“Me? No.”
“How come?”
“I didn’t want one.”
“You just went around bald?”
“I wore a hat. People crochet them for cancer patients.”
Addison shook her braids. “Yeah? If it was me, I’d totally get a wig!”
But it wasn’t. It was ME.
Silence at the table. I peeked at Silas, who was nibbling the corner of a giant cookie. Was he going to jump into this conversation at some point, or just sit there making crumbs? And if he was feeling uncomfortable, was I supposed to rescue him? He was my friend; he should be rescuing me.
“My uncle had skin cancer three years ago,” Cait announced out of nowhere.
“Melatonin,” Harrison said.
“No, it’s melanoma, actually,” I said. “Melatonin is the hormone that makes you sleepy.” I stood. “I think I’ll get another yogurt. Anyone want anything from the kitchen?”
Fortunately, nobody did. So I walked toward the hamburger-smelling kitchen.
And kept on walking, straight out of the lunchroom.
THE FULL EXPERIENCE
At dismissal, Harper was standing by my locker, waiting for me. “Norah, what happened to you? You weren’t in social social studies or technology!”
“I just needed a little break,” I said. “So I went to the nurse’s office. It’s what I’m supposed to do. Nothing’s wrong with me, I swear.”
“Are you sure? Because you looked weird in the lunchroom.”
I laughed. “Hey, thanks a lot, Harper.”
I could have explained about the hamburger problem. I also could have mentioned the conversation at the table, how all the cancer talk was making me crazy. But if I said either of those things to Harper, it would just be more cancer talk. Like cancer had turned me into one of those infinite mirrors, where all you see of yourself is a reflection of a reflection, a Rockettes kick line of cancer cells. Talking about talking about cancer . . . How was that different from actually being sick?
The other thing was, even if I did talk about cancer things with Harper, I couldn’t be sure of her reaction. Whenever she visited me, in the hospital or at home, we kept the conversation to regular stuff: gossip, crazy parents, favorite web comics, YouTube videos, music. I didn’t want to turn her visits into Let’s Discuss How Sucky I Feel; I wanted our friendship to stay normal-ish and fun. Besides, even if I tried to explain how sucky I felt, Harper wouldn’t understand, because how could she? She played volleyball and went ice-skating. Her idea of misery was period cramps.
“I was just tired,” I insisted. “And now I’m fine, okay?”
It came out wrong—too fierce, or something. I could tell right away, because Harper flinched. So then of course I felt terrible, because my best friend had been worried about me—not just for wobbling, but for disappearing—and here I was, making her feel stupid about it.
But what was I supposed to say? What would Raina want me to say?
She’d say: That’s up to you, Norah. Your decision, your words.
Which was no help at all. So I changed the subject.
“Can I ask you something, Harper? What’s the deal with Silas?”
“Silas?” Harper shrugged. “He’s turned into a jerk.”
“What happened?”
“Good question.”
“No, I mean, did something happen between the two of you?”
She waved her hand like she was brushing away a mosquito. “It’s not important. How was lunch?”
“We sat with a bunch of people and he barely spoke to me. Is he mad at me or something?”
“No, I’m sure he isn’t mad.”
“Then why is he ignoring me?”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m not worried, Harper. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Not what I expected.”
As soon as I said this, Raina’s other words flashed in my brain: Don’t have expectations. Okay, but I didn’t have “expectations.” I’d just thought Silas and I were friends. Even if we didn’t ride bikes and battle evil elves anymore.
Harper stuffed some books into her bag. “All right, well, I’m going to Art Club now. Norah, I really wish you’d do it with me. You’d love it, I promise.”
“Maybe I will. I’ll think about it, okay?”
She blinked.
Oh, great. I’ve pushed her away again. What’s wrong with me?
So then I almost told her about my parents’ after-school rule—I almost did. But I stopped myself, because right at that moment, I spotted Griffin out of the corner of my eye.
* * *
That night, Dad cooked dinner for Mom and me. The three of us didn’t have dinner together every night—which was a good thing, actually. Dad would make some dish that he’d learned from Nicole, so Mom was always criticizing the ingredients—but in a very helpful way, like she was just trying to understand why you’d add cilantro, of all things, when regular parsley would work just as well, and was probably cheaper.
When we’d finally sit at the table, they’d both stare at me—or rather, pretend NOT to stare at me—while discussing some topic they’d agreed was safe, like The Crazy Weather We Were Having Lately. If I wasn’t hungry, which was most of the time these past two years, Dad would offer to make me some version of his meal, minus the taste. Or Mom would suggest one of her own boring-but-digestible dishes—scrambled eggs, pasta with a dot of butter and a pinch of salt. I’d try to explain that the problem wasn’t the food, it was my appetite, and fussing over me was really not helping. And they’d explain that they weren’t fussing, they were just concerned about my nutrition and calorie intake, and that it was their job as parents, blahblahblah, because they both loved me. And I’d have to say I understood, I loved them both too, and maybe I’d eat a little more in a couple of hours. Although I never did.
When it was just Dad and me, or Dad and Nicole and me, there was definitely way less fussing over my plate. Also, when Mom took me out for dinner at the Greenwood Diner, we usually went for the entire meal without commenting on my appetite. But when I had to eat with both of my parents at the same time, it was like they were
