by Barbara Dee
I had to laugh at the word “bejeezus,” which sounded so American, even with her Serbian accent. “Well, Silas isn’t scared,” I said.
“I hope that’s right. And I hope it works out with all the kids at school.” Raina stood. “Shall we go to the lounge? They’re doing make-your-own sundaes, and I think we have some cool new stuff at the craft table.”
BEST PART OF THE DAY
After talking to Silas, I went to homeroom telling myself: Well, good, you’ll meet for lunch, and everything with him will get back to normal. Whatever normal was. Because the more I thought about what Raina had said about him in our last conversation, the less sure I felt. All the good stuff about Silas—how we hung out together after school, making up stories, cracking each other up until we fell off our bikes—seemed so long ago. My parents would never let me ride a bike now. Because what if I fell off and scratched my knee? Germs could attack my immune system. And then . . . you know. The apocalypse.
I took my seat and opened my sketchbook. But Kylie and Aria pounced right away.
“Norah, we didn’t think we’d see you today,” Kylie declared.
I looked up at her. “Why not?”
“Kylie said you’d be crazy to come back,” Aria said.
“Okay, that’s not what I said,” Kylie protested. “I said after what you’ve been through, Norah, you should be taking a long vacation somewhere, like on a tropical island. Instead of coming back here, to this.” She pointed to Malik and Harrison Warner, who were competing to see who could fake-burp louder. “I mean, seriously, though, if I had what you had—”
“Acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” I said.
She laughed. “What?”
“That’s the kind of cancer I had. It’s the most common type of leukemia. They call it ALL for short.”
Kylie swung her long, perfect black hair. “Omigod, we don’t need all the gory details.”
“Kylie, shut up,” Aria said, giggling nervously.
“Well, sorry, Aria. But don’t you think it’s kind of depressing? And anyway, Norah doesn’t have it anymore, so.”
See, Raina? I just explained it to people. My decision, my words. And look what happened.
“Excuse me, Norah, can I please talk to you for a second?” A girl I knew from before, Cait Gillespie, was standing in front of my desk. “In private?”
“Sure,” I said, glad for a chance to escape. I followed her over to the windows. “What’s up?”
Cait was twirling her dark reddish hair and gazing at me with slightly bulging blue eyes. “Norah,” she said in a quivery voice, “I just wanted to say I’m really so happy that you’re back, and I’m sorry I didn’t visit you more in the hospital. It was just really, really hard—”
“That’s okay,” I said quickly.
“I mean, seeing you like that, and all those other kids . . .” Her eyes filled. Oh, crap. She isn’t going to cry now, right?
I made myself smile. “Yeah, I know. We didn’t look so great.”
“You didn’t look so great, you know?”
I just said that. Why is she repeating? “Okay, anyway, it’s completely fine—”
“Also, if you need anything—I mean, if I could help you with anything at school . . . ,” she said. “Although really, Norah, you’re so smart, you should probably be helping me!” Her nervous laugh sounded like a hiccup.
“Do you need a tutor?” I asked her. “Because I know a great one named Ayesha—”
“No, no, that was a joke! Sorry! It wasn’t very funny. Just, you know, if there’s anything I can do . . . besides curing cancer.” She giggled, her eyes avoiding mine.
“Well, thanks, Cait. I’ll definitely ask you.”
“Great, Norah. Definitely ask me.”
“Okay. Um.” Was she done? I didn’t want to be rude by going back to my seat.
“Well, that’s it,” she said. “Just, you know. I hope you’re not mad at me? And sorry!”
Before I could tell her to please, PLEASE stop apologizing, she ran back to her seat.
* * *
“So have you decided on a norah?” Griffin asked. This was right before the start of math, and, except for a couple of girls I didn’t know, we were the only ones in the room.
For a second I had no idea what Griffin was talking about. Then I remembered yesterday’s conversation about names and mythical creatures.
“Not yet.” I opened my sketchbook and drew something swirly. “Although I’m thinking there are probably tentacles.”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah, with suckers at the ends.”
“Hmm, I don’t know about suckers. Maybe.”
“Well, okay. It’s your creature, so you get to decide. Does it swim?”
“Of course it does! It’s a water creature; why else would it have tentacles?”
“True.”
“But I’m also thinking it’s a hybrid. So it swims and flies.”
“You mean it has tentacles and wings? Is that even possible, engineering-wise?”
“Why not! If a griffin is a flying lion—”
“Okay, fine, Norah. You can be a flying octopus.”
I laughed. “That’s not how I’m picturing her! I’m thinking it’s more like she changes states—you know, like from sea creature to air creature. Anyhow, I’m still working out the details.”
“Cool,” Griffin said. He reached into his jeans and took out the green gel pen. For a second I thought he was going to give it back to me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it. I mean, maybe it was stupid, but I liked the fact that he had my pen. But then he opened his math notebook and wrote the date. With the green gel pen.
I realized I was staring at his hand, so I opened my own notebook.
And that was when Thea and another girl walked over.
“Hey,” Thea said loudly. “Griffin. This is Astrid.”
“Hi, Griffin,” Astrid said. She was dressed completely in black and wore eyeliner, which made her eyes look like answers she’d circled on a multiple-choice test. “We were just wondering if you’d signed up for Afterschool.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Oh, you don’t know? It’s the best part of the day!” Thea exclaimed. “There are a million clubs you can pick, or you can try out for a team—”
“Thea does volleyball,” Astrid said. “I’m head of the Art Club.”
Well, woohoo for you.
Griffin turned to me. “You should do Art Club, Norah.”
“Me?” I croaked, aware that Astrid and Thea were looking me over. “Oh, no. I really don’t have time.”
“You should make time,” Astrid said. “It’s definitely the best way to meet people, and it’s really important to feel involved. Here.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out a little booklet: Afterschool at Burr.
I pretended to read it. CPR for Babysitters, Harry Potter Club, Art Club, Hip-Hop, Intramural Track, Chamber Orchestra, Bugs—
BUGS? Were they serious? How were BUGS an activity?
Astrid was smiling at Griffin. “What do you think you’d be interested in?”
He poked his cheek with my green gel pen. “I don’t know. Is there a rock band, possibly?”
Astrid and Thea exchanged a glance. I knew exactly what it meant: Omigod, could this new boy be any cuter?
“Yeah, actually, there is,” Thea answered. “Griffin, you have to join! What do you play?”
“Bass. I’m not very good, though.”
“Don’t be so modest,” Thea told him, laughing. She gave his arm a playful little whack. “I bet you’re really great.”
She does? Why? Because he’s cute? I barfed inwardly.
Class started. It was a good thing that Ms. Perillo was beginning with stuff I’d already done with Ayesha, because after that conversation, I was so mad I couldn’t concentrate.
THE WHOLE STORY
The next period, Ms. Farrell handed back the paragraphs describing “one meaningful thing” about ourselves. If you got an asteris
k, that meant she hoped you’d share it with the class, although it was up to you. Everybody else got a check, which basically meant: Yes, you turned it in and I read it. (Ms. Farrell didn’t say that’s what a check meant, but you could tell by the way she praised the asterisk people.)
About half the class got asterisks, including Harper.
I got a check.
I told myself: So what. Who cares if she wasn’t impressed. It’s only the second day of school, and you’ve dealt with way bigger stuff, right? But I still felt pretty bad about it. In my fantasy return to school, the teachers raved about my work, just like they always had before. I’d been good at everything, but Language Arts, or English, or whatever you were supposed to call it now, was my favorite subject, so I was used to getting the best grades whenever I wrote something. And the way Ms. Farrell had come over to my desk—I don’t know, it felt sort of personal. Even though she already knew my name, which meant she’d come over to check on Cancer Girl.
For most of the period we listened to kids reading. Aria described her lucky sneakers (she’s a runner), Malik explained how he wanted to be seventh grade president, and Harper read about this collage she was making. Then Ms. Farrell praised them for “specificity of detail,” explaining the difference between “showing” and “telling,” which I already knew.
When class was over, Ms. Farrell stopped by my desk. “I liked your essay, Norah,” she said quietly.
“Not really,” I blurted. “All I got was a check.”
She smiled. “Well, yes. Do you want to know why?”
I nodded, looking at her Phantom Tollbooth tee instead of her face.
“Because you didn’t show me anything about yourself: ‘Doodles don’t matter.’ You know what I thought when I read it? Why is she writing this, when there’s so much else worth communicating?”
Like what, for example?
Oh, of course. She wanted a cancer story!
My face flushed. “That was what I wanted to communicate.”
“That you like to doodle?” She paused for a while. Too long. Then she said, “Okay, fair enough. But I suspect you’re capable of something far more meaningful, Norah.”
Was that a criticism or a compliment? Maybe both, and I didn’t want to hear it. What right did this teacher have to demand a cancer story? Raina said I didn’t need to entertain people, not even grown-ups. And who was Ms. Farrell to decide what was meaningful to me, especially since she’d only met me the day before?
“All right, thanks,” I muttered, snatching my backpack and escaping the classroom.
* * *
The rest of the morning, I tried to put the stupid paragraph out of my mind. And that wasn’t hard to do with everything else going on. In social studies, our teacher, Mr. O’Brien, took me aside at the start of class to say that if I ever needed extra time to do an assignment, I didn’t even need to ask. This was him trying to be nice, I guess, but the thing was, Mr. O’Brien had an extremely loud, raspy voice, so even though he probably thought he was speaking in a private whisper, the whole class heard. And I was pretty sure I saw Addison Ventura giving me the stinkeye. Like: Hey, Norah, you’re not even sick anymore, so why should YOU get special treatment?
Also, in PE we were having relay races. The gym teacher, Mr. Ludlow, said I could sit out whenever I wanted, but I told him I wanted to participate. So he put me on Malik’s team—which had Addison on it. And when she saw how slowly I ran, even though I was sweating like crazy, she made a comment to Kylie. Which I heard just the end of: like a baby.
So that was how Addison saw me, I realized: a slow-running, sweaty baby who was completely fine now, but got special treatment anyway.
I told myself not to care. Let Addison think whatever she wants. What difference does it make? She’s not even my friend. But it still bothered me. I hated the thought of anyone deciding I was a faker, that I was using cancer as some kind of all-purpose excuse. Sorry I farted just now, but you know I had CANCER. Hey, I didn’t step on your big toe, it was the CANCER. Can I please have an extra scoop of ice cream? As someone with CANCER . . . !
I decided not to say anything to Harper about Addison’s snotty attitude, though. First of all, because I saw the two of them chatting together at the start of social studies, so obviously Harper liked her, for some reason. And second of all, because as soon as Harper and I walked into the cafeteria, I wobbled.
Harper noticed immediately. “Norah, are you all right? Should I get the nurse?”
“No, no, just give me a minute.” I couldn’t explain, even to Harper, about the “smell memories,” how certain foods (especially fried meat) made me woozy. I knew it was crazy—but after eating hospital hamburgers at the beginning of my treatment, just thinking about them still made me want to barf. And today was Hamburger Day in the cafeteria, apparently. Bleh.
“Anyway,” I said, with a cheery all-better-now voice. “Do you see Silas? We’re supposed to have lunch together.”
Harper’s eyes widened. “You are? Oh.”
“Is something wrong with that?”
“No. I just never hang out with him anymore.”
“How come? Did you guys have a fight?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you had a fight?” I searched Harper’s face for an answer.
“Norah, look, go have lunch with him if you really want to,” Harper was saying. “I’ll eat with my Art Club friends. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yep. Absolutely.”
But the truth was, even though the hamburger feeling had passed, I still felt wobbly—because Harper had never mentioned any weirdness with Silas before. Whenever she’d told me about stuff going on with people—fights, crushes, parties, hurt feelings, new friendships—I always thought I was getting the whole story. It had never crossed my mind that Harper was holding anything back. I mean, why would she? And what she said, that she “didn’t know” if they’d had a fight, just seemed strange. Maybe I could ask Silas about it at lunch.
I searched the lunchroom. But I still couldn’t spot him, so I figured he was getting his food. I should too, I told myself, even though it meant walking over to where they were making the dreaded hamburgers. Just keep breathing out. Grab a strawberry yogurt and an apple. Don’t look where they’re cooking it. Keep moving.
“Norah, over here!”
Aria was calling me. She was sitting at a big table with a bunch of people: Kylie, Harrison, Malik, Cait, Addison, and Silas.
Wait. Silas? Had he forgotten our lunch date?
No, because now he was waving me over. Seriously? I hadn’t specified that this would be a private lunch (and honestly, I’d assumed Harper would be joining us)—but why did he think having lunch with me meant eating with like half the grade? Especially considering I hadn’t seen him up close in almost two years.
Plus, he hadn’t even saved me a seat next to him. I had to squeeze in between Cait and Aria, which put me opposite Malik and kitty-corner from Silas. How was this “lunch with Silas”? It wasn’t.
“Hi,” I said just sort of generally, to everybody. Then I looked directly at Silas, who was eating—guess what. A hamburger. So I had to look away before I barfed.
“Hi, Norah,” Kylie replied, like she was the emcee of the table. “We were just talking about what we’re doing in Afterschool. I’m taking Modern Dance and Hip-Hop.”
“Oh, cool,” I said.
“I’m doing soccer,” Cait said. “Norah, if you want, I could show you how to sign up.”
With a writing utensil. “Thanks, but I’m not doing Afterschool this fall.”
“Why not?” Kylie challenged me. “Don’t you want to?”
I suddenly realized that I did. I mean, a lot. And if I could choose anything to join, I’d choose Art Club. Not only to be with Harper—although that would definitely be great—but because Art Club was where I belonged, like Griffin said. Even if that snotty Astrid was in charge of it.
But, of course, after school th
ere were the hypernervous Parent Rules, which I didn’t want to explain to everyone at the lunch table. “I just have other things to do,” I said.
“You mean cancer things?” Malik asked.
“Malik, your mouth?” Aria reminded him.
“That’s okay,” I said as I pulled the foil off the top of my yogurt container and began to mix in the strawberries. When I looked up, everyone was watching me stir my yogurt, like I was Picasso mixing colors.
“Norah, can I ask you a question?” Addison said. “Is your hair short because cancer made it all fall out?”
Aria rolled her eyes. “No, you cheese-head. Cancer doesn’t make your hair fall out. The medicine does.”
“Yep,” I said. “The chemo drugs.”
Addison made a face like someone pinched her from behind. “Omigod, if I lost all my hair, I’d want to die.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Aria said. “If it was a choice between hair and dying, Addison, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t choose hair!”
Although who knew, maybe she would. Addison had a million cornrow braids you could tell were super-important to her. Right up there with oxygen.
“So was it really bad?” Harrison blurted. “I mean, the chemo.”
I licked my spoon in straight lines. “Uh-huh. Sometimes.”
“I heard the drugs they give are worse than cancer.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s just stupid.”
“So what kind did they give you?”
“You mean, what were the names of all my medicines?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Harrison wants to look them up online,” Malik teased.
“I do not,” Harrison said. But he was blushing.
“Actually, there were so many I don’t remember,” I lied.
Kylie groaned. “Can we PLEASE change the subject?”
“But it’s interesting,” Harrison protested.
“Not to me. I think it’s depressing.” Kylie tossed her shiny black hair. “No offense, Norah.”
“I’m not offended,” I replied.
Aria smiled at me helpfully. “Anyway, chemo makes people get better. My grandma had chemo for breast cancer, and it made her hair fall out. And she said, Okay, if I need a wig, it’s gonna be a hot one! So she got this big blond beachy-wave thing. It looked hilarious on her!”
