On Sunday night, Mom told me she’d arranged her schedule to stay in New York a few more days. She said her students had “study days”—but I knew she was sticking around to make sure I was okay. And this time I didn’t argue.
* * *
On Monday morning, I was so excited I could barely eat breakfast. I dressed extra carefully, putting on a pretty blue top and a black skirt that Nicole had ordered for me online. When Dad told me we needed to leave ten minutes earlier than usual because he needed to meet with his editor, I was glad. I’d never told Ms. Farrell I’d chosen Persephone for the speech project, and I wanted to talk to her about it before homeroom.
When I entered the school building, there was Malik, putting up more MALIK FOR PREZ posters in front of the main office. He waved at me casually, as if I’d been in school just yesterday. I waved back. Poor Malik, I thought. He’s taking it so seriously. Why don’t people care about this election as much as he does?
Then I heard someone shouting my name.
“Norah! Norah Levy! Over here!”
The shout was coming from down the hallway, which was lined with tables. I started walking over, and immediately saw that the tables were crammed with baked stuff—cookies, muffins, brownies, slices of cake. A lot of pink frosting. Pink sprinkles.
“Hey, Norah, wanna buy a cookie to end breast cancer?” Thea was yelling at me, waving her arms. “We have chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, shortbread, gingerbread—”
I stopped in front of her. She had a giant pink ribbon pinned to her hoodie, and a pink baseball cap that said 8TH GRADE BAKE SALE in sequins. Which were also pink.
“Everything’s a dollar,” Thea announced. Lifting her chin to look past me at the kids streaming into the building, she launched into her spiel: “We’re raising money to fight breast cancer, which affects two hundred fifty thousand women in America every year. That’s one in eight women in this country alone. So you should definitely support our bake sale, because it’s for a very important cause.”
Now my eyes focused on the posters behind her, all of them either on pink oaktag or written in giant pink letters:
SUPPORT THE EIGHTH GRADE BAKE SALE TO END BREAST CANCER!
COOKIES FOR CANCER AWARENESS!
AARON BURR EIGHTH GRADE FOR THE CURE!
BE SWEET! BUY SWEET! BATTLE CANCER!
I stood there, staring.
Astrid came over. She was entirely pinked out: pink hair with a giant pink ribbon, pink eye shadow, pink sweatshirt, pink fuzzy slippers.
“Hey, Nor-ahh,” she said in a singsongy voice. “Come on, buy a cookie! Don’t you want to help us end breast cancer?”
“Are you serious?” I blurted.
She laughed. “Don’t we look serious?”
“Actually, no.” My heart was banging. “I think you look ridiculous.”
“Excuse me?”
“In all that pink. Like if you wear pink, that means you’re anti–breast cancer. Because, you know, breast cancer is terrified of the color pink.”
Kids were crowding the tables now. Some of them were grabbing cookies, but many were just spectating, watching a fight that was starting to get good. I was recognizing faces in the crush of kids: Malik. Kylie. Harrison. Cait. Addison. But I didn’t care. I was so mad right then, I was almost vibrating.
“Norah, that’s not what this is about, okay?” Thea said in her airiest voice. “You’re totally missing the point.”
“No, Thea, I totally get it. You think if you sell a few oatmeal raisin cookies and Astrid dresses like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, you get to feel all proud of yourselves, right?”
Astrid’s mouth dropped open. Even her tongue was pink. “Norah, omigod, what is your problem? Breast cancer is a terrible disease! How can you possibly not support our fight against it?”
“I do support it! I’m just against people who don’t know anything about cancer acting like they own it, like it’s their cute little pet cause!”
“Who’s that girl?” someone was asking. “Why is she saying that?”
Good question, I thought. Why was I making a scene?
I should just shut up.
I should leave.
Or maybe the floor could crack open and swallow me, like Persephone.
But it didn’t. Instead, I watched, barely breathing, as Malik bought himself a muffin with pink sprinkles on top. Then as Kylie helped herself to a pink ribbon, which she pinned to her sweater.
Kylie. The person who wouldn’t let me talk about cancer, because it was “too depressing.” Who was now decorating herself with a ribbon, like she was some kind of war hero. It felt like everything about me was being deleted.
And that was when I realized I didn’t care. About how much I said. Or didn’t say. What people thought about me. What they felt.
“You know what, Astrid?” I could hear myself shouting, which was totally unnecessary, because Astrid was right in front of me. “You keep saying ‘fight cancer,’ but you don’t have a clue what that means. It has nothing to do with cookies or posters. Or stupid pink frosting!”
“Omigod, this is insane,” Astrid said. She flipped her pink hair. “Look, Norah, you don’t need to be like this. We know you were sick, okay? We totally get it.”
“What?” My heart stopped. “You know? About my—”
“Yes, we heard. And we’re very sorry, all right? But this bake sale isn’t about you.”
That did it. “Don’t you dare,” I hissed. “Don’t you dare say it’s not about me! You don’t get to decide—”
“Norah.”
I hadn’t seen her in the crowd, but all of a sudden Harper was grabbing my sleeve. “Come on, okay? Let’s get out of here.”
“NO!” I yanked my arm from her. It was like I was on fire, and I wasn’t done burning. “You know what else, Astrid? People fight all different kinds of cancer, not just breast cancer, and not even just mine. And no one dresses
