by Barbara Dee
A few minutes later, Harper passed me a note: That’s why I had a fight with him—because he refused to visit you when you were sick. I didn’t tell you about it because I thought it would make you upset. What a jerk.
* * *
At the start of seventh period Spanish, Señorita Coleman said that Ms. Castro wanted to see me. I thought maybe my parents would still be in her office, playing with the Silly Putty, but when I got there, it was just her.
She smiled, a red lipstick smear on her teeth. “Please have a seat, Norah. I met your parents today, and we had a nice chat. You’re so lucky to have them in your corner.”
I nodded. Were you supposed to tell people about lipstick smears? I’d read something on this subject in one of those waiting room magazines, but maybe that was just for spinach.
“And they both expressed concern about your staying for Afterschool,” Ms. Castro added.
Now I focused. “You talked to my parents about Afterschool?”
“I did. I explained that I thought it was important—that doing Afterschool would help you feel a part of the Burr community. So we worked out a deal: To start the semester, you can do one day a week.”
“I can?”
“As long as you’re feeling up for it. We don’t want you risking your health. But yes.”
I was so happy I almost leapt out of the chair to kiss her cheek. But fortunately, I stopped myself in time. “Thank you so much!”
Ms. Castro smiled and nodded, shaking her huge scribble-scrabble earrings. “You’re very welcome, Norah. Your parents and I also agreed that we’d like to see you open up a little more.”
Now I stared. “What . . . do you mean?”
“Well.” She clasped her hands in her big lap. “I’ve heard from several teachers that you’ve been a bit closed off.”
“Ms. Farrell?”
“Several teachers,” she repeated, like she couldn’t divulge top secret information.
That stupid paragraph. Just because I wouldn’t write “My Cancer and Me” on command.
“So I’d like to propose something, Norah. Every year at Burr we dedicate a week to a program we call Overcoming Challenges. We invite in folks who’ve faced various types of difficult circumstances. And we were wondering if perhaps you’d like to share with the school community about your own challenge. With your health.”
You mean with CANCER? I swallowed. “No. I wouldn’t like that, actually.”
“Oh.” Ms. Castro swished her earrings. “Can you tell me why not?”
Because I’m not Cancer Girl. I’m a norah. Who may or may not have tentacles. “I just want to go to school and stay for Afterschool like everyone else, and not keep talking about all that stuff.”
“Even to reassure some of your friends?”
“Reassure them about what? They can see that I’m back at school. I wouldn’t be here if I were sick!”
“Okay,” Ms. Castro said quietly. She’s disappointed, but that’s not my problem. Raina said I don’t need to entertain anybody with my cancer story, not even grown-ups. “Well. Will you let me know if you change your mind?”
“Sure,” I said. But I won’t.
* * *
At dismissal, Mom and Dad were still dressed up in their meeting-with-Norah’s-guidance-counselor outfits. I suddenly realized that this was the second-to-last day they’d both be picking me up from school. On Monday, they’d come here together one more time, we’d go into the city for my checkup, and then Mom would fly back to California. The don’t-go panic started to bubble up in my chest again, so I yelled at myself to stop.
“How was it with Ms. Castro?” I asked. “Did you guys play with the Silly Putty?”
Before they could answer, I threw my arms around them in a family hug. And they let me do it, even though it smushed the two of them together. “Thanks for letting me do Afterschool! Really, thank you guys so much! I promise not to overtire myself! But I’m not doing that Overcoming Challenges thing!”
“No one’s forcing you,” Dad said, smiling.
“It was just an idea,” Mom said, as she kissed my hair. “No pressure, honey.”
Ms. Castro was right: I was lucky to have them. And when I thought about how I’d lied—not telling them the truth about meeting Griffin at lunchtime, and even worse, getting away with it—I suddenly felt like the worst daughter in the world.
WHAT YOU SAY
I don’t even remember the rest of that afternoon. I was so wiped out from the week that as soon as I got home I flopped on my bed for a quick nap—and woke up at nine thirty that evening, hungry and headachy. I wasn’t even totally awake when I staggered into the kitchen.
Nicole was sitting on a stool, reading a cookbook. She really was totally food-obsessed, I thought, although I’d never admit that to Mom.
But as soon as I walked into the kitchen, she looked up at me and grinned. I liked her long dark hair with its silvery threads, and the gap between her top teeth, how she’d never had it corrected. “Hey, girl. Have a good sleep?”
“Yeah. I didn’t mean to sleep that long. It was like I passed out.”
“You wouldn’t have slept like that if you didn’t need it. A full week of school is a lot to get used to.”
“I guess. Where’s Dad?”
“Meeting a deadline.” She pointed to his office, which had a closed door. “You hungry?”
“Starving, actually.”
“Yay. I made chicken pot pie, whole wheat bread, fennel salad with heirloom tomatoes, and a blueberry cobbler for dessert.”
I had to laugh. “You made all that just now?”
“Nothing else to do in this house with your dad working and you snoring away.” She got up to serve me. A while ago, I gave up protesting whenever she prepared a plate for me; Dad told me I was being rude, that Nicole actually liked serving people her food. And since she couldn’t be over here that much when Mom was around, I always tried to be extra-considerate.
As usual, all the food was incredible. Warm, comforting, not too spicy or too bland. If Nicole did all the cooking around here, I’d probably ace caloric intake.
“This is amazing,” I gasped between forkfuls.
“Glad you like it. And I love to see you with an appetite.”
It occurred to me that I had one. Not a fake one either.
She broke off some bread and added it to my plate. “So how are things going? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Yeah, because you haven’t,” I said, mopping up some of the chicken liquid with the bread crust. “It’s going okay. Although it’s just the first week, so.”
She snorted. “You’re expecting to fall off a cliff?”
“Well, you can’t be sure.”
I got cancer, didn’t I? Stuff happens.
When I finished eating, Dad finally came out of his office (which he called his “writer’s cave,” only half jokingly). Nicole brought the blueberry cobbler into the TV room, and the three of us watched a sci-fi movie about cyborgs taking over the earth.
It was a cozy night. We all shouted things at the TV screen, had seconds on the cobbler, and nobody told me to go to bed (probably because I’d had such a long nap). It did make me feel a little guilty to enjoy hanging out with Nicole—but I reminded myself that it wasn’t her fault that Mom and Dad had broken up. Also, it was great to see Dad so relaxed and jokey again, especially after being called into school for my misbehavior.
* * *
The next day, a rainy Saturday, was more rest for me. Nicole disappeared when Mom came over, sniffing around the kitchen the way she always did after Nicole cooked. Dad got grumpy (but pretended to be cheerful) and locked himself in his office again. For the first time I found myself wishing Mom would just leave already so that the house would be less tense. And then immediately hating myself for wishing Mom would leave.
“I booked my flight,” she told me. “Monday night out of JFK. As long as your checkup on Monday is completely normal.” Then she knocked th
ree times on the table leg.
The two of us played a bunch of board games we didn’t finish—Risk, chess, Star Wars Monopoly. We shopped online for non-orange school clothes. She showed me a few knitting stitches (not that I’d ever knit). I dozed with my head in her lap while she did a crossword puzzle. For dinner we ordered Chinese food, and Dad joined us. (They did their best not to comment on my food intake, although when I sneezed once, they both freaked.) Afterward, Dad went back into his office, and Mom and I watched The Devil Wears Prada, me cuddled up next to her like a cat.
A boring day, but a good one. And the last mother-daughter Saturday we’d have for a very long time.
* * *
On Sunday morning, Harper called.
“You didn’t show up last night,” she said.
“To what?” I asked.
“Kylie’s party. Remember?”
“Yes, but I never told her I was going. Or you. I only said I might, because my mom is leaving on Monday.”
“So you actually asked your mom? And she actually said no?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” As I said this, I realized it was. Because it wasn’t just that Mom and Dad had this rule about me resting on weekends. It was also that I really had needed some one-on-one time with Mom before she left. And the reason why I did was one of those cancer things that a noncancer person wouldn’t understand.
But Harper didn’t even ask what I meant by “complicated.” Maybe by now she’d given up on me explaining things to her.
There was a too-long pause.
“So what’s going on today?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Not much,” Harper replied. “Just going to the mall with a few people. Aria’s getting her ears pierced, Addison wants a new hoodie, and Kylie needs shoes.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
Harper must have heard something in my voice, because then she said, “Norah, please don’t be jealous, okay? They’ve been really nice to me. The whole time you were sick, they invited me places. I don’t know what I would have done without them.”
I thought about Addison’s stinkeye and Kylie not wanting to hear my “gory details.” My throat felt tight, but I tried to sound cheery. “Hey, no, that’s really great. I’m not jealous, I’m glad for you, Harper.”
Another pause. Then she said: “I’d ask if you want to join us, but something tells me you wouldn’t.”
It’s not that I wouldn’t. It’s that I CAN’T.
“Well, have fun at the mall,” I said.
“You too,” Harper said. But only because it’s what you say.
* * *
That evening, I texted my tutor, Ayesha. I’m not sure why I suddenly needed to talk to her— but maybe it was because the conversation with Harper had left me wobbly, and Ayesha was always the one person who understood everything. Everything I was feeling, I mean. Because she’d felt it too.
Me: Hey. Just wanted to say school’s going great!
No answer, so I did some science homework. Doodled a zentangle seahorse, then a snake.
Finally, two hours later, my phone chirped.
Ayesha: NORAH! Yay, so happy to hear from you!! They put you in 8th grade math??
Me: Yep. And science.
Ayesha: Bec you’re a math/sci nerd like me!! :P So are they hard?
Me: Nah. And I like the teachers. But not as much as YOU.
Ayesha: Yeah I spoiled you forever, haha.
Me: You did!! But I like having classmates again. I think maybe. Mostly.
Ayesha: Yeah, classmates are cool. Maybe. Mostly. ;) How are yr parents?
Me: Ok. Still nervous but . . .
Ayesha: Well, that’s normal I guess. So are mine & its been 10 yrs since I was sick haha!! Hey, N, gotta run, meeting my girlfriend. Take care of yrself, work hard, stay in touch, kay? <3
BAD HAIR DAY
Monday morning, I was still feeling tired, but I wasn’t about to admit it to my parents. If I did, they’d just make me skip morning classes to rest up for the afternoon checkup at Phipps. But then I wouldn’t see Griffin, and that was the one thing I’d been looking forward to all weekend.
And it was good I made it to math, because as soon as I took my seat, Griffin asked if I’d be going to Afterschool. There was “something important” he wanted to ask me, he said.
“Um, I can’t,” I said. “Not today.”
His face fell. “How come?”
“Doctor appointment. For my allergies.”
“Oh.”
“But I’ll go tomorrow,” I added quickly.
His face lit up. “Awesome.”
I stared at my math notebook. What could Griffin need to ask that had to wait for Afterschool? It couldn’t be that he wanted to go out with me, right? I desperately hoped not. For one thing, I didn’t feel ready for that. And for another thing, how would I answer? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m never available on weekends until further notice for reasons I REALLY, REALLY don’t want to talk about? Maybe all he wanted was to ask was if I’d help him with math; we were having a quiz next week, and I could tell he was kind of lost.
Whatever it was, I’d just chosen my one Afterschool day of the week: Tuesday. I was really looking forward to Art Club because I’d get to hang out with Harper—my only chance to be with her outside a classroom. Unless things had gotten too weird with us—yesterday’s phone call was definitely awkward, or something. I probably needed to apologize. Or explain things better. Or just explain things more.
“Norah?” Ms. Perillo had written a problem on the whiteboard.
My brain scrambled.
“Twelve,” I blurted.
“Nice.” She wrote the number 12 next to the problem. “Rowan, can you explain Norah’s answer?”
I smiled and silently thanked Ayesha.
* * *
Mom and Dad signed me out of school at ten thirty that morning. As I got into Dad’s car, I was super-jittery. This was strange, because all I’d done for the last two years was get scans and tests, so after a while I stopped worrying about them. I mean, having checkups was what I did. But maybe the fact that I was starting to have some kind of a normal life made me focus on this afternoon’s appointments in a different way.
“Ready, Freddie?” Dad asked. It was what he always said when we were leaving the house for Phipps. Or when a needle was about to go in. Or when a scan was about to happen and I needed to lie still.
“Yep,” I answered. “Let’s do this thing.” My line.
Mom turned around from the passenger seat to kiss the air in front of me. Then she smiled, but I could see in her eyes that she was struggling not to cry. This worried me. Because if she got weepy before we were even on the road to Phipps, how would it be afterward, at the airport, when we needed to say good-bye? Assuming everything was okay with me and she could leave, knock on wood.
Dad put on the radio. Traffic and weather on the eights. The stuff normal people cared about. Then sports.
We arrived at the hospital at eleven forty-five. Pediatrics was the whole seventh floor. We took elevator C—and as soon as we arrived on seven, a funny feeling washed over me, like I was safe at home after a long, rocky voyage. It was so strange: When I was here every day, all I wanted was to escape, return home, return to school, return to my life—and my first minute back, I felt a sense of relief so strong it was like my bones all melted.
And right away, three nurses from the day hospital came running over to greet us, smothering me in hugs, exclaiming about how great I looked, touching my hair. Esme at the reception desk grinned as she asked if I had “fever, cough, cold, or rash,” or had “been to a foreign country in the last month.” When she wrapped the paper identification bracelet around my wrist, she confessed that I looked so grown-up she hardly recognized me. This had to be what she said to all the kids when they’d finished chemo, because I hadn’t “grown up” in the past month at all. But I still liked hearing it.
We took seats in the waiting area. Dad
read e-mails on his phone, the way he always did when he needed to shut out the hospital. Mom went to the snack room to get herself a coffee. And a cup of milk and a doughnut for me—glazed, if any were left; otherwise, cinnamon. We knew how everything worked here: how they only had free doughnuts on Mondays. Where to sit for the best wifi. How long we’d have to wait to see our team of doctors and nurses. It was all so familiar, a routine we’d memorized when everything around us was a blur.
But today, for some reason, I didn’t take out my sketchbook. Instead, I watched the other kids in the waiting area. Some were just sleepy babies in strollers, their parents so freaked they were barely speaking, or else laughing and chatting superloudly, pretending that if they treated this whole thing like a crazy dream, maybe they’d wake up soon. There were also grumpy, bald teenagers with earbuds, trying to ignore their moms. A goth-looking girl with a shiny black wig. A boy with a college tee and a laptop, giving dirty looks whenever a toddler started shrieking. And, of course, plenty of kids my age: a girl wearing a blue crocheted hat and glitter nail polish. A boy with a Batman baseball cap and a deck of Magic cards. A girl with a bandana and a BAD HAIR DAY tee, curled up in her chair with Percy Jackson’s Greek Gods.
All these kids seemed sick, I thought: quiet, tired, flattened. Not like me.
And when the girl with the bandana looked up from Percy Jackson, I smiled at her. “Great book,” I said.
She blinked as if I were speaking Martian.
“Here’s your doughnut, Norah,” Mom was saying brightly. “Lucky you, they had one glazed left.”
Lucky me. I took it from her, hiding it in the napkin. I couldn’t explain it then, but I felt guilty about eating it in front of all these kids. Even though my short hair might have communicated: I was sick like you not very long ago. And look at me now, pigging out on junk food.
“Norah Levy?” Esme called out. Mom and Dad turned to me, startled. We’d all settled in for the regular wait. Maybe checkups worked differently once you weren’t a patient anymore and you had real things to do in the real world.