The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

In the short time it takes to roll out of bed and pick up my phone from the nightstand, I’m already missing him. When Mom laid out exactly why going to this specialty clinic in Europe made sense, I bought into it totally. I’d only be gone for a short time. The boys wouldn’t feel responsible for me if I overextended myself. And, maybe most importantly to me, the strongest memory they have of me won’t be that I was a sick girl. Instead I’ll return, strong, healthy, and smart.

The brain stem radiation and chemotherapy may result in the loss of gross and fine motor skills, they warned me. I was lucky I had stopped growing when the tumor appeared otherwise the treatment could have damaged developing organs. Gingerly, I cup the back of my head. Fluid is collecting there. We’re watching it, and by “we” I mean Mom, Dad, and my team of doctors. None of the Jacksons know. I don’t want them to. It’s rare for an older kid to get hydrocephaly or “water on the brain” and even rarer for it to develop months after the craniotomy.

“You’ve always been special,” Dad joked weakly when the doctors told us that they’d never seen a case like mine. That’s the real reason I’m going to Switzerland—to be studied and treated by an international team of experts and—more than likely—to have a permanent drainage tube installed in the back of my head.

Dr. Mosher said that there are plenty of functioning adults with permanent shunts. It just means no contact sports and no activities where I could fall on my head and break my shunt. In other words, no gymnastics. He suggested volleyball. I was too numb by then to respond, so I shook my head and he probably took it for agreement.

But all that seems like a distant memory now. My usual morning routine is checking my phone for messages from friends at school. But right now I’m too busy examining my body.

My face doesn’t look different. I guess I thought I’d be able to see some outward sign that I am no longer a virgin. My hair is still short, growing out in wispy baby curls, and my skin is pale from lack of exposure to the sun. There are faint bruises on my hip bones and a few marks on my collarbone, but Nate was apparently careful not to leave anything too incriminating. I’m both disappointed and relieved.

I flick off the Do Not Disturb on my phone, and there about twenty text messages. Three of them are from Nathan. I skip the rest.

You pushed me off the bed when I tried to kiss you good morning. Miss you already.

U still sleeping? RU OK? Text me. On my way to class but will check phone.

Charlotte. For real. Text me.

I stop and take note of the time. It’s almost noon. I’ve slept for hours. No wonder he’s worried. I send him a response right away.

I just got up. Don’t know why I’m sooooo tired. ;)

He texts me immediately as if he’s been waiting.

Christ. Gave me a heart attack. I won’t live until graduation at this rate.

I giggle at his exaggeration. I can just picture him making serious face while his eyes smile at me.

Can’t have that now that I’ve just learned exactly why all the North Prep girls are chasing after you.

There are other girls at North Prep? I only see you.

Oh. My. God. He slays me. I clutch my phone to my chest, and the mirrored reflection shows that I’m wearing the silliest, stupidest, biggest grin ever. I text him again.

You need to come to my room immediately after school.

Nope. Meet me at MY room at 3:45.

Why?

Because when you’re gone I want to lie in that bed and be surrounded by our memories.

I want to stick Nathan in my suitcase and carry him with me. My resolve wavers, but a press of a hand against that soft spot on the back of my skull reminds me that my primary goal is to get better so that all my tomorrows are spent with Nathan, having a family, growing old together, making new memories.

I love you. Too much. Like my heart isn’t big enough to hold it all.

My heart is big enough for both of us. I’m always going to take care of you C-girl.

Hurry back.

Always.

I can’t erase my smile, and it’s the thing that gives me away. Both my parents are in the kitchen when I finally leave my bedroom. Normally it’s just one of them during the day, and often they only pop in to check on me and then they’re gone for a few hours doing work stuff. Mom’s cheeks look flushed and Dad’s wearing a smug and very satisfied grin. I recognize that grin. It’s . . . holy shit, my parents are home for a nooner.