by Barbara Dee
ROCK STAR
The next afternoon, Ayesha showed up at our front door, smiling. She looked the same as ever, her black hair in a high ponytail, five or six gold studs running up the edge of each ear like a constellation I couldn’t identify. But it was weird how she was holding a small rhombus-shaped banana bread she said she’d baked herself—as if this were a social visit, which it wasn’t.
“I can’t promise you guys it’s edible,” she admitted, laughing. Mom brought the banana bread into the living room on a fancy plate. When she cut slices, we could see how the middle of the loaf looked gummy. So we ate the end pieces with our tea and traded hospital gossip—mostly about how one of the receptionists had married a nurse we all thought was cute. Then Ayesha told us she was moving in with her girlfriend; they were in love, she said, and very happy.
Mom and I made a fuss about how glad we were, then Mom announced that she had to go make a phone call, but I could tell she really just wanted to give us privacy. And I could tell Ayesha got it too, because as soon as Mom was out of the room, she sat all the way forward, her elbows on her thighs, her chin resting on her fists.
“Norah, you look incredible,” she said. “You’ve gained weight, your hair is growing in, and I’m loving the earrings.”
“Thanks. They’re new, so I have to keep them in.”
She nodded quickly, as if she was in a hurry to push the conversation forward. “So what’s going on? I heard from your dad that you want to homeschool?”
“Yes,” I said eagerly. “Exactly.”
“Okay, but why? You told me school was going great.”
“Yeah, basically. It’s not about the work.”
“So what’s it about, then?”
“The people.”
She smiled. “People are people. They’re all over the place, you know? You can’t escape them.”
“Yeah, I know. But the problem is, no one at school understands me.”
“Literally no one?”
“Well, okay, not literally. I mean, a few people do. Ish.” I picked at the crust of my banana bread. “I have this guidance counselor who wants me to talk about ‘overcoming challenges,’ like I once had this problem, and yay for me, everybody, look how well I solved it. I’d never talk that way about being sick.”
“Yeah, I can see that. What about the other kids?”
“All the seventh graders think I’m going to die any minute. Or they think I’m faking, or just asking for special attention, which is crazy. And the eighth graders—I tried to act normal with them, but I screwed up. Really badly. Actually, I screwed up in front of the whole school. So now everyone thinks I’m weird.”
“Well, but you’re in middle school. It’s about feeling weird.”
“But it’s weirder for me.”
“Everyone thinks it’s weirder for them.”
I groaned. “Come on, Ayesha. When you went back to school after cancer, it was really hard for you, right?”
“Are you kidding? Of course it was. Especially the first year. But I told myself: Look, you beat cancer, you can deal with high school. And I did.”
“But what if I’d rather just homeschool with you? Couldn’t we go back to that? Remember all the math we did? And the science experiments? And the Greek myths?”
“Of course I remember, Norah.” She reached across to hold my hands. “But no. I’m very sorry.”
I couldn’t believe what she was saying. Maybe I was hearing it wrong. “We can’t? Why not?”
“Because . . . well, the truth is, I’m not teaching anymore.”
“You’re not?” I pulled my hands away.
“I’ve switched careers,” Ayesha said quietly. “I’m going to nursing school now. To be a pediatric oncology nurse, maybe get a job at Phipps one day.”
“Oh.” It felt as if I’d just been snatched by Hades and dumped into the underworld.
Ayesha pouted, teasing me for my expression. “Aww, don’t look so sad, Norah. Come on, aren’t you happy for me?”
“Yeah. If that’s what you want to do. But I thought—I mean, didn’t you like teaching sick kids?”
She got up from her chair to hug me. “Norah, listen to me: I loved working with you. You were my best student—my favorite. But that was when you were sick. We can’t go back to that; we can’t go back to anything. All we can do is move forward, you know?”
“Ayesha, I tried to move forward,” I wailed. “But I couldn’t!”
“Then you need to try harder, okay? And you need to give other people a chance.”
“To do what? Understand?” I said the word like it burned my mouth.
Ayesha went silent. Then she said, “Let me ask you something: Do you want people to understand?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because maybe you like that a little bit, feeling that nobody gets what you’ve been through. I know that’s how I felt for a very long time. I think I was angry with the universe for making me sick, and maybe also at other kids for not being sick. And then, one day, I guess I just got tired of being angry.”
Now tears were streaming down my face. Snot, too, which I wiped with my hand.
Is Ayesha right—do I LIKE thinking no one understands?
Am I angry?
All right, maybe I am.
And why shouldn’t I be? At everyone! My friends, my parents, my teachers. Even people at the hospital, including Ayesha, who was supposed to save me, not desert me!
Although it was funny how as soon as I had this thought, it popped like a big wet soap bubble. I wasn’t being fair—Ayesha wasn’t deserting me. She was just moving forward.
And she was right: I needed to move forward too.
At least try to move forward.
Try harder.
She pulled out a tissue from her purse. “Wipe,” she said. “Blow.”
I did.
Ayesha poked my elbow. “Hey, didn’t you like my technique just then? Don’t you think I’ll make a rock-star nurse?”
I nodded. “You’re a rock star at everything, Ayesha.”
“Aww, what a sweet thing to say, Norah! Thank you!”
“Except baking,” I added, sticking out my tongue.
WHOOSH
Nobody made me go to school on Wednesday. Ms. Castro called to see if there was anything she could do, but I told her there wasn’t.
Then she said, “Well, Norah, I hope you’ll return very soon. You’ve already triumphed over so much, so if you put your mind to it, I know you can succeed at Burr!”
I groaned inside my head. Ms. Castro was congratulating me again, acting like my leukemia (which she still wouldn’t name!) was something I’d “triumphed over,” a “challenge” I’d “overcome,” like hiking up a vacation mountain. Why was I being so difficult when I had a problem I’d already solved?
It’s all behind you now!
Woohoo!
After I finally got off the phone, I thought: Okay, so maybe if Ayesha can’t be my teacher, I’ll just stay home and teach myself. You can learn anything online, right? And this way I’ll never have to see Griffin again.
Because more and more, as the bake-sale incident replayed itself in my mind like a never-ending GIF, I realized that Griffin’s face—his expression—was the most upsetting thing about it. If he hadn’t “heard” about my secret before, he definitely heard about it right then. And in the worst possible way.
So there was nothing else to think except that I’d blown it with the first boy I’d ever crushed on. I’d never even shown him my kraken sketches, or told him what I’d decided about the norah: that her tentacles could transform into wings.
And now, of course, it was too late.
* * *
I was on the sofa, half napping, half reading one of my favorite stories—the one about Orpheus, the musician who followed his wife, Eurydice, into the underworld. Hades said Orpheus could rescue Eurydice—but only if, as he was leading her out of the underworld, he didn’t look back. And guess
what happened? Yep.
“Norah? Friend here to see you,” Dad called from the foyer. I looked up, expecting Harper.
And I can’t explain this, but right before the “friend” walked into the living room, something changed. It was feeling like whoosh—a sense that all the air molecules had shifted in a weird direction. So when I looked up and saw it was Griffin, my heart was already zooming.
“Hey,” he said. His spiky hair looked messier than usual. Probably from the wind, I thought, wondering if he’d walked all this way from school.
“Hi, Griffin,” I said in a squeaky voice I didn’t recognize. “Why are you here?”
He perched awkwardly on the edge of Dad’s favorite chair. “Just to see what’s going on. Are you okay?”
I swallowed. “Yeah. I was sick, but I’m better now.”
“Good. So when are you coming back to school?”
I shrugged. “It’s sort of complicated.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What?” I stared at him.
“If you’re all better, you should just come back,” he said quietly. “Look, Norah, I know you were sick before. Before this year, I mean.”
It felt like the floor was cracking underneath me. “You did? How did you—”
“Ezra said something once, but I didn’t get it. And Astrid made some comment, but I never trust her. So I figured if it was true, you’d just tell me yourself. But after that bake-sale thing, I talked to Harper.”
“Harper?”
“Astrid said you two were friends in Art Club. So that’s why I gave Harper that note to give you.”
Right, the note mummy.
And now my brain was whirling. Because I’d specifically told Harper I didn’t want Griffin to know about my cancer! So how could she talk about it behind my back?
Griffin rubbed his hair, messing it up even worse. “I didn’t know you and Harper were both in the same grade. In seventh grade, I mean.”
“Sorry. I was going to mention it, but—”
“Yeah, I was surprised, because you’re so ahead of me in math. Anyway, Harper said you had leukemia. For two years.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“And?”
“And what?” There were glass shards in my throat.“What do you want me to say about it?”
“I don’t know. How come you never mentioned it?”
“Griffin, I never lied to you or anyone else. I just . . . didn’t talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want you to treat me like Cancer Girl! That’s how everyone in the seventh grade acts toward me, and I hate it. So I thought if I didn’t mention it—”
“It would just go away?”
“No. I mean, it can’t. It never will. Even if I’m all better.”
He didn’t say anything. Then he asked: “So what did you think, then?”
“Just that other things about me were true. Like . . . the fact I read books. And draw creatures.”
“Okay,” Griffin said. He took a slow breath. “I get that, Norah. I do. But if I told you something important about myself, something personal, would you think, Okay, that’s ALL he’s about, and nothing else?”
“Of course not,” I admitted.
“Well, that’s kind of how you treated me.”
My throat ached. I knew he was right; I was unfair to everybody.
But I couldn’t talk, because if I did, the glass shards would just keep breaking.
Finally, though, I had to ask. “So what is it you’d tell me? I mean, if you were telling me something personal.”
He scratched his nose. “Like, okay: Did you ever wonder why I just suddenly showed up here, in the eighth grade?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“It’s because my dad lost his job. And that meant we lost our house and had to move in with my grandmother.”
“Oh. That’s terrible,” I said, thinking how it explained some stuff: the beat-up bass. Why he never had pens. Why he didn’t still have a sign that said GRIFFIN DOOR.
“It’s not great. I mean, it’s not cancer, but . . .” He shrugged, smiling a little. “I miss my old friends, though.”
“You can still keep in touch with them, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same. They have new stuff going on. But so do I, I guess. Anyhow.” He got up. “I have to go now.”
“Why?” I blurted. “I mean, you don’t have to.”
“No, I do. We’re having band rehearsal at Rowan’s house. But I ducked out. I told them I forgot my phone, so.”
“Well, thanks for coming here.”
“I’d rather see you at school, Norah.” He peeked at me through his eyelashes. “Also Afterschool.”
Without saying good-bye, he turned and left.
Again I had the feeling of whoosh.
PERSEPHONE
The minute Griffin left, my brain leapt from No way I’m ever going back
to: Okay, so what if I DID go back?
to: How can I POSSIBLY go back, after missing so much time?
to: Hey, Norah, you already missed two whole years, what’s the big deal about another few days?
I called Harper that night. Already I’d forgotten my first instinct—to yell at her for telling Griffin about my cancer. Now I was glad he knew. No, not glad—relieved.
“Have you started the Greek myth speeches in English?” I asked her.
“No,” she said. I could tell she was grinning. “Ms. Farrell is meeting with us one-on-one to hear what we’re planning. Some people have started writing, but not me.”
“Okay, good.”
“So . . . does that mean you’re coming back to school?”
“Yeah, actually. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yay!” She was jumping; I could tell.
“Harper?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for hanging with me in that stinky bathroom. Aria, too.”
“Anytime.” She laughed. “But don’t make us do it again, okay?”
* * *
The next morning, Mom and Dad both came to drop me off at school, and to have another meeting with Ms. Castro about my “adjustment issues,” or something. I didn’t ask, because I knew I’d be hearing about it later from my parents. Possibly even from Ms. Castro. And if she summoned me to her office, there was no way to avoid going.
I went to homeroom. Right away Cait and Aria came running over, as if they hadn’t seen me in forever.
“We thought you weren’t coming back,” Cait said.
“So did I,” I admitted. “But I couldn’t stay away from that.” I pointed to Malik and Harrison, who were giving each other noogies. “So what’s been happening?”
Aria and Cait exchanged glances.
“What?” I asked.
“Well,” Aria said, “the big news is that Kylie and Silas got suspended.”
“Omigod, really? What for?”
“Remember when they left the building to get pizza?”
You mean when Kylie left the building and Silas followed her, the idiot. “Yeah.”
“They did it again,” Cait said, her eyes bulging. “Only this time, they left for the whole rest of the day. So now they’re both in major trouble.”
I shook my head. Kylie was Kylie, but Silas was still Silas. Something had happened to make him follow her like a stupid puppy, but maybe it was possible to remind him about the kid he used to be. Even if we weren’t friends anymore, I knew I should try. Besides, hadn’t Harper said he’d wanted to talk to me? In the blur of the last few weeks, I’d lost track of people.
Not Griffin, though. As soon as I saw him in first period math, I had a feeling like: Okay. This friendship—or relationship, whatever I’m supposed to call it—is important to me, and I do NOT want to mess it up.
So the first thing I said to him was: “Griffin, you’re right: I should have told you things. I’m very sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” he replied. Then he grinned. �
�Except not showing me those sketches like you promised.”
I reached into my backpack and took out a folder that had my three best kraken sketches. “Voila,” I said, putting them on his desk. “My favorite is the one with the spikes, but it’s your logo, so you decide.”
“Whoa!” he cried. “Norah, they’re all amazing! You’re amazing.”
Then we both got too embarrassed to keep talking.
* * *
“Norah, good to see you!” Ms. Farrell greeted me. “We need to talk about your speech. Give me three minutes, and then you and I can chat.”
She scurried off to talk to Addison and Malik, leaving the fancy-soap smell behind her.
“Do you know which character you’re doing?” Harper asked. She was so happy I was back that she couldn’t stop smiling.
I didn’t even have to think. “Yep. Persephone.”
“The one who got kidnapped by Hades?”
“Yeah. And rescued by her mom. But then she had to go back to the underworld half of the year because she ate the pomegranate.”
Harper nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I never understood that part.”
“You mean why she ate it, if it was the food of the dead?”
“Yeah,” Harper said. “Was she just stress eating, maybe?”
“Maybe.” The truth was, I hadn’t thought very hard about that detail either. It was definitely strange: If Persephone hated being in the underworld so much, why would she eat a fruit that meant she could never leave?
“All right.” Ms. Farrell had returned to my desk. “Norah, so that we don’t disturb Harper, who needs to be finishing up her first draft”—she raised her eyebrows at Harper’s nearly empty page—“why don’t you and I relocate?”
I followed Ms. Farrell to the back wall, where there were two chairs set up for “conferencing.”
“So,” she said. “First of all, Norah: I’d just like to say I’m delighted to see you back at school. Anything you ever need, any time you’d like to chat about anything—”
“Thank you,” I said. It was the first time I’d said those words without trying to end the conversation. Ms. Farrell was a great teacher, I thought, so smart about things, and not fake-understanding. And I loved the fact that today she was wearing a Beowulf tee.