well lately, Iâve been tired, dragging my ass into school, and I can hardly get myself off the floor to make my jump shots. Iâve noticed that I look like hell, pale and thin, so Iâve stopped looking in mirrors.
But this is really weird. Itâs never happened before. I shift position to let Cassie rub herself against me. She starts unbuttoning her shirt, breathing those short warm breaths on my neck that tell me sheâs ready. But still nothing is happening. And this is totally bizarre because normally I just have to smell her hair to get a boner.
Finally I know itâs not going to happen. Gently, I push Cassie away. âUhâ¦you know what? I donât feel so hot. Weâd better not.â
A look of disappointment flickers over her face. Then she puts on a smile. âThatâs okay, Bren.â She looks concerned. âI hope youâre not coming down with something.â
That was when I knew something was wrong. The next time my mom pestered me about seeing the doctor, I agreed to go.
Now, in the doctorâs office, my mom bursts into tears. Dr. Wong starts filling out hospital admission forms. My heart pounds. The word bounces around in my brain like a song you canât get out of your head.
Leukemia . Leukemia . Leukemia .
Chapter Two
The family descends. Literally. My sister Maureen, heavy with child, as they say in my grandparentsâ Bible, flies in from Calgary. Grandma and Grandpa, my momâs parents, drive in from their retirement village in Kelowna. Theyâre dressed, as usual, in matching golf outfitsâwhite pants, peach-colored shirts and spotless white shoes. Nana, my dadâs mom, takes the ferry over from Victoria.
We all sit in the living room. Weâre pretty squished, and I offer to sit on the floor, but they wonât hear of it.
âNot in your condition, honey,â
Grandma says.
Itâs been like this. Kid gloves. My parents have been hovering, doing everything for me. Pouring my cereal. Making my bed. It would be funny if it wasnât so tragic.
âWould anybody like something to drink?â my mom asks.
Everybody says theyâre fine.
âYou should have something, Bren,â Maureen says.
âI donât want anything.â
âMilk? Juice? Something to keep your strength up.â
âIâm not thirsty!â I snap.
Everybody looks at me. Temper, temper. Not like you, Brendan , I see them thinking.
Screw it, I think. This little gathering wasnât my idea. Letâs just get it over with.
My mom jumps up and starts passing around stacks of paper. âI downloaded information about leukemia, so youâll know what itâs about.â
My mom is one of those people who believe that the key to tackling any problem is to study it. Collect the facts and analyze the crap out of them. After falling apart in the doctorâs office, she pulled herself together and sprang into action. Surfing the Net, downloading, photocopying everything there is to know about acute lymphocytic leukemia, or all . Within two days, her conversation was all about lymphocytes and neutrophils and induction therapy.
Meanwhile, my dadâs been a wreck. I hear him sobbing behind closed doors. He comes out red-eyed, forcing a smile, patting me on the back and saying, âEverythingâll be fine, Bren.â Like heâs trying to convince himself, not me. Freaks me out.
Nana leafs through the stapled pages. âSays here that Brendanâs type of leukemia has a very high remission rate.â She scans the room. âThatâs good, isnât it?â
I canât look at her. Nana is a tall, broad-shouldered womanâshould have been a linebacker, my dad and I often joke. She has a deep, husky smokerâs voice, drinks vodka and swears like a sailor. Sheâs famous in our family for getting stinking drunk at Maureenâs wedding and trying to do a striptease in the middle of the