Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 10

  I panic. I wonder if that kid mentioned the party. That would be beyond humiliating. My body’s fight-or-flight response is in overdrive—my heart thumps in my ears, my stomach flutters, and for a second I forget where I am. He’s standing in front of us, his board on the floor next to him, his hands grasping the empty chair in front of him, a question. I should say hi or introduce him to Lizzie or something, but I forget how. Or why. Or anything else.

  “Saira with an i, right?” he says. “They let you out of the cage.”

  The cage? Oh yeah, he thinks I’m a patient.

  “Oh, the hospital. Yes, out on good behavior.” My voice sounds funny, breathy, almost giggly.

  Lizzie’s mouth twists in amusement.

  “Back on Monday.”

  “Sucks,” he says, and then gestures to the chair he’s been leaning on.

  I nod, and he swings it around so he can sit leaning forward on the back of it. Like his body needs the extra support. Of course. Muscle atrophy is pretty common at this stage, and he’s probably exhausted.

  “I’m Lizzie,” she says, and Link sticks out his hand. She’s confused for a second, then she shakes it.

  “Oh yeah, I’m so rude. This is my best friend, Lizzie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Saira’s best friend Lizzie. I’m Link,” he says, then turns back to me.

  “Is that Larry’s Korean BBQ sub?” I nod, offering a chip. He takes it and our hands touch. That little buzz zips through me again. “Girl after my own heart. Have you tried the chicken tikka one?”

  “Yes,” Lizzie says. “Yum.”

  “But it can’t compare to my dadi’s,” I add.

  “Yeah, well, home food is the best food,” Link says, and I almost leap out of my chair. “That’s what my halmeoni says.”

  “My dadi, too!” We beam at each other.

  He steals another chip. “So remember I was telling you about Rock Star Boot Camp?”

  I nod again. The reality show. Maybe I should watch it. Lizzie watches it.

  “Oh yeah,” Lizzie says. “I submitted once. Nothing.”

  “Yeah, I sent a tape. They asked me for another—that means I’m doing the second round.” He lifts his hand for a high five.

  I give him one, and I can feel the tingle again as soon as our palms touch.

  “That’s actually, like, my favorite part,” Lizzie says, “the little documentaries.” He nods, and she adds, “It’s Saira’s favorite, too, right, Saira?” Or it would be, if I’d ever watched the show.

  “Oh yeah, of course, you can really get to know a lot about someone through a mini documentary.” I sound clueless even to myself.

  He looks confused but smiles anyway. “Yeah, so here’s the thing,” he says, looking intently at me, “and you would know, maybe. Do you think I should tell them about the cancer? In the video? Because that would, like, totally make me the underdog—”

  “And who doesn’t love an underdog?” Lizzie adds.

  He doesn’t look away from me. “It’s also kind of weird, having a camera in your face. And I don’t know about playing the cancer card. I don’t want them to pick me as a Make-A-Wish kinda thing, you know? The Pity Pick. I want to get there on my own merits.”

  He’s staring at my face, waiting for me to speak, and nothing’s really coming out of my mouth. Lizzie’s about to chime in again any second, and she’s so much better at this stuff. Like, for real, she can talk to anyone.

  He’s not anyone.

  He’s Link.

  And he’s asking me.

  Me.

  “You know—” she starts, and I kick her under the table. Not hard. But enough. So she gets it.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I finally say. “You can’t play it halfway. And being the cancer kid sucks. But you have a dream. You don’t have to let cancer steal that from you.”

  “You know from experience,” Lizzie adds helpfully, and I grimace.

  “Here’s the thing: It’s a part of you,” I say. “I mean, physically and all. Also mentally. You went through it once. And you’re still here. How many sixteen-year-old rock-star wannabes can say that? You can do this.”

  He grins at me again, and it’s different this time. Truer somehow. Like I know who he is. And maybe he knows me, too. Which kind of sucks, considering.

  “Maybe you’re right. And honestly, I may not have a choice.” He swallows hard, and the fresh bruises on his arms jump out at me, suddenly too obvious. He notices me noticing. “Yeah, I think I’ll be back soon.” He’s quiet for a moment. “The good news is, maybe we can hang out. Maybe you can even help me shoot my tape. I mean, since you’ll be around and all.” Then he grins again. “We’ll have to be stealthy about it, though. Davis already hates me.”

  I can’t stop myself from beaming in that moment. “She totally hates me, too,” I say with too much pride.

  He stands then, kicks his skateboard up so he can grab it. “Anyway, see ya at the hospital.”

  “Yeah,” I say, lifting a hand awkwardly. How do goodbyes work again? “See ya there.”

  With one last look back and a quick wave, he’s gone, just like that.

  I stare after him, into the space where he was, until I feel a hard pinch on my bare thigh. “Ouch! Lizzie!”

  “Who was that?” she says. She twists her lips.

  “Link. Link Rad.” I grin.

  “Okay, so this guy’s a patient? Like, your patient?”

  “Yes, a patient. Not my patient. I ran into him in the patient lounge. The one we used to go to with Harper.” I trip on the words, that sinking feeling hitting me again, and realize I stopped thinking about Harper as soon as Link walked into that room. “It looks exactly the same.”

  “Oh man, that’s weird. Was it weird?”

  “Yeah, I was in there, pretty much sobbing. And sneezing, and he walked in, like, guitar and all, and said bless you. And salud. And gesundheit. He really wants to be the next Rock Star Boot Camp hero.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” she says with a practiced pout. “But it’s harder than he thinks.”

  “I think he could actually do it.”

  I know what she’s thinking—unlike me. But she says: “Even with, like, cancer and all?”

  “It’s not a death sentence, Lizzie,” I say, and I can’t help feeling annoyed. “Even though he’s got leukemia, and it’s recurring. And mixed-race kids have a much harder time finding a viable donor.”

  “Downer. Especially because, dude, you are so smitten.”

  “I’m not smitten.”

  “You are so totally smitten. And he seems kind of smitten, too.” She whistles. “Which could be a big problem.”

  “No, it’s not smitten. Smitten means you’re, like, laid low, struck down with the feels. Like, suffering for love. That’s not me. I’m interested. I’m curious.”

  “Whatever, you’re smitten. Like, smote, even.”

  “Smoted.”

  She grabs a handful of potato chips and pops a few. “Here’s the thing, though: He thinks you’re a patient, and you totally let him keep believing it.”

  “I know. He’s, like, the first person who ever talked to me like I was normal.”

  “Dude, what am I, chopped liver? And he’s not talking to you like you’re normal. He’s talking to you like you’re a cancer kid. Like him.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Saira.”

  “I mean, technically, I didn’t lie. He just assumed.”

  “He’s going to find out.” Her voice is harsh and a bit pouty, like when we were little and I told her I was quitting ballet to spend more time with Harper at the hospital. She always hated how much I went there. I always hated how she never came with me.

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe not.”

  “Saira, you’re going to have to tell him. Before he, like, actually finds out.”

  I know what she’s really worried about. Vish. I wish I could tell her he’ll be just fine. I wish I could tell her why. But it’s not my plac
e. And anyway, she’s my best friend, right? So what’s with all the judgment? I haven’t actually done anything wrong.

  “For all I know,” I say, swiping some chips, too, “he’s fine and he never comes back and the next time I see him it’s on Rock Star Boot Camp.”

  “Nuh-uh. You two? Star-crossed. Watch. I called it.” She swallows another bite. “Poor Vish.”

  “Vish’s a big boy. He’ll be just fine. Besides, it’s not like I’m gonna actually do anything.” I sigh and stand, bussing my tray and not looking Lizzie’s way. She can read every emotion on my face, even the ones I work hardest to hide. “Should we get going?”

  “No way. You might not want anything, but I need new stuff for camp. You are totally coming with me.”

  “Okay,” I say. “And maybe we can look for some work stuff for me? Everyone else at the hospital is all, like, dashing and dapper. I need to step up my game.”

  Lizzie grins, one eyebrow perched, amused. “You’re so on!” She takes a last sip of her iced tea and gathers her stuff, too. We throw everything in the trash, and she links her arm through mine, leading me down the path to some other trendy shop. “Here’s the thing, though. If it works out with Link, I’m so setting Vish up with Rubina. She totally has a crush on him.”

  Diagnosis: Smitten Saira = Spendy Saira

  Prognosis: There goes that first paycheck!

  CHAPTER 12

  I’m lying in my bed, my laptop in front of me, watching the video of Link on Rock Star Boot Camp for the fortieth time when the door flies open.

  “Papa!” I shout, slamming my laptop shut. He’s standing in the doorway, keys in hand, driving cap on.

  “What? I knocked three times. You don’t answer. Time for your lesson.”

  “I can’t today.”

  “Saira,” he says, walking right over and tugging at my blanket. “That’s three lessons you’ve missed so far.”

  “I have paperwork to do.”

  “On a Sunday morning? That’s unhealthy.” My dad’s a big believer in leaving work at work. Mom, not so much. Like, at all. “Do it tomorrow.”

  “I can’t, Papa. I’m drowning. Okay? Just please understand.” I get up and usher him out. “Next Sunday for sure.”

  “Okay,” he says, still frowning as I close the door. I climb back into bed and watch the video again, another forty times. Am I a stalker? Maybe. But I can’t stop staring at it and grinning like a fool, addicted to the odd flip-flop my stomach does, the way the synapses fire in my brain when I see that dimple and those eyes.

  * * *

  When I finally come downstairs, Taara’s at the kitchen counter rolling out paranthe. Every attempt she’s made at making them so far has been a resounding mess. So Dadi hovers nearby, tossing salt and cumin and other spices into the dough, and reshaping as Taara rolls out the flatbread, stuffing it with filling. Aloo ke paranthe are usually my favorite, with their savory mix of potatoes, onions, and chilis. But seeing Taara make them makes me nervous. She’d probably use sweet potatoes instead of regular ones, which makes me cringe.

  “They’ll be delicious,” she says, wagging a finger at me accusingly. “Wait till you taste.” She takes a doughy hand and tosses her phone at me. “Ready? Record. I’m going to put these up on my blog. I did a couple of takes. Dadi’s not a reliable camerawoman.”

  I hold the phone up, the camera rolling, and she does this practiced spiel. “Hi, I’m Taara Sehgal, and you’re watching IndiEats! Today, we’re in my dadi’s kitchen in sunny Princeton, New Jersey, and she’s teaching me how to make aloo ke paranthe—crispy, buttery, and rich potato-stuffed flatbread, best served with yogurt, mango pickles, and ginger-spiked chai. Come on in for a closer look!” I focus on Taara, who overacts as she rolls out another parantha, and then lays it down onto the sizzling, ghee-greased pan. She lets it cook for a minute, then flips it over, the surface turning golden and crisp, making me drool despite myself.

  I zoom in close, narrowing on Dadi’s hands as she rolls and stuffs. But Dadi turns directly toward the camera, rolling pin in hand threateningly, glaring. “I am not one of your Bollywood stars,” she says, waving the belna at the camera like a sword.

  “Cut!” Taara says, and snatches the camera away. “Dammit, that would have been a good one.”

  “Vish can edit it for you,” I say, peering over her shoulder at the footage. She’s smiling, all clean and crisp, then there’s flour-covered, scowling Dadi, weapon in hand. “Actually, it could be really funny.”

  When we turn back, the parantha’s about done, and Dadi flips another one onto the pan, shooing us away with a flying towel. “Chalo, bacha log, both of you! Sit. Eat. I will make the rest.”

  We curl up in the little breakfast nook, which is my favorite place in the house, and dig into the spread that Dadi has set out. Taara shoves her phone in my face as I’m spooning yogurt into the stainless-steel divided plate that sits in front of me, and I nearly pour some right onto it.

  “Look it,” she says, pressing play on a FoodTube video. There’s a quick logo—IndiEats, it tells me, and then there’s Taara, in her little dorm room, with a hot plate and a bunch of bowls set up on her desk. She’s behind it, stunning as always, her long, wavy hair pulled back into a loose low ponytail, a tiger-print dress grazing her lean frame. Gold bangles clink on her wrist. “Today we’re making one of my family’s favorites—the classic Mughlai vegetarian specialty, matar paneer. It’s decadent cubes of mild chenna cheese and sweet peas in a savory onion-and-tomato-based sauce. The wonderful thing about matar paneer is that it feels rich and hearty, even though it’s a relatively healthy vegetarian dish. Carnivores will love it, too.”

  She puts oil and spices into a pan, then starts on about making a traditional Punjabi masala—“the spiced onion and tomato base we use for pretty much everything. Make a big batch and freeze some so you can turn out fresh, exciting meals within half an hour, even in a dorm-room kitchen like mine.”

  Cut to reality and Taara looking at me expectant and hopeful. “What do you think?” she asks, super earnest. “Not bad, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s making me hungry,” I say, reaching over her to grab a parantha from the pile. “Did it turn out good?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  I’m already distracted. I poke at the hot, stuffed flatbread, filled with potatoes and onions and chilis and dripping with ghee. I dip little bites of still-sizzling parantha into the homemade creamy homemade yogurt. Taara makes her own plate, pools of buttery ghee leaving traces on the metal and our hands and the table.

  Her mouth full, she adds, “It was like Mom’s! It was amazing. Can you believe I can cook up these awesome Desi dishes right there in my dorm room?” She sounds like a commercial.

  “How’s biochem going?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer. “Check it out: three hundred views and counting, and I posted it last night,” she tells me, sticking her phone in my face again. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  I give her a thumbs-up, my mouth full.

  “I’m gonna be a FoodTube star!” Maybe I should get Liz Biz to do her social media.

  “You sure are.” I stuff more food in my face as Taara swipes half the parantha from my plate instead of waiting for the next one. I frown, but Dadi brings another one seconds later.

  “This is one of the ones I made,” Taara says excitedly. She grabs it and digs in. “Exactly like Dadi’s!”

  We eat in silence for a minute. It is not exactly like Dadi’s. But not terrible, either.

  “I miss you,” Taara says. “You should come up to Rutgers. We can cook in the dorm, and I’ll take you to your first-ever real college party.”

  I nod, not really listening, still focused on my plate.

  “Chai?” Taara asks.

  I nod, and she pours the strong, milky, ginger-spiked tea into my cup. I dump three heaping spoons of raw sugar into the cup, and Taara frowns at me, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “So come,” she says, again, “like, maybe
in two weekends? When the summer session is wrapping up. You can help me move to the new dorm, and maybe we’ll go shopping.”

  “Sounds thrilling,” I say, shoving the last bite of parantha into my mouth.

  “It will be,” she says, ignoring my tone. “A sisters’ weekend. We need one.”

  She’s right. We do. It’s only been two weeks since she left for summer session, and so much has changed, so much has shifted. There are parts of my life she knows nothing about. Like work. And Vish. And Link. I open my mouth to say something, to tell her.

  I’m not sure where to start.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Did you download the app for the EMR system?” I ask Howard, who’s grinning and staring off to space. Smitten. Yep, that’s what it looks like. I poke her, and she snaps to. It’s bright and early on Friday, but she’s really out of it. “I can’t believe we’ve been here three weeks already. Did you do anything fun this weekend?”

  “Hey.” She looks down at her phone and grins again for a moment. Looks in the camera app and adjusts her hair. Then turns to face me, taking me in as if she’s just seeing me. She shakes her head like she’s clearing it. “Cute dress.”

  “Thanks!” It’s one of the new ones I got with Lizzie, professional but sassy, she called it. A deep red with small white flowers—poppy and colorful, but not loud. And thanks to the minimizer we bought at Olive+Aby, it fits perfectly. I’ve got my white coat over it, and paired it with my new flats, which might have been a bad choice, since I’m nearly a foot shorter than everyone else around here. Even some of the patients.

  “So, the app?” I wave my phone at her again.

  “Nah,” she says, logging into the laptop. “I’ll use the computer here. I don’t want to bring my work home with me.”

  She may have a point there. I’ve been stalking the system in my off-hours, looking for information on one particular patient. But it hasn’t popped up. And I can’t bring myself to actually put his name in the system. It would be totally unethical, for one thing. But there’s something else inside, this weird thrum of energy, that won’t let me do it, either. It’s like I just want to hold the moment the way it is, the flip-flop of my stomach, the way my mind buzzes when I think about him, without ruining it with the messiness of reality. That hasn’t stopped me from googling, though. I’ve checked the social media apps on my phone, looking up the words “Link” and “Rad” and “Princeton.” That brings up random tech sites and other crap. There’s the photo app and the Rock Star Boot Camp site. That’s it.