Free Zac and Mia by A.J. Betts Page A

Mia’s chemo finished early and she won’t need the fifth cycle. Perhaps she’s luckier than I imagined.
    After lashing out at me two days ago, she hasn’t bothered to make contact, so neither have I. What’s the point?
    ‘How are things, Zac?’ I hadn’t realised Nina had come in.
    ‘Just stretching my hammies,’ I say, pushing against the wall.
    Beneath my trackpants, my legs are pale and thin, but they remember what it’s like to run.
    ‘Well, I’m in the mood for playing COD.’ Nina turns on the Xbox.
    I make my way to bed. ‘After weeks of humiliation, you think you can beat me now?’
    ‘It’s my last chance.’
    But I shake my head. ‘Tomorrow,’ I say. I want to listen to the speech that will start at any moment. I doubt there’ll be cupcakes for Mia. I reckon the whole staff will be glad to see her go.
    Nina switches on my TV.
‘Happy Feet
is on. I love
Happy Feet
, don’t you?’
    A penguin dances across the screen but its tapping isn’t quick enough or loud enough to block out what happens next door. It’s not a farewell speech. There are no hip-hip-hoorays.
    ‘Mia, listen.’ Her mother’s voice.
    ‘Listen
, Mia.’ Dr Aneta.
    ‘No.’
    ‘What’s going on?’ I ask Nina, who’s trying to turn up the volume with my remote.
    Nina says, ‘It’s not working,’ and I don’t know if she means the remote or Mia’s treatment.
    ‘No,’ says Mia, again and again. And it breaks my heart. ‘No.’
    ‘We told you this was likely. You
knew
this,’ Dr Aneta is saying. ‘A limb salvage is standard procedure—the
only
procedure now.’
    ‘Try more.’
    ‘You’ve had four cycles already. More won’t shrink it. Listen, Mia—’
    ‘Mia, listen—’
    For a tumour like hers, surgery is a good option: a clean option. When the tumour’s removed and a new bone is grafted, her odds skyrocket. But the leg will take ages to heal, longer than the six weeks left to her formal. There’ll be months of rehab and a scar.
    ‘Ten or fifteen centimetres,’ Dr Aneta says. ‘Twenty at most.’
    I wouldn’t mind a twenty-centimetre scar up my leg if it meant scooping out all of my cancer. But then, I’m not Mia.
    ‘There’ll be no weight-bearing for some time. You’ll have a wheelchair—’
    ‘Like a cripple?’
    ‘Like a person who’s had surgery.’
    ‘I’m not going to my formal in a fucking wheelchair. It can wait till after.’
    If this was taking place in a children’s hospital therewould be a team of empathetic staff on standby to say things like,
We know the formal is important to you and we don’t want you to go in a wheelchair, but in the long run you’ll feel so much better. And the scar won’t be so bad. We’ll get a plastic surgeon. In a year, no one will even notice
.
    But we’re not in a children’s ward and these doctors aren’t interested in vanity. That’s why Dr Aneta laughs—not in cruelty, but in disbelief.
    ‘Mia, this isn’t a game. If it’s left much longer, you’ll lose the leg. Worse.’
    ‘I don’t
care.’
    ‘Mia, you have to—’ says her mum.
    But Dr Aneta cuts her off. ‘I’ve booked the surgery for tomorrow morning. The sooner it’s done, the more chance there is to save the leg. After that, you’ll need more chemo—’
    ‘More?’
    ‘Four more rounds as a safeguard. I can time it so you have leave for the formal, but a wheelchair will be better than crutches. Surgery’s at nine, so you have to start fasting now, all right? Will you want sleeping tablets for tonight?’
    ‘I want another
opinion.’
    ‘I’ll leave some here then, just in case. If you need something stronger, call a nurse.’
    And with that, the doctors exit the room and file past my door. Music I don’t recognise comes belting through the wall and the song is so loud and hard it forces Mia’s mum from the room as well. A minutelater, I watch her dart from the entrance seven stories down, straight-lining for the car park.
    ‘I didn’t realise how thin these