Young Adult Fiction
"I'm afraid I have bad news, Brendan. It's leukemia."
It goes right by me. I don't even hear it. I'm so prepared to hear anything else—a virus, mono, meningitis, even avian flu—that it's only when my mom gasps that my mind backs up, rewinds the tape, and I actually hear what he just said.
Leukemia.
I'm going to die.
It can't be.
It must be someone else.
Will it hurt?
Leukemia is for pathetic-looking bald kids with big eyes. Leukemia is for wasted bodies lying in hospital beds. Not me. Is there treatment? Is there a cure?
I'm going to die.
Dillon wakes me up. I fell asleep in the boots and leather mini-skirt and nothing else. He's brought a friend home. The friend is grinning down at me. I yank the sleeping bag over me. His name is Barrel, and he's big and round like one.
"She'll do," he says. Then he leaves.
"Do what?" My head is pounding.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it." Dillon heads for the shower. "Go back to sleep."
So I do.
Chill's foot dragged behind him like a murder victim being taken to a shallow grave by a killer too weak to do the job—but he still stood straighter than any other kid in school.
