Free Cellular by Ellen Schwartz

Chapter One
    I’m sitting across the desk from Dr. Wong. My mom is beside me, clutching her purse.
    Dr. Wong folds his hands. Clears his throat. Glances at the folder in front of him, then at me.
    â€œI’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. Not me.
    Is there treatment? Is there a cure?
    I’m going to die.
    It was a complete shock—but then, looking back, I realized that I should have had a clue. I’d been feeling like crap for months but kept brushing it off.
    I had no energy. Got the chills out of nowhere.
    Must be the flu.
    Had no appetite. Started losing weight.
    Must be a stomach thing.
    Got pains in my joints. Weird bruises appeared.
    Must’ve worked out too hard at basketball practice. Pulled some muscles. Bumped into guys too hard in the paint.
    I knew I should see a doctor, but there was no way I was going to miss basketball. When my mom pestered me, I said I’d go, but after the season, after I’d led my team to the finals. Only, of course, my scoring dropped off, my stamina disappeared, and Coach, looking puzzled and just a little pissed off, started sitting me on the bench. And, as it turned out, I was nowhere near a basketball court by the time my team played—and won—the finals.
    It was only when I couldn’t get it up with Cassie that I really began to think something might be wrong. Ah, Cassie. Cassandra Villanueva. Big brown eyes, wavy black hair, luscious mouth.
    We started going out when she came on to me at a party. It was early winter.
    I’d just been named captain of the basketball team. Later I wondered if that had anything to do with it. Cassie had a reputation for going out with all the captains—she’d already gone through football and soccer.
    But at that moment who cared if that was why Cassie was after me? Not me. She came into the kitchen, where I was hanging out with Kesh and some other guys. Slinked up to me, every part of her tracing curves in the air. She nodded at the can I was holding. “Can I have a sip?”
    I almost told her there was plenty of beer on the table, but then I realized that wasn’t what she was after. I held out the can. “Sure.”
    She took a sip, handed it to me, then pulled it back. “Oops. Sorry. Got lipstick on it.” She started rubbing off the red mark with her fingertip, then smiled. “Unless you want me to leave it there.”
    So we started going out. We got into it pretty good, making out, touching, driving each other crazy. One night I started unzipping her jeans. She put her hand on mine. “Brendan,” she said breathily, “I don’t do that.”
    I looked at her. “Oh, really? That’s not what Tyler Martin said.” He was soccer.
    She turned red. “That jerk!” Then she shrugged. “Well, okay then. But use a condom. And promise not to tell anybody.”
    So we did it all the time after that, in my basement, in her basement, in the backseat of my parents’ car. And I have to tell you I felt pretty good about it. Here I was, cruising through my senior year, captain of the basketball team, getting laid by the prettiest girl in school, on track for a basketball scholarship and maybe, someday, dream of dreams, the NBA.
    This one night we’re fooling around on the couch in her rec room. We’re kissing and touching and Cassie starts moaning in the back of her throat in that sexy way she has, and nothing is happening. I mean, I’m as limp as the proverbial wet noodle. I haven’t been feeling