The Fault in Our Stars

CHAPTER FIVE
I
did not speak to Augustus again for about a week. I had called him on the Night of the
Broken Trophies, so per tradition it was his turn to call. But he didn’t. Now, it wasn’t as if
I held my phone in my sweaty hand all day, staring at it while wearing my Special Yellow
Dress, patiently waiting for my gentleman caller to live up to his sobriquet. I went about
my life: I met Kaitlyn and her (cute but frankly not Augustinian) boyfriend for coffee one
afternoon; I ingested my recommended daily allowance of Phalanxifor; I attended classes
three mornings that week at MCC; and every night, I sat down to dinner with my mom
and dad.
Sunday night, we had pizza with green peppers and broccoli. We were seated around
our little circular table in the kitchen when my phone started singing, but I wasn’t allowed
to check it because we have a strict no-phones-during-dinner rule.
So I ate a little while Mom and Dad talked about this earthquake that had just
happened in Papua New Guinea. They met in the Peace Corps in Papua New Guinea, and
so whenever anything happened there, even something terrible, it was like all of a sudden
they were not large sedentary creatures, but the young and idealistic and self-sufficient and
rugged people they had once been, and their rapture was such that they didn’t even glance
over at me as I ate faster than I’d ever eaten, transmitting items from my plate into my
mouth with a speed and ferocity that left me quite out of breath, which of course made me
worry that my lungs were again swimming in a rising pool of fluid. I banished the thought
as best I could. I had a PET scan scheduled in a couple weeks. If something was wrong,
I’d find out soon enough. Nothing to be gained by worrying between now and then.
And yet still I worried. I liked being a person. I wanted to keep at it. Worry is yet
another side effect of dying.
Finally I finished and said, “Can I be excused?” and they hardly even paused from
their conversation about the strengths and weaknesses of Guinean infrastructure. I grabbed
my phone from my purse on the kitchen counter and checked my recent calls. Augustus
Waters.
I went out the back door into the twilight. I could see the swing set, and I thought
about walking out there and swinging while I talked to him, but it seemed pretty far away
given that eating tired me.
Instead, I lay down in the grass on the patio’s edge, looked up at Orion, the only
constellation I could recognize, and called him.
“Hazel Grace,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “How are you?”
“Grand,” he said. “I have been wanting to call you on a nearly minutely basis, but I
have been waiting until I could form a coherent thought in re An Imperial Affliction.” (He
said “in re.” He really did. That boy.)

---

“And?” I said.
“I think it’s, like. Reading it, I just kept feeling like, like.”
“Like?” I asked, teasing him.
“Like it was a gift?” he said askingly. “Like you’d given me something important.”
“Oh,” I said quietly.
“That’s cheesy,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said. “No. Don’t apologize.”
“But it doesn’t end.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Torture. I totally get it, like, I get that she died or whatever.”
“Right, I assume so,” I said.
“And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and
reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates that contract.”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling defensive of Peter Van Houten. “That’s part of what I
like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully. You die in the middle of
your life, in the middle of a sentence. But I do—God, I do really want to know what
happens to everyone else. That’s what I asked him in my letters. But he, yeah, he never
answers.”
“Right. You said he is a recluse?”
“Correct.”
“Impossible to track down.”
“Correct.”
“Utterly unreachable,” Augustus said.
“Unfortunately so,” I said.
“‘Dear Mr. Waters,’” he answered. “‘I am writing to thank you for your electronic
correspondence, received via Ms. Vliegenthart this sixth of April, from the United States
of America, insofar as geography can be said to exist in our triumphantly digitized
contemporaneity.’”
“Augustus, what the hell?”
“He has an assistant,” Augustus said. “Lidewij Vliegenthart. I found her. I emailed
her. She gave him the email. He responded via her email account.”
“Okay, okay. Keep reading.”
“‘My response is being written with ink and paper in the glorious tradition of our
ancestors and then transcribed by Ms. Vliegenthart into a series of 1s and 0s to travel
through the insipid web which has lately ensnared our species, so I apologize for any
errors or omissions that may result.

---

“‘Given the entertainment bacchanalia at the disposal of young men and women of
your generation, I am grateful to anyone anywhere who sets aside the hours necessary to
read my little book. But I am particularly indebted to you, sir, both for your kind words
about An Imperial Affliction and for taking the time to tell me that the book, and here I
quote you directly, “meant a great deal” to you.
“‘This comment, however, leads me to wonder: What do you mean by meant? Given
the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable?
Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortably as possible? What should a story
seek to emulate, Augustus? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course,
like all interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to asking
what it means to be human and whether—to borrow a phrase from the angst-encumbered
sixteen-year-olds you no doubt revile—there is a point to it all.
“‘I fear there is not, my friend, and that you would receive scant encouragement from
further encounters with my writing. But to answer your question: No, I have not written
anything else, nor will I. I do not feel that continuing to share my thoughts with readers
would benefit either them or me. Thank you again for your generous email.
“‘Yours most sincerely, Peter Van Houten, via Lidewij Vliegenthart.’”
“Wow,” I said. “Are you making this up?”
“Hazel Grace, could I, with my meager intellectual capacities, make up a letter from
Peter Van Houten featuring phrases like ‘our triumphantly digitized contemporaneity’?”
“You could not,” I allowed. “Can I, can I have the email address?”
“Of course,” Augustus said, like it was not the best gift ever.
I spent the next two hours writing an email to Peter Van Houten. It seemed to get worse
each time I rewrote it, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Dear Mr. Peter Van Houten
(c/o Lidewij Vliegenthart),
My name is Hazel Grace Lancaster. My friend Augustus Waters, who read An