“So what’s your story?” he asked, sitting down next to me at a safe distance.
“I already told you my story. I was diagnosed when—”
“No, not your cancer story. Your story. Interests, hobbies, passions, weird fetishes, etcetera.”
“Um,” I said.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who becomes their disease. I know so many people like that. It’s disheartening. Like, cancer is
in the growth business, right? The taking-people-over business. But surely you haven’t let it succeed prematurely.”
It occurred to me that perhaps I had. I struggled with how to pitch myself to A ugustus Waters, which enthusiasms to embrace, and in the
silence that followed it occurred to me that I wasn’t very interesting. “I am pretty unextraordinary.”
“I reject that out of hand. Think of something you like. The first thing that comes to mind.”
“Um. Reading?”
“What do you read?”
“Everything. From, like, hideous romance to pretentious fiction to poetry. Whatever.”
“Do you write poetry, too?”
“No. I don’t write.”
“There!” A ugustus almost shouted. “Hazel Grace, you are the only teenager in A merica who prefers reading poetry to writing it. This tells me so much. You read a lot of capital-G great books, don’t you?”
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