The Fault in Our Stars pdfdrive com

“Nothing,” I assured her.
Still nervous, Mom knelt down to check on Philip to ensure he was
condensing oxygen appropriately. I imagined sitting at a sun-drenched café with
Peter Van Houten as he leaned across the table on his elbows, speaking in a soft
voice so no one else would hear the truth of what happened to the characters I’d
spent years thinking about. He’d said he couldn’t tell me except in person, and
then invited me to Amsterdam. I explained this to Mom, and then said, “I have to
go.”
“Hazel, I love you, and you know I’d do anything for you, but we don’t—
we don’t have the money for international travel, and the expense of getting
equipment over there—love, it’s just not—”
“Yeah,” I said, cutting her off. I realized I’d been silly even to consider it.
“Don’t worry about it.” But she looked worried.
“It’s really important to you, yeah?” she asked, sitting down, a hand on my
calf.
“It would be pretty amazing,” I said, “to be the only person who knows
what happens besides him.”
“That would be amazing,” she said. “I’ll talk to your father.”
“No, don’t,” I said. “Just, seriously, don’t spend any money on it please. I’ll
think of something.”
It occurred to me that the reason my parents had no money was me. I’d
sapped the family savings with Phalanxifor copays, and Mom couldn’t work
because she had taken on the full-time profession of Hovering Over Me. I didn’t
want to put them even further into debt.
I told Mom I wanted to call Augustus to get her out of the room, because I
couldn’t handle her I-can’t-make-my-daughter’s-dreams-come-true sad face.
Augustus Waters–style, I read him the letter in lieu of saying hello.
“Wow,” he said.
“I know, right?” I said. “How am I going to get to Amsterdam?”
“Do you have a Wish?” he asked, referring to this organization, The Genie
Foundation, which is in the business of granting sick kids one wish.
“No,” I said. “I used my Wish pre-Miracle.”
“What’d you do?”

---

I sighed loudly. “I was thirteen,” I said.
“Not Disney,” he said.
I said nothing.
“You did not go to Disney World.”
I said nothing.
“Hazel GRACE!” he shouted. “You did not use your one dying Wish to go
to Disney World with your parents.”
“Also Epcot Center,” I mumbled.
“Oh, my God,” Augustus said. “I can’t believe I have a crush on a girl with
such cliché wishes.”
“I was thirteen,” I said again, although of course I was only thinking crush
crush crush crush crush. I was flattered but changed the subject immediately.
“Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”
“I’m playing hooky to hang out with Isaac, but he’s sleeping, so I’m in the
atrium doing geometry.”
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“I can’t tell if he’s just not ready to confront the seriousness of his disability
or if he really does care more about getting dumped by Monica, but he won’t
talk about anything else.”
“Yeah,” I said. “How long’s he gonna be in the hospital?”
“Few days. Then he goes to this rehab or something for a while, but he gets
to sleep at home, I think.”
“Sucks,” I said.
“I see his mom. I gotta go.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” he answered. I could hear his crooked smile.
On Saturday, my parents and I went down to the farmers’ market in Broad
Ripple. It was sunny, a rarity for Indiana in April, and everyone at the farmers’
market was wearing short sleeves even though the temperature didn’t quite
justify it. We Hoosiers are excessively optimistic about summer. Mom and I sat
next to each other on a bench across from a goat-soap maker, a man in overalls
who had to explain to every single person who walked by that yes, they were his
goats, and no, goat soap does not smell like goats.
My phone rang. “Who is it?” Mom asked before I could even check.
“I don’t know,” I said. It was Gus, though.
“Are you currently at your house?” he asked.
“Um, no,” I said.
“That was a trick question. I knew the answer, because I am currently at

---

your house.”
“Oh. Um. Well, we are on our way, I guess?”
“Awesome. See you soon.”
Augustus Waters was sitting on the front step as we pulled into the driveway. He
was holding a bouquet of bright orange tulips just beginning to bloom, and
wearing an Indiana Pacers jersey under his fleece, a wardrobe choice that
seemed utterly out of character, although it did look quite good on him. He
pushed himself up off the stoop, handed me the tulips, and asked, “Wanna go on
a picnic?” I nodded, taking the flowers.
My dad walked up behind me and shook Gus’s hand.
“Is that a Rik Smits jersey?” my dad asked.
“Indeed it is.”
“God, I loved that guy,” Dad said, and immediately they were engrossed in
a basketball conversation I could not (and did not want to) join, so I took my
tulips inside.
“Do you want me to put those in a vase?” Mom asked as I walked in, a
huge smile on her face.
“No, it’s okay,” I told her. If we’d put them in a vase in the living room,
they would have been everyone’s flowers. I wanted them to be my flowers.
I went to my room but didn’t change. I brushed my hair and teeth and put
on some lip gloss and the smallest possible dab of perfume. I kept looking at the
flowers. They were aggressively orange, almost too orange to be pretty. I didn’t
have a vase or anything, so I took my toothbrush out of my toothbrush holder
and filled it halfway with water and left the flowers there in the bathroom.
When I reentered my room, I could hear people talking, so I sat on the edge
of my bed for a while and listened through my hollow bedroom door:
Dad: “So you met Hazel at Support Group.”
Augustus: “Yes, sir. This is a lovely house you’ve got. I like your artwork.”
Mom: “Thank you, Augustus.”
Dad: “You’re a survivor yourself, then?”
Augustus: “I am. I didn’t cut this fella off for the sheer unadulterated
pleasure of it, although it is an excellent weight-loss strategy. Legs are heavy!”
Dad: “And how’s your health now?”
Augustus: “NEC for fourteen months.”
Mom: “That’s wonderful. The treatment options these days—it really is
remarkable.”
Augustus: “I know. I’m lucky.”
Dad: “You have to understand that Hazel is still sick, Augustus, and will be

---

for the rest of her life. She’ll want to keep up with you, but her lungs—”
At which point I emerged, silencing him.
“So where are you going?” asked Mom. Augustus stood up and leaned over
to her, whispering the answer, and then held a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he told
her. “It’s a secret.”
Mom smiled. “You’ve got your phone?” she asked me. I held it up as
evidence, tilted my oxygen cart onto its front wheels, and started walking.
Augustus hustled over, offering me his arm, which I took. My fingers wrapped
around his biceps.
Unfortunately, he insisted upon driving, so the surprise could be a surprise.
As we shuddered toward our destination, I said, “You nearly charmed the pants
off my mom.”
“Yeah, and your dad is a Smits fan, which helps. You think they liked me?”
“Sure they did. Who cares, though? They’re just parents.”
“They’re your parents,” he said, glancing over at me. “Plus, I like being
liked. Is that crazy?”
“Well, you don’t have to rush to hold doors open or smother me in
compliments for me to like you.” He slammed the brakes, and I flew forward
hard enough that my breathing felt weird and tight. I thought of the PET scan.