Free Noggin by John Corey Whaley Page A

how he died but how he found out he was sick in the first place. Apparently, he wanted to be a professional skateboarder. So he was skateboarding with his friends one day and he kept falling down, kept losing his balance on the simplest tricks, ones he’d been doing for years. Then it was the headaches, then mood changes, and eventually nausea and vomiting. They say there’s a very good chance of surviving a brain tumor if it can be removed. If it can’t, you’ll probably end up like Jeremy Pratt. Well, except you won’t be attached to me afterward.
    Dr. Saranson had a flight to catch, so we parted ways with one of his long handshakes. He was so glad I’d talked to Lawrence, but he didn’t ask for too many details. I liked that about him, that he knew it wasn’t his place and that he probably wouldn’t be able to understand Lawrence and me anyway. He knew that no one—except his future patients, maybe—would ever understand us.
    I started thinking about Jeremy a lot more after that day. It was hard not to, I guess. Just when I’d realize Ihadn’t thought about my situation for a while, something would happen and I’d suddenly look down at my knees or the tops of my now size twelve shoes and be thrown off course all over again. But still, it felt so right. It was so comfortable to just be moving and breathing and able to sit up and bend and jump and stand on one leg. Jeremy Pratt’s body was now doing all these things that my old body had stopped doing for me, things that everyone takes for granted until they aren’t there anymore. Hell, I was even impressed with my new ability to fart with such ease and so very little pain. You know things are weird when you start appreciating your farts.
    “Do you skateboard?” Hatton asked at lunch after I’d told him Jeremy’s story. It was my fourth day back at school, a Thursday.
    “Never was any good at it.”
    “You should try it now.”
    “You think so?”
    “Hell yeah. Muscle memory. You’d probably be awesome.”
    “I don’t think that’s how it works. But do you have a board?”
    “No. But my little brother does.”
    “You have a little brother?”
    “Yeah. Skylar. Bane of my existence.”
    After Hatton and I made a plan to test out my skateboarding skills that afternoon and sat through another excruciating chemistry slide show, I went to my favoriteclass of the day, which was study hall. This was usually reserved for seniors only, but they made an exception for me since I started school in October and because, well, they were probably scared if they gave me a full class load, then I’d want to die all over again.
    But on that fourth day back, just as I was closing up my geometry book and prepping for my afternoon nap, the school secretary’s voice blasted out over the intercom.
    “Mrs. Huxley,” she said. “Please send Travis Coates to the counselor’s office.”
    “Travis,” Mrs. Huxley said, never looking up from her computer. I wasn’t sure she was even a real person. I’d never seen her move from that spot.
    I got my stuff together and walked out. There was always something sort of creepy about walking around the halls of Springside High when everyone else was in class. You’d see a few kids here and there, but mostly you’d notice the way the floor glowed with thick coats of wax and how, no matter what part of the building you were in, it smelled like someone was popping popcorn. I think teachers survive mostly on popcorn and Diet Coke.
    I waited outside the counselor’s office and leafed through a few pamphlets tossed onto an old coffee table in front of me. I thought maybe if I kept looking, I might find one titled “So You’ve Just Come Out of Cryosleep to Find That Your Girlfriend Is Engaged and Your Best Friend Is Trapped in the Closet?” But, alas, I didn’t have any luck. I did learn how to talk to my parents about STDs,though. So at least there’s that. I actually hadn’t seen Mrs. Taft, the counselor, since I’d been