I couldn’t argue, not if she put it that way. Not wasting more time was a big thing with me these days. And moving forward was even bigger.
Still, my stomach was flipping like a caught fish. “But I’m still in seventh grade?” I managed to ask.
Ms. Castro nodded so hard her earrings jangled. “Oh yes, absolutely! All your other classes are with your friends. You’re still in a seventh grade homeroom, and you have seventh grade lunch. Just for two classes a day, we’d like to see you move ahead, because the fact is, you’ve already gone ahead. And I have to say, your hard work in spite of your illness inspires us all!”
I didn’t work hard on purpose, I replied in my head. I just did it because—well, what ELSE was I supposed to do with all that time?
Also: She said “your illness.” Still hasn’t called it by its name.
“What about my parents?” I asked.
Ms. Castro widened her eyes. “What about them?”
“Did you talk to them? About this moving-ahead business, I mean?”
“We mentioned that we were considering the switch, yes. And I told them that first I wanted to discuss it with you.” But she handed me a new schedule, which made me realize she’d already decided everything, even before I walked into this office. “So here you go, then, Norah. You’ll be in Ms. Perillo’s first period math class and Mr. Hennesy’s fourth period science. They’re wonderful teachers, very understanding, and they’re both aware of your whole story.”
My whole story. About the time I was “out.”
WITH CANCER. I HAD CANCER, MS. CASTRO. ACUTE LYMPHOBLASTIC LEUKEMIA.
I swallowed. “But I don’t know any eighth graders.”
“Yes, we considered that, but there are some lovely girls in those classes. Thea Glass is one of our student leaders, and a terrific athlete. And Astrid Williams is head of the Art Club.”
Good for them. What does that have to do with ME?
“Norah,” Ms. Castro said in a softer voice, “we certainly don’t want to pressure you, and we know that coming back after such a long absence will be a challenge all by itself. So why don’t we say this: Start the term in these two eighth grade classes, and if you’re not comfortable for any reason, we can always switch you. But it would be harder to switch you up a grade than down, so really, it makes sense to start this way. Do you want to try?”
I couldn’t think of a way to argue with that logic, so I nodded.
Ms. Castro beamed. “That’s excellent! And I’m sure Ayesha will be pleased too. Shall we head upstairs together now?”
“Actually, I’d rather go myself. I mean, I can find the rooms.”
“I’m sure you can! Well, you should get going, then. Homeroom’s almost over.” All of a sudden, she grasped my cold hands in her big, soft ones. “Norah, I want you to feel that this office is your safe place. Whenever you need a quiet moment, or a cup of hot cocoa, the door is open. I’m here for you. We all are. Anything we can ever do, please let us know.”
“Can I keep that maze thing?”
“Excuse me?”
I pulled my hand away to point to the toy collection on the small table.
“Honey, with what you went through”—CANCER! IT’S CALLED CANCER!—“go right ahead. Take whatever you like—the Rubik’s Cube, the Silly Putty, anything!”
“Actually, I was just joking,” I said, immediately sorry about my lame attempt at humor. One of the things about cancer: People were always giving you stuff—crocheted hats, balloons, stuffed animals. Like they could make it up to you with a pad of Mad Libs and a Pokémon key chain. And sometimes you had to let them, because you felt sorry for them. I mean, really, what else could they do?
But I didn’t feel sorry for Ms. Castro. She had too much loud, jangly energy, and I wasn’t even sure that I trusted her.
And now she was eyeing me in a way that made me stare at the carpeting. “Remember what I said, Norah. Stop by whenever, for any reason. And I’ll be checking in with you often.”
“You really don’t have to,” I said, stuffing the new schedule into my backpack.
NICE HAIRCUT
My cancer treatment took two years. Most weeks I spent at Phipps-Davison hospital, getting meds “delivered” (that’s the word they used) into this tube stuck in my chest. Sometimes, especially when I had a fever or was just feeling extra awful, Dr. Glickstein and Dr. Yorke made me stay at the hospital overnight. Other times I was there just during the day: I’d be assigned a bed in the section they called the “day hospital,” and get my meds through an IV while I was resting, reading, watching videos, even doing crafts in the playroom. (Yep, a playroom—the Pediatrics floor had so many little kids they needed a special room for all the Legos.)
When we knew it was possible for me to return to school in the fall, the doctors begged me to wait.
“Just until October first,” Dr. Yorke said. “Norah, your immune system has taken quite a hit from all the cancer meds, and we need to wait six months before we can revaccinate you. So if you go back to school right now, you’ll be a target for every germ out there. And as we know, schools are germ factories!”
But Mom and Dad insisted I start school in September, along with all the other kids.
“Just like normal,” Dad told the doctors.
“As normal as possible,” Mom said, pretending to smile.
They wouldn’t give up, and finally, the doctors surrendered. I guess they realized that after controlling everything about my life for the past two years—what I ate, how many glasses of water I drank, how many times I went to the bathroom—their supreme powers had finally expired.
But just because Mom and Dad had won that battle, it didn’t mean things were back to normal for me. Because now my parents decreed their own hypernervous
