Amplify (43 page)

Immediately, he shook his head.  “Zero. Just walked down here with you.”

Unsure what it was that made the goose bumps spread over my body but at school we were always taught intuition and maybe this is where my time with Ty would have to end.  Suddenly, I was sorry for bypassing the driver. Oddly, when I flipped around to take in my surroundings, the driver stood behind us, still holding the sign.

“Henry?” I asked and he nodded.

Ty glanced over his shoulder then back to me with one dark brow arched high. “Tessa Ashby?”

Slowly, I nodded affirmation of his question.

“Want a ride?” I asked.

“Hell yeah!” One of his arms shot in the air and his shirt rose exposing his abs.  His hipbones protruded but his tan stomach made me smile.  The guy was skinner than me...but I was happy I’d be going back to Mass with a tan.

A comforting smile crossed my face and at the same time the luggage carrier started moving.

“What color is the bag and I’ll grab it?”

“I have two. They are brown with tan...writing. Well, like an L and a V.”

Ty shook his head. “Tess. I grew up in Orange County. Just because I don’t have money doesn’t mean I haven’t seen it my entire life. If it’s Louis Vuitton, then say that.”

“It’s Louis Vuitton. But Ty.” I touched his forearm and his eyes...well eye...looked up at me.  The other blue eye was buried beneath a curtain of hair until he flicked it back.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not like them.”

“Them?”

“My family. A lot of wealthy people. That stuff has never mattered to me.”

His finger jetted toward the luggage and I nodded to the one nearing him. After heaving it up and sliding it my way, both his eyes found mine.

“I know, Tess.” He winked. In the two-hour plane trip...I realized I didn’t want any of that stuff to matter any more. I liked his Vans.

My second suitcase followed and when he lifted that one, his eyes bugged. “What the hell is in this one?”

“Shoes and stuff.” I grinned.

“Your credibility just took a nose dive.”

With solid possession of both suitcases, he nodded toward Henry.

“You’re chariot awaits, sweet Princeton princess.”

“Henry, lead us the way. Ty here is taking us to the ‘hood.”

Twenty minutes is all it took for us to roll to a stop in front of a cute little house. Two people stood outside as if they waited for us...or at least him.

“Don’t mind them. I texted. Told them to come out so they could meet you.”

“Is it your family?” I asked.

The car stopped.

“Close enough,” he said opening the door.

Him opening the car door made me snicker.  The thought that he didn’t wait for Henry...

“This is her,” he said. “Our summer visitor. Our groupie. She’d heard of the band back in Massachusetts and wanted to come see us.”

The guy and girl laughed as I simply shook my head amused by Ty’s lie.

“Hi.” I waved at both of them.

“Tess. This is Rachel.”

“Hi, Tess.”

“This is Derk.”

Derk was a mini replica of my new friend. Skinny. A little grungy. Shaggy hair. Van’s! 

“Nice to meet you guys.”

“Where’s Bodhi?” Ty asked.

Bodhi? Rachel tipped her head toward the porch and my eyes followed. In etiquette class, we had learned to mask emotion...to maintain a poker face but as my mouth fell wide and my eyes narrowed to focus in a little better...my breath hitched a bit in my chest. The man’s penetrating brown eyes concentrated completely on me.

“Bodhi, this is Tess,” Ty introduced loudly.

“Hey,” I nervously shouted with a weak little wave.

“Nice ride.” The harsh baritone in his voice made my skin warm.

“Yeah.” What was one to say to the engaging words of ‘nice ride?’

I hadn’t seen many guys in a baseball cap but I liked it. He tipped a shaker bottle of something to his lips then spun back around. “We need to practice. Let’s go.”

Wow. Bodhi was just the opposite of the rest of them.  He was tall, well-built and sexy as hell...but not even nice.

“Ignore him.” Ty patted my shoulder. “So. I gave you my number. Text me and I’ll come pick you up.  You can come hang with us.”

“OK. When?”

“Hell. Anytime. Seriously. We sometimes surf in the morning.  We play four bars a week but you can come along. Text me.”

Truth be told, I wanted to just stay with them.  But Elle would be waiting, so I nodded agreeing to text and then slid back in to the back seat.

Everyone waved and I anxiously glanced toward the porch as we pulled away and Bodhi leaned sexily against the doorframe. My eyes locked in on his gaze...I think. It was hard to tell with the cap on. Slowly he lifted whatever he was drinking and tipped it toward me. Unsure what that meant or what response to give...I turned and focused out the front window. Welcome to California.

COMING SOON

©2
015 Elle Brooks

Prologue

Emily

I once saw a postcard in the mall that read: ‘We do not remember days. We remember moments.’ It had a picture of two little girls facing away from the shot, walking holding hands. I bought it because it reminded me of my best friend, Blair. I’m looking at it now. The corners curl at the edges and the sun, which hits directly onto my notice board from my bedroom window, has bleached the picture. It looks vintage almost. I like it better this way.

I remember tacking it to the board and thinking to myself that the postcard was true. Most of my memories are of specific moments in time, and although I can recall the events with virtually perfect clarity, I can’t place the dates. There are two exceptions though. Two instances that have occurred, and I will forever remember those days. The moment I was diagnosed with Leukemia on August 16th, 2011, and the moment I was told it was terminal on June 2nd, 2013.

The postcard was wrong.

It lied to me.

Just like everyone in my life has since my first diagnosis.

My naïve, fifteen-year-old self believed the soothing words of encouragement. “You’re strong,” my parents said. ”You’re responding well to the chemotherapy,” the doctors told me. “Everything will work out just fine,” Blair promised.

My hardened, cynical eighteen-year-old self now knows better. 

Just because you wish for something to happen with all of your heart, doesn’t mean it will be granted. Not everyone is afforded a happily ever after. If my life were to be documented, it wouldn’t be the fairytale that we all dream our lives will be. No, mine would be a Shakespearian tragedy. I’m the protagonist who’s cloaked in doom and will ultimately die young, only having experienced unrequited love, empty promises and sadly, not a whole lot more.

I’m mad.

No, scratch that.

I’m so far beyond mad that I can’t even see straight.

Dr. Zahn said that there are typically five stages of acceptance. Denial, anger, bargaining, grieving ... and finally, if you’re lucky, the acceptance phase. I spent all of last week, after the death sentence the hospital issued me, in stage one. I refused to accept their prognosis and begged for them to run more blood work.  Facts are facts though, and when your bone marrow is spitting out leukemic cells like water being fired from a fire hose, there’s little anyone can do to stop the impending flood.

I did the whole clichéd, “
Oh my god, this can’t be happening to me,”
breakdown right then and there in my oncology consultant’s office. Blair, Mom, and Dad sat silently; I think they were in shock. Interestingly enough, not one of us cried. They sat like rabbits in headlights, while I paced the room, refusing to accept the words being spoken. We left the hospital like a pack of zombies with vacant looks plastered over our faces, the news still floating around in our heads, refusing to seep in.

I woke up this morning feeling ... different to how I have the previous few days. I think I’ve graduated from denial and have boarded a raft, ready to navigate the treacherous waters of anger. It’s as if someone’s unleashed the freaking Kraken.

Mom is the first to feel my wrath.

She brings me a glass of orange juice to take with my Dexamethasone because she forgot the hospital withdrew my treatment schedule and replaced it with a palliative care plan. I scream at her—a blood-curdling high-pitched wail of a scream. She cries, then I cry and apologize before retreating back to my bedroom.

I catch my reflection as I cross the room and notice the breakout over my forehead and cheeks; it’s just another thing to add to the
“stuff that sucks in the life of Emily Wilson” list
. Taking me off of my daily dose of chemo has my body in shock, and the toxins need an outlet, so my face seems to be it. When my treatment was stopped for a couple of weeks after I contracted e-coli last summer, the spots came and went pretty quickly, but a deep purple rash over your face is embarrassing and hard to hide.

I suppose I should focus on the good points:

I’ve been on medication for so long that my body’s used to the feeling of being continuously not quite one hundred percent. It’s like my
normal
has been reset, now that the drugs have stopped and are leaving my system.

I wasn’t even aware my energy levels had changed.
Weird, huh?
I don’t want to get too excited; soon the cancer will kick my ass, and I won’t have chemo as a buffer so the meds will start again. I should treat this stage as a gift because I’m not sure how long I’ll feel this good.
Good
...

What a cruel joke this is becoming. 

#

I
t’s been almost three hours of rocking back and forth on the bed, trying to calm the need to smash and destroy anything and everything.

I’m a mess.

I’m a horrible daughter.

I’m dying.

I hear the doorbell chime and then the sound of the door being opened. I don’t need to go and see who it is; I know it’s Blair. She always lets herself in but makes sure to ring the bell first. It started when we were around thirteen years old. Our paths must have crossed as I’d made my way to her house at the same time that she’d decided to come over here. My parents, much to my complete horror, had taken the opportunity for a nooner. Blair walked in on them in the kitchen as my dad was buttoning up his pants and my mom was flustered and fixing her shirt. She’s always used the doorbell without fail ever since. I’d have found the whole situation much more amusing, had it not been my parents. Ew! 

I hear her shout her hellos to my parents, then I wait the few seconds it takes for her to reach my room and crack the door.

“You awake?” she asks quietly as she peeks her head in. She enters when she notices me sitting amidst the rumpled sheets of my bed.

“I’ll warn you now,” I tell her sternly, “I’m in a shitty mood and I don’t have the energy to smile and fake it till I make it.”

“That’s okay. I’ve come to wallow with you. School was a nightmare yesterday. I don’t think I can face going back Monday morning. I swear that you not being there tilts my axis. Want to here something that will no doubt make you smile?” she asks, widening her eyes. It sounds like she’s issuing a dare.

“Go on then.” I raise what’s left of my thinning brow.
You’re gonna fail
I think as I issue a bored stare. She smirks, and I mirror it.

“Okay, you ready for this?” She wiggles around on the bed, getting comfy. “My mom made breakfast burritos for me yesterday to try and cheer me up.” She lets out a little grimace as if she’s feeling bad for mentioning that she’s been upset. “Anyway, you know me and Mexican food ... I ate three and then headed off to school, just like I would any other day. I make my way to first period AP English and my tummy starts to churn. I’m thinking it’s probably because I stuffed myself with enough food to feed a small army and then rushed to get to class on time, so I ignored it. But the churning didn’t subside—it got worse.”

“Um, okay then. So you had a stomach ache at school ...  what’s funny about that?”

She shakes her head a little and a flash of humiliation passes her face. Her thick chocolate hair is piled messily on top of her head and her glasses slip as she scrunches her nose. “I haven’t finished yet. So yeah, my stomach was beginning to cramp and I didn’t feel at all well, so I raised my hand and asked to be excused. Mr. Wilde gave this stupid speech about using the restrooms before class like we were all a bunch of kindergarteners, which was only mildly embarrassing in the scheme of things. By that time, he’d shifted the entire classes focus on to me and I was getting really desperate. He told me I could be excused and I practically jumped from my seat, ready to haul ass to the bathroom. The movement didn’t agree with me though. I let out the biggest fart you have ever heard. It was awful. Everyone and I do mean EVEREEEY-ONE, burst out laughing. Even Mr. Wilde.

“But that’s not even the worse part. It smelled so freaking bad that Jen Gray and Ali Greig, who were in the row behind me, actually started to gag. And not the dramatic fake kind either. It was real.  Don’t even get me started on the crazy Asian girl that they hang with. You know, the one TJ Connors so affectionately labeled the ‘Crazian’. Nobody has been able to understand a thing that’s come out of her mouth all semester since she transferred. Seems that the language barrier has been removed now, which meant that the whole class could hear and understand when she managed to shout, “Oh, my eye’s are burning!” in perfect bloody English! Damn Mexican food!”

I don’t want to laugh.

I want to reel in my anger and self-pity.

But how can I not?

I feel my cheeks begin to rise and a smile tug at the corner of my lips before I give in and fall backward on my bed giggling. “Oh my god, I wish I saw that!”

“Trust me, you did not want to see it—or smell it for that matter. Seriously, why does this shit always happen to me? I should be banned from public spaces.” She grins, falling down beside me. She knows easy as that, her work here is complete. She’s successfully pulled me out of my stupor in two minutes flat.