I rip hard with my front teeth on a jagged hangnail on my thumb, and a sharp zing of pain shoots up my arm. “I can’t.”
She doesn’t move. Her foot and hip pushed aggressively out to one side, her head tilted in a half threat, half question. “You can’t?” She shakes her head slightly in confusion. “You can’t what . . . sit?”
Her question hangs in the air over the classroom. Someone behind me snickers. The way she says it slaps me across the face. I inhale sharply. “I don’t want to,” I say, choking on my breath. I’m tripping over my words, suddenly nervous. “I mean”—I look around the room frantically for an escape—“I mean, can I sit at one of the back tables?” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, pointing at the long black lab tables at the rear of the classroom. “My back hurts.” I shrug with a grimace, almost shouting the words. I move my hand up to my lower back and bend over slightly like my dad. “My doctor said I shouldn’t really be sitting in desks in the first place. He wrote me a note but it’s in my book bag at home.”
Brilliant lies like this always bring me a surge of confidence. I look her straight in the eye as I gently rub my back, impressed with myself. “It might be scoliosis.”
Ms. Matthews’s face is scrunched in toward the middle, clearly trying to figure out my intentions. With a tilted head, she squints at the lab tables, then scans the walls of the room and the messy lines of desks in front of her. She looks me directly in the eyes, lip pursed, arms resting on her thick stomach, for five full seconds. “Fine.” She shakes her head and looks at the ceiling. “If you must.”
I tiptoe down the aisle between desks, counting into the crowded but quiet classroom. I don’t even care if they’re staring. I’m just happy to have escaped.
The ten-foot-long lab tables come up to my hips and have thick, cold slabs of black marble on top of strong wooden legs. I reach to pull one of the tall stools toward me, but before my hand can touch the metal, I’m zapped. The searing electricity I’ve become so familiar with. I probably should have expected that, I think, as I look down at its gray frame. I take a tiptoed step a foot to my left to put some distance between us.
With a deep breath, I look down at the thin stack of white paper stapled together in the top left corner. Honors Chemistry—Final Exam. I flip over the cover page and finger through the sheets—ten pages, one hundred multiple choice questions. In bold, unflinching black font:
What are nucleic acids made of?
A. Sugars
B. Fatty acids
C. Nucleotides
D. Amino acids
I stare blankly down at the page. Most of these words are familiar, but only as a month-old memory. I know I’ve seen them before, highlighted them in my notes, but I have no idea what they mean. So this is what it feels like not to study. My heart drops as I realize this is the first time I’ve ever been in this situation. Completely unprepared for a test, staring at a guaranteed F. The edges of my eyes sear like I might cry, but of course I don’t. Can’t. My head falls slightly, and I let out a long, extended sigh. I glance down the rest of the sheet and flip through the next three or so pages. More of the same.
Straightening my back, I roll my neck slowly and adjust my nub of a pencil in my hand. It’s three inches long and barely extends past my knuckles. Looking back at the test, I know I’ve just got to face it. Finish my business and get out of here. Cut my losses. I roll the pencil slightly between my fingers, and one hundred rows of bubbles, four bubbles across, stare back at me. I decide to make a zigzag pattern. A, B, C, D, C, B, A. A, B, C, D, C, B, A. The lead point on the pencil is still sharp and fills in each bubble with a dark finality. I try to push it out of my mind, but I know that the lead tip can’t last forever. I just need it to survive through one hundred bubbles and a precalculus test.
My fingers cramping in protest of my tight, rigid grip, I shake my hand in the air, holding the pencil with my thumb and letting my fingers fly in all directions. I look down at the curvy design I’ve created on my answer sheet and my stomach sinks. This is suicide. For my chemistry grade, for my GPA, for my chances of getting in to Brown. Or Dartmouth. Or anywhere that has hundred-year-old ivy growing on it. But I’m saving my mom’s life! I yell to myself. Protecting her from cancer. It’s worth it.
I think.
My hand is poised above the answer sheet, and for the first time I notice that the entire page is an odd shade of light green. And the borders around the individual bubbles and the lines at the bottom where I scribbled my name are a darker forest green. Green. Green. Green. Green, green, green. My brain is whipped into the center of a tornado, the room flying in a blur around me. I can’t breathe. The air is caught in my throat. I feel myself lifting my arms in front of me in surrender and slowly backing away on my tiptoes. The only piece of the world in focus is the green answer sheet. And the memory of the green shorts I was wearing yesterday in the kitchen. And leaves and grass and bushes.
A quick gust of anger rises in my chest, and I look up to the ceiling, ready to curse my monster. He takes everything from me. And leaves me here to pick my way around the land mines. Not only do I have to fail my chemistry test, but the answer sheet itself is green. How am I supposed to function? What kind of life is this? I can’t— But then I remember. It’s not my monster. It’s God. My eyes are glued to the ceiling, my body frozen like a statue of armor, as I press sharply on the brakes in my brain. Oh, right. It’s God.
Th-th-thank you, God. I send the message to him in my thoughts. Thank you for warning me about the color green. I bow my head, recite the prayer formula, pound my chest twice, and point toward the sky.
I open my eyes and I’m looking up at my hand, still pointed emphatically at the ceiling. I can feel my heart swelling with warmth, and I know that I’ve been heard. That my messages have been accepted. The black marble tabletop is cold against my skin and a shiver runs through me. One of the fluorescent overhead lights is flickering on and off, covered in decades of dust. Its neighbor emits a constant eerie buzzing. The room feels so weird without the periodic-table mural. Kind of like a prison. Or an asylum.
I have already colored in about twenty-five bubbles. Their black marks are the only safe part of the cancer-green answer sheet that is glaring up at me from the tabletop. I feel its evil searing through my skin, waiting patiently until it has enough power to sprout into a tumor. I just need to get out of here. A heat is growing within me, but my body is shivering, from either fear or stress. This whole situation is a deathtrap. The longer I stay, the more likely I am to get myself into trouble . . . or terminal cancer. Screw this.
A wave of powerful determination boils up into my chest. Using my left thumbnail, not allowing any of my actual skin to touch the paper, I pin down the top edge of the answer sheet. A flicker of electricity immediately shoots up my finger, but I’ve just got to hope that cancer travels slower through nail than it would skin. In the back of my mind, in the small part of my brain still dedicated to rationality, the idea seems to make some sort of biological sense.
With one corner of the paper now stationary, I try to resume my zigzag bubbling. But without my right hand to touch the green surface and hold it in place, the paper only crinkles and moves under the pencil. My heart is pounding, anxious to get away from this test and back to the safety of staring at wide, blank countertops. Do something! I yell at myself, jerking up from my slouch. My head swivels on my shoulders, scanning the room for options. Without touching it, how can I hold this down enough to be able to fill in the bubbles? I need something heavy to put on the corner. A rock, or a paperweight . . . or a shoe. I’m looking down at my worn sneakers perched on tiptoes between the tiles. Yes.
Reaching down, I yank my tennis shoe off my foot, place it carefully on the corner of the answer sheet, and press my arm down on top of it. With my wrist bent down awkwardly from the laces, I can now finally bubble in the rest of the answer sheet safely. As I finish shading in the final circle, I think about my mission. Fail the test to save my mom. I loo
k down at the zigzagged snake design covering my bubble sheet. This should do the trick.
I tiptoe unevenly across the room, bobbing up and down.
“Do you have a question?” Ms. Matthews glares up at me from the splayed newspaper in front of her, tiny reading glasses placed on the very tip of her nose.
“No, I’m done.” I shrug slightly and place the test gently on the corner of her messy desk. At the sound of our voices, every single head in class rises up and looks at us. The room stays silent, but the air feels suddenly heavier.
I hear a few mumbles and someone whispers, “Oh my gosh, how is that even possible?”
“Done? It’s only been twenty minutes.” She gestures vaguely at the round clock hanging on the wall above her head. She squints at me and pushes her head forward. “It’s a three-hour exam session.” I feel her eyes drop and examine my body, looking at my thin pants and ragged T-shirt. The sneaker I used as a paperweight under my arm. My bare foot standing on tiptoe in the center of a tile. “Are you sure you’re finished?”
“Yep.” I respond before she’s completed her sentence, cutting off most of the last word. I know I should smile, or grin, or something, anything, to distract her, to wipe the worry off her face, but it’s not possible. I don’t have it in me, and, I realize in the moment, I don’t care what Ms. Matthews thinks anymore. So I nod at her once, turn on my tiptoes, and count my way out of the classroom with my sneaker held tightly underneath my arm, shoelaces dangling at my side.
CHAPTER 14
I’m lying curled in a fetal position on the carpet upstairs, my eyes jammed closed against the bright afternoon sun. I’m hiding from the world in darkness, and it’s taking all of my energy. I haven’t eaten today. There isn’t much else I can do besides lie here, passing gently to and from sleep.
But more than hunger, it’s the heavy weight in my chest that’s drawing me into myself. Although I wasn’t forbidden from passing my precal exam like I was chemistry, I wasn’t allowed to study, which is basically the same thing. Exhausted and shell-shocked, I started crying in the middle of the final on Friday as I looked down at the completely blank five-page exam. A golden ticket to failure. With all my classmates staring, and under the pressure of Ms. Tisman’s questions, I feigned food poisoning. After a few fake gags, I was given permission to come retake the test on Monday, tomorrow, the first day of Christmas break, with an entire letter grade deducted from my final score as penalty.
“Allison, honey! C’mon, this is the third time I’ve called you!” My mom’s voice carries up the carpeted stairs to find me in the den. “It’s almost halftime. You’re missing the game!” I know she is talking to me, but I don’t listen to it. Whatever she’s saying doesn’t matter.
But within a few seconds, I hear her muffled steps climbing up the stairs. She’s coming to check on me. “You wouldn’t believe what’s just happened,” she projects down the hall. “We blocked a field goal and—” Her voice cuts off as she turns the corner into the den. I feel her eyes freeze on me, taking in my emaciated body on the carpet. “Allison! What are you—” She rushes into the room and crouches down by my side, knees popping. “Are you okay? Why are you on the floor?” I ignore her, keeping my eyes closed and my head buried deep in the soft carpet fibers. I can’t do this right now. “Honey?” She is screaming as if she has just seen me get hit by a car. A loud, frantic scream that oozes fear. “HONEY?” She grabs my right arm hard and shakes my body back and forth, jarring me out of my half coma.
“Whaaaat?” I yell at her, opening my eyes and squinting into the light. “Stop! Why are you shaking me?” My voice jerks under the violent pumps of her arms. She isn’t crying, but she’s on the verge. Of something. Her eyes are searching, manic, looking me up and down. She pats my arms, legs, head, as if checking to see I’m still intact. “Stop!” I jerk my body away from her, sit up a few inches, reclining against my elbow. I shoot her my best What the f is wrong with you? glare.
“Oh, you just looked . . .” She seems surprised to see me sitting up. “I thought you were . . .” A wave of relief sweeps over her face but her hand is still gripping my arm. “You just had me worried.” She shakes her head slightly, mostly to herself. I look blankly up at her. I’ve never seen her like this. Frazzled and out of control. And scared. “Why are you on the floor? Why were you lying like that?” She’s trying to sound serious, borderline angry, but I can hear the concern on the edges of her words.
“I was just taking a nap, you weirdo.” I look at her quickly and then fall back to the carpet. Go away. Go away. Go away.
“You didn’t look like you were taking a nap.” She stares at me, waiting for a response, but I’m staring at the wall. “You need to get up. Come downstairs with us.”
“No. Can’t. Have to study.” My voice is steady and robotic, eyes staring straight ahead.
“Study? Exams ended on Friday! There’s no studying for at least two weeks.” She fidgets with the edge of my pajamas. The same set I’ve worn for four days now because there is almost nothing else safe. And I’m too tired to change. She runs her hands over my clothes, flattening them out onto my bony skin. “Come on”—she gently nudges my shoulder, a touch of warmth filtering slowly back into her voice and face—“you don’t want to miss the game. We could make the playoffs.” I know she is projecting fake happiness on me, just like I do to her. It’s really annoying.
“Exams aren’t over yet, Mom. At least not for me.” I clear my throat gently. “I guess I forgot to tell you. . . .” I lurch back up onto my forearm and look her in the face for the first time. I haven’t forgotten to tell her. I was just hoping to take the test on Monday while she was at work and avoid this whole conversation. “I got really sick during the precal final on Friday and had to leave.” A small noise pops from my mom’s mouth, and I look down at my hand lying against the carpet. “But Ms. Tisman said I could just come retake it on Monday. Tomorrow.” I let my gaze cross quickly over her face, avoiding her eyes, and nod twice with what I hope looks like conviction.
“Wait, what? You what?” She pushes her head forward toward me. The fake happiness is replaced with genuine concern. “You were sick? When? You didn’t tell us?” The look she had in her eyes as she shook me on the carpet is back. The face that says: Where is my daughter?
“Well, I mean, no. It wasn’t a big deal. It was food poisoning. I ate Taco Bell. Once I threw up a few times I felt better.” I shrug slightly. “It’s no problem. She said I could make it up.” I’m trying to sound casual. There’s a redness creeping up her skin from under the neck of her sweatshirt. She’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third eye and it’s winking at her.
“So, you didn’t take your precalculus final on Friday?”
“No.” I move my head once from side to side. “I was sick.”
“And you’re going to retake it tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Without any penalty?”
“No. None.” Just a whole letter grade.
“And you’re just telling me this . . . now. On Sunday.” She locks eyes with me. “After having food poisoning. On Friday.” She is squinting at me, a dubious FBI agent questioning a suspect.
“Yes.” The same short nod. I look at her like she’s asking the obvious, trying to convince her with my eyes that this really isn’t a big deal. It’s just a math final. Her eyes move down across my face. She is searching for something. A clue, a hint, a sign to help her understand who I’ve become. Who I’ve turned into over the past ten weeks. I try my best to keep my face steady, but my lower lip creeps into my mouth. Will she buy it?
My mom reclines onto her side so she is lying face-to-face beside me on the carpet. It feels weird to see her in such a childlike position. The VP of Everything, lounging on the floor. She lets out a long, deep breath as if she has come to some sort of decision within herself. Something in her face has changed when she looks up at me. “Okay. Well, do you feel prepared?”
She’s giving in! Without a f
ight! I’ve won! I clear my throat and shrug like I’m not concerned. “Yeah, I mean, I studied a lot last week. I probably just need to review some notes for a few hours.” I point at the leaning tower of trash and books sitting beside my cancer desk. There is a bag of squished grapes propped against it on the floor.
“Good, that’s good, honey.” She reaches her arm up and smooths the hair around my face. “How about this.” She pauses. “You take a break from studying right now. You deserve some relaxation.” Her hand is still warmly cupping the side of my face, and I’m leaning into it against my will. I miss you, Mom. “So, come watch a little bit of the game with us, and then when it’s over, you can come back up here and finish your work. I’ll make you dinner and bring it up to you on a tray so you can eat and study.” She tilts her head slightly and looks at me. “You’ve just been working so hard. Come take a break, okay?”
It’s her hand on my face that draws me into her plan. Her skin is so soft, and it feels nice to be touched. My world of isolation is safe but also, I’ve just realized, incredibly lonely. Her warm skin has lulled me into a calm trance. And I nod at her. “Sure, I guess so.”
She stands and, with her hands beneath my armpits, pulls me up as well. My head spins with the movement, and I stumble backward, then sideways, against my swirling brain. My mom’s strong hand on my upper arm steadies me. We make brief eye contact, the wall behind her still swimming across my vision, and then I follow her out of the den and down the hallway.
The basement has no windows to the outside, and it’s always about ten degrees cooler than the rest of the house. The fish tank glows and gurgles at me as I cross through the door.
“C’mon, pass interference!” My dad is screaming at the TV, his black mesh jersey wrinkling around his stomach. “Are you blind?” My mom clears her throat as she leads me inside.
“Jeffrey . . . ,” she whisper-yells.
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