The Fault in Our Stars pdfdrive com

but they will expose my hideous second toes to the public, and I said, “Kaitlyn,
you’re the only person I’ve ever known to have toe-specific dysmorphia,” and
she said, “What is that?”
“You know, like when you look in the mirror and the thing you see is not
the thing as it really is.”
“Oh. Oh,” she said. “Do you like these?” She held up a pair of cute but
unspectacular Mary Janes, and I nodded, and she found her size and tried them
on, pacing up and down the aisle, watching her feet in the knee-high angled
mirrors. Then she grabbed a pair of strappy hooker shoes and said, “Is it even
possible to walk in these? I mean, I would just die—” and then stopped short,
looking at me as if to say I’m sorry, as if it were a crime to mention death to the
dying. “You should try them on,” Kaitlyn continued, trying to paper over the
awkwardness.
“I’d sooner die,” I assured her.
I ended up just picking out some flip-flops so that I could have something
to buy, and then I sat down on one of the benches opposite a bank of shoes and
watched Kaitlyn snake her way through the aisles, shopping with the kind of
intensity and focus that one usually associates with professional chess. I kind of
wanted to take out Midnight Dawns and read for a while, but I knew that’d be
rude, so I just watched Kaitlyn. Occasionally she’d circle back to me clutching
some closed-toe prey and say, “This?” and I would try to make an intelligent
comment about the shoe, and then finally she bought three pairs and I bought my
flip-flops and then as we exited she said, “Anthropologie?”
“I should head home actually,” I said. “I’m kinda tired.”
“Sure, of course,” she said. “I have to see you more often, darling.” She
placed her hands on my shoulders, kissed me on both cheeks, and marched off,
her narrow hips swishing.
I didn’t go home, though. I’d told Mom to pick me up at six, and while I
figured she was either in the mall or in the parking lot, I still wanted the next two

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hours to myself.
I liked my mom, but her perpetual nearness sometimes made me feel
weirdly nervous. And I liked Kaitlyn, too. I really did. But three years removed
from proper full-time schoolic exposure to my peers, I felt a certain unbridgeable
distance between us. I think my school friends wanted to help me through my
cancer, but they eventually found out that they couldn’t. For one thing, there was
no through.
So I excused myself on the grounds of pain and fatigue, as I often had over
the years when seeing Kaitlyn or any of my other friends. In truth, it always hurt.
It always hurt not to breathe like a normal person, incessantly reminding your
lungs to be lungs, forcing yourself to accept as unsolvable the clawing scraping
inside-out ache of underoxygenation. So I wasn’t lying, exactly. I was just
choosing among truths.
I found a bench surrounded by an Irish Gifts store, the Fountain Pen
Emporium, and a baseball-cap outlet—a corner of the mall even Kaitlyn would
never shop, and started reading Midnight Dawns.
It featured a sentence-to-corpse ratio of nearly 1:1, and I tore through it
without ever looking up. I liked Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem, even though he
didn’t have much in the way of a technical personality, but mostly I liked that his
adventures kept happening. There were always more bad guys to kill and more
good guys to save. New wars started even before the old ones were won. I hadn’t
read a real series like that since I was a kid, and it was exciting to live again in
an infinite fiction.
Twenty pages from the end of Midnight Dawns, things started to look pretty
bleak for Mayhem when he was shot seventeen times while attempting to rescue
a (blond, American) hostage from the Enemy. But as a reader, I did not despair.
The war effort would go on without him. There could—and would—be sequels
starring his cohorts: Specialist Manny Loco and Private Jasper Jacks and the
rest.
I was just about to the end when this little girl with barretted braids
appeared in front of me and said, “What’s in your nose?”
And I said, “Um, it’s called a cannula. These tubes give me oxygen and
help me breathe.” Her mother swooped in and said, “Jackie,” disapprovingly, but
I said, “No no, it’s okay,” because it totally was, and then Jackie asked, “Would
they help me breathe, too?”
“I dunno. Let’s try.” I took it off and let Jackie stick the cannula in her nose
and breathe. “Tickles,” she said.
“I know, right?”
“I think I’m breathing better,” she said.

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“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” I said, “I wish I could give you my cannula but I kind of really need
the help.” I already felt the loss. I focused on my breathing as Jackie handed the
tubes back to me. I gave them a quick swipe with my T-shirt, laced the tubes
behind my ears, and put the nubbins back in place.
“Thanks for letting me try it,” she said.
“No problem.”
“Jackie,” her mother said again, and this time I let her go.
I returned to the book, where Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem was regretting
that he had but one life to give for his country, but I kept thinking about that
little kid, and how much I liked her.
The other thing about Kaitlyn, I guess, was that it could never again feel
natural to talk to her. Any attempts to feign normal social interactions were just
depressing because it was so glaringly obvious that everyone I spoke to for the
rest of my life would feel awkward and self-conscious around me, except maybe
kids like Jackie who just didn’t know any better.
Anyway, I really did like being alone. I liked being alone with poor Staff
Sergeant Max Mayhem, who—oh, come on, he’s not going to survive these
seventeen bullet wounds, is he?
(Spoiler alert: He lives.)

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