Bittersweet

Why is it that the one time I decide to skip school, everything happens?

The notifications pile up on my phone, begging me to peek at what Huda and Nyamai think about today’s events.

A fight broke out.

During lunch break. One idiot chased around another idiot with a butter knife.

A butter knife.

Idiot one smashed idiot two over the head with a water bottle. All over a soccer dispute. Whereas yesterday I had two tests and could barely keep my eyes open by the third period, today it seems, I would not have needed that extra coffee.

I didn’t plan to skip, every day of my senior year in high school was supposed to be important. I have to spend that time with my friends, making memories last. But…

I’d felt dizzy— this morning. I had chills too, only checking my temperature to confirm what I already knew— fever. And with my parents out of town, I didn’t want to risk infection by exposure. I definitely don’t need any more hospital trips, especially not now when I am determined to walk those steps and get my diploma, as healthy as one can muster with leukemia.

Now, with my phone buzzing non-stop, I almost wish I’d risked the infection.

Almost.

My phone goes off one more time, signalling the end of the spamming session my two best friends so happily indulged in. Huda and Nyamai are the closest things to sisters that I will ever have. I joined the band of, “musketeers” late, halfway through grade 8 whereas they’d been best friends for years before.

Impatient as ever, I pick up my phone.

1:45 PM

I’d be starting 4th period right now. Calculus.

The messages I scroll through are mainly details about the fight, Nyamai voicing what I already questioned myself,

“WHY IS IT THAT EVERY SINGLE TIME LINA IS GONE, SHIT HAPPENS.”

They text back and forth, trolling me about my inexplicable good luck. I scroll down, following the conversation.

Huda texts, “Guys don’t forget to bring food in for French class, we’re doing the Francophone thing tomorrow. I’m bringing dolmas!!”

Ah, yes. Francophone. Can’t say I forgot about that— the French presentation we have to do before we eat all food counts for 20% of our grade.

I text back, “I’m trying so very hard NOT to devour the chocolate cake 'I made'. It’s proving difficult. Huda save me some of your dolmas PLEASE. Last time I only had six.”

Nyamai immediately texts back, mother-hen as usual, “Leave it to Lina to spend $30 on a chocolate cake because she didn’t want to make a $10 dessert by herself. How are you doing though? Will you be coming tomorrow or is this going to be a week-long thing again?”

They don’t know. About my cancer. I still haven’t quite figured out how to tell them— I was diagnosed a little over two years ago and can barely cope with it myself if I’m being honest. Sometimes I'm too weak to move and have to be bedridden for the better part of a week, no doubt what she’s referring to.

I text back, “I have practiced in my sleep, I cannot miss that presentation. I’m coming tomorrow guys, I promise!!”

Huda and Nyamai both reply with an array of, “YESSS” and, “A+ here we come!!”

I throw my phone away, at last starting, "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," in peace and quiet.

~

“Okay I’m nervous, are you nervous? Why don’t you look nervous?” I impatiently ask Huda, always the most composed out of the three of us.

The presentation will take place third period, approximately four hours from now. Still, though, I can’t help my... jitteriness.

Huda peeks up at me through her glasses, mouth parting in a tight smile, “Honestly, I’ll accept my fail at this point.” She says back, though not jumping up and down like I am opting to do.

“Carolina stop hopping,” Nyamai loves using my full name, “people will think you gotta piss. Huda you shush, I have never seen you fail at anything.” Nyamai scolds us, applying her makeup by her tiny locker mirror.

It’s not as if she needs to fix anything, her makeup is always done perfectly. How she can do winged eyeliner is beyond me. Still, we watch as she darkens her lips a little more, blending until it looks rich against her dark skin.

Now, only slightly moving from side to side, I ask, “Can we practice a little more over lunch?”

I already know the answer but I need to remind myself it’s a definite yes, anyway.

Huda peeks at the mirror, fixing her hijab. Nyamai takes this as a welcome sign and holds up clear lip-gloss and eyeliner. She wiggles her eyebrows at us and we groan, knowing exactly where she’s going with this.

Thick braids swishing behind her, she leads us to the bathroom. Where the mirror is bigger and she can make us her temporary Barbie dolls.

If there’s one thing better than knowing how to put on eyeliner, it’s having a friend who knows how to put on eyeliner.

~

We kept all our food at Nyamai's house since she lives right in front. Of course, fearful that her twin brother would purposely go home and eat it all, but still… we trusted the process.

And did we trust right.

Now in French class, our food looks fresh against the rest. Huda’s dolmas practically beckoning me. Nyamai’s chicken-fried rice seeming to scream my name.

Later, we would indulge in the portions we left at her house.

We take our places near the back of the classroom, finding empty desks to put our dishes on. The chairs have all been cleared out— the desks line up all around the perimeter of the class.

The butterflies kick in, now swarming and fluttering so high—

A pinch from Nyamai is all it takes for me to stop hopping again, a snicker from Huda lets me know she knows just how nervous I am.

It’s only a five-minute presentation, all about a French artist we love. Our teacher wants to know of their background, their family, how they made a name for themselves. Sounds easy enough, but it cannot be a second over five minutes, or a percent will be taken off each time. And it cannot be more than 10 seconds shy of five minutes.

Ridiculous.

The butterflies threaten to swarm me again, but then… then I see him walk in.

I’ve seen him walk into French class every day this semester, but it never gets old. It’s like I somehow manage to forget he’s in my class... Yet I know deep down that’s near impossible.

His hazel eyes find mine across the room, as they usually do. My tummy starts buzzing again, but I manage a small smile before turning my head back to my friends.

Not fast enough, however, to miss the slight blush on his cheeks and the smile that tugged at his lips.

Nico.

The all too knowing smiles of my friends are enough to make me nervous, again. I plead with my eyes,

Please don’t make it obvious.

Their eye-rolls and hushed laughter tell me enough. No way could they make anything not obvious. It’s simply not in their nature to be subtle.

Nico’s eyes find mine again from across the room, they hold my gaze for a second before looking away again.

I’m going to miss this.

I hate that I’m mourning as if I’m already dead. Which I likely will be a year from now, seeing as I stopped responding to treatment. But, I’d probably miss this more if I actually spoke to Nico.

Which, of course, is not something I’ve ever done. Not really. Just once for an exercise in class. It’s not as if we sit close, and I usually get so nervous I leave class before my friends push me into him like they’ve threatened to do many, many times.

But I know there won’t be a point. To talk to him, to try anything. Not when my days are numbered. And not when all those days belong to my closest friends and family.

After a quick scan of the room, it’s evident all 15 of us are here— the other 15 will present tomorrow. Our French teacher notes the full house and starts the first PowerPoint presentation, turning the lights off and beckoning the first person to begin.

Here we go.

~

Done. Done done done done!!!

“I could practically scream right now!” and I almost actually do but Huda gives me the devil-stare to pin me in place before I ricochet off the godsdamn wall.

Nyamai is cutting herself some cake, adding it to our little buffet of food before she lets anyone else take a piece.

“Honestly, I could faint,” Nyamai offers, braids swaying with her cutting movements.

Huda winks at me, “You know, Lina technically you are screaming. I’m sure anyone… oh I don’t know… 10ft from us could hear you.”

“You cruel evil woman,” I say, incredulously.

But, at her comment, my face instantly warms. Eyes darting, looking for him, I do spot him close by chatting with Liam. I also notice his divided attention— the way his eyes seem to fleet back towards our corner of the room a little too much.

Lost in my trance, Huda shoves a paper plate in my hand.

“Go. Give him a slice. He’s looking, you know it’s at you. Just go do it, what’s stopping you?”

Everything. Nothing.

“I can’t! I didn’t even make it, this is fraudulent behaviour,” I’m being a child, I know. But I can’t budge on this.

Nyamai rolls her eyes, the most dramatic one I’ve seen from her yet, “If you don’t go up to him right now with your fake cake, I will tell my brother to eat all of your dolmas.”

A pause.

“You wouldn’t,” I narrow my eyes at her, suspiciously.

Huda quips, “Damn yeah she would! Lina, go.”

At that, she shoves the piece of chocolate cake into my arms and I am forced to take it.

Fine.

Just a small conversation, over food.

I make my legs move, one in front of the other. He notices my path toward him now and I can see him fighting that smile on his face. But it doesn’t work, there is nervous energy all around me and I know… I know I can’t be the only one who feels it.

Fine. I can do this.

I smile broadly now, a few steps from him, as I extend my hands.

It’s just a tiny conversation— what’s the worst that could happen?