At first, when the doctors said I needed to talk to Raina, I was afraid that she’d just repeat what they said, tell me to wait another month to “regain my strength.” But she didn’t.
“Yes, you need to go back to school, Norah,” she declared. “It’s time.”
Which was what I’d been hoping she would say. And yet as soon as she said this, my stomach twisted. “Are you sure? Because the doctors told us—”
“You don’t want to go?” She searched my face.
“No, I do! It’s just the doctors said an extra month of rest—”
“Right,” she said crisply. “Rest is good. But it’s more important to start school on day one, with all the other kids.”
“Okay, great.” It’s what my parents had been arguing, so I was used to hearing it. And really, it did make sense to me, even if it also made my insides weird.
“Although I have to be honest,” Raina continued, “It won’t be easy.”
“Oh, but school is easy for me! I’m a good student. And compared to cancer . . .” I didn’t even bother to finish that sentence. I just shrugged.
Raina smiled. “What I mean is that what we call ‘re-entry’—returning to the healthy world—can be tricky. Some kids find they’re a little behind academically. But in your case, Norah, I think the challenge may be more social.”
“What do you mean?”
She offered me a small bag of fancy jelly beans, which I took. “You’ve been out of school for how long?”
“Twenty-two months.”
She tore off the end of her own bag of jelly beans and popped one in her mouth. “Almost two years. That’s a very long time when it comes to friendships.”
“But my friends are amazing! You’ve met Harper, right? She’s the one who gave me this.”
I held out my wrist to show her my purple friendship bracelet. A present from Harper the day I first went into the hospital.
Raina admired my bracelet. “Yes, so pretty. And Harper seems like a lovely girl. Although I haven’t noticed other friends here lately.” She checked my face.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, my friend Nessa used to visit a lot, but she moved to Texas last spring. And some other kids came at the beginning, but . . .” I ripped open my jelly beans and ate one. Buttered popcorn. Yum.
“That’s what happens,” Raina said, chewing. “When kids get sick, friends pay lots of attention at first. They’re curious, they’re scared—and a kid with cancer is big news. But sometimes, after a while, the news gets old and the visits stop. That’s why it’s wonderful to have a friend like Harper.”
“Oh, but also Silas! He’s a good friend too. My oldest friend.”
“Silas? I don’t think I’ve ever met him.” Raina frowned thoughtfully.
“Well, we used to ride bikes together and make up stories about evil elves. Back when we were little, I mean. And now he texts me and stuff.”
“Texting is nice.” She nodded. “How come he doesn’t visit?”
“I don’t know. Hospitals make him nervous, maybe.”
“But you’re the sick one. What does he have to be nervous about?”
I chewed a few jelly beans at once so that I wouldn’t have to answer. But I got a funny fruit/licorice combination. Why was Raina saying all this? Was she trying to make me feel bad?
She seemed to realize that she’d hurt my feelings, so she patted my hand again. “Norah,” she said, “I just want you to go back to school with realistic expectations. Don’t expect your friendships to be just like they were two years ago. You’ve been through something very big here, yes, but your friends have been through their own situations, which are big to them. And you haven’t been a part of that world.”
“But Harper tells me everything! It’s not like I don’t know what’s going on with people!”
“Yes, but it’s not the same as being in that world. Also . . .” She took a slow breath. “Some of your friends and classmates may be a bit freaked-out by certain aspects.”
“Like what?” Although as soon as I asked this, I knew the answer. By my head, which at that point was still bald. By my face, which still lacked eyebrows, making me look like an emoji. And by my skin, which was sort of grayish, the color of a white sock when it gets washed with a bunch of dark clothes. Probably also by my tiny, skinny body, which looked like the body of a malnourished eight-year-old: no boobs, no shape. The fault of the chemo drugs, Dr. Yorke had explained, promising that I’d “catch up eventually.”
Raina nodded, as if she realized I’d answered my own question. “Some kids may want to ask a lot of questions, and you’re going to have to decide beforehand how you want to deal. It’s fine to say something like ‘I’d rather not talk about it’ or ‘It’s personal.’ What I always tell kids: Just because someone asks a question doesn’t mean you owe them an answer. And you don’t need to entertain anybody with your cancer story. Even grown-ups.” She paused. “Although not sharing can be tricky too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that you need to balance things. You could refuse to discuss the topic; I mean, it would be completely understandable. But maybe you want to consider how people would feel about that.”
I stared at the carpet pattern, which I’d always thought looked like some kind of alien terrarium: cacti from outer space. The way other people felt about my sickness: Why was that my problem? I didn’t get why we were even discussing it.
But Raina wasn’t finished. “All
