Side Effects May Vary

I smiled and leaned in to him, only a few breaths between us. “No,” I said. “No, it’s not.” Cancer would take away plenty. My hair, my body, my life. What I’d never realized, though, was that there was one privilege to dying: the right to live without consequence.

“I’m in.” He said it like it was inevitable, like he could say no, but it wouldn’t matter.

“You won’t regret it.”

“You have a plan, though, right?”

“I’m still working on the logistics.”

“But—”

“Harvey,” I said, my voice low. “Trust me.”

I knew what this looked like. It looked like I was using Harvey. But here was the reality of the situation: the minute my life went from semipermanent to most likely temporary, I decided to latch on to everything in my world that had always been permanent, and for me, Harvey was so permanent he was concrete.

Harvey. Now.

Today was Alice’s first day back in school. I didn’t see her until third period. I wanted to pick her up that morning. I could feel us slipping again, like freshman year. But this time was different. It was worse. This time there was so much more to lose. Last night, I told her I loved her. I’d said it in a no-big-deal kind of way. She’d always known, and I’d practically said it before she went into remission. But last night I needed her to know in case there was ever any doubt.

When she entered the classroom, her eyes traveled the rows of desks and barely flickered with recognition when she saw me sitting in the third row. She wore a red beret, baggy jeans, and a striped purple sweater that I recognized from seventh grade. Alice was always thin, but now she was transparent. Still, even in her mismatched ensemble, she looked cool.

She walked down the aisle without acknowledging me. Just when I thought she was going to pass me by altogether, she slid into the desk I’d saved for her. She sat with her legs crossed at the knee and with her head on her desk, one hand resting beneath her cheek and the other arm stretched out so far it hung off the desk. And closed her eyes.

Last night, she’d acted so bizarre, and before that she’d avoided me for weeks. I could understand, in a way. I saw how all of this might be difficult for her, like the shock of a bright light in the middle of the night. But now, here at school, her avoidance felt so deliberate. And she seemed . . . mousy, which was the most un-Alice word I could think of.

Before the final bell rang, Celeste appeared in the doorway with Mindi at her side, who happened to be in this class.

With a vicious smile, Celeste whispered in Mindi’s ear. She nodded and walked past us to the back of the classroom, kicking the leg of Alice’s desk on her way.

Alice startled a little, but turned to see the back of Mindi’s head and then spotted Celeste outside the entrance to the classroom.

They had this weird girl moment. No one said a word, and the only thing that broke their stare was Margaret Schmidt—class treasurer and member of the world’s saddest color guard—as she shouldered her way past Celeste.

Margaret gasped when she saw Alice. “We all thought, like, you know, that you were still sick.” Margaret’s springy curls bounced, not because she was moving, but because they seemed to move with energy. Dennis said she probably snorted her prescription Adderall every morning. “So, are you better?”

The whole class turned.

Alice watched each of their faces and seemed to shrink back a little. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Margaret, clutching her notebook to her chest. “That’s so incredible. It’s, like, a miracle.”

Alice bit her lip and nodded.

More students—who I was sure Al had never spoken to in her life—began to crowd her desk, like they hadn’t even seen her until Margaret Schmidt had to make a goddamn scene out of it.

“Yeah,” said Doug Halbert. “My dad talked about you in church on Sunday.”

“Could you feel it? Like, the cancer?” asked Tasha Wenters.

Yeah, she can feel the earth orbiting too.

It was rapid-fire. Two girls leaned on my desk trying to get a better look.

“How soon will your hair grow back? My aunt’s didn’t grow back the same,” said some guy I couldn’t see but wanted to kick the shit out of.

I was overwhelmed, so I knew it could only be that much worse for Alice. She didn’t answer any of them, not based on what I could hear. And I don’t think the fuckers even cared because none of them even gave her a chance to respond.

Some were genuinely nice. Things like, “I’m glad you’re okay,” or “I prayed for you,” or “If you need help catching up on schoolwork, let me know.”

I wondered if every single class Alice had been to today had been like this one.

“Class, seats.”

A teacher. Thank God.

While Mr. Slaton settled into his desk, the thrum of voices leveled out and everyone trickled back to their desks. Alice trained her eyes on the top of her desk. One lone pencil sat tucked behind her ear. She squeezed the back of her neck, her fingertips going white. I wanted to protect her.