do this stuff I just can’t do. It’s way too hard to go on with this masquerade. I grab “Beth’s Song” and tear the pages in half again and again and again.

It’s too late, anyway. Derek’s broadcast is this weekend.

I go on the Amabile guys’ Web site and print off the details. I told him I’d be up on the train. If he’s anywhere, he’ll be there. I don’t know if I have the guts to confront him, maybe lose him, but I have to see him again soon or I’ll lose my mind. I Google it and manage to buy myself a one-way ticket online. I’ll get a taxi to take me where they’re singing and make Derek take me home.

What will he do when he sees me there in the audience invading his turf? That’s how it feels. I know it’s stupid. Why am I going? Why don’t I just leave him alone? Call Scott. No. Derek wanted me there. Correction, he wants me there.

Saturday evening our early Christmas concert to celebrate our debut CD’s release is packed. Halfway through our first number, Scott slips into the back and stands by the usher. He smiles at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I smile back at him and feel like I’m totally betraying Derek.

We get through the first half and swish off the risers, a mass of shimmery crimson in our gowns that still feel new and special. We file out of the room. I hope the people in the audience don’t want their money back. I’m singing fine, but I can’t find the magic that transforms me and the power to bring them along. Our CD is for sale in the foyer. Maybe I’ve just killed its success.

We crowd into the big room in the back of the building with faded Bible pictures taped to the wall that we use for a dressing room. It’s better than the basement, but not by much.

I pick up a water bottle and go over to a window, stare into the dusk while I gulp it down. I set the bottle on the sill and put my forehead against the cool glass.

“Hey, Beth—look what I found.” Sarah waves me over to an old TV in the corner. “It’s them. Oh, gosh, there’s Blake.”

I turn and stare at her.

“Did Derek tell you they were going to be on TV?”

I feel like I’m moving underwater, but it’s thick, like honey, won’t let me through. Somehow I’m across the room peering through the blurry TV at Derek in his tux standing in the middle of his choir, singing at the movie premiere in Toronto. He’s incredibly pale. Almost blue. Maybe it’s the lighting. He looks ultrathin, too.

Crap. He looks so sick. How could I have been so blind all this time? Blinded. That’s what it was. Totally blinded. I saw what he wanted me to see.

Sarah turns to me. “Derek looks awful. What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know.”

She looks at me funny. Other girls crowd around now, pushing to see. While we’re watching, Derek sways and pitches forward. He’d be flat on his face if the two guys next to him didn’t have quick reflexes.

I make a weird startled sound.

The camera cuts away to the director. Mr. Tall Wispy Beard keeps going like the guy I love didn’t just turn white as death and keel over. When the camera goes back to them, the boys are singing as if nothing happened, except Derek and his two rescuers aren’t in the picture.

The whole choir stares at me. I’m frozen. I’ve got to move. I’ve got to get up there. Now. How far is it? Will Jeannette get me all the way to Toronto? Of course. She’s solid, but how will I find him?

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

I thaw enough to hold out my hands. “I need cash.”

Girls in long shimmering red run to purses, shove fives and tens in my hand. Meadow’s got a stack of twenties.

I grab my purse and jacket and head to the back door. “Tell Terri I’m sorry. You guys can do it without me.”

“Your gown! ” Leah calls. I’m not supposed to go outside in it, but to hell with that. I’ll try not to drag it through the snow and mud in the parking lot.

I push through the door and plow smack into Scott.

He catches me by both elbows. “How did you know I was out here?”

“Let me go, Scott.” I try to wrench away. “I have to leave.”

“Are you okay?”

I can’t answer him.

He still doesn’t let go. “Listen, Beth. I’m just going to say this one more time. I’m here. Look around.”

“Let me go! ” I flail my arms and break his hold. “I don’t have time for you, Scott.” I turn and rush away, cringe at how cruel those words echo in Scott’s stunned silence behind me.

He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.

He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.

He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.

If I say it enough, I’ll believe it. Maybe even he will, too. As much as my heart is racing for Derek, I don’t want to hurt Scott. I care for him—more than I should. And I owe him. He’ll never know it, but he rescued me again and again during this impossible blank time.

As I speed up I-94, the numb shock that got me out of the concert and onto this freeway pushing Jeannette to her max speed warps into absolute terror. What ravaged Derek like that? What’s taking him away from me? He said it would get better. I believed and believed and believed. Crap. He just fainted on TV, and they all kept on singing.

I’m going to find him and force him to tell me everything. No more nice, purring Beth making believe everything’s fine, waiting and waiting and waiting. The Beast is loose, and she’s not going back in her cage.

My cell rings as I’m passing that dumb giant tire marking the outskirts of Detroit.

“What in the world—”

“I don’t even know, Mom. It’s Derek. I’ll probably stay up there.”

“Where?”

“I’ll call back when I know.”

I get all the way to the border before I realize I don’t have a clue where I’m going. There’s a line of cars way backed up, so I start dialing Blake’s cell. Over and over and over. He finally picks up.

I yell, “Where did they take him?”

“Beth?”

“I’m on my way. What hospital?”

“They’re going back to London.” Blake’s voice is maddeningly calm.

I pound on the steering wheel with my free hand. “All the way to London? Are they crazy?”

“The bleeding stopped. He’s okay.”

“Bleeding?” Oh, my gosh. “Are you in the ambulance with him?”

“What ambulance?”

A car honks behind me. “Stop confusing me.” I pull Jeannette forward.

“His parents took him back down to the lockup in London.”

“Crap—he’s in jail?” Is it drugs after all?

“Geesh. You’re stunned.” Blake laughs. The creep laughs. “You know that’s what he calls the hospital.”

“The lockup?”

“We sprung him for this weekend. He refused to miss it.”

I’m pressing the phone so hard into my ear it hurts. “He was in the hospital! ” I yell into the phone.

“How can you not know that?” Blake yells back at me. “He practically lives there.”

I pull forward again as a sleek black sedan rolls through the border crossing.

Blake is still ranting at me. “What kind of a crap girlfriend are you?” His vicious tone rips me apart. “You should have been there with him every second you can. He needs the motivation to hang in there. Look at today.”

“It’s not my fault.” I bang the steering wheel with my hand. “You can’t blame me. He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Oh, sheesh.” Blake doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “You don’t know.”

The cell slips in my sweaty hand. I grapple with it, get it back jammed to my ear. “Tell me what he has, Blake.” My voice cracks. “I’m going crazy.” I’m trembling, trying to control myself from breaking down with the shock that’s starting to register.

“Forget I said anything.” The jerk hangs up on me.

I throw my phone into the passenger seat and pull forward. Three more cars to go. Two more. One more. My turn. I pull up to the Canadian border booth thing and roll down my window.

A friendly looking guy in his twenties puts his hand on my roof and leans over to speak through the window. “Passport, please.”

“Passport?” The Canadians up at our crossing at Port rarely want ID.

“You locals need to learn.”

I fumble in my purse and grab my wallet. “Please.” I shove my license at him. “My boyfriend’s in the hospital.”

“You’re in love with a Canadian?” Oh my gosh—is he flirting?

I just nod.

He gives me back my license. “I hope he’s okay. Godspeed.”

I get a lump in my throat as I drive off. I sniff and rub my eyes. Pull it together, girl. You’ve got to drive. I glance down at my gas gauge. Shoot. All I’ve got are American dollars. I pull off at one of the gas stations in Windsor past the border crossing. They’re happy to take my dollars—rip me off on the exchange. I buy a big bottle of water and some gum. I should eat, but the smell of stale chips, cookies, and jerky blended with diesel churns my tense guts into knots.

As I head up the 401 in the deep cold of a black night, I try to stay calm, but the border guy undid me. Tears attack. Burn my eyes and face. It starts to snow. Dumb snowbelt. Stupid Great Lakes. Stupid winter. I so don’t need this tonight. I follow the signs to London, push Jeannette up to seventy-five, as the snow falls thick and fast, deadening the sound of our passage, but it doesn’t muffle the way I’m crying. Snot runs down the back of my throat and then over my lips. I catch it before it drips off my chin and stains my blood-red gown.

I have to stop this. I’ll scare Derek looking like this. I don’t want him to know—

But I do.

He needs to know.

He should see the destruction. I’ve felt like a ball of hot tears and snot inside all this time. Why not let it out? Let him see. No more pretenses. No more faking it. He has to let me in.

If he loves me at all, he needs to see this. This mess I’ve become.

I curse and cry and yell stupid things at him. He’s sick, and I’m flipping out livid at him. I hit a drift that throws a sheen of snow into my headlight’s beam. Jeannette gets pulled hard to the side of the road, but I crank the wheel, get my old girl straightened out and back up to speed.

Jeannette and I fight through drift after drift, me sobbing, her engine throbbing, the two solid hours it takes to get to London from the border. My voice is wrecked by the time I flick on my signal and take the Wonderland Road exit.

I plan to stop at a gas station and raid the yellow pages for hospitals, but I see it before I even spot a pay phone. Red brick sprawling giant off to the right. I slow down and turn in, follow the maze into a visitors’ parking lot, and shut off the car. I pull my pink choir T-shirt out of my bag and wipe my face with it. I catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror. All the makeup’s rubbed off. I reach for at least a cover stick. Stare at it. A bitter laugh erupts from my throat. I toss the magic wand aside.

I bang through the glass doors, into the florescent-lit lobby, and march over to a chubby middle-aged guy with a red face under an INFORMATION sign. “Derek Collins, please.”

“Derek, huh?” He types in the name. “Only family allowed up.” He notices my dress, and his eyebrows shoot up. “It’s late for a hospital visit.”

“I’m his sister.”

“Another one? My old buddy, Derek, has got to tell me how he does it.” He hands me a map with a room starred on it. Then he notices my face, my ski jacket thrown over a shimmering gown, and compassion fills his eyes. “I’m sorry. You head right upstairs and cheer him up.”

Am I the only girl on earth who’s never been here?

“Tell that boy he owes me three chocolate bars for this.”

I run away from his friendly voice. Get on an elevator. Stare at the map. Crap. This can’t be right. I ask a young red-haired guy who pushes a cart of pills onto the elevator at the next floor for help. I show him the room number, helplessly.

“That’s Derek’s room.”

“Why does everyone here know him so well?”

“We have our favorites. And that kid—the way he comes back and sings to everyone, brings his friends. We’re all pulling for him.”

My eyes are blurring up again. The guy reads my gross red-blotched, puffed-fat face and how I have to bite my lips to keep them still. “Here. I’ll take you.”

He puts his freckled arm out for me to grab onto and leads me down a long corridor, up another, through a bunch of doors into another elevator. He hustles me past the nurses’ station.

I want to hug him by the time we’re standing in front of the door that matches the room number written on my map. He opens the door and pushes me inside and pulls the door closed behind me.

Derek’s there, lying in a hospital bed, with a mask strapped on his face. He has to fight to get each breath in. His face looks blue against the stark-white hospital sheets. His damp hair stands out dark against his pale skin. His eyes are closed. The eyelids are purple, and he’s got dark shadows under his eyes. His long black lashes look wet. There’s a bag of clear liquid hanging on an IV pole. My eyes follow the narrow tube out the bottom of it to where it turns into a syringe sticking into his chest. There’s another pole holding up a bag of yellowish murky stuff. It has a tube, too. A bit fatter. That tube disappears under the sheets. Oh, gross. I think it’s going into his stomach—where that Band-Aid was. I peer at his face. Tiny clear tubes run into each nostril.

I must have made a noise—a sharp intake of my breath. Maybe I sniffed.

His eyes open, and they focus on me. “No, Beth.” He closes his eyes again.

“No ?” I say it too loud, too harsh.

“Not you.”

“Who else?” I’m losing control.

He pulls down the mask he was breathing into so he can talk better. “You’re not supposed to see this.” His voice is thick and raspy. “Go away.”

“Look at me.” I move to the foot of his bed. “Open your eyes, damn you.” It’s my turn to curse. My turn to scream.

He won’t open his eyes.

I go around to the side of his bed and pry an eyelid open. His skin is hot and slick, but I persist.

He sees me well enough. He turns his face away.

My fingers slip into his dark, damp hair. I lean down and speak in his ear. “This is what you’re doing to me.”

“Go away.”

“It’s not that easy.”

He turns to face me, brushes my face with his fingers. He holds me there with the love deep in his feverish eyes until I can’t bear it anymore.

I turn away this time, stumble over to a chair by the door, and break down.

“Oh, Beth.” He struggles to speak. “Please, Beth. Don’t cry like that.”

I jump to my feet, fear fueling that anger I uncovered in the car. “What am I supposed to do?” I screech in his face. “Tell me, Derek. Whatever it is—I have to know.”

“I didn’t want this to happen.”

“That’s so stupid.” I scream. “I love you. How can you be so cruel?” I whip my head back and forth and keep yelling. “I hate you for doing this. I hate you.” I lunge at him with my fists balled up, screaming, “Stop lying. Damn it, Derek. Stop! ”

The door to his room flies open. A short, sturdy woman with Derek’s eyes darts into the room and gets between me and Derek’s bed. “Control yourself, young lady.” She grabs my wrists. “I don’t know who you think you are or what you think you’re doing here, but you need to get your evening gown theatrics out of my son’s room.”

I stare at her. “But I’m Beth.”

She lets go of my arms. “We don’t know any Beth.” She herds me toward the door.

“Derek! ” He can’t lie there and let her do this to me.

“Stop, Mum.”

“She doesn’t even know who I am.” My knees buckle, and I sink to the floor, crimson gown and all.

His mother whirls around to face Derek. “Do you know this girl?”

“We met in Lausanne.”

“No. You said Blake met a girl in Lausanne.”

“Not like the one I met.” He sucks in air and whispers. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Hearing that makes my tears start again. His mother stares at me and then back at him. “You didn’t tell her? Oh, Derek. How could you do that?”

She comes back to me, helps me up, and hugs me. “I’m sorry, honey.” She keeps an arm around me, and I lean against this woman I don’t know. Maybe she’ll tell me—if Derek won’t.

From his bed, Derek struggles up onto an elbow. “I was going to tell her once I got back on the active list, but it’s taking way too long. Go away, Beth. Forget you were here. I don’t want you in this world.”

Active list? What is that? I’m sure he thinks I’ll leave him here like this—that I’ll ever leave him again. “How can—”

“Hush, dear, he doesn’t mean it.” His mom turns back to him. “It may never happen. You have to tell her—now.” I like this woman. A lot. She emanates sense and strength.

She leads me back over to Derek’s bed, leans over him, smoothes his hair off his forehead, and kisses the spot.

She squeezes my arm, bites her lower lip, and leaves us alone.

chapter 28

TRUTH

I’m not angry anymore. The terror returns.

“Can you go back to the chair and sit for a minute.” The only thing I hear in his voice is utter weariness. “I need to finish this.” He puts the mask back on, lays his head on his pillow, and breathes, with kind of a gasp and a rattle, into his mask.

I move the chair close beside his bed and take his hand. He worms it away so he can hand me the tissues from his bedside table. I use up half the box, wiping my runny face. Then I lay my cheek down on his upturned palm.

In a few moments he starts to speak. “Did you ever wonder why my skin tastes so salty?”

“No.” I kiss his hand and lick my lips. “I just like it.” I didn’t get past Scott’s mouth. Derek’s the only guy I ever tasted.

“I was a really sick baby. Always a cold or pneumonia. I screamed all the time and wouldn’t eat. Then I’d eat and eat and eat until I started screaming again.”

“Poor Derek.”

“My poor mum. My dad worked nights—even back then. She couldn’t keep me quiet so he could sleep. And then I’d scream all night, too.”

“What was wrong?”

“Nobody knew. Her doctor said she wasn’t producing enough milk. Stuck me on formula.”

My eyes go to the bag on the second IV pole. That’s what the stuff in it looks like, baby formula.

Derek pushes the sheet down past his waist and pulls up his hospital gown. The tube is attached to a plastic disk embedded in his stomach. “Now you know why I always wore bulky sweatshirts, backed off when you got too close, went ballistic when you tried to take my shirt off.” He notices my eyes following the tube to the bag of stuff on the pole. “It’s a feeding tube. People with my condition need a lot more calories to thrive than normal people.”

“But you eat. I’ve seen you.”

“Not enough. I was a skeleton baby when the doctor finally stuck me in the hospital. One of the doctors suspected and gave me a sweat test.” He nodded. “I have CF. That’s why my skin tastes so salty.”

I lift up my head. My face pulls into a knot. “But you’re not in a wheelchair. I can’t believe your brain is messed up.”

“No. You’re thinking CP—cerebral palsy. Cystic fibrosis, CF, makes all the mucous in your body extra-thick and sticky. That’s why I cough.”

“That could be allergies—or asthma.”

“No, Beth. It’s CF. It blocks up my pancreas and messes with my liver, too. I have to take a handful of enzymes if I want to digest anything. I was a snot-nosed brat who wouldn’t eat, so Mum stuck me on the tube.” He glances at the IV pole and bag. “I’ve been doing night feeds at home to keep my weight and growth normal since I was a kid.”

“Then why do you have to be in the hospital now?”

He closes his eyes for a minute to nerve himself, opens them again. “I’ve got a jungle of exotic bacteria growing in my lungs.”

“Why don’t they give you antibiotics?”

“Like that?” He glances at the IV. “And that’s what I just breathed in, too. I live on antibiotics.” His face turns bitter. “Too much antibiotics.”

“Your drug habit?”

He manages to lift his eyebrows. “That’s just the beginning.”

I sit up straight, wipe at my face, feeling stupid for not catching on that he was sick—not being here for him sooner. Blake was right. What kind of crap girlfriend am I? But it’s going to be fine now. He’s safe in the hospital, getting treatment. Antibiotics will fix him. I squeeze his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me? You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been going through.”

“My whole life I’ve been the boy who was going to die.” He struggles to pull air into his lungs.

Die? He’s not going to die.

His scratchy voice continues, “All my friends know I’m going to die. My ex back in Amabile was the heroine because she loved the boy who was going to die. Every girl since junior high who liked me knew I was going to die.” He coughs and lies back on his pillows.

I plaster a brave smile on my face. “But you’re in the hospital. They are taking care of you. You’re not going to die.”

He squeezes my hand. There’s no strength behind it. “I needed a place where I wasn’t sick. Where I could just be the boy who loves you.”

“I still would have loved you.”

“Not the same way. I needed a whole heart once in my life. Is that so wrong?”

“You’ve got my heart.” I get up so I can lean over him. “All of it.” I smooth back his hair like his mom did. “And you’re going to get better. I can help you now.”

“My CF is kind of severe. I got listed for a double lung transplant two years ago.”

I draw back, afraid. “They want to cut you open and take out your lungs?”

He nods. “Last spring, after we got pegged for the Choral Olympics, I took a real dive. Lots of hemoptysis—coughing up blood.”

I try not to flinch. I don’t think he noticed.

“The bacteria took control. I got a massive infection. They almost lost me twice.”

My lips start trembling. I struggle to keep them still. Bite them. Hard.

“You better sit down.”

I sink back in the chair, confused. Except for a bit of a cough, he was fine in Switzerland. And every time I’ve seen him since. He was always tired. Coughed a bit. Other than that, he seemed fine. But how much can you tell from a phone call or an online chat?

“My mom got me into a drug trial for a brand new cocktail of treatments—including a heavy dose of a new space-age antibiotic. I survived—that usually doesn’t happen without a lung transplant. It’s kind of a miracle I made it to Lausanne. My choir—wanting that trip—hearing your voice and deciding I had to find you—got me out of the hospital and onto that plane. Poor Blake.” He sort of shakes his head, hardly moves it. “Our room was like a clinic.”

I nod, starting to get there. “That’s why you flipped about him taking Sarah there.”

He touches the tubes that run into his nose. “I had to have oxygen on the plane—and all night and the mornings except when we performed.” He weakly lifts a hand and points to a black mound of Kevlar on top of the dresser. “I took my vest and inhalation mask. Three times a day, I inhaled antibiotics and this stuff that thins your mucous, and then I was in the vest for twenty minutes.”

“What does it do?”

“Moves the gunk in the smaller passages of my lungs into the bigger ones so I can huff it out.”

“Huff?”

“Like a cough without a cough.” He closes his eyes. “Before I got the vest, the guys used to put a piano bench on a flight of stairs and pound me. Blake’s almost as good at it as my mum.”

He’s losing me. “You sang, though. Your voice was totally pure.”

“I did extra treatments before performances. I spent the night in the hospital twice for IV antibiotics. Modern medicine is great.”

He wasn’t weak like this. I’m still confused. “How did you do that and keep up with the schedule?”

“I skipped out of most of the practices. I did performances and you.”

“But after, you were so active.”

“That might have been a mistake. I mean exercise is a good thing. My adrenaline cravings kept me strong and alive for years. I’d been so weak and sick, and suddenly I was alive again, relatively healthy again—and pumped full of you. You’re better than any drug, Beth.”

I shake my head.

“I went overboard after you left trying to keep up with Blake. Mountaintops aren’t a smart place to be if you have trouble breathing. I had to take my portable O2 tank with me when we went snowboarding. I got a few good runs in, sucked oxygen in between them. It was my last shot to live.”

He went overboard that last night with me, too. “We stayed out way too late. And then you had to go rescue Sarah.”

“That wasn’t so bad. I took a taxi. I took a lot of taxis in Lausanne. The only time I walked was with you. You just thought I was getting a cold.”

“You totally faked me out.”

“After I dropped Sarah off, I didn’t go back to the hotel room—went straight up to the hospital. The Swiss doctors were great.”

I remember him coughing as our bus rolled away the next morning.

“I crash-landed when I got home—right back to the hospital.”

“No cottage?”

“I lied, Beth.” His voice drops to almost nothing. “I lied a lot.” He closes his eyes, exhausted from all this talking. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.” There are tears behind his words. “Say hi to Scott.” He can’t stop the pain that takes over his face.

“I’m supposed to leave now?” I should be livid. Angry. Hurt. Scared. I look at his pale, sunken face, tinged blue and bruised, his lips more purple than pink, watch as he takes a labored breath and tries to control his emotions. He looks so young—especially with his hair slicked back like that. There’s nothing left of the confident singer, the intimidating composer, the sensitive boyfriend who wants to keep me a nice girl. He’s just a small boy, and all I want to do is take care of him. He’s not beautiful anymore; neither am I. But what I’m feeling inside is. I love him more than I ever did.

I lean over him again. “You’re going to be fine now. I’m here.”

His eyes flicker open. “I came to see you as soon as they let me out. Whenever I could escape”—his eyes take in the equipment around him—“this.”

“How did you expect to keep me in the dark if I joined the AYS?”

“I think there was a part of me that wanted you to find out. They let me out for practice when I’m up for it. I planned on getting better, not . . . ”

“I’m sorry. I would have been here, Derek. Every day.”

“I know.” He motions me close so I can hear him whisper. “The median life expectancy for CF patients is thirty-seven.”

I swallow. “That gives us loads of time. Remember? You told me they’re doing stuff with genetics.”

“Thirty-seven is the median age. That means half of us die a lot sooner.”

“Not you, though.”

He puts his hand up to my face. “I can only father a baby in a test tube.”

“You can’t—”

“No. That works. The sperm can’t get through my clogged tubes.”

“So we won’t have to worry much about me getting pregnant. You’re the perfect guy for a mutant like me.”

“Last spring after they saved me, I tested antibiotic resistant. I guess they used too much of that new stuff. That meant I had to go inactive on the transplant list until they can fix me.”

“So you’ll get better without them cutting you up?” I like the sound of that.

“Impossible.”

“What?” I’m not believing him. “You did last spring—”

“That helped me . . . for a while. Mum’s trying to get me reinstated on the active list. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

I lay my face on his pillow. “Yes—you are.” Derek dying? No way. It’s not real. I won’t let him. I kiss his salty face. “You are going to stay right here and do everything the doctors tell you to do.”

“Story of my life.” He shakes his head.

“You are never riding that motorcycle again. I’m going to sit beside you and make sure it happens.”

He opens one eye. “In that dress?”

I glance down. “Do I look like a fool?”

“You’re gorgeous. You don’t have to stay. I already have a mum.”

I stand up. “But you’ve been so stupid. Look at all the time we wasted.”

“I thought you had school and your choir?”

“If we only have until you’re thirty-seven—”

“Beth, stop—” He reaches out, and my cold hand meets his fevered one.

I bend over him and press my lips on his salty, dry mouth. “Your mom can’t do that.” I kiss him again. “You don’t want to see the scene I’ll pitch if somebody tries to make me leave.”

“You’ll stay for my sponge baths?”

“If they’ll let me help.”

“I’ll get the nurses to train you—right away.”

“You talk dirty when you’re helpless.”

“It’s all I can do.” He grins, but the pain and bitterness are back in his voice. He pushes a white button pinned to his bed where he can easily reach.

A nurse appears.

“Hey, Meg. This is Beth. You think you can find her some scrubs? She says she’s moving into my lair.”

The nurse, Meg, smiles at me. “I’ll be right back.”

I change in Derek’s bathroom. The pants are way short and surgical green doesn’t help my bright-red face much. I stare at my hideous reflection and promise myself Derek will never see me cry again. I wash my face and fix it best I can. Nothing close to beautiful.

I call our home phone. Good, Mom doesn’t answer. I manage to say, “Derek’s in the hospital in London. I met his mom. She’s letting me stay over. He’ll be fine,” all in a fairly normal voice. I turn off my cell—hospital rules.

I hang my gown in his closet next to his tux.

Meg looks up from where she’s working on Derek’s IV. “I’d like to see you two at the ball.”

“We sing,” Derek says.

“Together?”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. I hope we can do that again. Wherever and whenever he wants.

Meg leaves us alone.

“My mum came back while you were changing. She was relieved you didn’t strangle me.”

I sit down in the chair. It’s still where I left it close by his bed.

“I told her you wouldn’t leave.”

“What did she say?”

“Thank you. She’s going home to sleep in her own bed.”

My eyes dart around the room, expecting to find his mom hiding somewhere. “How can she leave you here alone like that? What if—?”

“You’re here.”

“Me ?” She doesn’t even know me.

Derek coughs. I can tell it hurts. He gasps for a minute.

I stand there helpless.

He whispers, “If I turn blue in the middle of the night, buzz for Meg.”

“You’re already blue, babe.”

“Bluer.”

“That’s not funny.” I want to hit his arm, but I don’t dare. “I’m not staying if you’re going to do that.”

“But Mum’s counting on you.” He’s not joking. “She needs a break. I knew you were bluffing.”

I go over to the door and look up and down the hall. It’s empty. I turn around. “They’re leaving us together—all night? Is that allowed?”

“I’m kind of helpless here. I’m sure they figure you’re safe.”

“What about you?” I shut the door, lean against it with my hands pinned behind my back. “You’re too weak to run away from me again.”

“You ran away from me.”

My eyes drop to the floor.

“I don’t blame you, Beth. Who’d want this?”

I cross the room to his bed. “I won’t this time.” I plant my lips on his salty neck.

He whispers in my ear, “Probably a bit more excitement than I can survive.”

I pull back—am I hurting him?

He manages a weak smile. “But that would be a good way to go. Do you want to take out my catheter or should I?”

I’m not sure if I’m laughing or crying. “You’re gross.”

“I tried to protect you as long as I could.”

I slide back in the chair and try to get comfortable, cross my arms, and prepare to stare at him all night.

“What are you doing?”

“Settling in to watch for blueness.”

He slides over in his bed. “I’ll share.”

“What if I get tangled up in your catheter?”

“Stay on your side.”

I climb onto the bed and lie down next to him, roll on my side so I can study his face.

He pushes a button and the lights go out.

I kiss his forehead. “Good night.”

“I can’t sleep. Do you think—”

“I’m not touching that catheter.”

“Could you sing to me?” He caresses my face.

I close my eyes. And sing.I take me down to the river,

The sweet, sweet river Jordan,

Stare across the muddy water,

And long for the other side.

His fingers trace my cheekbones and eyebrows, they play over my lips while I sing, Take me home, sweet, sweet Jesus. / And wrap me in your bosom— His hand draws away. I pause, open my eyes, he nods, and I sing, Lord, I long for the other side.

Does he long for release like that slave girl? Is that why he loves this song? Is that why he loves my voice? Take me home, take me home, take me home.

No. Not allowed. He’s not going anywhere. I change my tune, hum our duet. Sing to him,It’s gotta be, it’s gotta be about you, you, you, you. . . .

I raise a kaleidoscope up to my eye,

Twist it once and watch the bright colors fly, and the picture is so

clear—

It’s gotta be you.

He sleeps. I don’t. I lie there, wishing I’d never run away from him, wishing he’d come up those stairs to my room, wishing I’d left his T-shirt alone. My heart fills with the enormity of how much I care for him. I smooth his hair back and cherish him like a child while I sing with the slave girl again. But my babe, Lord, my sweet child / Wraps his sweet, sweet fingers so tight around my heart. . . . I look up at the ceiling, close my eyes, and whisper, He ain’t ready for Jordan.

Is anyone ever ready? Could I ever be ready to let him go?

No way. Never. He’s staying here with me.

Pulls me back, pulls me back, pulls me back.

chapter 29

REALITY

I wake up. The room is still dark. Derek lies on his side with his head propped on one hand. He’s tracing the features of my face lightly, barely touching me. He’s close enough to kiss, so I do. He’s not as hot now.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” I kiss him again.

“You taste kind of nasty in the morning.”

I pull away from him and cover my mouth. “Recovered enough to be a brat. I liked you better helpless.”

I kiss the top of his head. He raises his face and catches my mouth. He doesn’t taste that great, either.

“How about we brush our teeth?”

I hurry into the bathroom. I’ve got a toothbrush and stuff in my bag because of the concert. I brush my teeth fast. My hair is a wild mess, but I don’t have time for it. I find Derek’s toothbrush in a shaving kit by the sink, load it up with toothpaste, fill a glass with water, and run a washcloth under warm water, wring it, and head back to Derek.

I catch him disconnecting the tube that goes into his stomach. I stand there dripping while he finishes. “You do that yourself?”

“Half my life.” He pulls the sheet over the plastic port in his stomach. “I used to have to thread a tube up my nose and down the back of my throat. This is easy.”

I go to stick the toothbrush in his mouth.

He snatches it from me. “I’m not paralyzed.” He presses a button, and the head of the bed raises until he’s sitting up enough. He takes a maddeningly long time brushing his teeth. “Where am I supposed to spit?”

I whip a plastic cup off his bedside table and hand it to him. He gives me the toothbrush. I run to the bathroom to rinse it, so I don’t have to watch him spit. Not really a turn on. Neither is a hole in your stomach. Or a syringe taped to your chest.

I get back as he’s taking a last swig of fresh water. I pick up the washcloth—good, it’s still kind of warm—and wipe his face. Slowly. Major turn on. Makes up for everything else.

“Now that feels good.”

I move it down to his neck, run it over one shoulder. “About that sponge bath—”

He tugs me toward him and our lips connect. I manage to get myself onto the bed without breaking the kiss. The head of the bed lowers—smoothly—while his tongue slips softly into my mouth.

I’m lying kind of sideways—half on, half off him. I try to be careful. He’s still so weak, and I don’t want to bump the syringe that drips into the permanent port into his vein hiding just under the skin. “You’re awfully good at making out in a hospital bed.”

“Home-court advantage.” His mouth captures mine again. His hand moves under the loose scrubs top I’ve got on and caresses my back. I didn’t sleep in my bra. I savor his touch on my skin, kiss him harder—roll onto my back without falling off the bed and lie there waiting for him.

He shifts onto his side and caresses my stomach. I close my eyes—every part of me concentrating on his tender, pulsing fingertips.

“Would it kill you this morning?”

“You and your one track mind.” His face clouds up. “Don’t go there, Beth.” He draws his hand away.

I groan.

He lets the mask drop. I see his longing and frustration. “It hurts too much.” His face contorts. “Everything we won’t have.”

I roll on my side, take his face in my hands, and kiss him softly, as gently as I can, and whisper, “When it’s right.”

He turns his face away. “It won’t be, Beth. All I am is disease.”

He lets me kiss him again. I whisper, “Once upon a time there was a hideous beast who met a handsome prince. The prince saw the Beast’s agony and bestowed on it his magic kiss.”

“I’m the Beast, Beth.”

“Shhh.” I place my fingers over his mouth. “The magic kiss changed the Beast forever. She became human. She learned to love and loved the prince with all her heart.”

“And he loved her.”

I hold his eyes as I say, “And they will live happily ever after.”

He doesn’t argue, lets me kiss him again. And again. And again.

There’s a sound at the door, and I jump up, flushed and breathless.

His mom, followed by a solid man about Derek’s height with silver and dark-brown hair, enters the room. My face burns and my antiperspirant fails.

“Hey, Dad.” Derek relaxes back on his pillows as if they didn’t just walk in on us making out in Derek’s hospital bed. “Meet Beth.”

His dad nods at me and winks. Why do these people like me so much? He actually walks over to me and kisses me on the cheek. “Welcome to the team.” He squeezes my elbow and smiles Derek’s melting smile.

His dad turns to Derek and raises an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

Derek reaches for my hand. “Slept like a baby.”

His mom takes up station on the other side of the bed. She examines his empty bag of formula on his feeding IV pole. “Did you take your meds yet?”

“No, Mum. You even beat Meg here.”

“She’s late.” She goes off to find the nurse.

His dad sits down in my chair.

Derek puts the head of his bed up again. “How was work?”

His dad shrugs. “The usual.”

I retreat into the bathroom. When I come back out, his mom is back with Meg and lots of pills. Derek dutifully swallows everything.

His mom notices me standing back by the closet. “I’m going to take Beth home while you get your therapy out of the way. Dad’s staying.”

I don’t want to leave. “Can’t I?”

Derek gets comfortable with his hands behind his head, challenging me to throw that fit I threatened.

“You get some rest, young lady.” His dad can’t help yawning. He picks up the vest and shakes it out.

“I don’t need to rest. Aren’t you tired?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on, Beth.” His mom puts her arm around my waist. “You’ve done enough for now.”

“I want—”

“We’ve got so much to talk about.”

I glance over her head back at Derek. He puts his hand over his eyes and shakes his head.

I stick my tongue out at him. “If that’s the case—sure.”

“When will you be back?” There’s an anxious note in his voice that makes my heart flip.

I glance at his mom.

“A couple hours.”

He points at his mom. “Don’t scare her off.”

His mom makes me phone mine on the drive to his house. My mom doesn’t yell at me, but she says I have to come home tonight and go to school tomorrow.

“But—this is an emergency. I need to stay with him.”

Derek’s mom puts her hand out for the phone. I obey.

“We’ll make sure she gets there. No, no. It shouldn’t be late. She’s been wonderful. All right. Good-bye.” She hands me back my cell.

I slip it into my bag. I don’t dare argue. She’s in control and wants me to know it. “I wasn’t wonderful last night—more like a disaster. Why are you making this so easy for me?”

“He says he loves you. Do you love my son?”

I nod.

“Then why wouldn’t I do everything I can to keep you around? I need an ally.”

“Against him?”

“For him. When he was almost five, a doctor told me he would only last two, maybe three more years. I’ve been fighting since then to prove that man wrong.”

“Derek—resists?”

We get stopped at a red light. “He fought therapy and meds when he was little. Fed his formula to the dog—stuff like that. But that’s all second nature now. He resists in other ways—dangerous ways. For a while it was girls. Then he got together with a nice girl in his choir. But he still needed to rebel. His entire life is drugs—so he didn’t go down that road.” The light turns green. She steps on the gas.

“How could you let him get that motorcycle?”

“He’s nineteen.” She shudders. “His dad was for it. What could I do?”

“He was crazy in Switzerland.”

“Ever seen him on a skateboard?”

Stupid adrenaline. “You should have—”

“Tied him up?”

“Padded cell.”

She puts on her left turn signal. “I caught myself looking forward to his hospital stays so I could watch him round the clock.” She makes the turn and shoots me a grim smile.

“The lockup?”

She nods. “But lately he’s taking living seriously.” She glances away from the road. “Thank you.”

“Me?” I roll my eyes and fling my head back against the neck rest. “I got everything so wrong.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I need to help.”

“You already did.” She reaches over and pats my knee. “Last night I was a thousand miles past exhausted—but how could I leave him? And then there you were. Derek’s angel.”

“I didn’t act like an angel.”

She laughs. “I had to take his word for it.” She focuses on the road, drives, silent for a moment. “Derek should not have played with your happiness like this. Not many girls would have stayed. It will get painful.”

“It can’t be worse than not knowing.”

“It can, Beth.” Her eyes catch mine. “It will.”

I draw into myself—refuse to hear her. He’s going to be fine.

We arrive at a small two-story house in a little town west of London. Derek’s bike is pulled up by the side door. We both shoot it nasty looks on our way into the house. She takes me in through the laundry room stacked with dirty clothes—like I’m a part of the family—and into an open kitchen and family room. There’s a waist-high, long black table, narrow and set on a downward slant behind the couch.

She notices me staring at it. “The vest needs help some days. I used to pound on the poor kid forty-five minutes four times a day to get him to cough up that gunk in his lungs. You can imagine how much he liked that.”

Cases of formula sit on the kitchen counter. She opens the dishwasher, and it’s full of all kinds of medical stuff. She finds a couple mugs in there. “You hop into the shower, and I’ll make us some cocoa.” She directs me to Derek’s room. “Don’t mind the mess.”

I wade through his dirty clothes, stop at the foot of his unmade bed, stare at his body’s imprint. There’s an IV pole next to the bed with clothes thrown over it. His computer is almost buried in papers and stacks of sheet music. On the way to the bathroom, I stub my toe on a keyboard floating in the mess. The bathroom is clean enough. His mom must have got it ready for me. I doubt Derek left those fresh towels laid out on the counter last time he was in here.

I take off my borrowed scrubs and get into his shower. The hot water feels so good. I’ve got tears and sweat and snot dried all over me. My hair is caked with hairspray from my performance updo. I find more pins while I wash my hair with his shampoo. I lather up with his soap, scrub until I’m tingling fresh, and rinse it all down the drain. The smell of him lingers on my skin even after I towel down.

My jeans are in my bag, so I put them on. I forego undies. Not usually my style, but the ones I peeled off are nasty. The bra is fine for another day, but my pink T-shirt is stained and crusty. Gross. What was I thinking? I borrow a white one from a folded pile on top of Derek’s dresser. His mom doesn’t mention it when I go back out.

My hair dries into a frizz while I sit in their kitchen and sip cocoa with marshmallows.

His mom leans across her steaming mug. “Tell me how you met—and everything. If I ask Derek, he’ll just grunt.”

I blow on my cocoa and try to figure out where to start.

“Please?” Her eyebrows lift. “It isn’t true what they say about mothers. We don’t hate our sons’ girlfriends. The sleazy ones—maybe. But we’re mostly delighted and a little startled when a wonderful girl loves our son. And relieved the son is smart enough to love her back. I’m grateful, Beth.”

“I’m not wonderful.”

“I’m sure you are. Derek has very good taste.”

I slurp up a melting marshmallow—much louder than intended, and we both laugh.

“It started with Meadow, I guess.” I tell her about Meadow’s stage fright and how I filled in. My absurd makeover. Derek up on that mountaintop already knowing my voice. Him coming after me and finding me on that bench. She nods her head when I explain my genetic problems—understanding my pain like no one I’ve ever talked to before.

“You’re lucky in a way. We didn’t know until after Derek was diagnosed. I wanted a houseful of kids, but the risks . . .”

“I know.” Our eyes meet. “Kind of awful. Derek was . . . incredibly comforting.” I flush and my hands get sweaty. The hot cup of cocoa I’m holding is no help. I set it down and lean back in my chair.

His mom grins and shakes her head. “The opportunistic little devil.”

“No.” How can I explain how much that meant? “I’d never had a hot guy like him do anything more than hurl abuse at me. Then doctors were saying they were right. I really am beastly.”

She shakes her head and stirs her cocoa.

“And then there was this beautiful boy holding me while I cried. When he kissed me, my world changed forever. I’ll never be the same. Cystic fibrosis? What difference could that make to me ?”

She gets teary while I tell her how magical the rest of our time in Lausanne was, how scared I was when it was over, how relieved when he showed up on that motorcycle—until he took me for a ride. I look at the trappings of his condition all around us. “Now I know why he kept me away.”

“And why he didn’t tell me about you.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“I’ll manage the medical establishment. You manage him.”

“He won’t like me bossing him around.”

“That’s not what I mean. He wants to live—for you. He wants life. With you. Keep him hoping. Keep him fighting. Until they can save him.”

My heart gets tight, but I look up at her and nod. “All right. Should be easy.”

She reaches across the table and places her hand on top of mine. “It may be the hardest thing you ever do. Are you sure?”

“I’m not afraid.”

Her mask of calm drops for a moment, and she whispers, “I am.”

chapter 30

EXISTENCE

Getting my butt out of bed Monday morning is painful. I hit the snooze button three times. Mom has to drag me out from under the covers. I throw on an old sweatshirt and slide into my Levi’s. I capture my hair and jam it through a black scrunchie. I treat my face so the sore spots on my chin and forehead don’t erupt on me, but I don’t bother with makeup.

I grab a banana for breakfast. Mom pours me juice.

“Please—can’t I go back to the hospital?”

“After school. But take your homework.”

“It’s December. Christmas break starts in two weeks.”

“And you have finals in all your semester classes.”

“Who cares?”

“Every college you’ll be applying to in a couple of months.”

Applications? Colleges? What planet is she on? “Get real. I can’t bother with that until Derek’s okay.” I filled her in when I got home last night. She took it pretty hard.

She looks down and stirs her coffee. “What if he’s not okay?”

I slam the juice glass on the counter. “Why are you being so mean?”

“Reality sucks, but you need to face it, honey.”

“He’s not going to die.”

“He tricked you. He tricked both of us.”

“Shut up. Don’t talk about him like that. He needs me, and that’s all that matters.”

“I don’t want you to throw away your happiness.” She closes her eyes and her tone drops. “Like I did.”

“You said you loved my father.”

She nods and sighs. “You have to do this. I understand.”

“Good.” I run back upstairs to my room, pull my suitcase from the summer out from under my bed, dump the junk that’s still in the bottom, and start throwing underwear and T-shirts into it.

“Whoa.” Mom barges in. “Hold on.” She grabs my arm. “Slow down.” She takes a stack of jeans out of my hands and gathers me close. “Let’s think this through for a minute.”

I drop my head onto her shoulder. “I have to get back up there. What if—”

“Is he that bad?” She lets me loose.

I sink down on my bed. “How can I waste time on school when he—” I take a deep breath and steel myself to say it. “When he could be dead tomorrow?”

“It’s that close?”

I fight hard to keep my emotions steady. “No one knows. It could be. This new medication they’ve got him on seems to be helping.” His mom filled me in when we went back to the hospital Sunday. “How long it will help and how much is a mystery. They have to keep him alive long enough for him to get the transplant. Only problem is they have to get him so he’s not antibiotic resistant anymore first.”

“How’s that going?”

“It’s not.” I sniff and start to blink. “If they take him off his antibiotics, the infections will win.”

Mom sits beside me. “I’m sorry.” She’s fighting back tears, too. “So, so sorry.” She puts her arm around me and squeezes. “Okay. Let’s take it one day at a time. Go to school today. Get your assignments, and you can take off tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Try to make it before midnight.” I had a hard time leaving Derek last night. “I love you, Beth.” She leans her head against mine. “I’m here. Whatever I can do. I’m here.”

I kiss her cheek, hug her, jam a change of clothes and my zit stuff into my bag, and tear out of there.

I get to school late, but Scott’s still at his locker. I was so awful to him Saturday night. I need to apologize—explain. “Hey, Scott. I’m so—”

He whirls around with his arms full of books. “To hell with you, Beth.” He walks past me, to the far end of the hall.

The locker beside mine is empty.

I hear books thud and a locker door slam down the hall. I feel like he hurled those books right in my face.

He’s not in choir.

At lunch I see him with a tiny junior girl who’s new this year. On my way out after school, he’s making out with her by the front doors.

Crap. He’s taking my stupid, stupid advice. I should be happy for him. I’ve got Derek to worry about. No room for a friend who wants more than I can give. I relied on him and that’s not really fair. Better to have Scott occupied. Right now he’s more occupied than I want to know, but he deserves something. He can’t really like her. She’s tiny and pretty and perfect for him, but he can’t love her. He loves me. She’s probably had a crush on him since school started. And now, oh my gosh, he’s got his hands on her butt.

I hurry by them, chuck my bag on Jeanette’s passenger seat, and drive fast for London. No line at the border between Port and Sarnia. I’ve got my passport today, but the guy glances at my license plate and waves me through. It’s snowing again, but the road is fine. I make it to the hospital in under an hour. It’s easier than driving to choir. Shoot—choir. We have a practice tomorrow. I’ll have to call Terri. Maybe I’ll just update my status on my page. Everyone will get the message that way—

Oh my gosh. My page.

Derek friending me—curious about the rest of me.

What a brat. He was right, though. The Amabile guys beat us. He got his way with me, too. He always gets his way.

He’ll get those lungs. It’s Derek.

I burst into his room. He’s asleep with his inhaler thing strapped to his face. His mom, poor woman, is nodding off, too, balanced on that uncomfortable chair. I gently shake her shoulder. Her eyes flutter open.

“He’s still good?” I whisper.

She blinks and nods. “Get him to finish that. Then his vest.”

“I can stay. Sleep in tomorrow.”

She gathers her purse and knitting, leaves a stack of books about cystic fibrosis for me. “Make sure he doesn’t skimp his treatments in the morning.” She hugs me and stumbles out.

I steal the table that swings over Derek’s bed for meals, push it over by the window, lower it, and spread out my books. I grab the chair—catch him spying at me through one eye.

“Are you awake?”

“No.”

I drop the chair and very gently, mindful of his IV and how weak he is, attack him.

He kisses me back and breathes, “You’re going to make my monitors go off,” into my ear.

I press my ear to his chest. His heart races back. “Too much excitement?”

He presses the magic buttons and the bed sits us up. “Bring the table back over here.”

“Not until you finish with your vest.”

I bring it over to him, help him get it strapped on. It vibrates him for twenty minutes, and then he huffs gunk into a basin.

Meg sticks her head in the door. “Need any help?” She sees the green tinge to my face and comes in. “I’ll take over. Get some air. Don’t push yourself too fast.”

I walk up and down the hall, berating myself until Meg comes out. “He wants you again. He said something about a sponge bath.”

That makes me smile. I go back in the room, push the table back to his bed, and dutifully study with his head resting on my shoulder. He falls asleep like that—drools on my neck. I don’t dare move, keep studying until late.

He wakes up when I try to lower the bed. He takes the controls and makes the head go down and the foot go up. “I think my ankles are swelling.”

“Like a pregnant lady?”

“I’m not a pregnant lady.”

“I noticed.”

“Turn around. I’ll never get back to sleep with you looking at me like that.”

I kiss him. “Are you sure?”

“My mom’s cot is under the bed. If you don’t stop torturing me, I’ll make you sleep in it.”

“You didn’t offer me the cot Saturday. I thought she slept in the chair.”

“I can’t keep my eyes open. Meg upped my morphine.” He gets these awful headaches.

“I’m supposed to watch you. This isn’t about sex. I thought you knew that.”

He manages a drowsy laugh and lies back, closes his eyes, and he’s out.

I lie on my side, wanting him, and wonder how I can feel like this when he’s so sick.

The next two weeks, I only go to school for tests. Mom manages everything with my teachers. I get way more studying done in Derek’s hospital room than I ever did wasting time in class. Derek’s headaches get worse. He’s on so much morphine now—sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. So I watch him and study. And ace everything except econ.

I try to talk to Scott after that test, but he cuts me cold.

The week before Christmas is peaceful. Mom lets me go up for the whole time. Derek’s mom takes advantage of me being there to get her shopping done and mail stuff. I help her wrap Derek’s presents. I get him black leather riding gloves to match his jacket.

I sleep in his mom’s cot. I can’t lie beside him night after night and not go crazy. I love him more every day and with that love come other feelings I’m not sure I can control. Not next to him all the long, silent night.

The info-desk guy brings up a steady flow of notes, gifts, and cards from people he can’t let up. Amabile—seems like the whole amazing family stops by at one time or another.

Before their Christmas concert, his choir—all those guys in their tuxes—stand in the snow outside his window and sing to the twilight. I open the window a crack to let in the sound. At first they just sing, “Oh,” in rich harmony as old as monks and cathedrals. Then they slowly unwind the gentle hymn. Lo, how a Rose e’re blooming from tender stem hath sprung! Their harmonies build and dissipate, break into a celebration at the solemn birth and salvation. Then close with a single voice in the night.O Savior, King of glory, who dost our weakness know ;

Bring us at length we pray,

To the bright courts of Heaven, and to the endless day!

It’s the only time I ever saw tears on Derek’s eyelashes.

Meg gets me to go caroling around the hospital with a few other nurses. “Last year Derek brought his choir friends and guitar and sang for all the kids.”

I think of him back in his room, lying on his bed with his mom sitting in her chair, knitting a scarf out of bumpy purple yarn.

We sing for old people and sick people and sicker people. I don’t want to leave the kids. One climbs on my lap and sings along, patting the beat on my cheeks with tiny chapped hands.

My mom comes for Christmas. We’re having it in Derek’s hospital room. She brings turkey and stuffing, gravy and potatoes. A big pumpkin pie. He makes Meg dial back on the morphine a little so he’s more alert for an hour or so. In pain but alert. I kiss him good-bye that afternoon and follow Mom home. It’s Christmas. She needs me, too.

Mom lights the fire. It’s gas, but it’s still cozy with all the snow. We eat hot buttered microwave popcorn and watch It’s a Wonderful Life. Mom lives for Jimmy Stewart.

We both cry at the end.

It feels so good.

As we watch the credits and blow our noses, Mom puts her arm around me and draws me under her wing. “How is he—really?”

“Alive.”

“And the transplant?”

“He’s still on the inactive list.”

“No change in his resistance?”

I shake my head.

chapter 31

HOPE?

The week after Christmas is a disaster. The nasty bacteria in Derek’s lungs fight back. For some reason no one can explain, the antibiotic they had him on can’t contain it anymore. His lungs fill up and his temperature spikes. He chokes and coughs continuously. I’ve been there for his therapy so much now that I’m used to him coughing up crap. It’s nothing like this. Blood. A lot. Cups of it.

They almost lose him twice.

I’m not there, either time. His mom is back at his side, full time. I sleep on the couch in the visitor’s lounge down the hall. It scares me to even think of going all the way home.

He’s shrinking—no matter how much they pump into him, his weight drops. A little of him slips away from us every day.

They finally get him on something experimental from a European clinical trial. His mom had to move heaven and earth to get a hold of it. At first there’s no change.

School starts, but I don’t go back.

And then his fever drops. “Beth?” It’s a feeble whisper.

I rush to his bed and take his bony hand. “Hey.”

“I’m doing this for you.”

I kiss him gently and then move aside for his mom.

I go into the bathroom until I can pull myself together. I splash cold water on my face and go sit by his bed.

I hold his hand all night long.

Next morning, Mom picks me up. Derek’s mom called her. I sleep all the way home, fall into my bed, and sleep the rest of the day. I haul my butt over to the school after it’s out to pick up textbooks and talk to my teachers.

“When will you be back?” my counselor wants to know.

“After he—” I pause, clench my teeth. “After his transplant.”

It will happen. It has to happen. Derek’s mom will make it happen. I’m keeping him alive—as painful as it is. I’m keeping him alive.

Mom won’t let me go back to the hospital. His mom phoned in a good report. I collapse on my bed, wake up with a cold, and they won’t let me near him.

Two long weeks.

And they won’t let me near him.

I’m not even that sick after the first couple days. I go to school, call his mom at the hospital a hundred times a day. He seems to be doing better. His mom lets him talk to me on the cell. All we say is “Hey,” and then he starts to cough again.

I make up the work I missed and work ahead.

I notice Scott is with a different girl. He is way too good for this one. Sleaze is putting it mildly.

He catches me on my way out of English. We have it together this semester. “Beth.”

I stop and turn to him, can’t help raising an eyebrow.

“I hear he’s in the hospital.”

I nod.

“I’m sorry.”

I duck my head and bolt.

When I finally get to go back, Derek’s mom is totally exhausted, leaves me on watch. He looks so much better than the last time I saw him. He tugs me down onto the bed with him as soon as we’ve got the room to ourselves.

It feels so right to have his lips slipping over my face and down my neck, and then back on my lips, responding to my open, hungry mouth with his sweet, soft tongue. He’s weak—can’t keep it up very long—but he gets me wondering. How hard can it be to take out a catheter?

“You’re making me crazy.” I chew on his earlobe.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

“How much better are you?”

“I don’t think it would kill me.”

I start to get excited, kiss him long and slow, pressing my body hard against his.

“The trouble is,” he finally says, “this medication that’s saving my life—makes my extremities go numb.” He runs his hands over my shoulder. “I can’t feel this.”

I capture his hand and kiss his palm.

“That either. No sense violating you if I’m not even going to feel it.”

“But I’ll feel it.” I start to undress but he stops me.

“Save it for Scott, Beth.” There’s a resignation in his voice that frightens me. “I owe him that much for letting me have you all this time.”

“What are you talking about?” I cuddle up to his chest. He doesn’t know about my rupture with Scott.

“When I’m gone—” There’s anger, pain, and sorrow in those three words that neither of us can bear to admit.

“Stop that. You’ll be fine.”

“Beth, listen—”

“No. This is going to work. They’ll put you back on the active list.”

The whole transplant thing makes me angry. They let smokers on it. People who crapped up their lungs on purpose and not my Derek. It’s supposed to be too risky because they have to give him lots of immunosuppressants after the operation. A lot of patients get infections post-op. If you are resistant to all antibiotics, you die. But what’s the alternative? They could try. Why would his new lungs be resistant? I don’t get it at all.

“Listen.” I draw spirals on his chest. “I’ve got two lungs with five healthy, pink lobes.” At last being an absolute Amazon is a good thing. You have to be mega-tall to be considered as a living donor. “You can have one.”

He ignores me. Derek saw me reading those books his mom left. I’ve gone through them all three times. If I give Derek a lobe, then we’d just need an uncle or friendly giant to give him another one. They usually only do living lobar transplants on small women and children who have small ribcages for the smaller lungs, but wouldn’t little lungs be better for Derek than no lungs? “I’m going to get tested. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to somebody else.”

“No one is cutting you up.”

That gets to me. I can’t talk anymore or I’ll break that promise about losing it in front of him. I don’t want him to know there’s a lump in my throat too big to swallow. His arms wrap around me, and I relax on his chest. He falls asleep holding me, comforting me. I think he does know.

I don’t want to move. He’ll wake up. I can’t sleep. What if I relax my grip, and he slips quietly away? I lie there, hour after hour, listening to him fight through each breath. Meg and another nurse come and go all night like I don’t exist. This is strange. What aren’t they telling me? They up his oxygen flow, put a new bag on his IV, plug his feeding tube in the slot in his stomach, punch up his morphine pump.

All this stuff that keeps him alive—it used to scare me.

Now I love that IV. I love the tube. I should be nervous they want to cut him open and take out his lungs, but the only thing in my heart is hurry, hurry, hurry. Make him active again. Ship him to Toronto. Let’s do this thing. Take part of me if it helps.

At four in the morning, he stops breathing.

I jam the call switch and start to shake him. “Derek. Come on. Please.”

The nurses rush in with a medical team right behind. Meg shoves me out of the way.

I stumble into the bathroom, sweating cold, and wretch over the toilet.

Meg appears behind me, hands me a damp washcloth. “How long was he out before you buzzed us?”

“Seconds. Is he—”

“Asking for you. You saved his life.”

“This time.”

She goes off to call his parents. His mom left strict instructions for updates.

I sit by his bed, holding his hand, while therapists work to clear his lungs—gently. They roll him onto his side and pound his back with cupped hands like his mom used to do every day, four times, morning, noon, afternoon, and night. Whatever clogged his throat is gone now, but he starts to cough up thick green phlegm and blood—chokes on the mess, gasps, manages to somehow breathe again. They give him an inhaled antibiotic treatment and more Ventolin, the thinning stuff.

Things calm down by the time he’s finished the treatment. Meg checks his monitors one more time. “Call me,” she orders and leaves the door open.

I take Derek’s hand again and look at him. It’s trembling. I look at his gray face and closed eyes. I realize these past two weeks have been filled with false reports. He faked it pretty good this afternoon. Kind of like how he faked me out ever since I met him. What did those nights that he stole away from the hospital to see me cost him? And this afternoon, what did those few minutes of exertion cost? Have I killed him?

His fingers move against my hand, and he opens his eyes. “You brought me back.”

I shake my head. “It was them.”

“No. It was you.” His eyes drift closed again.

I lean over him. “Derek. Derek. Come back.”

“I’ve been waiting . . . for you. Next time—” He opens his eyes and stares at me.

I shake my head, can’t stop denying what he’s saying. “Rest now. You’ll be fine.”

His eyes drop closed. “You need to let me go.”

I kiss his forehead and whisper, “I can’t.” I’m not ready. I’m so not ready.

“The place I’m going—I’ve been there a couple times now. There’s peace—love—a joyfulness I can’t explain. Let me stay. Next time . . . I’m ready to stay there.”

Take me home, take me home, take me home.

He wants to go, but I can’t leave him. “Take me with you then.”

He frowns. “Not allowed.”

“Have you told your mom?”

“Will you?”

I bow my head over his hand. Pain throbs in my chest. I can’t do this. I can’t let him go. I only know how to hang on. I wish I knew something about praying—had the strength of that slave girl in my solo singing down by the river Jordan.Oh, the glory of that bright day

When I cross the river Jordan.

She knew something I don’t. “Give me that,” I whisper. “Please.”

The weight on my heart doesn’t lift, but a calm, soothing sensation flows from Derek’s hand into mine. Comfort emanates through me. “How are you doing that?”

“I’m not.”

“Maybe it’s deliverance.”

“Sing it for me, Beth.”

“My solo?”

“It’s in the drawer.” He closes his eyes. “Sing me to sleep.”

I pull open the nightstand drawer. There’s a sheaf of wordless music on the top. “Beth’s Song.” “I don’t have any words.”

He doesn’t answer.

I wish I could find phrases to match his music that could tell him how much I love him, but all I can do is hum the melody, add “oohs” and “aahs.” His parents arrive while I’m singing. I start to leave—Derek’s mom doesn’t need me to tell her anything. She knows. She stops me, though. Keeps me there with them, singing to Derek.

I sing his song over and over again—aching for some kind of meaning to match this delicate melody so full of life and love. I’m afraid to stop singing. Afraid to let go of him.

A hint of dawn reaches the room. His eyes flutter open, his mouth eases into a smile. He looks like an angel already.

No one moves when his breathing stops.

“Good-bye, my Derek-boy.” His mom bends over and kisses his forehead.

I touch my lips to his one last time.

His father pats his head, awkward and manly. “You fought a good one, son.”

Derek’s machines sound off. Meg comes running. His mom caresses his hair off his forehead. “Let him rest.”

Meg backs out of the room, tears streaming down her face.

I wish I could cry like that. It’s not fair. She’s just his nurse. Give me those tears to soften the desolation I feel as he goes. His mom is crying. So is his dad. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so cold? Where did the music go?

I look down at Derek. His hand in mine is no longer warm. Oh, dear God, it isn’t him anymore.

I let go of the hand and lay it gently under the sheets. I shiver, have to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. I am so cold, so, so, so cold.

Doctors and nurses grow around us like dandelions in the lawn. Meg guides us gently out of the room.

I stop and look back. “What are they doing to him?”

“Nothing.”

My mom is in the waiting room. I don’t know how she got here. She holds me and cries. I pat her back and try to remember how it felt to hold his hand.

chapter 32

WORSE

It’s dark. Even with my eyes staring wide open.

A bar of light falls across my face. I jam my eyes closed.

“Beth, honey, why don’t you try school today? I’ll drive you. It’ ll make you feel better.”

A stack of books on my desk. Notes from my teachers. They all look forward to my return—as soon as I’m better.

Sarah, Leah, and Meadow appear at the foot of my bed. How dare Mom let them in. There’s no music left inside me. “We miss you, Beth. Come sing with us. It’ ll make you feel better.”

Better? I don’t want to feel better. Even the damn minister at the confused blur that was Derek’s funeral so many days ago said Derek was better off now. No more suffering. Even Derek said it. Leaving me was better.

I am worse. Buried in worse. Cling to dusk and the four walls of my shadowy bedroom. I play his voice over and over and over. Hold him in my dreams, but he dissolves, and I’m left in the dark turning to stone.

No tears come to wash him away. I’m filled with cold, dead empty that started the night he died and grows and grows and grows.

A whisper comes to me when I wake in the night and stare out the window at the gloom of February snowstorms. Follow him, Beth. You’ ll feel so much better.

I bury that voice. Hear the evil in it. Derek would be so angry if I did that. I’m supposed to live. I want to live. But how can I without him? If he could see me now—crap—what if he can? He’ll hate me.

Mom again. Pale light. “I’m not sure she’ll talk to you.”

I roll over—shade my eyes against the brightness. She hands me the phone. It finds my ear. His mom again? No. A guy’s voice. Who is this guy?

“ . . . Would you be in it?”

“Is this Blake?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you say that again?”

“Amabile is holding a memorial CF benefit concert for Derek. You’re not the only one, Beth. We all miss him.”

“You want me to come?” Leave my safe darkness? The shadows? This solid pain that keeps reality at bay.

“We want you to sing.”

“For Derek?”

“Will you do it?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Thank you, Blake. Yes.”

With trembling hands, I pull down the heavy quilt blocking my window. Gray winter day flows through the cracks and crevices of my den. The first thing I see—lying half-buried under undone assignments from school—is Derek’s pale pink rose, dry, delicate—but real. As real as my love. As real as my loss.

I rescue it, cradle it in my palms, and lift it to my lips. That faint scent, sweet but dead, finds its way through my senses. I glance around at the mess, searching for a safe place. It doesn’t exist in this chaos. I step on a roll of tape. Use it to secure the rose to the piece of wall I see if I lie curled on my side in bed. I try it, lie there, staring at Derek’s rose.

Something brings me to my feet, stumbling through the mess again and searching through the bag I haven’t touched since Mom brought me home from the hospital, darkened my window, and tucked me in bed.

I find white papers, carefully folded over. I press them to my heart and run back to my bed. My nightstand drawer yields a pencil. I pick up my choir binder off the floor. I sit cross-legged on my tangled blankets and lay the binder on my knee, unfold the music, smooth it out with a caress.

“Beth’s Song.”

I pencil in “for Derek” under the printed words.

My eyes close as his melody winds through my soul. Words come slowly at first and then in a torrent. I weigh them, choosing, discarding, searching again, fitting the puzzle pieces together, clothing my bare words in the richness of his music.

My room fills with light as the thick gray clouds outside shift enough for the sun to break through.

chapter 33

FOR DEREK

The concert starts with the Amabile boys singing “Sing Me to Heaven.” People talk about Derek. Somebody gives a lecture on supporting assumed-consent legislation and keeping an organ-donor card in your wallet. The AYS sing. And chamber. Their young boys’ concert choir steals everyone’s heart with the soaring height of their pure voices. Even the youngest Amabiles take a turn. I listen from the sidelines, standing in my crimson choir gown so I won’t crush it.

My name is announced, and my feet carry me onstage. I’ve practiced. I can do this tonight for him. The piano plays a tinkling introduction. A violin comes in. I gaze into the sea of people who loved him long before my solo magically brought him into my life.

My eyes close and I begin to sing.Don’t steal away your love.

Don’t steal away your touch.

Without your smile I’ ll never find

The star you shine.

I take a deep breath and shake my head, open my eyes to the blur in front of me.Don’t leave me empty here.

Don’t leave me without hope.

Don’t say it’s for the best, love,

When I’m lying here alone.

Please stay, ’cause I can’t make it on my own.

I draw a deep breath as I move into the chorus. I’m not on that stage. There’s nobody out there. It’s just Derek and me.Who will be the boy who heals my heart?

Who will be the boy who feeds my art?

Where will I find a friend?

Who will be the boy who rescues me?

Who will be the boy who makes me sing?

You made me live, made me who I am.

If you’re leaving, take me with you,

Here’s my hand.

My voice falters. I take a deep breath and sense a touch in my palm. His hand, his strength, his peace flow into me again like the night he died.You spoke of peace and rest,

A joy that filled your breast,

And then you closed your precious eyes.

God set you free.

As I sing, Derek fills me up and promises he’ll never leave me.So I will carry on,

Forever sing your song.

If I have to live without you now,

I’ ll love the best I can,

But whisper when you’re near me, and I’m home.

I move into the chorus repeat, and the audience comes into focus. They’re with me, tears streak their faces, and I realize they are searching, too. Searching for beauty. Searching for love. Searching for life. I found all that when Derek took my hand, smiled, and said, “You sing me to sleep.” I know what beautiful is now, because of him. I know what love is because of him. I know I can be strong. Please, God, help me to be strong.

The key shifts through the bridge, and somehow my voice rises full of strength that isn’t mine.Together, love, we’ ll find somebody who—

Will help us keep on breathing without you—

The note stretches out. I hold onto it as long as I can. The sea of strangers blurs and one face emerges.

Scott’s here, his face full of pain, witnessing how much I loved Derek. My eyes find his and my chorus changes.Will you be the boy who heals my heart?

Will you be the boy who feeds my art?

Please, will you be my friend?

Will you be the boy who rescues me?

Will you be the boy who makes me sing?

Will you make me true to who I am?

If you’re leaving, take me with you,

Here’s my hand.

If you’re leaving, take me with you,

Here’s my hand.

I finish the song. The applause is reverent. Everyone is still crying. I move through the crowd to Scott. The people stopping me and hugging me were Derek’s real world. The people he let in. The ones who really knew him. His old girlfriend from the AYS. Meg and his doctors. Blake. The Amabile directors. All the guys. This giant wonderful family he grew up with.

I’m a fantasy. A myth. A digital recording—deleted with ease. I’m something else. Somewhere else. I don’t belong here.

But I am here. I would have cared for him and loved him for the rest of my life. I held his hand while he went beyond. The pain I feel is every bit as real as that pretty petite girl I unwittingly stole him from. I loved him. I still love him. I’m clogged with the ache of it. I can’t bear to look back.

When I look forward, there’s Scott, and he catches my arm, supporting me like I’ll faint.

I lean on him. “How’d you get here?”

“Your mom.”

I see her now—standing in the back. “Will you ride home with me? I’m not sure I can drive.”

He nods. “You bet.” He takes the keys and guides me out of there.

All the way home, I sit slumped in my seat with my head down.

Scott doesn’t speak. I’m grateful for the space.

We get to the house. I still sit there like a zombie. He comes around and opens my door. A gust of clear, crisp air sends a shiver to my core. Scott takes my hand and helps me to my feet.

We’ve been here before. His warm arms go around me—feels like home.

I drop my head onto his shoulder.

The tears come. Slow and hot. Each one agony to produce.

Scott caresses my back and says, “I’m sorry, Bethie. I’m so, so sorry.”

It doesn’t make any sense. What does he have to be sorry for? All he ever did was love me. It makes sense in my heart, though. His soothing hand and comforting voice—his shoulder mutes my sobs, opens my heart, and wrings it out.

I can’t control the cascade his tenderness forces from me.

Mom arrives. “Beth, don’t—”

Scott stops her. He knows I need this. He knows I’ll need his shoulder again and again and again. After all I’ve done to him, he’s willing to give it to me.

Mom leaves us out there.

I raise my face. The front of Scott’s jacket is soaking. “I did this to him, too. In Lausanne. And he held me—just like this.”

“I don’t mind being second, Bethie. As long as I’m last.”

“You’re not second, Scottie.” I kiss him then. The touch of his lips makes me cry even more.

He kisses me back—tender, so soft, like I’m fragile as Derek’s dead pink rose taped to the wall next to my bed.

I trace his lips with my fingertips, marveling that he’s here, a whole solid person, with his arms around me. This boy I grew up with, who knew me before any of this. Who loved me as I was—and as I am. He should hate me, but I can tell by the grief in his eyes that he still loves me—will always love me.

And I can love him now.

I learned how from Derek.

I clutch at Scott. He draws me closer, holds me tighter and tighter, his familiar scent surrounding me, calming me. I am home.

“Don’t let go.” I press my lips on his to seal my plea. “Please, Scottie, don’t ever let go.”

author’s note

Sing Me to Sleep has given me the chance to remember Matt Quaife and share his spirit. Derek isn’t Matt. To try to re-create Matt in fiction would have been presumptuous and impossible. Matt’s life and death are sacred and private. But Matt inspired this story, and it is in honor of his memory that I share it with you.

Matt grew up singing in London, Ontario, home of Canada’s world-renowned Amabile family of choirs (www.amabile.com). I remember him burping the alphabet in one festival when he was a member of the Boys’ Concert Choir. Later, he became a fixture of Amabile’s famous Young Men’s Choir.

Matt didn’t talk often about his cystic fibrosis. He was too full of life for that. He didn’t complain about therapy, medicine, and regular trips to the hospital. Matt passed away November 25, 2007. He was just eighteen.

Thirty thousand people around the world live with cystic fibrosis. To learn more about their struggle and the remarkable research that has a cure in its sights, go to www.cff.org or www.cysticfibrosis.ca.

Thank you

Joyce, dear friend, for smiling on my efforts, sharing your son’s journey, and helping me get the medical stuff right.

Amabile Choirs of London, Ontario, Canada, for all those years of music and letting me use your name and fame for the sake of my story.

Rachel, for mining your memories and giving them to me.

Allie and Jared—your love was a catalyst. You will live happily ever after.

Heather, for sharing your heartbreak one afternoon in the Cougar Eat and setting me up with your cousin.

Mike and Tina and your beautiful family, for James.

Joelle, Connie, Rachel, Jenni, and Kristin for brilliant and timely first-draft critiques when I was freaking out. You saved me months of revisions.

Lexa, for insisting Beth needed a boy back home, asking for lyrics, and all the other excellent work you and everyone at Razorbill do on my behalf.

Allen, for your love and support. I couldn’t pursue this dream without you.

And my boys for your patience. The time-traveling space pirates will make it into print some day.

photo appendix

IN MEMORY of MATT

Matt, left, in his Amabile tuxedo.

Amabile combined choirs.

Amabile boys. Matt is in the front, far left.

Amabile boys, goofing off.

Matt in his hockey jersey. At their Christmas concert, Amabile had this framed and presented it to Matt’s parents.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

chapter 1 - THE OFFERING

chapter 2 - UGLY IN ALTO

chapter 3 - TAKE TWO

chapter 4 - REMAKE

chapter 5 - BRIGHT LIGHTS

chapter 6 - RUBY

chapter 7 - FIXED

chapter 8 - PROM

chapter 9 - TOO WEIRD

chapter 10 - INFECTED

chapter 11 - BROKEN

chapter 12 - WHOLE

chapter 13 - ROCK STAR

chapter 14 - WINNERS

chapter 15 - SO RIGHT

chapter 16 - SEE YOU LATER

chapter 17 - FRIENDSHIP

chapter 18 - PILLOW TALK

chapter 19 - REALITY

chapter 20 - MY GUY

chapter 21 - PLAN B

chapter 22 - CHAMBERS

chapter 23 - QUITS

chapter 24 - CREEPY

chapter 25 - REPRISE

chapter 26 - STUDY NOTES

chapter 27 - TREATMENT?

chapter 28 - TRUTH

chapter 29 - REALITY

chapter 30 - EXISTENCE

chapter 31 - HOPE?

chapter 32 - WORSE

chapter 33 - FOR DEREK

author’s note

Acknowledgments

photo appendix - IN MEMORY of MATT