The Fault in Our Stars

CHAPTER SIX
M
om was folding my laundry while watching this TV show called The View when I got
home. I told her that the tulips and the Dutch artist and everything were all because
Augustus was using his Wish to take me to Amsterdam. “That’s too much,” she said,
shaking her head. “We can’t accept that from a virtual stranger.”
“He’s not a stranger. He’s easily my second best friend.”
“Behind Kaitlyn?”
“Behind you,” I said. It was true, but I’d mostly said it because I wanted to go to
Amsterdam.
“I’ll ask Dr. Maria,” she said after a moment.
* * *
Dr. Maria said I couldn’t go to Amsterdam without an adult intimately familiar with my
case, which more or less meant either Mom or Dr. Maria herself. (My dad understood my
cancer the way I did: in the vague and incomplete way people understand electrical
circuits and ocean tides. But my mom knew more about differentiated thyroid carcinoma
in adolescents than most oncologists.)
“So you’ll come,” I said. “The Genies will pay for it. The Genies are loaded.”
“But your father,” she said. “He would miss us. It wouldn’t be fair to him, and he
can’t get time off work.”
“Are you kidding? You don’t think Dad would enjoy a few days of watching TV
shows that are not about aspiring models and ordering pizza every night, using paper
towels as plates so he doesn’t have to do the dishes?”
Mom laughed. Finally, she started to get excited, typing tasks into her phone: She’d
have to call Gus’s parents and talk to the Genies about my medical needs and do they have
a hotel yet and what are the best guidebooks and we should do our research if we only
have three days, and so on. I kind of had a headache, so I downed a couple Advil and
decided to take a nap.
But I ended up just lying in bed and replaying the whole picnic with Augustus. I
couldn’t stop thinking about the little moment when I’d tensed up as he touched me. The
gentle familiarity felt wrong, somehow. I thought maybe it was how orchestrated the
whole thing had been: Augustus was amazing, but he’d overdone everything at the picnic,
right down to the sandwiches that were metaphorically resonant but tasted terrible and the
memorized soliloquy that prevented conversation. It all felt Romantic, but not romantic.
But the truth is that I had never wanted him to kiss me, not in the way you are
supposed to want these things. I mean, he was gorgeous. I was attracted to him. I thought
about him in that way, to borrow a phrase from the middle school vernacular. But the
actual touch, the realized touch . . . it was all wrong.

---

Then I found myself worrying I would have to make out with him to get to
Amsterdam, which is not the kind of thing you want to be thinking, because (a) It
shouldn’t’ve even been a question whether I wanted to kiss him, and (b) Kissing someone
so that you can get a free trip is perilously close to full-on hooking, and I have to confess
that while I did not fancy myself a particularly good person, I never thought my first real
sexual action would be prostitutional.
But then again, he hadn’t tried to kiss me; he’d only touched my face, which is not
even sexual. It was not a move designed to elicit arousal, but it was certainly a designed
move, because Augustus Waters was no improviser. So what had he been trying to
convey? And why hadn’t I wanted to accept it?
At some point, I realized I was Kaitlyning the encounter, so I decided to text Kaitlyn
and ask for some advice. She called immediately.
“I have a boy problem,” I said.
“DELICIOUS,” Kaitlyn responded. I told her all about it, complete with the awkward
face touching, leaving out only Amsterdam and Augustus’s name. “You’re sure he’s hot?”
she asked when I was finished.
“Pretty sure,” I said.
“Athletic?”
“Yeah, he used to play basketball for North Central.”
“Wow. How’d you meet him?”
“This hideous Support Group.”
“Huh,” Kaitlyn said. “Out of curiosity, how many legs does this guy have?”
“Like, 1.4,” I said, smiling. Basketball players were famous in Indiana, and although
Kaitlyn didn’t go to North Central, her social connectivity was endless.
“Augustus Waters,” she said.
“Um, maybe?”
“Oh, my God. I’ve seen him at parties. The things I would do to that boy. I mean, not
now that I know you’re interested in him. But, oh, sweet holy Lord, I would ride that one-
legged pony all the way around the corral.”
“Kaitlyn,” I said.
“Sorry. Do you think you’d have to be on top?”
“Kaitlyn,” I said.
“What were we talking about. Right, you and Augustus Waters. Maybe . . . are you
gay?”
“I don’t think so? I mean, I definitely like him.”
“Does he have ugly hands? Sometimes beautiful people have ugly hands.”
“No, he has kind of amazing hands.”

---

“Hmm,” she said.
“Hmm,” I said.
After a second, Kaitlyn said, “Remember Derek? He broke up with me last week
because he’d decided there was something fundamentally incompatible about us deep
down and that we’d only get hurt more if we played it out. He called it preemptive
dumping. So maybe you have this premonition that there is something fundamentally
incompatible and you’re preempting the preemption.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“I’m just thinking out loud here.”
“Sorry about Derek.”
“Oh, I got over it, darling. It took me a sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mints and forty
minutes to get over that boy.”
I laughed. “Well, thanks, Kaitlyn.”
“In the event you do hook up with him, I expect lascivious details.”
“But of course,” I said, and then Kaitlyn made a kissy sound into the phone and I
said, “Bye,” and she hung up.
* * *
I realized while listening to Kaitlyn that I didn’t have a premonition of hurting him. I had a
postmonition.
I pulled out my laptop and looked up Caroline Mathers. The physical similarities
were striking: same steroidally round face, same nose, same approximate overall body
shape. But her eyes were dark brown (mine are green) and her complexion was much
darker—Italian or something.
Thousands of people—literally thousands—had left condolence messages for her. It
was an endless scroll of people who missed her, so many that it took me an hour of
clicking to get past the I’m sorry you’re dead wall posts to the I’m praying for you wall
posts. She’d died a year ago of brain cancer. I was able to click through to some of her
pictures. Augustus was in a bunch of the earlier ones: pointing with a thumbs-up to the
jagged scar across her bald skull; arm in arm at Memorial Hospital’s playground, with
their backs facing the camera; kissing while Caroline held the camera out, so you could
only see their noses and closed eyes.
The most recent pictures were all of her before, when she was healthy, uploaded
postmortem by friends: a beautiful girl, wide-hipped and curvy, with long, straight
deadblack hair falling over her face. My healthy self looked very little like her healthy
self. But our cancer selves might’ve been sisters. No wonder he’d stared at me the first
time he saw me.
I kept clicking back to this one wall post, written two months ago, nine months after
she died, by one of her friends. We all miss you so much. It just never ends. It feels like we