by Adams, M. L.
“Thanks,” I said. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll do the same Benjamin. Get some rest.”
I shut the door just as Officer Flynn pulled my Jeep into the driveway. He climbed out and tossed me the keys. “Nice ride, kid,” he said. “Sorry it’s so wet inside. I didn’t know how to put up the top.”
“It’s fine,” I replied quietly.
After Frost and Flynn left, I turned and headed up the driveway. Sofia stood on the porch. Even from twenty feet away, I could see her red, puffy eyes. Worry lines creased her face.
“I’m so sorry about Megan,” she said as I walked up. She wrapped her arms around me. I wasn’t in the mood for a hug, but let it linger. I knew it was as much for her as it was for me.
“Come inside,” she finally said, pulling away.
I followed her into the kitchen, took off my wet jacket, and dropped it and my bag on the counter. The smell of dinner lingered in the air. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, but my stomach still wasn’t ready for food. Instead, I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.
Sofia stood off to the side and stared at me through moist eyes. “Benjamin, are you sure you’re okay?” she asked again.
“I’m all right,” I said. Unlike Detective Frost, Sofia knew how close I was to Megan. Other than my parents and sisters, she was the one person outside of CyberLife who knew the truth about me. She’d even signed the NDA.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, nodding at a pot on the stove. “The soup I made earlier is still warm. Or I can make something else. Anything you want.”
“Thanks, Sofia,” I replied. “Maybe later.”
“I can’t . . . believe Megan is dead,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
I knew Sofia was concerned about me. But I just couldn’t bring myself to talk. I needed to be alone. A full thirty seconds passed before I replied. “I . . . can’t either,” I said softly. I grabbed my bag off the counter and turned to leave.
“We should call your parents,” she said. She pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and held it out.
I stared at the phone. If I couldn’t handle talking to Sofia, there was no way I could handle my mom. “I don’t think I can deal with that right now,” I said. “I need a little more time to process things. You know my mom, she’ll freak out.”
Sofia managed a smile. “Yes, she would.”
“I’ll call them tomorrow. I promise. Right now I just need to get these clothes off, take a shower, and go to bed.”
After a few moments, she said, “Okay, Benjamin. Tomorrow then.”
“Thanks Sofia. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I hurried out of the kitchen and raced up two flights of stairs to my bedroom, a converted attic on the top floor of the house. Once inside, I pressed my back into the door and slowly slid to the floor.
Despite my best effort, my thoughts immediately rewound to that morning and started down the day’s path. I thought about my appointment, escaping the lab, and how excited I felt when Megan invited me over. I thought about school, the rumors, Mrs. Bradley, and studying with Holly.
Then I thought about finding Megan.
The blood.
Her cold skin.
Her final words.
You never had cancer.
I stared at my hands where the medic missed several flakes of dried blood. As I fought off another wave of nausea, I wondered how life had changed so quickly. In four short days, everything had turned upside down.
It was a feeling I’d felt before. Same as the day they diagnosed me with cancer and told me they needed to take my leg. In situations like that, the brain goes into a kind of shock as it tries to process the life-changing news. You become numb. Oblivious to everything except the sudden change.
I pulled my knees in close to my chest and buried my face in my hands.
The tears finally started to flow.
9
I awoke lying on the floor next to my bedroom door. Sunlight poured in through the windows on the far wall, alerting me that something was wrong. I found my phone and clicked the display on.
Eight-thirty a.m.
I’m late for school!
I started to stand, but stopped at the sight of my jeans. In an instant, the events of Monday night surged back into my mind. I swallowed hard as the image of Megan lying on the floor in her apartment materialized before me.
Not a nightmare after all, I realized. Megan . . . is dead.
I fell back to the floor and sat still, eyes locked on my bloodstained jeans. It took a buzz from my phone to pull me from my dark thoughts. I glanced at the screen and read the message.
Made you breakfast. Let me know if you’re going to school. I’ll call you in sick if you want. —Sofia
I smiled weakly at the text. My mom, had she been in town, would have had me up at six and on the way to the doctor. Or a therapist. Already the family worrywart, ever since I was diagnosed with cancer, she had become overly protective. Couldn’t blame her, of course. But it didn’t change the fact that, at the moment, I was glad for Sofia’s more hands-off approach.
After taking several minutes to collect myself, I walked to the bathroom and stared at my face in the mirror. My hair was a mess and my eyes were bloodshot. I splashed cold water on my face. It helped a little.
On the counter stood a small white bottle of Cytoxinol. I twisted the cap off and placed one of the tiny, triangle-shaped blue pills in the palm of my hand. After swallowing it, I climbed into the shower and turned the handle all the way to the left. Standing under the hot water, for ten minutes I didn’t move. I let the water pour over my head, hoping it would somehow wash away the pain I felt.
It didn’t.
Eventually I gave up and climbed out of the shower. After slipping on a clean pair of jeans and t-shirt, my usual outfit, I walked out of my room and made my way downstairs. The smell of pancakes and bacon filled the air.
“Thought you could use a good breakfast,” Sofia said as I entered into the kitchen. “Made your favorite.”
“Thanks, Sofia.”
I went straight for the coffee maker and filled a mug, then made a plate for myself and sat at the table across from her. I stared at the food and felt bad Sofia had gone through the trouble. Despite being hungry, I didn’t feel like eating.
I’d known Sofia for almost ten years. She came to America from Colombia as a foreign exchange student. After taking several English classes from my mom, a professor at the university (just like my dad), she ran into problems with the INS and dropped out of school. Instead of allowing her to be sent home, my parents took her in. She eventually became our housekeeper and nanny.
Sofia was now in her early thirties. She was pretty, something Mason liked to point out whenever he had the chance. Only pretty wasn’t a term he generally used. He preferred a combination of the words hot, Latina and spicy. To me however, Sofia was like an aunt or big sister. Part of the family.
“So, no more football?” she asked.
I sent a spray of coffee all over the table. “You . . . you know about that?”
A mischievous grin crossed her lips. “Really, Benjamin? Coming home late and freshly showered every night? All those cuts and bruises?”
After a while, I asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I guess . . . you just seemed so happy. I almost confronted you about it several times. But I always chickened out.”
“So, you know about Friday then?”
She nodded. “I got an email from your principal yesterday. I was going to talk to you about it . . . last night.”
I stared into my coffee mug for several minutes. Sofia did the same.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
She held up a hand. “I’m not going to tell you it’s okay, Benjamin. But we can discuss it another day. You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“Thanks,” I said,
again glad she was in charge for the time being and not my parents. I had a feeling they weren’t going to be so lenient when they found out I played football for a month and half. And got smashed in the head.
“You going to school?” she asked, mercifully changing the subject.
I stared at my now-cold plate of food, and muttered, “Don’t think so.”
“Look, Benjamin,” she said. “I’m not going to make you go, of course. But you might consider it. Sitting around all day thinking about Megan won’t make you feel better. Being around your friends and classmates, might.”
I glanced at the time on my phone. Nine-fifteen, halfway through second period.
When I didn’t answer right away, Sofia gently squeezed my forearm, and said, “I’ll let you decide.”
I nodded.
“I’m going to the store. Send me a text if I need to call your school.”
After she left the kitchen, I took several sips of coffee and then picked my phone up off the table. Without thinking if it was a good idea, I opened the camera roll and scrolled to the only picture I had of Megan. It had been taken just a few weeks before when, surprisingly, we ran into each other at the Starbucks near my school. It was the first time we met outside of CyberLife.
Before she left, we snapped a photo. I sat in a leather chair with her seated on the armrest next to me. Even in the picture, her smile and bright eyes lit up the room.
My tears returned.
You’re only making this harder.
I stood up, tossed my plate in the sink, then walked to the breakfast nook’s bay window. The previous night’s storm left a thin layer of snow on the grass and trees, which now sparkled in the bright morning sun. It was another beautiful Colorado fall morning.
My phone buzzed.
Dude, since you blew your chance with Katherine, can I ask her out?
And:
You missed the Civics exam.
Despite how bad I felt, I couldn’t help but smile. Typical Mason, I thought, knowing he was probably kidding about Katherine.
Probably.
I started to type a simple two-word response, but paused before hitting SEND. Looking back out the window, for the first time since I’d woken, I wanted to get out of the house.
After a few moments, I deleted the message and typed another.
OMW.
10
Midway through fourth-period biology, I knew Sofia was right. I didn’t pick up much of what Mr. Smith said in class, but being around other kids—even kids that pretty much hated my guts—felt good. There was a unique energy in a high school, something I picked up right away on my first day two months earlier. Something I never felt being the only student on the CyberLife campus.
After class, I made my way to the lunchroom and grabbed a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. As I searched for a place to sit, I glanced at the large table near the center of the room, where I used to sit every day with the football team. To my relief, it was empty. My hope was that, after four days, the school rumor mill had, or was at least close to, moving on. But I knew that didn’t apply to the football team. Not until the State’s athletic board ruled on whether or not Endo Valley had to forfeit the game.
I chose an empty table near the large glass windows overlooking the school’s back patio. It offered a perfect vantage point of the football table and was only a few feet from an exit. If the team showed up, I could make a quick escape.
After sitting down and taking a bite of a meatball, I pulled out my iPad and opened the browser. I craved more information about Megan. Short of calling Detective Frost, my only source was the Internet.
I ran a search on Megan Reynolds.
A page of results appeared, but none matched the right Megan. I filtered the search to include only news.
Still nothing.
I opened the website for the local newspaper. Across the top, a headline read:
BROOKWOOD WOMAN, 27, KILLED DURING HOME INVASION
I braced myself as I clicked on the link. To my surprise, the article was short and it was clear that the reporter knew less about Megan’s murder than I did. Her name had not yet been released and there was no information about whether or not the police had a suspect in custody. Basically, the article was useless. At the bottom, it read: Developing story. Please check back later.
Frustrated, I pushed my iPad aside and spent a couple of minutes eating spaghetti. More than once, I wondered why I barely touched Sofia’s famous pancakes, and instead chose to eat dry meatballs and overcooked noodles. As I forced the food down, my mind flashed across the strange words Megan had whispered just before she died.
You never had cancer.
In the chaos of the previous eighteen hours, I had little time to really think about what she meant. Except that it made zero sense.
Having cancer was the one thing I was sure about in my life. It placed a permanent mark on my body and mind. My parents, sisters, and I had learned more about cancer than we ever cared to know. Either my diagnosis was the medical blunder of the century, or Megan was confused from blood loss.
But crazy or not, they were her final words. She didn’t say thanks for being such a great friend or tell my parents I love them. She chose:
You never had cancer.
The fact she picked those words over all the other things she could have said or asked me to do, meant they were important. I would have carried out any final request Megan had given me. I owed it to her to figure out what she meant.
Of course, deciding to do so and actually doing it were two different things. Calling my former oncologist, or even asking Dr. Merrick, seemed like a ludicrous idea. They would know the details about my cancer, but were more likely to send the white van and straightjacket to my house just for asking. It also would open me up to all kinds of questions about why I was asking. Being that I lied to Detective Frost about it, that wasn’t a bridge I was ready to cross.
No, I thought to myself. I’m on my own for this one.
I grabbed my iPad again and reopened the browser. I ran several searches about medical mistakes, malpractice, cancer, misdiagnosis, and any other relevant keyword I could think of. As with every health-related topic on the Internet, there were millions of hits. After the tenth page of search results, I decided to check just one more.
That’s all I needed.
On the eleventh page, I found an obscure blog post written by a man who spent two years dealing with an illness nobody could diagnose. Frustrated and almost bankrupt from medical expenses, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He requested and received his lengthy medical record and did his own analysis using online research and self-diagnosis. To his, and the entire medical community’s surprise, it worked. Where a dozen doctors failed, he had been able to figure out what was wrong.
While I highly doubted I was qualified to analyze my own medical record, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. If anything, it would make for some interesting reading.
I opened a new browser tab and pulled up the Colorado Pediatric Hospital website. Scanning the navigation menu, I searched for an online form or email address I could use to request my medical record. After five minutes, the only reference I found on the website was in an FAQ. The text read:
All medical records must be requested in person. For children under eighteen, a signature from a parent is required. Note: it can take up to ten days for the request to be filled, and not all records are available.
I sighed and turned back to my lunch. “So much for that idea,” I said to myself. Involving adults—especially my parents—is out of the question.
Still lost in thought, I sensed somebody walk up. Expecting to see Mason, I looked up with a mouthful of spaghetti. Instead of my friend, as my eyes tracked upward, I saw a pair of perfectly tanned legs, a cheerleader skirt, then a cheerleader sweater, and finally, long, wavy locks of black hair.
“Hi, Ben.”
I choked as I inhaled the mouthful of spaghetti. After a few agonizing second
s, I took a drink from my bottle of water and finally replied. “Hey . . . Katherine.”
If I made a list of all the people I never expected to talk to again, Katherine Nickel would have been at or near the top.
What is she doing here? And why is she smiling?
I swallowed and tried to slow my heart rate down to a more survivable level. Easier said than done when staring into Katherine’s big green eyes.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “Bad timing.”
“It’s okay.” I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and prayed I didn’t have marinara sauce all over my shirt. “Have a seat.”
“Oh, I can’t right now,” she replied. “I don’t have much time. I just wanted to stop by and say . . .”
She stopped mid-sentence and gazed down at the floor. She seemed nervous, which I figured wasn’t a normal emotion for the head of the school’s cheerleading squad. Nervousness was the effect she had on everyone else. Myself included.
In my peripheral vision, I spotted Mason walking over.
Lousy timing, I groaned.
“I . . . I just wanted to say I was sorry about last weekend,” Katherine finally said, her smile shifting to a frown. “The text message. Bailing on you. Pretty lame of me.”
I sat motionless, stunned by the apology. Katherine, along with the rest of the school, had been furious with me. Not only for lying about my cybernetic augment, but also for potentially costing the school an important football win. She’d called off our date to the homecoming dance two hours before it was set to start. By text message no less.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I replied. “Totally understand. I deserved it.”
She shook her head and stared directly into my eyes. I used every ounce of will power I had to hold her gaze.
It took her a moment to answer. “No, you didn’t, Ben.” Another pause, then she added, “Maybe sometime we could . . .”
Mid-sentence, Mason arrived and interrupted. “Hey Kat, how you doin’?”
“Oh,” Katherine said with the hint of a groan. “Hi . . . Mason.”
“Sit down,” he offered. He pulled a chair out and motioned to it. “Let’s have lunch. My treat.”