Advance Praise for
How to Live on the Edge
“A stirring story filled with heart and soul, and one that will dare you to rethink what it truly means to be brave and alive!”
—Mary Rand Hess, New York Times bestselling author of Solo and Swing
“Cancer took Cayenne’s mom, it’s gunning for her aunt, and she’s sure she’s next. But as long-held secrets upend Cayenne’s world, she learns that defying death isn’t about facing down trains or jumping off cliffs—it’s learning to live and love with every ounce of your being. Honest and real, How to Live on the Edge is a gift to young readers living in the frightening shadow of a genetic curse.”
—Catherine Linka, author of What I Want You to See, A Girl Called Fearless, and A Girl Undone
“Told with humor and truth, this story of a young woman navigating loss, devastating secrets, and the reality of her own mortality is made richer for the unique and hopeful bond she shares with her sister, the unfamiliar love she discovers with a family she thought she understood—and the strength she needs to save herself.”
—Jennifer Longo, author of Six Feet Over It and Up to this Pointe
“Scheerger drops us into the psyche of a snarky, irresistible teen who’s navigating the dangers of a life-threatening gene mutation. The voice is authentic and emotionally passionate in this headlong page-turner.”
—Sherry Shahan, author of Skin and Bones
“In Cayenne and Saffron, Sarah Lynn Scheerger creates fearless, compassionate, empowered sisters who, in figuring out what kind of women they want to be, love on the edge and steal your heart like they stole mine.”
—Gaby Triana, author of Wake the Hollow, Cakespell, and Summer of Yesterday
Text copyright © 2020 by Sarah Lynn Scheerger
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Scheerger, Sarah Lynn, 1975– author.
Title: How to live on the edge / by Sarah Lynn Scheerger.
Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Lab, [2020] | Summary: Eighteen-year-old Cayenne learns that her long-dead mother left her and her sister a series of video messages; that their aunt, who raised them, has the same gene mutation that caused their mother’s cancer; and that she and her sister may also have it.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019008528 | ISBN 9781541578890 (lb : alk. paper)
Subjects: CYAC: Sisters—Fiction. | Breast—Cancer—Fiction. | Genetics—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Death—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.S34244 Ho 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019008528
Manufactured in the United States of America
1-47050-47883-9/19/2019
For my siblings (Jessica, Adam, & Daniel) and our shared history
Chapter 1
There’s a curse on the women in my family. We die young.
In the last two generations, not a single woman in my mom’s family has lived past the age of thirty-seven. Aunt Tee is still alive and kicking, and the doctors say she’s a perfectly healthy thirty-two-year-old, but I doubt the Silk family curse will pass her by.
Just like I doubt it will pass me by.
Which means almost half of my life is over.
I intend to enjoy it.
✱✱✱
I feel the vibrations in my teeth. My feet straddle the train tracks, craving what’s to come. The sounds of churning wheels clackety-clacking register in my brain as white noise, strangely comforting, like the sounds of ocean waves or heavy rain.
Train dodging freaks people out. They think I’m suicidal or tripping on psychedelics. No, I do not have a death wish. People don’t get that though, and it’s a royal pain to try to explain it. So now I dodge alone. Just me and the train. Sometimes I name the chuggers for company. I’m calling this one Betty.
The track hugs a mountain curve right near the beach. That’s my spot. If I stand just around the bend in the shade of the mountain, the engineer can’t see me as the train approaches and won’t slam on the brakes.
Whir-whir-whir-whir.
I picture Death holding out her bony hand. I accept it, voluntarily placing myself in her grasp. I know it’s the vibrations of the train I feel through my feet, but I imagine Death shivering with anticipation.
Whir-whir-whir-whir.
I do get it, why this might seem concerning—some girl waiting to dodge a bazillion-ton train that’s moving at fifty-something miles an hour, all while imagining an interaction with Death herself. But I swear I’m perfectly lucid. I just happen to have an overactive imagination and an underdeveloped instinct for self-preservation.
Whir-whir-whir-whir.
God, the anticipation is exquisite. The vibrations and Betty’s chugging intensify as she nears the bend. I open my arms wide, letting the wind rake through my hair. I know how to time this. I can do it by feel, by sound, by intuition. For the right kind of adrenaline surge, the train has to get close enough. I close my eyes, and without sight, my other senses kick in. I am one with the wind.
During moments like this, I feel alive. Every cell in my body stands alert, the hairs prick up on my arms, and the endorphins saturate my brain. My insides buzz with anticipation, like I’m harvesting a hive of bees. My heart beats so hard I can feel it in my temples.
Whir-whir-whir-whir.
My grip on reality loosens and I can visualize Death, can hear what she would say to me if she could talk. Her sense of humor is a little off. Can’t blame her. Look what she does for a living.
Do you like meatloaf?
Not particularly.
Then what’s with these incessant attempts to turn yourself into ground meat?
She’s a trickster, eager to confuse me, eager to distract me, knowing that a few-second delay is all she needs to gobble me up.
She narrows her eyes. If your timing is off, all they’ll find is your teeth, scattered in the sand. The impact will decimate you.
Lovely image, I say. But stop distracting me. I won’t let her dictate my fate. Curse or no curse, for the moment I’m the one in charge.
I sense the train edging toward the corner, and I bend my legs. Like always, my instinct is to jump too soon. My organs desperately want to break through my skin and escape, but I hold myself back.
For all that banging around my heart’s been doing, I swear it stops, so suddenly that it feels like my brain is sending a command, slamming on the brakes. Discontinue heartbeat. End blood flow to cells. Right on schedule, just like magic, fear sucks me in, telling me it’s nearly time.
Betty’s clackety-clacking is so loud I can scarcely think. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet . . . Now!
I leap. As I do, the train blasts past, and the force of the wind slams me forward so hard that I lose my breath. I roll over in the sand until I land on my back, staring at the sky. My system is in shock at first, like always. The hive of bees flaps haphazardly within my gut and chest, banging into organs
and each other, total chaos. Perhaps this time I cut it a little too close, and there’s a distinct possibility I’m not breathing right now.
Death sighs, lazily swirling around as if entertaining me with her own mini tornado. When will you tire of this ridiculous game of cat and mouse?
Not till it ends. You know everyone roots for the mouse.
Perhaps. But the cat always wins. Death shakes her head with a forlorn expression, then disintegrates into nothingness.
Boom! My heart starts pumping again, each beat bumping into the next, fighting for first place in line. I make a concerted effort to inhale. At first the breath holds too little oxygen, but gradually the air travels through my blood to my organs, quieting the bees.
I carefully pat my arms, my face, my legs, checking for missing parts or blood. I’ve lost the top layer of skin on the undersides of both arms. There’s sand in my mouth and wedged in the cracks of my eyes, but I don’t care. I’ve cheated Death once again. Nothing makes me feel more alive.
Chapter 2
My younger sister, Saffron, pokes her head into our jack-and-jill bathroom, where I’m standing, shirtless, to disinfect my bloodied arms.
“Uh, privacy?” I remind her. The stinging from the alcohol wipes is making me cranky. There’s more blood than I thought there’d be. The scrapes on the underside of my left arm vaguely resemble Hawaii. “This is a bathroom, you know.”
Saffron shakes her head in disgust as I consider pointing out the plethora of grosser things I could be doing in the bathroom. She steps inside and partially closes the door behind her so that she can point to the tiny lock. “Cayenne, I’d like to introduce you to a bathroom lock. Lock, meet my sister Cayenne. She’s somehow made it to her senior year of high school without making your acquaintance.”
“Very funny.” I contemplate my arms, casualties of my train dodge. I’m not squeamish, but I do like to keep my shirts bloodstain-free. “Do you have a long-sleeved black top I can borrow? Preferably one that will accentuate my boob-age?”
Saff ignores the reference to my breasts. “What, you don’t want to show off your latest stunt for our dinner guests? What was it this time, Cay?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You tell Axel that if he brings you home in a casket, he’ll be next. I’ll see to that myself.”
I wave my hand in front of my arm, trying to dry it off. “Axel wasn’t even with me. Why do you blame him for everything?”
“Maybe because you didn’t do any of this crap before you started dating him.” This is true. And Axel was with me the first time I train dodged, but truthfully, I think it freaked him out. He didn’t want to do it again, saying the train could jump the tracks if the engineer tried to slam on the brakes. Now train dodging is a solo activity.
Still, I’ll give Axel credit for awakening this idea that I can look Death in the face and defy her. That I can take control of my family’s curse. That it doesn’t have to define me, that I can define it. That kind of power is addictive. Not to mention an ass-kicking adrenaline high.
Saffron disappears for a moment and returns to throw a dark stretchy top at me. “This argument is not over. Just cover yourself up and stop flaunting your assets.”
I catch it, along with a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I can’t take all the credit. I am wearing my favorite bra.
“You’re the best—I don’t deserve you.”
She must agree, because she wears her revulsion openly. I decide it’s not a good look for her.
✱✱✱
Aunt Tee is chasing the Minions—aka my four-year-old cousins—in circles, trying to pin their hair up with bows. She’s apparently forgotten the divide-and-conquer rule of wrangling the twins.
I grab Missy’s arm as she squirrels past. “Hold up, Buttercup.” I kneel down next to her and swivel her shoulders so that she faces me.
“My name’s not Buttercup,” she says, in that giggling you’re-so-silly kind of way.
“I’ve received orders from your fairy godmother,” I whisper in her ear. Tee has captured Maggie by the sofa and is attempting to insert a barrette-bow.
Missy’s eyes widen and sparkle. She loves to pretend. “What did she say?” She’s trying to whisper but she doesn’t quite have the hang of it. Everyone in the room can hear.
“She asked me to decorate your hair for our royal celebration.”
“Does she have a treat for me?” Missy knows how to work it, and I can’t help but love her for that. She touches her nose to mine, so close that her eyes congeal into one, the optical equivalent of a unibrow. I suspect my Minion cyclops may have been sampling the frosting on tonight’s cake. The sugary sweetness to her breath and her purple tongue betray her.
“Hmm . . . let me confer with Miss Fairy Rosetta.” I stand on the arm of the couch and pretend to talk to an invisible fairy. “Rosetta’s an extraordinarily tall fairy,” I explain to Missy. Pretending to listen, I nod at the air. Then I hop down and whisper in Missy’s ear. “Bubble gum. That’s all she can manage on this short notice.”
Missy wraps her sweaty arms around my waist and poses long enough for me to pin her long hair back. Ever the opportunist, she swivels around and holds out her expectant hand. I dig into my pocket for a piece of gum. Luckily, four-year-olds don’t mind slightly warm, slightly squashed bubble gum. She grabs it and races over to Maggie to share. The way the Minions love each other melts even my jaded heart.
Tee mouths “thank you” to me. I nod in return. Here’s the thing: I sort of owe her. Tee inherited Saff and me when she was about my age, so we’re responsible for hijacking her life. These days we do our best to pay her back.
The doorbell rings, and Tee runs to answer it. A moment later I hear Nonna’s voice, filled with her usual gusto: “Isn’t this a gorgeous night? Just the perfect way to end the week!”
Nonna and Papa Channels are Uncle Luke’s parents. Saff and I call them “the Chowders” because when we were little, we kept confusing their name with the soups Nonna brought to pretty much every kind of gathering. They show up for dinner about once a month, though I swear they were just here last Friday.
Partly to avoid Nonna, who’s sweet but kind of a lot, I head to the kitchen and start chopping bell peppers for Luke’s famous chili. Saff’s already hard at work at the chopping board, mutilating vegetables with precision.
“I feel sorry for that carrot.” I pause my own chopping and honor the vegetable with a moment of silence.
“Yeah, I’m channeling my anger. I’m pretending this is your face.” Saff’s sarcasm shows she’s on the way to forgiving me. She can never stay genuinely mad for long, no matter how hard she tries.
While I’m constructing the perfect sassy yet endearing response, Nonna interrupts me with a perfumed hug from behind. “Cayenne! More beautiful every day.”
I stiffen a little. I’m never sure what to say to Nonna. I get the distinct impression that the woman feels sorry for me, since I have no grandparents of my own. It’s always made me feel a little awkward.
Luke raises his left eyebrow, as if to say “be polite.” I attempt to raise my brow right back, but I’m pretty sure both go up, like always, because Luke’s smile breaks through his goatee. I don’t mind Luke. Mostly. He’s got rules coming out his ears, but he loves Aunt Tee and he always makes Saff and me feel like we’re part of his family. He’s got to get credit for that. Plus the man makes a mean veggie chili.
I set down the knife and turn to greet Nonna and her entourage. Nonna, Papa, and Ryan Channels all hover in our kitchen. Papa holds a huge loaf of garlic bread, and Ryan carries a fruit platter. This crew comes to every celebration, sporting event, and school function, no matter how small. I wouldn’t mind leaving them out of some of our gatherings, but Luke’s all about Family with a capital “F,” and Tee’s all about Luke, so there you go.
Luke’s older brother, who we affectionately (behind his back) call “Ryan-the-Reject,” is permanently attached to the Chowders. Never cut that cord, apparently. A couple
of times Luke and Tee heard Saff and me joking about Ryan-the-Reject, and they got so mad. I know it’s harsh to call him a loser, but the dude’s like forty-three—he lives with his parents, is a professional house sitter, and practically bathes in cologne. His nose is crooked from a bad break years ago. I suspect he had way too much fun in his youth, and he’s paying for it now.
We all eat outside, at the table in the backyard, since Southern California is having an extra-mild February. I help the Minions fashion “magic wands” out of straws and show them how to cast secret spells on all their family members, mostly so that I have an excuse to avoid interacting with the adults. Luke can talk about his property management job for hours straight, with his parents hanging on his every word, because the only other excitement in their lives involves Ryan’s recent expansion of his housesitting package to include window washing and pet grooming.
I promise myself that even though I’ve officially been an adult for six months, I’ll never be as boring as the rest of them.
After our food settles and we’ve cast way too many spells involving jellybean rainstorms, Tee sends Ryan to retrieve the purple-frosting-slathered Bundt cake for dessert.
My scraped-up arms ache. I ingest a slice of cake before slipping off to apply some more antiseptic. On my way to the bathroom I spy an envelope propped up on the kitchen counter addressed to Saff and me. How did I miss that?
I don’t recognize the handwriting. Hmm. An early Valentine’s Day card?
I gently tease open the envelope flap and pull out a simple card. It’s white, with silvery cursive letters across the front. A present for you both . . .
Dearest girls,
Today I wrap a gift I will never see you open. I have asked my best friend, Alicia, to hold this present until the time is right. Go to Alicia’s house to open it as soon as possible. I hope you enjoy this gift as much as I’ve enjoyed preparing it for you.
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