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Lark had taken dance lessons his entire life, but his cancer treatments had set him back.
had what the doctors called a successful bone-marrow transplant for leukemia. But only time would tell.
He had Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and people often got our two types of cancers confused. But mine started in my bone marrow and his in his lymph nodes.
One of my favorite days was when they brought the adorable therapy dogs. My least favorite was when one of us died.
my dad worried it might ruin my high school football chances. I was actually more worried about surviving.
They were usually busy and sometimes seemed more worried about how my illness might affect them more than me.
They were always worried about appearances,
sometimes I wished they would be more like other parents.
Lark’s mom always wore these flowy shirts with beading or embroidery, and my parents referred to her as a bohemian. Like it was a bad word.
The one time I’d tried to tell them about my new friend, they’d given me disapproving eyes.
“Let’s get a move on it, son,” Dad said. “We have a busy day ahead of us.” “It’s important for Henry to rest when he gets home,” the nurse warned. “Yes, of course,” Mom replied with a tight smile,
I won’t chew my cuticles raw, I’d told myself last night. Then promptly failed.
Money was tight, especially since my stepdad ran off with his secretary and Mom was left with all the bills.
When I was bullied relentlessly in high school for being a queer ballet dancer, he’d stuck up for me, which only solidified our friendship.
Orientation had definitely been eye-opening. Right away I noticed the class differences, and we fell squarely on the low-income side.
“Nah, you’ll figure it out because you’re brilliant.
“Who the hell is that?” I heard as I passed by a group of students seated at a table. “And why is his jacket so shiny?” “Made of vinyl, maybe.”
“What’s with the Band-Aids on his fingers?” My cheeks heated, and I curled my hand, wrapping it tightly around the strap of my backpack.
This was my dad’s alma mater; he and Coach went way back, so Coach had agreed to keep my health records on the down-low.
I wasn’t one to fuss about clothing or labels, but it was obvious his worn jacket wasn’t real leather.
But who cared? Maybe it was a favorite and he thought it balanced out the nerdy, preppy wardrobe the university’s dress code encouraged.
green eyes that held a hint of melancholy? Had he heard them making fun of him, or did he always look like that?
My stomach tumbled, like it always did when I thought a guy was attractive, but I ignored it. There was no room for that in my life.
It was something he and others liked to point out every semester. Let’s tease the kid that had to work hard to get here.
I only came to Roosevelt because my dad had insisted, despite Mom claiming it was my decision. Yeah, right. I wouldn’t have heard the end of it.
deep down my fears about relapse practically ruled my thoughts every time I got sick with something as common as a cold.
I’d hoped against hope that he went into remission, and now I had my answer. Lark Levitt had survived and then some.
I wasn’t the best at retaining many friends outside of Pete, mostly because I’d been made fun of so much I had learned to close myself off.
Emil motioned to my bandaged fingertips. “Did you have an accident?” My cheeks warmed. “Yeah, uh, burned myself.” I was too embarrassed to admit I chewed my cuticles raw.
Even though pre-calculus was considered a remedial class offered to those who sucked at math like me
Remedial??? The devil?
When our eyes met, he studied me hard for a brief second before guiltily looking away.
“Lark,” someone called behind me, and I recognized his voice immediately—that rich tenor and deliciously deep.
If it was the same as the jocks in high school, then they were tight-knit and pretty exclusive. Even after you gave one of them a blowjob.
They think keeping my health history on the down-low is for the best.
“My dad doesn’t want anyone to have preconceived notions about my health or…” “How very ableist of him.”
He grimaced as if recalling the morning interaction. “What else did you hear?” “Enough,” I replied, and he frowned.
But I couldn’t deny he was attractive as hell as an adult.
He’d already spoken to the coach and dean on my behalf, and that didn’t sit right with me either. Was I here on merit or not?
Once I finished college and earned a paycheck on my own, maybe I’d finally step outside the box I’d been put in.
He’d never been able to play football due to his epilepsy, so having his name associated with something at his beloved college was second best.
I slipped inside the bell tower, my favorite, secret hiding spot. I’d found it last year during a particularly hard conversation with my father regarding a dismal test score, and it helped calm my heart rate.
But somehow seeing him in his element calmed me. Maybe because he was alive, strong, and doing what he loved.
“Last night my tips were abysmal. It didn’t help that this snooty group of kids came in, ordered a bunch of food, then stiffed me.”
“And by the way, I think they’re probably queer for each other.”
“The idea that all male dancers are effeminate and gay. It might be true in my case, but not in every case.”
“Jesus, you’re a walking heart attack.”
was still embarrassed by my nervous fixation. And I had grown so dependent on it I hadn’t been able to curb it this semester. In fact, I chewed them raw last night
taking the celebration to our clubhouse tonight, which Coach had decked out with couches, a fridge, a television, and a stereo.
Coach had rounded up old friends from college days, Dad being one of them, who were willing to donate money,
My parents were waiting for me in the parking lot, and that doused some of the excitement because Dad was sure to offer his version of constructive criticism despite our win.
