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“Have you heard the Manic Pixie Dreamboats? Or Chekhov’s Toothbrush?”
Sophie gives her a blank look. “Guess not,” she mutters. Suddenly her face pinches—it lasts only a split second, but it’s long enough for me to notice.
“Soph?”
“What?”
I lift my eyebrows at her. “What was that, just now?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, right before it happens again. This time, she slides along my keyboard amp to the floor, clutching her abdomen.
All her life, Sophie’s never complained about illness or injury. Ankle sprains, common colds, stomachaches—she waves it all off. It’s why I’m convinced whatever is going on right now is something more serious.
“Shit, are you okay?” Dylan says.
“Fine,” she squeaks, but her eyes are squeezed shut.
Everything around me dims as I focus solely on her, my mind spinning.
“We’re on in ten,” someone says. Chase? Dylan? I’m not sure.
“Sophie?” I lower myself to the floor next to her as she tucks her knees to her chest and shakes her head.
“What’s going on?” Aziza.
“Is it cramps?” Kat.
I need everyone to be quiet for a moment so I can understand what’s happening.
“Is it—” I ask Sophie, unsure how to finish the question. Is it the transplant? Is it me? Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nods. It’s a boulder shoved into my chest. The lowest A on a piano. “Has this happened before?”
“A . . . few times.”
Five worried faces peer down at us. Chase is the only one who knows about the transplant, and I’m not sure I want to get into my—our—entire medical history right now with the rest of the band.
“Should we call an ambulance?” he says.
“No!” Sophie cries out, a little too loudly. Then, more softly: “No. I don’t want to freak out my parents.”
But she looks so tiny curled up against the amp, hair falling in her face as she clings to her knees.
I did this to her, and I’ve never felt so helpless.
Is this how Sophie felt with me for all those years?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, gently brushing her knee. Because she’s too good. Because she didn’t want me to feel the way I do now.
“It doesn’t happen very often, and the pain—I can usually take a few ibuprofen and it’ll go away.”
“Usually,” I repeat, running my hands over my face.
“I have some,” Kat volunteers, rummaging through her messenger bag and passing Sophie a blue bottle. I hand her the water bottle she gave me so she can swallow them.
“Let’s give her some space,” Dylan says, and everyone but me backs up a few paces in the small green room.
But Sophie—she scoots closer to me, her body crumpling against mine, and I stretch an arm around her to rub her back. I’ve always liked the way her body fits against mine, that I’m able to hold her like this. Chase’s eyes meet mine, a frown tugging at his mouth. Don’t look at me like that, I want to tell him. This isn’t anything but one best friend comforting another.
“It happens sometimes, right after a transplant?” I say, more to convince myself that this is normal. Right after. It’s been more than six months. I have no idea if this is normal.
