Free Cellular by Ellen Schwartz Page B

dance floor. (Fortunately she only got as far as flinging her shoes and earrings into the crowd before my dad hustled her out of there.)
    But now her eyes are rimmed with red and her face sags. Every so often she turns away and those massive shoulders shake. I can’t stand seeing her cry. Nana never cries. It threatens to bring back my own tears—I’ve pretty much been a faucet the last few days. When I’m not swearing and throwing stuff across the room, that is.
    â€œNinety-five percent,” my mom announces, pointing at the statistic.
    â€œYes, that’s very positive,” my dad says, his voice quivering.
    Grandpa nods. “The odds of beating it are excellent.”
    Grandma pats my leg. “You’ll be fine, Brendan.”
    Oh yeah? I think. And just how do you know that?
    â€œYou’ll fight this. And win,” Maureen says, fixing me with that big-sister glare. Like, you better do what I say or else.
    â€œAnd we’ll be fighting with you, Brendan, every step of the way,”
    Grandpa says.
    Bull, I think. Are they going to go through chemo with me? Puke? Lose their hair? Maybe go sterile? Maybe die? No way. That’s a road I’m going down alone.
    â€œLily Taranoff?” Grandma says. “Who lives two units down from us? Her granddaughter had leukemia. Just a little tyke she was. But she beat it, and now she’s fine.”
    Everyone nods.
    â€œMy boss’s nephew,” Maureen says. “Same story. Cancer-free going on seven years.”
    â€œSee, Bren?” my dad says. “It’ll be the same with you.”
    I start fidgeting. I can’t take much more of this.
    They start talking about my chemotherapy schedule and how they’re all going to visit me in the hospital. I tune it out. I don’t want to think about it.
    Don’t want to think about getting poison shot into my veins instead of leading my team to the regionals. Or hanging out with Kesh, my best friend. Or getting laid. Or riding my bike or going out for breakfast or any one of the millions of things I won’t be able to do for months. If I’m lucky.
    The voices die down. Figuring we’re done, I stand up.
    Grandma pulls me down. “Wait, honey. Before you go, let us pray.”
    She bows her head. Grandpa follows suit. They sit there with their hands folded.
    Everybody else bows their head and folds their hands. Even Nana. That kills me. Normally Nana would be snorting and making sarcastic remarks under her breath.
    â€œDear merciful God in heaven,”
    Grandma begins.
    Merciful?
    She goes into a long ramble in which she beseeches the Lord to watch over and protect and bring comfort to “your young servant.” She prays that I’ll be as receptive to the wondrous healing of our Lord as I surely will be to the medical blessings I’m about to receive. “And let us say—”
    I can’t take it anymore. I stagger to my feet. “Blessings?” I shout. “Wondrous healing? Bull. If there is a God—and right now it’s not looking like it—he’s dealt me a rotten hand. Screw prayers!”
    I storm out of the room, ignoring the shocked faces that stare at me as I pass.

Chapter Three
    There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I quickly shove the sheaf of papers under my pillow. I’ve swiped one of Mom’s information packages and have been reading up on the crazy, out-of-control cancer cells in my blood and bone marrow, and how they’re wiping out my healthy cells. “Yeah?” I call.
    Only my voice is so hoarse that it’s a croak. I try again. “Yeah?”
    Kesh sticks his head around the door.
    I love this guy, all six-foot-four skinny brown beanpole of him. We’ve been best friends since we were little. We dig the same movies, full of farting and car crashes. Think an entire day spent practicing spinning jump shots is a holiday. Consider pizza and a milkshake the perfect breakfast.