Free The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

sighed loudly. “I was thirteen,” I said.
    “Not Disney,” he said.
    I said nothing.
    “You did not go to Disney World.”
    I said nothing.
    “Hazel GRACE!” he shouted. “You
did not
use your one dying Wish to go to Disney World with your parents.”
    “Also Epcot Center,” I mumbled.
    “Oh, my God,” Augustus said. “I can’t believe I have a crush on a girl with such cliché wishes.”
    “I was
thirteen
,” I said again, although of course I was only thinking
crush crush crush crush crush
. I was flattered but changed the subject immediately. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”
    “I’m playing hooky to hang out with Isaac, but he’s sleeping, so I’m in the atrium doing geometry.”
    “How’s he doing?” I asked.
    “I can’t tell if he’s just not ready to confront the seriousness of his disability or if he really does care more about getting dumped by Monica, but he won’t talk about anything else.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “How long’s he gonna be in the hospital?”
    “Few days. Then he goes to this rehab or something for a while, but he gets to sleep at home, I think.”
    “Sucks,” I said.
    “I see his mom. I gotta go.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Okay,” he answered. I could hear his crooked smile.
     
    On Saturday, my parents and I went down to the farmers’ market in Broad Ripple. It was sunny, a rarity for Indiana in April, and everyone at the farmers’ market was wearing short sleeves even though the temperature didn’t quite justify it. We Hoosiers are excessively optimistic about summer. Mom and I sat next to each other on a bench across from a goat-soap maker, a man in overalls who had to explain to every single person who walked by that yes, they were his goats, and no, goat soap does not smell like goats.
    My phone rang. “Who is it?” Mom asked before I could even check.
    “I don’t know,” I said. It was Gus, though.
    “Are you currently at your house?” he asked.
    “Um, no,” I said.
    “That was a trick question. I knew the answer, because I am currently at your house.”
    “Oh. Um. Well, we are on our way, I guess?”
    “Awesome. See you soon.”
     
    Augustus Waters was sitting on the front step as we pulled into the driveway. He was holding a bouquet of bright orange tulips just beginning to bloom, and wearing an Indiana Pacers jersey under his fleece, a wardrobe choice that seemed utterly out of character, although it did look quite good on him. He pushed himself up off the stoop, handed me the tulips, and asked, “Wanna go on a picnic?” I nodded, taking the flowers.
    My dad walked up behind me and shook Gus’s hand.
    “Is that a Rik Smits jersey?” my dad asked.
    “Indeed it is.”
    “God, I loved that guy,” Dad said, and immediately they were engrossed in a basketball conversation I could not (and did not want to) join, so I took my tulips inside.
    “Do you want me to put those in a vase?” Mom asked as I walked in, a huge smile on her face.
    “No, it’s okay,” I told her. If we’d put them in a vase in the living room, they would have been everyone’s flowers. I wanted them to be my flowers.
    I went to my room but didn’t change. I brushed my hair and teeth and put on some lip gloss and the smallest possible dab of perfume. I kept looking at the flowers. They were
aggressively
orange, almost too orange to be pretty. I didn’t have a vase or anything, so I took my toothbrush out of my toothbrush holder and filled it halfway with water and left the flowers there in the bathroom.
    When I reentered my room, I could hear people talking, so I sat on the edge of my bed for a while and listened through my hollow bedroom door:
    Dad: “So you met Hazel at Support Group.”
    Augustus: “Yes, sir. This is a lovely house you’ve got. I like your artwork.”
    Mom: “Thank you, Augustus.”
    Dad: “You’re a survivor yourself, then?”
    Augustus: “I am. I didn’t cut this fella off for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of it,