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

I didn’t speak to Augustus again for five days. I had called him on the night of Isaac’s meltdown, so as the rules go it was his turn to call. But he didn’t. Now it’s not like I spent all day staring at the phone, waiting for him to call. But I did wonder whether I’d fucked the whole thing up by not at least giving him an hj.

Sunday night I was eating dinner with my parents when my phone rang, but I couldn’t check it because we had a strict no-phone-during-dinner rule. Since we were vegetarian, we also had a strict no-flavor-during-dinner rule.

After eating a meal which failed to supply numerous basic nutrients, I said, “Can I be excused?” and my parents nodded. I grabbed my phone and ran outside to the patio and checked my missed calls. Augustus Waters. I called him.

“Bet you were thinking you fucked it up by not giving me an hj,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Well you didn’t,” he said. “In fact, I’ve been wanting to call you on almost a minutely basis, but I’ve been waiting until I had assembled a coherent set of thoughts about An Imperial Affliction. Because it would have been unthinkable to take three minutes of my time to call and see how you were doing if I had not first assembled a coherent set of thoughts about An Imperial Affliction.”

“So what’d you think of it?” I said.

“I think the best way to put it is that it’s like…like…”

“Like?” I said, teasing him.

“Like I would’ve been happy reading it even if I weren’t just reading it so a girl would have sex with me.”

“Wow, I guess you really liked it,” I said.

“Except – and this is one big ‘except’ – it’s a betrayal of the unwritten contract between author and reader when you don’t end your book properly. I so want to know what happens to the characters. You said he didn’t answer your letters?”

“Yup, no response.”

“And he’s a recluse?”

“Yup.”

“Impossible to track down.”

“Correct.”

“Completely unreachable.”

“Unfortunately.”

“No way to talk with him whatsoever, and if there is such a way, then you’re a complete fucking idiot.”

“Exactly.”

“Dear Mr. Waters,” Augustus said. “I am writing to thank you for your email of April the twelfth.”

“Augustus, what the hell?”

“I very much appreciated your kind words about An Imperial Affliction,” Augustus continued.

“No friggin’ way. How did you find him?”

“I just did a Google search,” Augustus said. “His personal email address was like the third result.”

“A what search?” I asked.

“Google.”

“Google?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said, and continued reading. “To answer your questions, Mr. Waters: no, I have not written anything else and do not plan to. And yes, the book has gotten me laid by a number of cute high school and college girls. Yours most sincerely, Peter Van Houten.”

“Wow,” I said. “Can I have his email address?”

“Can I have that hj?”

***

After assuring Augustus that I’d at least consider an hj, I spent the next two hours composing an email to Peter Van Houten. This was more time than I’d spent on all my classes in my entire life combined.

Dear Mr. Van Houten,

My name is Hazel Grace Lancaster. My friend Augustus Waters, who read An Imperial Affliction at my recommendation, just received an email back from you. You should therefore write me back too, because unlike Augustus, I am a true Peter Van Houten fan and not just a starfucker.

I understand from your email to Augustus that you are not planning to publish any more books. That seems dumb. As a three-year survivor of Stage IV cancer, I can tell you that you got everything right in An Imperial Affliction. I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions about what happens after the novel ends? I’d really like to know what happens to Anna’s dad. Does he marry Veronica Roth? Also, does he maybe get a pet unicorn? It would be really, really cool if he got a pet unicorn. Also, if it turns out that Anna’s dad ends up having more kids, what happens to them? And to their kids if they have kids? Also, remember when Anna has coffee with Claire on page 239? What happens to the barista? And to Claire? Also, what happens to every other living thing either directly or indirectly referred to in the book?

Yours with great admiration,

Hazel Grace Lancaster

(age 16)

After I sent it, I called Augustus and we stayed up late talking about An Imperial Affliction. We laughed for ten straight minutes at the hilarious chapter where Anna goes on a date with a guy and it turns out he has a cannula fetish.

“Speaking of dating,” Augustus said, “when was your last good kiss?”

I didn’t want to tell him I’d never had a good kiss. “Yesterday,” I said. “How ‘bout you?”

“Well I had some good kisses with my ex-girlfriend, Caroline Mathers.”

“Whatever happened with you guys, anyway?” I asked.

“Caroline is no longer suffering from personhood.”

“Oh,” I said, acting like I knew what he meant even though I didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said.

There was about twenty seconds of silence, and then I realized what Augustus meant.

“Oh she died! Ha, I get it now. ‘Suffering from personhood.’  Funny. Got it.”

I was super happy Caroline Mathers was dead because that eliminated the threat of Augustus dumping me for her, but I figured I should act empathetic. “I’m really sorry,” I said.

“Not your fault, Hazel Grace.”

I’d started to feel sleepy, which wasn’t surprising, since it was past one in the morning. “Okay, I gotta go to bed,” I said.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” he said.

I giggled and said, “Okay.” And then the line was quiet but not dead. All I could hear was Augustus’ breathing, which was now getting heavier, and also the sound of something rubbing. It was like we were together in some invisible and tenuous third space that could only be visited on the phone, or on certain pay-per-minute internet sites.

“Okay,” said Augustus, a little louder.

“Okay,” I said, and giggled again.

“Okay,” said Augustus, louder.

“Okay,” I said.

“OKAY,” said Augustus, even louder.

“Okay,” I said.

“OHKAYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!” Augustus shouted. There was a pause. “Oops, now I gotta go,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. Augustus hung up.

We had our new word. Our “always.”

It was okay, indeed.

***

On Thursday during American History class, I was in the middle of five separate FaceTime chats when I got a text from Augustus.

Isaac out of surgery. Went well. He’s officially NEC.

NEC means “no evidence of cancer.” This was good. Then I got a second text.

But he’s now blind, so there’s that.

That afternoon, Mom let me take the car to drive to Memorial to visit Isaac. When I got to Isaac’s room and peered inside, I froze. Isaac just looked so…sad. He had bandages on both his eyes, and the nurse was doing something to him but he didn’t even notice, because he was so depressed. I briefly considered not even going in, but I had to.

“Hi Isaac,” I said. “How you doin’?”

“Who is it?” Isaac said. That’s right, he couldn’t see me. He sounded even more sad than he looked.

“It’s…it’s Monica, your ex-girlfriend,” I said.

“IT IS? MONICA???” He’d done a total 180. Now he was happier than I’d ever seen him before.

“Uh, yeah, it’s definitely Monica, no joking whatsoever.” I tried to sound like Monica, even though I had no idea what she sounded like.

“You sound a bit different,” Isaac said.

“Well, you know how when you have a cold, and you can’t smell, that affects how things taste?” I said.

“Sure,” Isaac said.

“When you lose your vision, that affects how things sound.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “It’s so great to see you. Well not ‘see see’ you, but you know. Can I give you a hug?”

“Isaac,” I said, “you can give me more than that.”

I proceeded to make out with him. I even let him feel my boobs, but only outside the shirt because the nurse told me inside the shirt was against hospital rules.

As I was about to leave, Isaac told me that even though he’d gone blind today, it was the best day of his life. I felt a little bad that I hadn’t been completely honest with him, but in my heart I knew I’d done the right thing.

“Always,” I told him, and left.

***

The next morning, as I had done every morning since emailing Peter Van Houten, I woke up early and checked my email. But this morning was different. Because this morning, waiting for me in my inbox, was a reply from Peter Van Houten.

Dear Hazel,

Thank you for your email. I’m glad to hear you liked the book. Unfortunately, I cannot answer your questions, at least not in writing, because such answers would constitute a sequel to An Imperial Affliction, which you might then publish, which would lead to even more annoying emails asking more annoying questions about what happens to the characters. For the same reason, I can’t answer your questions over phone or Skype, because they might be recorded.

However, I can offer you this: if you are ever in Amsterdam, you are welcome to visit me at my home and we can discuss your questions in person. You can even stay over! I don’t have a couch, but my bed is really big, and we can both sleep in it without us having to touch. I promise.

Yours most sincerely,

Peter Van Houten

p.s. The above offer assumes that “Hazel” is a female name in America.

“WHAAAAAT?!” I shouted. Mom ran in to see what was wrong. “Nothing,” I assured her, and told her that Peter Van Houten had invited me to Amsterdam. “Omigod, I have to go,” I said.

“Hazel, you know we love you and would do anything for you,” she said, “but we just don’t have the money right now–”

“I know,” I said, cutting her off. It had been silly to even consider it. I knew that the reason my parents didn’t have much money, and therefore couldn’t afford a trip to Amsterdam, was me. I’d sapped the family savings with hospital stays and Cancera copays and cell phone bills, and Mom and Dad had been forced to take on additional work just to get by. For example, for the past several years Dad had been making extra money as a sperm donor, and when Cancera prices went up, he started selling videos of himself producing the sperm.

I called Augustus to tell him about Van Houten’s offer. Augustus Waters-style, I just read him Van Houten’s email instead of saying hello.

“Pretty cool,” he said.

“But how am I going to get to Amsterdam?”

“Do you have a Wish?” he asked. He was referring to The Genie Foundation, a charity devoted to granting sick kids one wish.

“No,” I said sadly.

“Why? What’d you do?”

“I was eleven years old,” I said.

“You didn’t.”

I said nothing.

“You did not do that.”

I said nothing.

“Hazel GRACE!” he shouted. “You did not use your one Wish to ask for a thousand more wishes.”

“Actually a million more wishes,” I mumbled.

“I assume you’re aware that if a person wishes for more wishes, the Genie Foundation refuses to grant wishes to their children or to any other of their descendants for eternity.”

“They made me well aware of that in their reply to my wish,” I said. I decided I needed to change the subject. “Hey shouldn’t you be in school right now?”

“I’m playing hooky to visit Isaac,” he said.

“How’s he doing?”

“Amazing. Did you know Monica came and visited him yesterday?”

“You’re cutting out. Must be a bad signal in the hospital. Call you later!” I hung up.

***

On Saturday, my parents and I went to the Broad Ripple farmers’ market. Like all farmers’ markets, there was a wide selection of spoiled fruit and vegetables that had been rotting in the sun all day.

My phone rang. It was Augustus.

“Are you at your house?” he asked.

“Nope, farmers’ market,” I said.

“That was a trick question. I already knew the answer, because I am currently at your house.”

“Oh…well I guess we’ll see you soon?”

“Awesome,” he said. “Hey while you’re there, could you pick me up some really shitty preserves?”

***

Augustus was sitting on our steps as we pulled into the driveway. He was wearing a Viking hat and a Dirk Nowitzki basketball jersey, a wardrobe that seemed quite out of character, though it did look good on him.

We parked and got out of the car. Dad pointed at Augustus’ jersey. “Dirk Nowitzki. Nice,” Dad said. “He’s one of my favorite players.”

“Best Dutch player ever,” Augustus said.

“You mean German,” Dad said. Augustus looked confused.

I walked over to Augustus and gave him a hug. “What’s with the Viking hat?” I asked.

“Goes with the theme,” Augustus said.

“And the theme is…Norway?”

Augustus looked confused.

My mom came up and waved hello to Augustus.

“Hi, Mrs. Lancaster,” Augustus said. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take your daughter out for a bit.”

“Oooo, where,” she asked.

“Shhhh, it’s a secret,” Augustus said, and he leaned over and whispered in Mom’s ear.

“Sushi isn’t Dutch,” she said. “You kids have fun.”

***

Unfortunately Augustus insisted on driving, to keep the surprise destination a surprise. In addition to the usual moving violations, he rear-ended a police cruiser at a stop light. But when the officer found out we had cancer he let us go and told us to have a great day.

We parked behind the art museum and walked over to this park behind the museum that had a bunch of big sculptures. Augustus led me to a sculpture that looked like an enormous skeleton and had kids climbing all over it.

“Rhapsody of Bones, created by Edvin Hevonkoski,” Augustus said.

“Finnish?”

“No, Dutch,” Augustus said.

“No he’s Finnish,” I said. “It says right here on the plaque. From Finland.”

Augustus frowned slightly. “Let’s eat,” he said. “I hope you like Dutch food.” From his backpack he pulled out some Swiss cheese, Belgian chocolate, and a chicken chimichanga.

As we ate, I wondered what the meaning of the intended Dutch theme was. In the distance, a large group of kids played on Rhapsody of Bones, jumping from ribcage to skull and back again.

“You know what I love about this piece?” Augustus said. “The bones are just far enough apart that it’s impossible for kids to resist jumping between them. Which means the sculpture basically forces kids to play on bones. Think of the symbolic resonances here, Hazel Grace. They’re endless.”

I didn’t know which symbolic resonances he was talking about, and I’m not sure he did either. But that didn’t make what he said any less profound.

“So,” Augustus said, “you are probably wondering why you’re eating intended-Dutch food next to an intended-Dutch sculpture with a boy wearing intended-Dutch clothing.”

“It did cross my mind,” I said.

“Hazel Grace, like so many children before you, you spent your Wish unwisely.”

“I was eleven!” I said.

“That is precisely the problem!” Augustus said. “You, like all the others, did not wait until your critical faculties had fully developed before making this all-important decision. But some people do wait. And when they are old enough, and when their mind is mature enough, and when their life experience is great enough, and when their self-awareness is deep enough, they realize what their one true Wish really is. And they still have their Wish left to wish for it.”

“That’s a lovely soliloquy,” I said, “but how does it help me? As you know, I didn’t save my wish.”

Augustus gave me a look. “But maybe someone else did.”

“No way,” I said. “Augustus Waters, you are not proposing to use your wish on me.”

“That’s right, I’m not,” Augustus said. “I used my wish when I was twelve.”

“Hold on,” I said. “If you didn’t save your wish, then who’s the ‘someone else’ who did?”

“Isaac.”

“What good does Isaac’s wish do me?” I asked.

“Isaac’s Wish is to visit Japan,” said Augustus. “That guy’s like the biggest Nintendo fan ever, not to mention manga and Godzilla. He wants to see where it all originated. Traveling there will be like his Pilgrimage.”

“That’s all very interesting,” I said. “But to repeat: how does this help me?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Isaac is blind. To Isaac, once he gets off a plane, Tokyo’s no different than Paris. Or Moscow. Or…Amsterdam.”

“Augustus Waters, are you really proposing what I think you’re proposing?”

“I’m not proposing it. I’ve already done it. Isaac’s on board and the Genies have given it the go-ahead. We’ll fly with Isaac on his trip to ‘Tokyo’, because obviously his wish would include bringing his two best friends along. And while he’s checking out ‘Tokyo,’ which we know is really Amsterdam, we’ll visit Van Houten. It’s a win-win for everyone: Isaac gets his Wish, and you get your Wish, and I get my Wish, which just so happens to be your Wish.”

For a moment I just stood there in shock. I was really going to Amsterdam.

“Augustus,” I said, “you’re not so bad.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys who finance your international travel by setting up a fake trip for a mutual friend.”