by Paul Mosier
She looks from the paper to my face. It’s like the rest of the class is no longer in the room. Like she’s reading it for me only.
“Stalking your family on Facebook, I learned about your sister’s cancer. Six years old. I learned about all the money fears. I learned how much health insurance sucks. How you were worried you’d have to leave this school, and Manhattan, and that there wouldn’t be enough money for the surgeries, the hospital stays, and all the medicine. I learned how hard this was for all of you as a family.”
I feel cool air on my bare head, and I realize I’ve unveiled it without much ado.
“I saw you in the gelato shop. I saw a stranger pay for your gelato. I saw it with my own eyes, you and your little sister, and I saw the humble graciousness with which you accepted his gift. I saw jars with her name and sweet face at bodegas in the neighborhood, and restaurants, put out by the business owners who loved you.”
She pushes the other half of her hair behind her right ear and looks at me with directness.
“I have a little sister, too. Her name is Adelaide.”
She smiles, but her head shakes with crying. I become conscious of myself, and I decide that I must just look stunned.
Sydney’s eyes go back to the paper.
“Sometimes even the strongest people are given too much to carry. I wanted to help, but I’m just a seventh-grade girl who apparently sucks at everything. But I have a few friends. And they have other friends. We all have parents. And cousins in other states.”
A big tear falls from her cheek and smacks the paper in her hands.
“Thirty-seven states. Plus the District of Columbia. And five foreign countries.”
She blots her face with her forearm.
“I was surprised how raising a bunch of money still left me feeling like I didn’t do enough. I couldn’t help take away your family’s biggest worry.”
She fidgets with the top button of her shirt.
“But I was surprised at how beautiful humanity can be.”
Me too. I mouth the words to her.
“I was surprised to find that you weren’t who I thought you were. I was surprised that I admired you even more than I had previously. And that I wanted to be your friend more than ever.”
Me too.
“But I haven’t figured out how to tell you.”
Her arms fall to her sides. The paper falls to the floor. She laughs, because she couldn’t figure out how to tell me, but she just told me in front of the entire class. Thanks to Mr. D making her read her assignment aloud.
I stand. I approach Sydney and put my arms around her, this girl who I completely misread. I feel her arms go around me, and we hold the pose for a moment before someone in the rows of desks begins clapping. The two hands are joined by more pairs until the entire class is clapping. I can’t pull away from Sydney because I don’t want everyone to see what’s become of my face—I’m so happy I must certainly look like I’m miserable—and because hugging her feels so good.
Finally I draw back and wipe my eyes. The clapping subsides.
“I dearly wish to be your friend, Sydney. And I’m so grateful to have you on Team Echo.”
She smiles, and looks to Mr. D. He stands.
“Well, since you’ve brought up Team Echo,” begins Mr. D, “I hope you have room in the bleachers for a few more.”
Sydney unbuttons her blue uniform shirt from the top down, revealing a red Team Echo T-shirt beneath.
Octavius!
I smile. I hear a commotion and look around the room. Half the kids in my class, boys and girls alike, are taking off their uniform shirts to reveal Team Echo shirts. The ones who aren’t are smiling.
I feel like I’m seeing everyone’s faces for the first time. All these smiling girls and guys.
I can’t wait to meet these kids.
I turn to Mr. D. “Can we please have a round of applause for Sydney’s incredibly well-done assignment?”
“Hear, hear!” says Mr. D, who has stripped off his navy sweater to reveal the red tee. “A round of applause for Sydney’s paper!”
Everyone in class applauds with an enthusiasm for academic work not often seen from seventh graders.
Sydney looks like she’s just won the lottery. In fact she’s just won the lottery for Echo. I give her another hug, then take a step back and hold out my hand.
“Hello, Sydney. My name is El, but my real name is Laughter. I’m so happy to meet you.”
Sydney laughs, bright-eyed, as her warm hand shakes mine. Then she uses the fingertips of both hands to wipe away her tears. “I’m so happy to meet Laughter, El.”
We come together for another hug.
“Wow,” says Mr. D, and drops into his chair. “That was an above-average moment for seventh-grade English.”
A couple of hours later I’m sitting in the cafeteria, eating lunch with Sydney. My new friend. She’s sharing her broiled asparagus spears with me.
“Oh,” she says, and reaches for her backpack on the floor. She unzips it, reaches inside for a pen and paper. She writes a phone number, then a dollar sign and a five-digit number. “This is my mom’s phone number, and this is the amount of money we raised. My mom says we should wire it to your parents’ account, so please ask them to call her.”
My mouth is hanging open. “I can’t even believe this. This is so generous of you.”
She shakes her head. “This came from a whole lot of people. And please don’t ever mention it again. I’d prefer if you didn’t even think of it. You and me are even Steven.”
I look at her eyes, then through the tall cafeteria windows and back to her. “Thank you.”
She smiles and reaches her hand to mine. “That’ll do.”
Octavius glides by with a tray of food. He smiles sidelong at me as he passes, and I smile back. He’s letting me have this lunch with just Sydney, because he’s wise and good and kind.
I sigh, then fold the paper twice and tuck it deep into my shirt pocket. Then I reach for my last spear of gift asparagus and take a bite. I look across at Sydney, who looks across at me. I don’t say anything about the money, though it’s foremost in my thoughts. Then I think how I’m never going to be the same, how I’ll never be the same person again after all of this, and I think about the kind of person I want to be. The kind of person who one day will do this, or something like this, for someone else.
“So,” Sydney says, leaning over her lunch box toward me. “Tell me about Octavius.” She smiles.
“What?” I feel myself blush. “There’s nothing to tell. He’s just a friend.” I look across the cafeteria to where he sits with a group of boys, all wearing red Team Echo shirts. “A really good friend.” I reach my hand to hers. “Like you.”
16
AT THE END of November all the pieces fall into place for Echo to have surgery to remove the tumor. It’s shrunk considerably from the weeks of chemotherapy. Her blood numbers are good. The doctor who will make the obturator to replace her teeth and the part of the roof of her mouth that will be cut out has been granted privileges for Midtown Children’s Hospital. The oncologist has given her blessing for it to happen. Mom and Dad have paid enough money to make it work. I hear Mom tell Dad all this after Mom gets a call at three p.m. telling her to not give any food or drink to Echo after midnight. Check-in at the hospital is at five thirty in the morning.
Mom packs for a three-night stay—books for Echo and work for herself, and everything she wished she thought of on the first stay in the hospital, when Echo was first diagnosed.
Dad makes my lunch before we have dinner, even though I’ve been making it myself for weeks. I think he wants to do better than he did last time around. It’s sweet to watch. He also sets the second Harry Potter book aside, as he and Echo have finished the first. Then he takes to Facebook and asks everyone to send their well-wishes.
Echo takes a bath and brushes her teeth—some of them for the last time—then is off to an early bed.
I’m too nervo
us to go right to sleep when I finally go to bed. I stare at the stars on the ceiling. Then I close my eyes, count to ten, and open them. I concentrate on the first fake star I see, the first I lay eyes on.
Star light, star bright,
First star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have this wish I wish tonight.
I must be superstitious, because I don’t even tell myself what I wished for.
The alarm goes off at four forty-five, and everything is ready to go. Dad set the coffeemaker to brew at 4:40, so the coffee is ready to be poured into a thermos for Mom. The bags are ready by the door. Echo slips from her jammies into a cozy winter suit, and Mom dresses warmly for the last day of November.
The taxi has been arranged for 5:10, and he buzzes the door right on time. Dad and I rush down the stairs with Echo and Mom, and when we step out into the dark, cold morning, we are met by a wondrous sight.
The landing and the front steps are lined by candles in tall jars, glowing in the dark of winter’s predawn. Dozens of them stand shoulder to shoulder—many with paper notes attached—down to the sidewalk below. This conspiracy of love must be a response to Dad’s asking for well-wishing on Facebook.
“It looks like you are very popular,” the cabbie says. He opens the door for Echo, but she takes a long look up and down the steps, grinning at the candles, before getting in the taxi. Mom wipes away a tear, then kisses Dad and me.
“Good luck!” Dad says. “I’ll be there after I get El to school!”
“Good luck!” I say. “I love you, Echo!”
Then the taxi rolls away down the block.
Dad lets me bring my phone to school, just this once. He promises to text me with any news about Echo’s surgery. But it feels like it just makes time pass more slowly.
I have a terrible difficulty concentrating during Mr. D’s class, secretly checking my phone every time his back is turned. Sydney seems almost as interested in hearing news as I am. She keeps on looking over at me with a questioning look, and I keep on looking back at her and shrugging.
The wait drags on in math and history. During Mr. Grimm’s class I finally can’t take it anymore, so I ask to use the bathroom so I can text a series of question marks to Dad. As I sit on the toilet not peeing, Dad’s response comes.
Still in surgery. No news yet.
At lunch I sit with Octavius and Sydney, my phone faceup on the table. We make empty small talk between bites of food and glances at my phone. I’m reaching for another carrot stick when finally it buzzes, lighting up the screen. I grab it and spin on the bench seat, turning away from my friends.
I hold it close to my face, keeping it private in my cupped hands.
It melts my eyes. The text message from Dad gives me everything I asked of the first star I saw on the ceiling above my bed last night.
Surgery went beautifully. They think they got all the cancer. Only four teeth removed. Echo is doing fine!
I spin back to Sydney and Octavius. I can’t communicate the words. Instead I set the phone down between them so they can see the news. Within seconds we’re hugging and blabbering, making happy noises. Then it becomes clear the whole school knew Echo’s surgery was today—since pretty much everyone here is Team Echo now—because the whole cafeteria stands and applauds, taking their cue from the three of us that it went well. Practically everyone leaves their seats to take turns hugging me.
Thank you, I say to my classmates. Thank you.
Across the cafeteria, Miss Numero Uno appears in the doorway. She sees the display of happiness and smiles a smile I’m almost certain isn’t drawn on. She raises her hand to give a thumbs-up and pins the back of her arm against her forehead in a pose of relief. Then she turns and exits in typical dramatic Miss Numero Uno fashion.
It’s like the windows in the cafeteria have gotten bigger, the sky outside brighter. And when the hugging is done and I’ve texted Dad back, the carrots are more orange, the hemp milk is sweeter, the peanut butter tastes like it did in kindergarten.
Then I go back to the bathroom and sit in the stall and cry. Thank you. I say it over and over, to the merciful universe and anyone else who may be listening. Thank you.
17
THE WEEK FOLLOWING Echo’s surgery feels strange. I didn’t know how worried I was until the surgery was upon us, and then when it was over I really understood how worried I was.
It took a few days for Echo to adjust to her obturator, which is like a blue retainer with four fake teeth attached, to replace the four front teeth on top that were lost in the surgery. She loves taking it out and showing it to people, and when she does she looks pretty much like a first-grade kid whose baby teeth have fallen out. When she puts it back in she looks like a first-grade kid whose new teeth have grown in.
Her hair is coming in, and so is mine, like the five-o’clock shadow Dad gets on his beard at the end of the day. Or maybe even longer, like peach fuzz. I love running my hand over both our heads, and Echo loves it, too.
Thursday, I’m at the doctor with Mom and Echo. I talked my way into missing school to come along. Mom, in a celebratory mood, said yes.
I’m sitting beside Echo in the brightly lit room on the little bed that’s too high and not long enough and covered with butcher-block paper. Mom sits across on a chair. There’s a quick rap of knuckles on the door, and Dr. Sananda comes in. She’s the one who did the surgery.
“Hello, Echo! How are you feeling today?”
“Good.” Echo adores Dr. Sananda, and Dr. Sananda adores Echo. But Echo plays it cool.
“So,” the doctor says, turning to Mom, “the margins look great. No malignancy in any of the test spots, and we did a dozen. And really we didn’t expect to see anything. Blood looks good. So we’ll give her immune system another week to bounce back, give her more time to recover from the surgery, then start the second twelve weeks of chemo next week.”
“Are you kidding?” It just comes out of my mouth. “Twelve more weeks of chemo? I thought you said everything looks good!”
“Ugh!” Echo groans.
Mom looks to me. “They do it to make sure there isn’t any microscopic cancer.” She turns to the doctor. “Right?”
Dr. Sananda nods. “That’s correct. Everything looks very promising, but this is the protocol that’s produced the best outcomes.”
“We knew this was what we’d be doing,” Mom says, looking at me. “But remember, we’ve been trying not to look too far ahead.”
Echo smiles at Dr. Sananda. “Can I have my lollipop now?”
Outside the clinic, we walk in silence.
Twelve more weeks of chemo. I’m so mad I want to scream.
But I have to stay positive. I have to take my cue from Echo. And if Echo is down, I have to lift her up. All for one, all four one.
I’m so sick of that slogan. But it’s saved us again and again.
We come to a stoplight.
Taxis and town cars whiz by.
“Mom?” I ask.
She looks across Echo to me.
“Can we take Echo someplace fun?”
She gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“The school day is shot. By the time I get back it’ll be ending.”
She looks at her watch, then off into the distance, down the busy street. “I’ve got a dress I have to finish. I’m sorry.” She looks like she’ll cry.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “Thank you for working so hard for all of us. This has been tough, but you’ve been tougher.”
She puts her hand to her heart. “Thank you for saying that.”
“And I’ve been tough, too,” I say. “I’ve grown a lot. So, maybe you’d let me take Echo myself?”
Mom looks to Echo, then back to me. Then back to Echo, who grins. It’s the best sales pitch ever. Mom sighs, then corrects herself and tries to smile.
“Yes, you have grown.” She takes the bag off her shoulder—the bag with the masks and the disinfectant wi
pes and the disinfectant foam and the disinfectant gel—and hands it to me. “There’s money in the side pocket.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re twelve,” she says.
“Yep.”
“You can handle this.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go far. Don’t be late.”
“Okay.”
“I trust you.”
“Thank you.”
“I trust you.”
“You said that.”
“Hold Echo’s hand.”
“I will.”
“Don’t let go of it.”
“I won’t.”
She bends down to kiss Echo’s forehead, then mine.
“Be safe.”
“We will.”
“Sanitize.”
“We will.”
She takes a deep breath, exhales, smiles, and turns away.
I turn to Echo and smile, even though I feel like murdering the stars. I feel like murdering the universe for doing this to her.
But I love my sister.
Standing on the corner, the city surrounds us. It’s big, and tall, and fast, and noisy. It’s scary, and full of so much love I can’t even get my head around it.
Twelve more weeks.
I hold Echo’s hand as we walk up the block. I flag a taxi, which I’ve gotten good at ’cause Dad lets me practice when we need one. I give the driver directions quietly to keep our destination a secret.
We ride up Central Park West to Sixty-Fifth and then across the park. The taxi lets us off right in front of the carousel.
“We’re gonna ride the merry-go-round?” Echo asks.
“Yes!”
Her excitement kills me. She’s just so happy to be here.
She pulls my arm all the way to the ticket booth. I figure I’ll get her an all-day wristband if they have such a thing. That way she can ride over and over again, and she’ll have a wristband that isn’t from the emergency room or the hospital or the clinic for a change. ’Cause she’s a six-year-old girl, and all-day-ride wristbands are the kind of wristbands six-year-old girls should be wearing. They’re the kind of wristbands we all should be wearing.