Read Before I Die for Free Online Page B

bright enough to attract a moth, a stupid moth dancing towards them. It crackles as its wings fizz and turn to dust. We both watch the space where it was.
    I say, ‘You do a lot of gardening, don’t you?’
    ‘I like it.’
    ‘I watch you. Through my window, when you’re digging and stuff.’
    He looks startled. ‘Do you? Why?’
    ‘I like watching you.’
    He frowns, as if he’s trying to work that out, seems about to speak for a moment, but looks away instead, his eyes travelling the garden.
    ‘I’m planning a vegetable patch in that corner,’ he says. ‘Peas, cabbage, lettuce, runner beans. Everything really. It’s for my mum more than me.’
    ‘Why?’
    He shrugs, looks up at the house as if mentioning her might bring her to the window. ‘She likes gardens.’
    ‘What about your dad?’
    ‘No. It’s just me and my mum.’
    I notice a thin trickle of blood on the back of his hand. He sees me looking and wipes it away on his jeans.
    ‘I should probably get on,’ he says. ‘Will you be all right? You can keep the Coke if you want.’
    He walks next to me as I make my way slowly up the path. I’m very happy that my photos and diary are burned, that Zoey’s dress has gone. It feels as if different things will happen.
    I turn to Adam at the gate.
    I say, ‘Thank you for helping.’
    He says, ‘Any time.’
    He has his hands in his pockets. He smiles, then looks away, down at his boots. But I know he sees me.

 

    Nine
    ‘I don’t know why they’ve sent you here,’ the receptionist says.
    ‘We were asked to come,’ Dad tells her. ‘Dr Ryan’s secretary phoned and asked us to come.’
    ‘Not here,’ she says. ‘Not today.’
    ‘Yes, here,’ he tells her. ‘Yes, today.’
    She huffs at him, turns to her computer and scrolls down. ‘Is it for a lumbar puncture?’
    ‘No, it’s not.’ Dad sounds increasingly pissed off. ‘Is Dr Ryan even running a clinic today?’
    I sit down in the waiting area and let them get on with it. The usual suspects are here – the hat gang in the corner plugged into their portable chemo and talking about diarrhoea and vomiting; a boy clutching his mum’s hand, his fragile new hair at the same stage as mine; and a girl with no eyebrows pretending to read a book. She’s pencilled fake eyebrows in above the line of her glasses. She sees me staring and smiles, but I’m not having any of that. It’s a rule of mine not to get involved with dying people. They’re bad news. I made friends with a girl here once. Her name was Angela and we e-mailed each other every day, then one day she stopped. Eventually her mum phoned my dad and told him Angela had died. Dead. Just like that, without even telling me. I decided not to bother with anyone else.
    I pick up a magazine, but don’t even have time to open it before Dad taps me on the shoulder. ‘Vindicated!’ he says.
    ‘What?’
    ‘We were right, she was wrong.’ He waves cheerily at the receptionist as he helps me stand up. ‘Stupid woman doesn’t know her arse from her elbow. Apparently we’re now allowed straight through to the great man’s office!’
    Dr Ryan has a splash of something red on his chin. I can’t help staring at it as we sit opposite him at his desk. I wonder – is it pasta sauce, or soup? Did he just finish an operation? Maybe it’s raw meat.
    ‘Thank you for coming,’ he says, and he shuffles his hands on his lap.
    Dad edges his chair closer to me and presses his knee against mine. I swallow hard, fight the impulse to get up and walk out. If I don’t listen, then I won’t know what he’s going to say, and maybe then it won’t be true.
    But Dr Ryan doesn’t hesitate, and his voice is very firm. ‘Tessa,’ he says, ‘it’s not good news, I’m afraid. Your recent lumbar puncture shows us that your cancer has spread to your spinal fluid.’
    ‘Is that bad?’ I ask, making a little joke.
    He doesn’t laugh. ‘It’s very bad, Tessa. It means you’ve relapsed in your central