The Fault in Our Pants: A Parody of “The Fault in Our Stars”

I stayed up pretty late that night reading Looking for Alaska. Spoiler Alert: it’s awesome. Buy it.

The next morning I slept late, and was awakened by Mom’s hands on my shoulders.

“Hazel? It’s almost eleven,” she said.

“I was up late reading,” I explained.

Mom knelt down and unscrewed me from the large, rectangular oxygen concentrator I used every night while I slept. Like my portable tank, I’d given the large oxygen concentrator a name. The name I’d chosen was Fuckhead.

“Do you know what day it is?” Mom said, clearly excited about whatever day it was.

“Uh, Thursday?”

“Did you really forget?”

“Maybe?”

“HAZEL! IT’S YOUR ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SEVENTH MONTHDAY!”

Mom thought it was unfair that I wouldn’t live long enough to celebrate as many birthdays as other people, so we’d started celebrating my monthdays, each of which marked another month that I’d been alive.

“What do you want to do on your very special day?”

“Take a very special number of Cancera shits?”

“Honey, you’re supposed to celebrate,” she said. “Why don’t you do something with Kaitlyn?” Kaitlyn was my friend. We weren’t particularly close, but she was the one I could call on in my times of greatest need: when my parents actually made me leave the house.

“That’s an idea,” I said. “I’ll text Kaitlyn and see if she wants to meet at the mall after class.”

“Not before you blow these out,” Mom said, as she carried in a cake with a hundred and ninety-seven candles.

***

My class that day was American Literature…I think. At least it mentioned American Literature. I don’t really pay attention in class. I mean, I’ve got cancer and might die soon, so why bother? Although to be honest, even if I didn’t have cancer, I probably still wouldn’t pay attention.

After class Mom drove me to the mall, and I headed to the food court to meet Kaitlyn. I got there a little early, so I bought a soda. Soon I heard the distinctive clickety-clack of Kaitlyn’s high heels approaching.

“Darling! How are you?” Kaitlyn said, kissing me on the cheek. Kaitlyn was an anomaly: a hot girl in Indianapolis.

“I’m good,” I said. “How about you?”

“Positively fabulous! Let’s shop.”

We walked over to Anthropologie, where we looked at some shoes. I was a bit tired from the walking (thanks, cancer lungs) so I took a break and sat on a stool while Kaitlyn checked out the jeans. I had just pulled out my Kindle to start a new incredible John Green novel when Kaitlyn came running over, holding a pair of J Brand jeans.

“Hazel, I need a ginormous favor.”

“What?” I asked, even though I knew what was coming.

“I tried these on, and no joke – they fit my ass better than anything ever has in the history of ass-fitting. But they’re two-fifty, and I don’t really have that right now, so…”

“So you’d like to use my Cancer Perk?”

“Pleeeeeeease? I know it’s cheesy, but I wouldn’t ask unless it was an emergency.”

I wanted to say no, but she’d celebrated my monthday with me. “Sure,” I said.

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Kaitlyn squealed, giving me a hug. I handed her my oxygen tank and nasal tubes.

“Make it quick,” I said. “I kinda need this stuff.”

“Two seconds!” she said. She put the nasal tubes in her nostrils and walked slowly up to the cash register, wheeling the tank behind her. The salesgirl spotted her, and before Kaitlyn could even put the jeans on the counter, the salesgirl said, “You’re all good. It’s on us.”

Kaitlyn raced back to where I was sitting, now lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. “You’re the best,” I could barely make out her saying. “Uh huh,” I mumbled weakly as I took the nasal tubes back and resumed breathing in a way capable of sustaining human life.

Kaitlyn suggested heading to Forever 21, but I told her I was kind of tired and probably should head home. I actually wasn’t tired. And I did like Kaitlyn. But hanging out with people who didn’t have cancer kinda bothered me. There always seemed to be this weird gap between us. Then again, hanging out with people who had cancer also bothered me. Basically, hanging out with anyone besides myself bothered me.

As I was approaching the mall exit, this cute little girl with barretted braids appeared in front of me and said, “What’s that in your nose?”

“They’re called cannula,” I said. “These tubes give me oxygen, which helps me breathe.”

“Would they help me breathe, too?” she asked.

“I dunno, wanna try?”

“Nah,” she replied, “I don’t wanna look like a weirdo.”

“Wanna know a secret?” I asked.

“Yeah!”

I licked my finger and rubbed it on her arm. “I just gave you cancer,” I whispered. Her face filled with terror and I left the mall.