by Barbara Dee
“Norah, did you get a wig?” Addison asked.
“Me? No.”
“How come?”
“I didn’t want one.”
“You just went around bald?”
“I wore a hat. People crochet them for cancer patients.”
Addison shook her braids. “Yeah? If it was me, I’d totally get a wig!”
But it wasn’t. It was ME.
Silence at the table. I peeked at Silas, who was nibbling the corner of a giant cookie. Was he going to jump into this conversation at some point, or just sit there making crumbs? And if he was feeling uncomfortable, was I supposed to rescue him? He was my friend; he should be rescuing me.
“My uncle had skin cancer three years ago,” Cait announced out of nowhere.
“Melatonin,” Harrison said.
“No, it’s melanoma, actually,” I said. “Melatonin is the hormone that makes you sleepy.” I stood. “I think I’ll get another yogurt. Anyone want anything from the kitchen?”
Fortunately, nobody did. So I walked toward the hamburger-smelling kitchen.
And kept on walking, straight out of the lunchroom.
THE FULL EXPERIENCE
At dismissal, Harper was standing by my locker, waiting for me. “Norah, what happened to you? You weren’t in social social studies or technology!”
“I just needed a little break,” I said. “So I went to the nurse’s office. It’s what I’m supposed to do. Nothing’s wrong with me, I swear.”
“Are you sure? Because you looked weird in the lunchroom.”
I laughed. “Hey, thanks a lot, Harper.”
I could have explained about the hamburger problem. I also could have mentioned the conversation at the table, how all the cancer talk was making me crazy. But if I said either of those things to Harper, it would just be more cancer talk. Like cancer had turned me into one of those infinite mirrors, where all you see of yourself is a reflection of a reflection, a Rockettes kick line of cancer cells. Talking about talking about cancer . . . How was that different from actually being sick?
The other thing was, even if I did talk about cancer things with Harper, I couldn’t be sure of her reaction. Whenever she visited me, in the hospital or at home, we kept the conversation to regular stuff: gossip, crazy parents, favorite web comics, YouTube videos, music. I didn’t want to turn her visits into Let’s Discuss How Sucky I Feel; I wanted our friendship to stay normal-ish and fun. Besides, even if I tried to explain how sucky I felt, Harper wouldn’t understand, because how could she? She played volleyball and went ice-skating. Her idea of misery was period cramps.
“I was just tired,” I insisted. “And now I’m fine, okay?”
It came out wrong—too fierce, or something. I could tell right away, because Harper flinched. So then of course I felt terrible, because my best friend had been worried about me—not just for wobbling, but for disappearing—and here I was, making her feel stupid about it.
But what was I supposed to say? What would Raina want me to say?
She’d say: That’s up to you, Norah. Your decision, your words.
Which was no help at all. So I changed the subject.
“Can I ask you something, Harper? What’s the deal with Silas?”
“Silas?” Harper shrugged. “He’s turned into a jerk.”
“What happened?”
“Good question.”
“No, I mean, did something happen between the two of you?”
She waved her hand like she was brushing away a mosquito. “It’s not important. How was lunch?”
“We sat with a bunch of people and he barely spoke to me. Is he mad at me or something?”
“No, I’m sure he isn’t mad.”
“Then why is he ignoring me?”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m not worried, Harper. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Not what I expected.”
As soon as I said this, Raina’s other words flashed in my brain: Don’t have expectations. Okay, but I didn’t have “expectations.” I’d just thought Silas and I were friends. Even if we didn’t ride bikes and battle evil elves anymore.
Harper stuffed some books into her bag. “All right, well, I’m going to Art Club now. Norah, I really wish you’d do it with me. You’d love it, I promise.”
“Maybe I will. I’ll think about it, okay?”
She blinked.
Oh, great. I’ve pushed her away again. What’s wrong with me?
So then I almost told her about my parents’ after-school rule—I almost did. But I stopped myself, because right at that moment, I spotted Griffin out of the corner of my eye.
* * *
That night, Dad cooked dinner for Mom and me. The three of us didn’t have dinner together every night—which was a good thing, actually. Dad would make some dish that he’d learned from Nicole, so Mom was always criticizing the ingredients—but in a very helpful way, like she was just trying to understand why you’d add cilantro, of all things, when regular parsley would work just as well, and was probably cheaper.
When we’d finally sit at the table, they’d both stare at me—or rather, pretend NOT to stare at me—while discussing some topic they’d agreed was safe, like The Crazy Weather We Were Having Lately. If I wasn’t hungry, which was most of the time these past two years, Dad would offer to make me some version of his meal, minus the taste. Or Mom would suggest one of her own boring-but-digestible dishes—scrambled eggs, pasta with a dot of butter and a pinch of salt. I’d try to explain that the problem wasn’t the food, it was my appetite, and fussing over me was really not helping. And they’d explain that they weren’t fussing, they were just concerned about my nutrition and calorie intake, and that it was their job as parents, blahblahblah, because they both loved me. And I’d have to say I understood, I loved them both too, and maybe I’d eat a little more in a couple of hours. Although I never did.
When it was just Dad and me, or Dad and Nicole and me, there was definitely way less fussing over my plate. Also, when Mom took me out for dinner at the Greenwood Diner, we usually went for the entire meal without commenting on my appetite. But when I had to eat with both of my parents at the same time, it was like they were competing to see who could take better care of me. And even though they never fought in front of me like Harper’s parents did, the way they were both so focused on what I put in my mouth made the whole meal incredibly tense.
Tonight Dad had made some kind of noodle dish with shredded chicken, sliced veggies, and chopped peanuts. It had way too much soy sauce, and I wasn’t hungry, but I forced myself to eat wet, messy forkfuls. I even had seconds.
Dad, of course, was thrilled. “Hey, this recipe seems to be a hit!”
“Yep, well, I’m starving,” I said. “Because of school, probably.”
Mom and Dad beamed. I could see they were both thinking: Our daughter has an appetite! Praise the gods!
“So school was good today?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, it feels great to be back!” I stuffed some drippy noodles into my mouth. “Although it would be so much better if I could do Afterschool, too.”
Mom and Dad exchanged a look.
“Norah—” Dad began.
So then I went for it. “Everybody goes except me, Dad! I feel like there’s this whole side of school I’m not getting.”
“Yes, and there’s a reason for that, honey,” Mom said patiently. “We explained to you that at first—”
“I know. You want me to go slow. But did the doctors say I couldn’t stay for Afterschool, or was that just your stupid rule?”
Mom put down her fork. “All right, Norah, that’s a little fresh.”
“Sorry! It’s just that everyone does it except me. It’s a very big social thing.”
“We know,” Dad said. “And we’ll be happy to have you participate in a month or so, once you’re used to being back.”
“Okay, but the sign-up period is now. In ‘a month or so,’ most of the activities will be closed
.” I didn’t even know if this was true, but it sounded true.
Dad and Mom looked at each other. I could see Dad’s eyebrow rise just a millimeter, which I interpreted as an opening.
“All right,” I said. “What if I went just one day a week? Or two at the absolute most?”
“Norah.” Dad shook his head.
“For like an hour. Afterschool is ninety minutes, but I’d be fine with leaving after sixty.”
“Look, I honestly don’t think waiting a few more weeks is such a big—”
“Because really, if I’m going back to school, I should have the full experience.” I knew I sounded like I was quoting some parent magazine, and maybe I was. I’d read a lot of stuff in waiting rooms when I wasn’t doodling. “Plus, I really think you guys should be willing to compromise.”
“Norah,” Mom said, sighing. “You’ve made a very strong case for yourself, and Dad and I hear you, believe me. But right now, we’re going to stick with our plan. Go to school, come home and rest, build up your strength, and we’ll have this conversation again very soon, I promise.”
“We both promise,” Dad corrected her.
I groaned. “This is totally unfair!”
“Sorry, honey,” Mom said quietly, but in an end-of-conversation way.
So I pushed away my plate. Because no sense eating these awful noodles for nothing.
HYDRA
The next morning in math, Griffin noticed the drawing on my hand immediately. “Whoa, what’s that? Can I see?”
“It’s a Hydra,” I said shyly. But I held out my right hand for him so he could see my drawing.
He took my hand and brought it close to his face. “Norah, you’re amazing. You just designed this on your own?”
I blushed. “Well, I’ve been thinking about norahs, and I don’t know, I kept having this picture of a Hydra pop into my head. Not the water creature, the mythological one.”
I could have told him that after dinner the night before, I was so mad at my parents that I locked myself in my room and spent the evening reading the book Ayesha had given me as a good-bye present—D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. She and I had read a lot of myths together, and she knew how much I loved them, especially the one about Persephone in the underworld. Her own favorite was the story of Hercules, how he had to perform a bunch of crazy-difficult labors, including defeating a poisonous nine-headed Hydra monster. Once Ayesha told me that when she had her brain tumor, every time she had to go through another terrible ordeal, like surgery or chemo or radiation, she pretended she was Hercules, which she pronounced HERcules, emphasizing the “her.” Anyhow, thinking about Hercules battling the Hydra made me want to draw one, and before I knew I’d done it, I had one on the fleshy part of my right hand, between my thumb and pointer finger.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Griffin let go of my hand. “Would you draw a griffin for me?”
“You mean . . . on paper?”
“No, on my electric bass, actually. I’ve decided to do rock band in Afterschool and I think it would look awesome.” He was blushing.
“But I can’t . . .” I bit my lip. “I mean, I’m not exactly sure what sort of griffin you want. They’re not all the same.”
“What if I print out a picture and give it to you in science? And then we could meet right before Afterschool, and you could do it then.”
“Today?”
“Yeah. We could meet in the music room.” He leaned closer to me, so I could smell his breath. A good smell, though, like toast. “The thing is, my bass is really old and in terrible shape, so it needs something to make it look cool. Could you do this for me? As a favor?”
“Sure,” I said, before I could think about it too long.
* * *
“All right, so here’s a question for you,” Ms. Farrell said at the start of English. “Why are there myths?”
“To explain things,” Aria said.
“What sorts of things?”
“Things that they couldn’t explain any other way, like lightning. So they said it was Zeus getting mad and throwing a thunderbolt at somebody.”
“Exactly, Aria,” Ms. Farrell said. “Can anyone think of another specific myth that explains some natural phenomenon, something we could explain today scientifically?”
Nobody answered.
So I had to. Because it was my favorite myth and everything. “The story of Demeter and Persephone explains why we have different seasons,” I said.
Ms. Farrell smiled. I thought she looked extra cool today in her Where the Wild Things Are tee and pigtails. “Great example, Norah. Can you tell us the story?”
I nodded. “Well, there’s much more to it than this, but basically Persephone was the daughter of Zeus and Demeter, who was the goddess of the harvest. And Hades, who was god of the underworld, fell in love with Persephone, so he kidnapped her and forced her to live in the underworld as his queen. She was really miserable there, and Demeter was so sad without her daughter that all the plants on earth died, and people were starving. But Demeter kept searching for Persephone, and when she finally figured out where she was, she threatened Zeus that she would let everything on earth die if he didn’t bring back their daughter. So Zeus sent Hermes to the underworld to tell Hades to let Persephone go. Demeter and Persephone were reunited and really happy again, and everything grew. Then Persephone admitted she’d eaten some pomegranate seeds, which were the food of the dead, and this meant she had to return to the underworld. But Zeus worked out a deal where she could spend half the year in the underworld with Hades and half the year on earth with Demeter. And that’s why we have winter and summer.”
It was the most words I’d said in a very long time. When I finished speaking, I was a little breathless.
Also, the whole class was staring at me. And Addison had her mouth open, like: You can talk? Hey, Norah—I didn’t remember that about you.
“Well, that was excellent, Norah,” Ms. Farrell said, looking into my face for an extra few seconds. “Yes. Okay. So here’s what I’m wondering: If we understand now that the change in seasons is caused by the rotation of the earth around the sun, and not by a sort of custody battle for Persephone, why are we, in this seventh grade English class, reading these myths today?”
“Because it’s the curriculum?” Harrison said. Obviously, he was the kind of kid who thought anything nonscientific was a waste of time.
I raised my hand.
Ms. Farrell turned to me. “Norah?”
“Because they’re great,” I said. “They’re just really great stories.”
She beamed. “Exactly. They’re great stories still. Two thousand–plus years later, they hold up. And why is that?”
She was asking the whole class, but nobody was answering. So, without raising my hand, I said: “Because they’re incredibly exciting. They’re full of action and special effects, like the one where Icarus escapes his prison by wearing these giant wings his dad made him, but he flies too close to the sun and the wax melts. Or the one where Prometheus steals fire from the gods. Also, the one about Sisyphus, this king whose punishment is having to roll the same giant rock uphill every day for the rest of his life. And there’s tons of romance, too.”
I couldn’t say the word “romance” without rolling my eyes a little, but Ms. Farrell didn’t mind.
“Yes! That’s right!” she exclaimed. “Norah, how do you know so much? Have you read a lot of mythology?”
Yeah, over and over, when I was in the hospital. “A little.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. You can be our expert mythologist.”
The way she said this, it sounded like “expert oncologist.” Which I knew wasn’t what she meant, obviously. But all gushy praise sounded suspiciously cancer-related.
And, of course, caused Addison to give me another stinkeye.
Then Ms. Farrell started talking about “creation myths,” different stories about how the universe was created. It was extremely interesting—although I also couldn’
t stop thinking about my date later today with Griffin. Not that it was a date date. It was more of a meeting, an appointment, and I certainly knew enough about those. But the way he held my hand when he was looking at my Hydra—I mean, he definitely could have seen my drawing without doing that. So either he was extremely nearsighted or he actually wanted to hold my hand. And the thing was, he didn’t even wear glasses.
* * *
At lunch, I spotted Harper chatting with Addison and Kylie, so I took a seat by myself in the corner. Immediately, though, Harper came over.
“You can eat with them, you know,” I told her. “It’s totally fine.”
“Of course it’s fine,” she said. “But I can eat with anyone I want.”
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant, Norah. Don’t be silly, okay?”
She nibbled her turkey wrap while I ate my cheese sandwich. Even though I was serious about Harper sitting with Addison and Kylie, the truth was I was glad Harper was sitting with me, glad we didn’t need to make conversation.
At least, I thought we didn’t. Because all of a sudden she said: “So what’s it like being with the eighth graders?”
I felt myself blush. “Why are you asking?”
“Why? Just wondering. You never say anything about those classes.”
“They’re okay. I like the teachers. Although Ms. Perillo—”
“I meant the kids. Are they nice?”
“You mean the eighth graders?”
“That’s who we’re talking about, right?”
“I don’t know. Some are. Some aren’t.”
Harper rolled her eyes. “You were such a chatterbox today in English, Norah. I guess your mouth isn’t used to all that exercise?”
“Sorry.” I knew I was being too quiet, but there was a reason—and for once it had nothing to do with being sick. Just before lunch, in science, Griffin had given me a drawing he’d printed out, asking if I could do something like that on his bass. In red. It wasn’t a super-realistic griffin, more like the type of thing you’d see on a shield. And it didn’t have a million details: just the head, wings, and talons of an eagle, the body of a lion. Although the wings would be kind of tricky, especially if he wanted feathers.