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  Even though I joked with him about Buddhism and pretending, one of the main things I learned from my old friends is that being fake is a terrible mistake. It puts you in a battle with yourself, where you’re trying to sound one way so no one will suspect anything is wrong. I couldn’t do it. I exploded and yelled horrible things at the only friends I had. I was furious at them for making me feel like such a fake, but it was my fault, not theirs. Or maybe some of it was their fault, but no one forces anyone to be phony.

  I wish I could tell David this is why being with him scares me so much. With him, I couldn’t pretend. I also couldn’t be sure I’d always be happy. I’m not made that way. I don’t want him to feel like he has to run over to my apartment with books and quotes every time I get quiet or discouraged. Aside from everything else, it won’t work. Not really.

  Depression can happen when everything is good. You wake up one morning so scared of losing it all you can’t get out of bed. I learned this in the hospital, listening to other kids. One boy had his worst episode after he got in to his first-choice college. It’s irrational and unpredictable.

  He has a chronic condition he’s living with, and so do I.

  I don’t expect anyone besides my mom and Mr. Standish to come to the show. For one thing, it’s hard to get to—across town, which means it’s a forty-minute drive after school. My mom has taken the day off work to help me transport my mobile to the event. Mr. Standish is bringing the other pieces from school.

  When he meets us at three, I realize he must have skipped his afternoon classes. He’s also carried two canvases from four blocks away, which apparently was the closest parking he could get. His face is still sweating a little. “Thank you so much for all this,” I say.

  “My pleasure,” he says. And then, after we find my spot and set up the paintings on the easels with my name, he adds: “It really is my pleasure, Jamie. It’s lovely to have such a talented student. I even told my wife about you.”

  He seems embarrassed to admit this, which makes it feel all the more sincere.

  I don’t know what else to say except “Thank you.”

  “Just make sure you stick with this. That’s all.”

  “I want to stick with this. I really do.”

  Mr. Standish can’t stay for more than an hour, and the whole event goes until seven. There are judges and panels and a medal ceremony at the end. It seems to take forever, and I still love every minute of it, even when my mother gets so tired from standing and smiling at people walking under my mobile that she pulls a chair over and sits down so she can point up and make sure everyone sees it.

  I have to admit, the mobile works beautifully. My mom even seems like part of the work after a while. Everyone looks up and smiles as she shows them what to do: blow a little.

  She demonstrates, and they do. And all the birds take flight.

  It works like I wanted it to. Like I imagined but hardly dared hope, it might.

  In the end, I win a silver ribbon, which isn’t first prize, but it’s still more than I expected.

  The much bigger surprise happens at the end of the medal ceremony when I get back to my seat and find David sitting beside my mom.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he says. “But I got here in time to see you win!”

  My heart is beating crazily. I can’t believe he’s here. He even looks like he showered and changed his clothes before he came, like he thought this was something he should dress up for. He looks wonderful, in a button-down shirt and nice jeans.

  “I didn’t win. The gold ribbon is the winner. Silver is second.”

  “So it’s like the Olympics?”

  “Right. Except none of us are athletic.”

  He laughs and leans toward me. “Eileen is here, too. She thought there would be more fashion, I think. She doesn’t realize most people don’t do art on their T-shirts.”

  We’re sitting so close our arms brush each other. “Some do. There’s other shows for that.”

  “Maybe you can talk to her about that. On the drive here, she told me she wants to be an artist.”

  “Really?”

  “I said she should probably take an art class before she decides something like that.”

  “Most people do, but it’s not a requirement.”

  I’m surprised that my mother doesn’t seem nervous about David’s being here. When I catch her eye, she leans across him and asks if she can see my ribbon. I hand it to her, and she holds it up, letting it dangle and flutter, the way our birds did earlier. “Well, I like this better than the gold one, actually. I think it’s classier,” she says.

  David gives it a twirl. “I do, too. Definitely.”

  I laugh and grab it back. “I’m shooting for gold before I finish high school.”

  My mom squeezes my arm, and almost without realizing what I’m doing, I take David’s hand. I think I’m going to just squeeze it, to thank him for driving all the way here, and then it feels so nice I leave it.

  Maybe this is okay, too, I think. Maybe I can handle this.

  Maybe a little bit of happiness doesn’t mean I’ll be sadder, later down the line. Maybe it means I’ll know what the real kind is like.

  Eileen’s voice materializes behind us. “Oh my God, your stuff is so much better than the girl-who-won-the-gold’s is.”

  I laugh and spin around. She’s not even trying to keep her voice down. “Thanks, Eileen. And thanks for coming.”

  She leans closer. “You’re welcome. So I have to say, I’ve been looking at the others, and some of them aren’t that great.”

  “Every school in the city is represented. Some don’t have very good art programs. We’re lucky. We do.”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking I might check it out.”

  It seems funny that she’s had a locker on the art wing of our school for almost two years and it’s never occurred to her to sign up for a class. I think about the drawing she does in life science instead of taking notes.

  “You definitely should.”

  David squeezes my hand. Our fingers are laced now. It’s hard to look down and take this all in. So many times, he’s held out his hand, wanting me to take it, and so many times, I’ve refrained. Because I’m scared. Because he’ll know what he’s doing and I won’t. Because I haven’t let myself imagine any of this.

  Now it’s happening, and I don’t feel panicky or overwhelmed. My mom is right here, seemingly unfazed. Eileen is, too. I have a weird thought: Maybe they’re even rooting for us.

  Afterward, I ask my mom if I can get a ride home with David and Eileen.

  “Of course.” She laughs, rolling her eyes, like this is something that happens all the time. Me acting like a teenager who’d rather be with other teenagers than with my mom.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I kiss her cheek.

  In the car, David starts by announcing that he’s still a little rusty. “I’m told that I’m a little heavy-handed on the brake. I apologize ahead of time if any airbags are triggered.”

  “Gee, that’s not unsettling at all,” I say.

  “To be fair, I was never a great driver, even before the transplant. In fact, it’s possible I’m better now.”

  Eileen leans in between us from the back seat. “You’ve always been terrible. You always will be. Stop apologizing and go.”

  He does. It turns out he’s not a terrible driver, just slow compared to others, especially on the highway, where all the cars fly past us. “I just don’t see what the big rush is,” he says, when he notices me checking his speedometer. “I think driving fifty is fine, don’t you?”

  “Let’s talk about something else, Grandpa,” Eileen says from the back. She asks about a few cute boys she noticed who were also in the art show. I tell her I don’t know them.

  “See this is what we’re going to work on with you. You have to learn how to do this thing where you say hi to people and introduce yourself. After that, you say, ‘Have you met my friend Eileen?’ and I’ll do the rest.”


  “Okay,” I say, laughing.

  “Next year, I’d like to come earlier to this show and work the room more. I think that might make a difference for you, prizewise.”

  After a while, Eileen gets out her headphones and tells us to “talk among ourselves.” She leans back and closes her eyes. When I look back, her lips are moving to the music, which makes me laugh.

  We drive in silence for a while, and then David says there’s something he wants to tell me. I look at him and wait.

  “Okay. I’ve been having these dreams. Where I’m back in the hospital, but I’m not sick. I’m just walking around the hallways, trying to talk to people, only no one can hear me.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Some of the nurses are in it. And my family is there and a few of my friends. But the strangest part is that no one can see me. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, I’m frantic, and they all keep having their own conversations.”

  That actually sounds less like a dream and more like the busiest times at the nurses’ station—call buttons going off and no one responding because there’s too much work and not enough coverage.

  “Maybe you spent too much time in the hospital,” I say. “It’s haunting you.”

  “It’s not that. Because every dream is the same—I’m looking for you. I’m asking everyone, ‘Where’s Jamie?’ In some of them, I’m even talking to your mom.”

  He reaches for my hand. “I think it happened. While I was in a coma—that whole time, I was wandering around looking for you.”

  “David—” I don’t know what to say. Should I tell him the truth? “Sometimes I felt you. Or I thought I heard your voice.”

  We sit with this for a while. There’s no way to know what fevered dreams mean or what truths might be revealed in the fog of depression.

  Instead of saying any more, he changes the subject. “I’m not going to go away to college next year. I’ve already told my parents. It doesn’t make any sense. My doctors are all here; there are too many unknowns. I need to keep my variables to a minimum.”

  “Won’t you need fewer doctors now?”

  “No, the opposite. You get new lungs and you trade one condition for another. CF isn’t the main battle now—I still have it, but the bigger danger is chronic rejection. It can happen anytime, and it can make me really sick, really quickly. I might feel better than I have in years, but the reality is I’m still limited. I still have to think about it most of the time.”

  I don’t know what to think. I’m thrilled that he won’t be disappearing off to college next fall, but the health news is scary.

  “What did your parents say?”

  “They weren’t happy. They think it’s a mistake. I told them it’s my life and I’ve got to be able to make my own mistakes. I think they were surprised that I held my ground.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I promised them I’d take some classes at the community college. I just want to make sure they’re ones that are interesting to me.”

  “Happiness studies?”

  “Film history, actually. I spent a lot of my recovery watching more movies. I should warn you, I don’t agree with all your opinions. I’m developing some of my own, believe it or not.”

  “Like what?”

  I dare myself to turn and look at him, even as he holds my hand. Though he’s driving one-handed, he doesn’t look away from the road. He’s too cautious for that, too aware of the risks. Just like I am.

  “Well, for starters you have a pretty superficial understanding of Hitchcock. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true. He’s far more screwed-up than you ever realized.”

  I smile. “I never said he wasn’t screwed-up.”

  “Maybe, but you implied that it wasn’t a big deal. That given the artistry of camera angles and shot composition and all that, the psychology was secondary. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t. The guy was a nutjob. Brilliant, but a nut.”

  For the first time, I let myself form the complete thought in my mind: Maybe this could work. Maybe we might stay together as long as possible and be as happy as we can be. Maybe we might someday look like a regular couple—out on a date, arguing about a movie.

  “You hear how dismissive and reductive your language is, right?” I smile as I say this. “‘Nutjob’ really isn’t a useful term.”

  “You’re right. ‘Psychopath’ is better. There’s another director, though, who I want you to check out. Billy Wilder. He was Jewish and escaped Nazi Germany, arrived here not speaking any English, and by 1942, he was already making movies. He’s famous for all these comedies, like Some Like It Hot, and meanwhile, his mother died in a concentration camp.”

  Is he saying what I think he is? We all have dark stories; we all have to do what we can and live in spite of them.

  Eileen wakes up when we get off the highway and asks if David will drop her off first. “I assume you’re taking Jamie home, right? I have stuff I need to do at home. I’m trying not to get a D in math.”

  After dropping her off, David drives over to my apartment and parks in one of the few spots that doesn’t face the dumpster or a pile of trash. Now that we’re alone, I feel more scared. We’re not holding hands anymore. I don’t know how this is supposed to go.

  “Thank you for coming tonight and for all your help. I’m sorry for what I said in the art room—that being friends with you again wouldn’t be good for me. Depression makes me very risk-averse. I think, if I don’t take any risks, maybe I won’t feel shitty again. But then I remember that taking risks is pretty much the only way to surprise myself. And surprising myself feels good.”

  I’ve been thinking about this ever since he came over to spend the afternoon folding birds. I surprised myself by entering the competition, but also by including him in the process. And it didn’t feel scary. It felt right.

  He nods and says, “I want to say something that we’ve never gotten to talk about, is that okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He looks serious—so much so that he stares at his hands, not me. “I know what happened with your dad. I found out from one of the nurses, mostly because I was prying and asking questions about you. I never knew how to tell you or say how sorry I was.”

  For a long time, we’re both quiet. “It’s hard to talk about,” I finally say.

  “Yeah.”

  “The dad I knew for most of my life wasn’t suicidal. Mostly, he was a great dad who gave me a good education. Different, but good. I wish you could have known him.”

  “It’s strange, being old enough to see the mistakes our parents make, isn’t it?”

  “Do you feel that way about yours?”

  “Not so much anymore. They finally listened when I told them I didn’t want to go away to college. That helped. But who knows? Maybe a year from now I’ll change my mind. Then I’ll have to admit they were right all along. That’ll be embarrassing.”

  “No, it won’t. I’ve changed my mind about a few things.”

  He turns and looks at me. “You have? About what?”

  “You, for one.”

  “Really? Me talking about old movies did that?”

  “The movies, plus everything else. Helping me on my project, being here tonight. It makes me think maybe I should keep an open mind.”

  His smile widens. “An open mind is a good thing.”

  “Do you want to come inside?”

  “Sure. Except your mom will be there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that might be awkward.”

  “She likes you, David. She thought I shouldn’t write you because you needed to concentrate on getting well.”

  “So if I try to kiss you, is she going to worry about germs?”

  I laugh. “She might, actually.”

  “So what should we do?”

  We look at each other. My chest squeezes. “Maybe we should kiss out here and then go in,” I say. “If you think it’s safe.”

  He looks at me, serious again. “Nothi
ng’s totally safe.”

  “I know.”

  “Doing anything is risky for me.”

  “Me too.”

  “So we’ll take it slow.”

  I’m surprised. For the first time, it occurs to me: He might be more nervous than I am. I lean toward him and whisper: “You might not remember, but we’ve done this before.”

  I kiss him softly.

  “How did it go?” he whispers.

  “It was very nice,” I say, kissing him again.

  “Like this?”

  “Just like this.”

  About the Author

  Photo by Ellen Augarten

  CAMMIE MCGOVERN is the author of A Step Toward Falling and Say What You Will, the middle grade novels Chester and Gus and Just My Luck, and the adult novels Neighborhood Watch, Eye Contact, and The Art of Seeing. Cammie is also one of the founders of Whole Children, a resource center that runs after-school classes and programs for children with special needs. She lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, with her husband and three children.

  You can visit Cammie online at www.cammiemcgovern.com.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Books by Cammie McGovern

  Say What You Will

  A Step Toward Falling

  Just My Luck

  Chester and Gus

  Just Breathe

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  JUST BREATHE. Copyright © 2020 by Cammie McGovern. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.