Free Double Helix by Nancy Werlin Page A

bench and sat down beside her. I took out the three-ring binder again, planning to open it to the page of pictures of food. For a second, as I flipped through the binder, I saw the page of pictures of her when she was well, when she was beautiful. Ava, it said at the top of the page. You, it said at the bottom. In the middle was a picture of her on her wedding day—and one of her holding me on a bicycle. My first two-wheeler. She looked very serious. I could even remember her explaining the principles of propulsion to me.
    I found the food page. Sandwich. Pizza. Chicken. Cookie .
    â€œWhat do you think?” I pointed to the picture of a slice of chocolate cake. “Should I run over to the bakery and get some cake for us to have after lunch?”
    I watched her face closely. I thought she nodded, but I might have imagined it. It hardly mattered, though. I was only pretending to be a caring son. I was not.
    I wished she were dead. I wished she were no longer suffering. I didn’t know anymore if I wished this for her sake, or my father’s, or my own.
    â€œTerrific, Mom,” I said. “Cake it is.”

CHAPTER 12
    AS USUAL, AFTER leaving my mother, I began to run the three miles home rather than take the bus. Passing one of the middle schools, though, I got lucky: A bunch of men in their twenties were playing basketball on the playground court. I joined them for a while, and I must have been even more agitated than usual after a visit, because for once I found myself playing nearly as aggressively as I could. One of the guys fell backward onto the asphalt when I jumped in front of him to snatch the ball.
    For a second I thought he was really hurt—there was a bemused look on his face. But it was okay; he got up and laughed and asked me where I played college ball. “I was a guard at BC,” he said with a proud little jerk of the chin. But then, just as I opened my mouth to say that was cool, he added quickly, deferentially, “But I wasn’t a starter.”
    The other guys had gathered around. They were regarding me with interest.
    â€œYou’re a center, right?” said this guy. “Where do you play?”
    The back of my neck was prickling with warning. All I’d wanted was a pickup game. A little exercise. A little forgetfulness. I looked around at the group of men. They seemed assured, confident—young lawyers and medical students and computer guys and businessmen, I guessed. Well-educated, healthy, well-off; the world open before them.
    I thought of the basketball coach at my high school; he’d bugged me pretty much continually, freshman and sophomore year. But I kept telling him no and finally he gave up.
    â€œNo,” I said easily to these guys. “I’m not in college. I don’t play for anybody. I just like a casual game now and then.”
    There was a pause. Then: “Oh,” said the man who’d fallen, a little over-heartily. “Well, what a shame. I mean, you’re a natural, and when you think of all those scholarships, it’s just too bad . . .”
    I shrugged. I dribbled the ball, backed up to pass. “Right. Let’s go, okay?”
    We got back into it. I was more careful now; making sure to pass the ball often, jumping less, not dominating the game. At the end, they asked me to come back next Saturday and I smiled, shook hands, said maybe.
    But I knew I wouldn’t. I think they knew, too. I think they were glad to see me go.
    I started walking home again.
    Much as I liked playing team sports, I usually just didn’t. Somehow things always got strange.
    I remembered way, way back, when I was six or something, playing soccer. My realization that the other kids made mistakes—and that I didn’t. And the way people began whispering, looking at me. The admiration and anxiety of the other kids. The interest from the coaches and the other adults. I ought to have liked it, maybe, but I didn’t. I