“Don’t say things like that,” I reply without looking at her.
“Why not?” she asks. “I speak the truth.”
“I hate the truth,” I mutter. “And besides, you never know—someone could cure cancer tomorrow.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Daisy,” Audrey says. She removes her arm from her eyes and looks over at me, squinting at first. When her eyes adjust to the brightness, her gaze sharpens. “Look at me.”
I do.
“I’m not afraid, Daisy.”
You should be, I think but don’t say. In my experience, dying isn’t all that great.
“That’s good,” I reply, because I have no idea what else to say.
“No, seriously, it is good. I mean, it’s not good that I have cancer. When I first found out, I felt so cheated. I was convinced there was some way to fight it.”
“You can,” I say with borrowed confidence. “You should still be thinking that way.”
“That’s the thing, Daisy: No, I shouldn’t,” Audrey says. “At some point, you have to realize that death is coming and be grateful for what you’ve had instead of pissed that it’s going away.”
“But you’re barely eighteen,” I protest. “That’s pretty young to give up.”
“I’m not giving up,” Audrey says. “I’m accepting my fate.”
“That’s weak,” I mutter under my breath. I’m angry at Audrey, and I’m angry at myself for feeling this way. I wonder what I’m trying to accomplish by arguing with her. Do I want her to be as upset about her cancer as I am?
I wish I could rewind a few hours and laugh with her again. Instead, I’m mute, and Audrey looks away from me and flops her arm back over her eyes.
“Actually, I think that letting go is pretty strong, Daisy,” she says. “Everyone has to go sometime. Maybe this is my time.”
I shake my head at her, annoyed at her calmness. Then I wonder, What if it was me? Mason told me he had problems bringing me back last time; if I was in Audrey’s flip-flops, would I be this Zen?
Doubtful.
“How long are we staying?” I ask, changing the subject. “I’m getting burned.”
“You’re clock-watching,” Audrey teases, putting me more at ease after the tense conversation. “You know Matt will be home from school soon.”
I simultaneously roll my eyes and shake my head at my friend, but inside I know that she’s right.
And maybe about more than just Matt.
seventeen
Matt must have rushed out of school after the 2:50 bell, because he walks in the house at 3:07. Of course he doesn’t look hurried; he’s laid back, as usual.
“Hi!” I say—perhaps a touch too enthusiastically—when he comes into the living room, where Audrey and I are zoned out on an afternoon talk show. I try to control myself, but I’m sure the look on my face is pure sap. Before he arrived, I was in a vegetative state; now, as he strides across the room, I’m buzzing.
“Hey,” Matt says, smiling at me. “Hey, Aud,” he says to his sister with a slight wave. He drops his book bag on the floor and falls into the squishy chair. He scrunches up his dark eyebrows as he looks at the TV. Teens are confronting their parents about the adults’ bad habits, like smoking, doing drugs, and dating twenty-year-olds.
“What are you watching?” Matt asks.
“Quality TV,” Audrey murmurs. “Watch for five minutes and you won’t be able to look away.”
Mrs. McKean comes into the room wearing one of those mom sweat suits that works for the gym or the grocery store. She’s rubbing her hands together like she just put on lotion; I can smell its lemony scent.