I waited for it to go away. It didn’t. I changed my position on the couch, sat up a bit, and burped loudly. “Mom,” I called.
She appeared at the top of the stairs. “Yes, honey?”
I was breathing rapidly now—quick, shallow breaths—and my head was moving up and down.
“Oh, Jeff, what’s wrong?” she said, the pitch of her voice showing panic.
I closed my eyes and tried to stay calm. “Get a bucket” was all I managed to say. Mom switched into emergency mode, disappearing and returning seconds later. She reached me just in time, capturing in the bucket—in five nasty installments—the entire contents of my stomach.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said. I thought she was referring to what had just happened, but when I looked up I saw that she was putting on a new pair of gloves. She took the bucket from me and reached into it, pulling out one pill and then another, wiping each one off with a tissue and setting them next to me.
“You’ve got to be kidding, Mom,” I said.
She shook her head. “Orange juice or water?”
* * *
•
My stomach ended up going through a week of hell. Even though Paul begged me to come, I told him there was no way I’d make it to the Bahama Lanes reunion.
The evening before the get-together, after a dinner with Mom and Dad when I was just poking at my food with a fork, Dad came downstairs with a pink bottle in his hand.
“Mother told me you had a bowel disturbance this afternoon.” His words—“bowel disturbance”—made me cringe. The last thing I felt like doing was having a discussion about diarrhea.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“She mentioned this might be inhibiting you from attending the bowling event tomorrow with your friends.”
“Yup.”
“Well, I periodically have disruptions in my bowels.” My toes starting curling. “I find this helpful,” he said, handing me the bottle. I grabbed it to get him to stop talking but couldn’t even look at it. I really needed the conversation to end.
“Gotcha.” I faked a yawn. It looked like he might continue, so I stretched my arms. Still, I wasn’t sure he was finished. And I needed him to be. “Boy am I wiped, Dad,” I finally said. “Think I’d better hit the hay.”
“All right, son. Good night.” I wasn’t the slightest bit tired, but I switched off the lights as he closed the door so he wouldn’t feel insulted. A few minutes later, I switched them back on. I grabbed the bottle, poured myself a dose, and downed it. It was disgusting.
The next day, I woke up feeling great. My stomach, for the first time in a week, was calm. I looked over at the bottle and laughed to myself. Maybe Dad was on to something. I called Paul to let him know that maybe, just maybe, I’d be seeing him that evening.
* * *
•
Mom dropped me off at Bahama Lanes a few minutes past five. I saw my friends gathered near the building’s glass double doors. Paul was chatting with Tony. Cara was in a conversation with Ryan and Dave. Nobody had noticed me. The last thing I’d done before stepping out of the car was pull down the vanity mirror and adjust my baseball cap, but as I walked over I found myself tugging down on the left side to make sure my scar was fully covered.
Paul saw me when I was about fifteen feet away. “Jeff!” he said with a big grin. He started walking toward me.
Tony spun around. He was smiling, too. He stepped off the curb and quickly passed Paul. I felt goose bumps popping up all over my forearms.
“Did Jeffy get a buzz cut?” Tony asked when he reached me. He leaned forward, staring at my head and shifting from one side to the other. I rubbed my nose, not because it itched, but just so I’d have a hand ready. That was when Tony grabbed my hat. I clamped down hard on his wrist.
“Stop, Tony,” I said firmly. My other hand swung around and I pressed down on top of my head.
His fingers were locked on the brim of my cap. “Lemme see your cut, Jeff,” he said, tugging upward.
“Let go of my hat,” I said, louder now. In the corner of my eye, I could see Cara, Ryan, and Dave walking over.
Tony didn’t listen. He yanked on my hat. “Dammit!” I finally yelled. “Will you let go of my goddam hat? I had fucking brain cancer, okay?”
His jaw dropped. He let go and stepped backward. My other friends had heard everything and were staring now, along with a bunch of people I didn’t know who were passing by.
“You’re joking,” Tony finally said. He turned to Paul. “Jeff’s joking, right?”
“He’s not, Tony,” Paul said. “He had brain cancer.”
It wasn’t what Paul and I had discussed. I didn’t get to calmly tell everyone what happened. I went through an inquisition in the Bahama Lanes parking lot, with friends and strangers alike staring at me. The interrogation didn’t stop when we got inside, because other friends showed up. I wanted nothing more than to leave. But I knew if I did that, everyone in our group would spend the evening talking about me, their friend who looked different, who maybe was different, so my only option was to stay. Even the thought of stepping away to the bathroom scared me, because I would become a topic of discussion, and likely pity. It took a rumbling in my gut for me to finally excuse myself, and then it was only because my fear of the humiliation that would come if I crapped in my pants outweighed the fear I had of becoming the subject of a conversation I’d never hear. I went off to the bathroom, which prevented an accident, but I still came back feeling disgraced.
It felt like eons passed before our rides showed up. I was desperate to get out of there. I walked toward my mom’s headlights, and she had figured out something awful had happened by the time I stepped into the car. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” she asked as I got in.
“Drive, Mom,” I told her as my eyes welled up. “Just drive.”
Polytechnic School started its new year on a Thursday—this time without me. I could’ve made it, but my stomach was a little unsettled. Plus, I didn’t want a repeat of the Bahama Lanes disaster, with somebody running up to me and yanking off my baseball cap. I mentioned to my mom that it sure would be nice if someone just let my classmates know what I’d gone through that summer and that I wasn’t up for answering a bunch of questions. She passed that message to Mrs. Hager, our upper school director, and she, Paul later told me, shared it with the school.
I showed up on Monday. Mom drove me, and as she turned onto Cornell, the road that ends at our school, I practically had a panic attack. Paul had promised to meet me out front, but I didn’t see him anywhere.
After Mom reassured me five times that my hat looked great (she’d insisted that morning that I wear the black velvet one she’d gotten me for my birthday instead of my beaten-up Dodgers cap) and that everything was going to be fine, I stepped out of the car with my fingers tingling. I took two steps forward and practically ran into Anjali Senanayake, a really cute girl from Ted’s class.
“Hi, Jeff,” she said. She had a beautiful smile on her face. “It’s good to see you.”
We’d never really had a serious conversation, considering she was two years older. I tried to think of something to say. “How was your summer?”
“Pretty good. We were here for part of it and also back in Sri Lanka.” I felt awkward. I had no idea where Sri Lanka was, and I sure didn’t want to talk about my summer. She seemed to pick up on my discomfort.
Her face got serious. “I know yours wasn’t easy, Jeff,” she said, gently touching my shoulder. “I’m honestly very pleased you’re here.”
It felt good to hear that, and I think it showed, because she smiled again.
Just then, I saw Paul. He was leaning under the eave of the Garland Theater roof, looking cool in his new Sideout Sports sweatshirt, his index fingers pointed at Anjali, which he quickly switched out for two thumbs-up as he winked at me. I wanted to kick him. �
�Excuse me, Anjali,” I said, walking toward Paul and praying she hadn’t seen my face turn red.
“Look at you, making your way with a senior,” Paul said, laughing.
“Give me a break. Seniors don’t go after sophomores. Or invalids, for that matter.”
Paul’s smile disappeared. He pointed at me forcefully. “Dude, you’re not an invalid.”
“Fine, I guess I’m just nervous.”
“Don’t sweat it, man. People are cool about your situation. Nice hat, by the way. Shall we?”
* * *
•
Even though I’d missed the first two days of school, I was ready for my classes. Paul had gotten me up to speed over the weekend on the ones we had in common, and I’d made sure to call Cara about Mrs. McKendrick’s English class, since she could be such a headache. I’d already done all the reading, too, and not just a quick skim. I was ready to answer questions, even the obscure kind she liked to formulate.
I’d gotten myself in trouble with her the previous year, showing up late two days in a row, which she never seemed to forget. The concept of “late” for Mrs. McKendrick was anything other than early. Forget about “on time.” Students either showed up five minutes early and sat there as she compulsively cleaned every square inch of the chalkboard, or else they were late, even if they made it while the bell was ringing. Today I arrived with plenty of time to spare.
I was chatting quietly with Cara when, at eight a.m., Mrs. McKendrick wrote MORALITY on the chalkboard in big block letters and spun around to face the class. “What,” she said, followed by a dramatic pause as she adjusted the chopsticks holding her hair bun in place, “are the central elements that constitute To Kill a Mockingbird’s moral infrastructure?”
Not a single hand went up. Given how things had gone between us the previous year, it felt like an opportunity to get on her good side.
I raised my hand.
She noticed, but she didn’t pick me. I looked around the room. Everyone else’s hands were either frozen in their laps or glued to the table. I was the only one offering an answer, but still she just waited.
Finally, Allison Fowler raised a finger, and Mrs. McKendrick immediately called on her.
She ignored me two more times. I didn’t get it. Was she holding a grudge?
By the time the bell rang, I wanted to fling my book into the trash can right next to her. I was imagining exactly that when I felt my stomach rumble slightly.
I zipped up my backpack along with everyone else and headed toward the door.
“Jeffrey,” Mrs. McKendrick said in her serious voice just as I was leaving. My neck muscles tightened up as I turned around. “I’d like to have a word.”
“The administration has brought to my attention that your medical condition may require certain accommodations.”
I thought some clarity might help.
“I’ve got five more rounds of chemo,” I said. “They’re four days long, and I can’t attend school during those periods. I’m starting radiation at the end of the month. My doctor said I might need to take a break then, but I’m not planning on it.”
“You will of course need to do whatever your medical experts advise. With regard to my class, I will accommodate you to the extent necessary, but I will not treat you any differently from your classmates.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. For the last hour she already had. Not only that, I really didn’t like her tone. Neither did my intestinal tract, which reacted by rumbling again. I wanted to set her straight, but I needed to find a toilet.
“I don’t want to be treated differently,” I said, shifting on my feet. The pressure in my stomach was building. A disaster was imminent.
“That means reading all the same works, completing all homework assignments, and…”
I jumped to my feet.
Mrs. McKendrick’s eyes quickly narrowed. “Jeffrey,” she said in an even louder voice.
“I forgot something very important,” I said, and started toward the door. I literally had seconds.
“Jeffrey!” was the last I heard from Mrs. McKendrick, with incredulity in her voice, as I raced toward the administrative building. It was an old house, and the previous year I’d discovered a lesser-known bathroom accessible through a small outside door. I prayed it was unlocked.
* * *
•
After school, I was waiting for Mom to pick me up by Garland Theater, reflecting on how the day had gone—not bad, actually, other than that situation with Mrs. McKendrick—when the theater doors swept open and Lucia appeared with two of her girlfriends. For the whole day I’d managed to hide from her, even during lunch, which I’d eaten with Paul in our math classroom. But now she’d found me, and her eyes opened wide, and she shouted my name. That got half the people waiting for rides to turn toward me and stare. Boy, did I ever want to disappear.
She ran over to me. Her friends stayed behind. “Hi, Jeff,” she said, this time breathless. I could smell her perfume, Poison, the same stuff she’d been wearing when we made out in her bedroom.
“Hi, Lucia,” I said nervously.
“I’ve been trying to reach you forever,” she said, tossing her head back and running her fingers through her hair. She’d called so many times in the past week that Mom no longer spelled out her name on messages. It was just L called, along with the time.
“Have you? I’m so sorry. Things have been really busy.”
She nodded. “That’s okay.” Her eyebrows were furrowed. Her lips were pursed. She looked like…my mother. “Tell me, how are you?” Hearing that made my toes curl.
“I’m fine. Really. Everything’s going great.”
She wasn’t listening. Her eyes had been focused on mine, but now they were moving, from my forehead to my cap, to the left side of my head. It was like she was searching for a deformity.
“You know, you can’t even see anything,” she finally said. I quickly adjusted my cap. “The scar, I mean.”
My stomach tightened. Then—nausea. For a second, I really thought I might throw up.
She continued, saying how she wanted to help, but now I was the one who wasn’t listening. My eyes were on the road in front of us.
Lucia was in the middle of a question when Mom showed up. I think I gasped. “Looks like I’ve gotta go,” I said.
Lucia frowned. “But what about—”
I cut her off. “Sorry, can’t keep my mom waiting.”
I let out a huge breath as I hurried toward the car.
* * *
•
A month into my sophomore year, just as I’d finally settled into my classes, Dr. Gourevik told me it was time to start radiation. It wouldn’t be at Huntington Hospital, where I’d had my surgery, but at City of Hope hospital in Duarte, half an hour away without traffic, and double that when the freeway was packed with cars. For six weeks, I’d have to go there every day to get zapped. Somehow, I’d keep up with my classes.
Mom could tell I was stressed as she drove me out for the first appointment. She reached over and clasped my hand, giving it a couple of squeezes. It took me right back to when I woke up from my brain surgery, when she was sending me her hand-pulsed Morse code messages. I decided not to mention that to her. On our way out to Duarte, we passed C&H Surplus, the store that carried the parts for my laser. I’d sort of put the project on hold. It was still sitting there in my bedroom, in the corner by the window, but I hadn’t once asked Mom to drive me out to C&H. I guess it was because of the cancer diagnosis. If they couldn’t cure me, there was no point in trying to get into one of the top science schools. So much for becoming an astronaut.
Mom and I sat down with the radiologist, a brawny man in his fifties with wiry red hair, who explained how everything would proceed. He’d first review the scans Mom had brought with us. Then his team would lay down a
triad of barely visible tattoos on my head (one between my eyes, another in front of my left ear, and the third behind it) to help line up the radiation beams. Last, I’d be taken to the radiation chamber, where I’d get zapped for the first time. Only this first visit would take a few hours, because of all the preparation they had to do. After that, I’d be in and out in fifteen minutes.
He asked if I had any questions.
“Two, actually. Dr. Gourevik said I might have to leave school, but you’re saying I won’t feel anything, so who’s right?”
“You won’t experience any discomfort during the sessions. But you’re likely to experience fatigue, which typically increases over the treatment period. In a few weeks, you may find it necessary to take a break from school.”
I really didn’t want to leave school. I sighed quietly.
“You said you had two questions.”
“Oh, right. Well, there was this guy in the waiting room who had a huge bald spot in the back of his head. Is that gonna happen to me?”
“It might. Hair follicles are sometimes sensitive to radiation.”
I hated hearing that. Mom could tell. She squeezed my arm.
I looked at the radiologist. “If my hair falls out, will it grow back?”
“Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s not something we’re able to predict.” He could tell I didn’t like that answer. “Look, I think it’s important to focus on the priority.”
“What’s that?” I asked. I honestly didn’t get what he was saying.
“Hair is cosmetic. Our priority here is to eliminate cancer cells.”
Mom’s jaw dropped, which she quickly corrected when she saw me look at her. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I groaned, shook my head, and sank into my chair.
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