Cellular (2 page)

Everyone nods.

“My boss's nephew,” Maureen says. “Same story. Cancer-free going on seven years.”

“See, Bren?” my dad says. “It'll be the same with you.”

I start fidgeting. I can't take much more of this.

They start talking about my chemotherapy schedule and how they're all going to visit me in the hospital. I tune it out. I don't want to think about it.

Don't want to think about getting poison shot into my veins instead of leading my team to the regionals. Or hanging out with Kesh, my best friend. Or getting laid. Or riding my bike or going out for breakfast or any one of the millions of things I won't be able to do for months. If I'm lucky.

The voices die down. Figuring we're done, I stand up.

Grandma pulls me down. “Wait, honey. Before you go, let us pray.”

She bows her head. Grandpa follows suit. They sit there with their hands folded.

Everybody else bows their head and folds their hands. Even Nana. That kills me. Normally Nana would be snorting and making sarcastic remarks under her breath.

“Dear merciful God in heaven,”

Grandma begins.

Merciful?

She goes into a long ramble in which she beseeches the Lord to watch over and protect and bring comfort to “your young servant.” She prays that I'll be as receptive to the wondrous healing of our Lord as I surely will be to the medical blessings I'm about to receive. “And let us say—”

I can't take it anymore. I stagger to my feet. “Blessings?” I shout. “Wondrous healing? Bull. If there is a God—and right now it's not looking like it—he's dealt me a rotten hand. Screw prayers!”

I storm out of the room, ignoring the shocked faces that stare at me as I pass.

Chapter Three

There's a knock on my bedroom door. I quickly shove the sheaf of papers under my pillow. I've swiped one of Mom's information packages and have been reading up on the crazy, out-of-control cancer cells in my blood and bone marrow, and how they're wiping out my healthy cells. “Yeah?” I call.

Only my voice is so hoarse that it's a croak. I try again. “Yeah?”

Kesh sticks his head around the door.

I love this guy, all six-foot-four skinny brown beanpole of him. We've been best friends since we were little. We dig the same movies, full of farting and car crashes. Think an entire day spent practicing spinning jump shots is a holiday. Consider pizza and a milkshake the perfect breakfast. Don't have to say anything to know what the other guy is thinking.

But I don't want to see him. What are we supposed to say to each other? Talk about school, regular stuff, as if everything is normal? And if he starts handing me that crap about how I'm going to be fine, I'm gonna slug him.

Kesh sits on the edge of my bed. Doesn't look at me. Doesn't say anything. Finally he says, “Sucks.”

“You got that right.”

“Man, I'm so sorry.” His voice cracks a little.

“Not as sorry as I am,” I snap.

Kesh looks wounded. “Why're you taking it out on me?”

“I'm sick of hearing how sorry everybody is. Being sorry doesn't help. It just weighs me down.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say?” he asks.

“I don't know. Just don't give me any pity.”

There's silence. Kesh darts me a look, as if he's not sure if he should speak. “Everybody's really upset. Coach was in tears when he told the guys.”

My throat feels thick. I swallow.

“Practice isn't the same without you,” he says.

“Yeah, well, better get used to it. I don't know when I'll be back.” Or
if
I'll be back. Something occurs to me. “Coach name somebody else captain?”

Kesh looks uneasy. “Yeah.”

“Who?” I ask.

A pause. “Me.”

“Congratulations,” I say bitterly.

“I didn't want it!”

“Yeah, right.”

“Not like this! Christ. What do you think I am?”

I know I'm being a prick. I know Kesh isn't like that. It's just so goddamn unfair.

“So…what's gonna happen?” he asks.

I tell him about my treatment. How I'm going into the hospital next week. First I'll have a bone-marrow biopsy. That's to confirm that I have all . Then I'll have a catheter inserted in my chest to pump the chemo solution into. Then I'll get a wallop of chemo for a solid week.

“It's gonna be brutal,” I say. I don't tell him I've memorized the side effects of chemo. Nausea. Hair loss. Mouth sores. Or that I'm scared to death. What if I can't handle it?

“And then?”

“And then we wait and see if it comes back.” That's the kicker. That's what's keeping me up at night. Not that I have cancer. Not that I have to go into the hospital. Not that I'm gonna feel like crap. It's this: What if I go through all that…
and it doesn't work?

My eyes sting. Here come the tears again. I jerk my head aside.

Not quick enough.

“Hey, man, it's okay.” Kesh puts his hand on my shoulder. “You can—”

I twist, shaking his hand off. “Get away. Leave me alone.”

“Bren, you don't have to be embarr—”

“Didn't you hear me? Get lost!”

There's a stunned silence. Without a word, he gets up and leaves the room.

I shove my face into the pillow, sobbing. Stuff a corner in my mouth so no one will hear.

Chapter Four

“Hey, man.”

“Brendan…sorry to hear the news…”

I'm back at school. Not to attend classes, just to talk to my teachers and arrange to get the homework. Though I probably won't feel up to doing it and probably won't be able to graduate with my class. Yet another thing that sucks.

“Hey, buddy, we're pulling for you…”

I'm certainly the sensation of the school. Some kids come over and awkwardly pat me on the back. Some turn away, whispering to their friends. Some hug me. I wish they'd all quit.

I'm just freeing myself from the embrace of my buddy Seth when there's a screech and the sound of clattering heels. “Brendan!” The next minute Cassie throws her arms around me and starts bawling.

“Oh, Bren, you poor thing, it's so terrible—”

She cries, pushing her face against my chest.

“I've been so worried, I haven't been sleeping…or eating…”

Gripping me, she sobs loudly. I stand there, arms at my sides. Finally she lets go. She wipes her eyes, careful to dab under her eyes so her makeup won't run.

“Oh, Bren, when I heard the news I just—I was hysterical. But I want you to know, I'm there for you. I mean it, Bren. No matter what.” She gives a quick glance around, then lifts tear-filled eyes to me.

It hits me. Cassie is actually enjoying this. I mean, I know she cares. I know she's worried about me. But I can see that she's also really into her role—Frantically Worried But Loyal Girlfriend. This part has it all. Drama. Tears. Hysteria.

I pat her arm. “Good one, Cassie.”

“What do you mean?”

“The grieving girlfriend. Good show.”

Her face turns red. “How can you say that? I'm really upset!”

I nod. “I know you are. Especially when you have an audience.”

“That is so—so—” She dashes a hand at her eyes again, quickly checking for smudges. “You bastard!”

She storms down the hall.

At the end of the day, I duck into the locker room before practice to say goodbye to Coach. I don't feel like seeing my teammates, getting more sympathy, being reminded of what I'm missing, but I figure I owe it to Coach.

When I arrive, the usual razzing is going on. Guys are chucking smelly jocks at one another, shoving each other off the bench, calling each other names.

“You gonna make any free throws today, Petrowski?”

“You gon na
touch
the ball, douchebag?”

I love this place. The banter, the sweat, even the stink. Guys working together. The
thwack
of the ball against hardwood. The ball flying from hand to hand as if on invisible strings.

I stick my head in. Conversation stops. Some guys stare at me. A few throats clear. Across the room, Kesh catches my eye, then looks away.

We stay in this horrible frozen silence. Coach bursts in. “Why's it so quiet? Somebody die?”

The words hang in the air. He turns red. “Oh—Brendan—” He blinks fast.

Oh god, don't let me cry.

In two strides he's across the room and hugging me. He lets go, clears his throat. Pats me on the back. “We're gonna win for you, son.”

“Yeah…you bet,” some of the guys echo.

“And we're gonna carry you into every game and help you get better,”

Coach adds. “Show him, boys.”

The players reach into their lockers and hold up their game jerseys. Sewn onto the left shoulder of each one, right above the heart, is a blue ribbon in the shape of a
C
. For Captain.

I know this is really nice. It's a sweet idea. Someone went to a lot of trouble to sew on the little ribbons.

But all I can think is, Screw this. I don't want these stupid ribbons standing in for me. I want to be on the court myself, battling for the title. I'm freaking jealous of every one of these guys. Even the ones who're gonna sit on the bench.

I can't speak. If I say anything, it's gonna sound ungrateful, and I don't mean that. I just want to punch something.

I turn away.

“What the—?” someone says.

“Bastard,” Petrowski says under his breath.

“Shut up!” Kesh says.

I keep walking, tears stinging my eyes.

Chapter Five

PEDIATRIC ONCOLOGY
it says in gold letters on the glass doors to the ward.

I want to puke.

The waiting area is brightly painted with clowns and balloons and smiling dolphins. There's a stack of puzzles and baskets of Lego and puppets in the corner, and a shelf of picture books.

It's kiddie-land. I feel like a freak.

A little boy, maybe seven, skinny and bald, in pajamas and slippers, walks slowly across the room, clutching a nurse with one hand and an iv stand with the other. A girl, four or five, naps curled on her mom's lap, thumb in mouth. Two others, one bald, one with a fuzz of brown hair, are on the floor, giggling over a comic book.

My parents and I are met by a nurse who introduces herself as Harjit Sangha. She takes my information and fills out forms. Then she stands up. “Would you like a tour of the ward before I take you to your room?”

No, I think, but my mom says, “Yes, please,” before I can answer.

So Nurse Sangha shows us the patient lounge, where there are some couches and a small fridge and a tv, and the radiation rooms and the chemotherapy rooms.

“Your new home-away-from-home,” she says to me with a wry smile. “The décor stinks, but at least the chairs are comfortable.”

In spite of myself, I smile back.

I like her.

As we walk back down the hall toward my room, I see a kid come out of the elevator with a couple of adults. It's a girl, I think, though she's wearing a tuque. She looks about my age, though I can't tell for sure. She's tiny—but then, everyone around here looks shrunken. They walk toward the admitting desk, and we turn down the hall.

My room is typical hospital blah.

Cupboard, bed, tv, nightstand. Puke green walls, mud brown bedspread. At least I have a window. I can watch the rain fall.

While I unpack my stuff—clothes, schoolbooks, team picture—Nurse Sangha explains what's going to happen when my chemotherapy starts.

At least she's trying to. My mom keeps cutting in. “With all , intrathecal chemotherapy is recommended, correct?”

Nurse Sangha smiles. “You've been doing your homework, Mrs. Halleran.”

My mom brandishes her papers. “Yes.

I understand that central nervous system prophylaxis is very important—”

Nurse Sangha nods. Her smile dims a little. “Yes, and we are aware of that. If the biopsy confirms all , Brendan will start with systemic induction therapy for the first round of treatments. cns prophylaxis comes in the second phase.”

My dad goes into the bathroom. I hear the water running, hard, and the toilet flushing at the same time. There's a long pause. He comes out, red-eyed, not looking at me.

I want to scream at him to cut it out. Yeah, I know he's worried. But
I'm
the one who needs to fall apart. I want to curl up in his lap and howl. But I can't, because I'm afraid to make him worse. Because every time I see him, he gives me the fake smile and the pat on the back, and even though I want to tell him to stop the bull, I can't. And I can't get through to my mom either. All she does is burrow into the Internet, wave paper around, spout facts and figures.

Even now. “And I believe the dosage will be—”

Nurse Sangha puts up her hand. “We've got it all figured out, Mrs. Halleran. And now”—before my mom can jump in again—“I think Brendan needs some rest.”

After many hugs and a few tears and promises to be here first thing tomorrow, they leave. Nurse Sangha shoots me a conspiratorial smile, as if to say,
Finally.

I can't help but smile back.

“Anything I can do for you?”

I shake my head. She leaves. I lie back and enjoy the peace and quiet.

For exactly one minute. Then the questions come flooding back.

What will the chemo feel like? Will it hurt? Will I puke uncontrollably? What if I can't stop? What if I can't stand the pain? What if I make an ass of myself?

What if it doesn't work?

Tears prick. God, I'm such a crybaby and I can't help it and this is so unfair and I don't want to wake up tomorrow—no, wait! Yes, I do! I didn't mean that! And then I'm bawling into my pillow, and I almost don't hear it, but I do. The faint sound of a doorknob turning.