The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“I’m wondering why you are closing one eye.”

I punch Nick in the shoulder. “I’m just trying to see it from a different perspective.”

Nick sets down the DS and pushes me upright. He pulls up the hair tight and away from my face. And then he closes one eye and then the other. “I think we should shave our heads today.”

“We?”

“Hell yeah.” Nick looks at me like I’m bonkers. “You know I’m shaving my head in solidarity. A bunch of us are. Even your gymnastics team is talking about it.”

Maybe it’s the drugs, but I start to cry. It’s too kind of a gesture.

“Ah shit, don’t cry.” Nick awkwardly pats me on the shoulder, but I can’t stop leaking water everywhere. I’m afraid and I’m grateful to my friends and I love my family and everything that is going on is overwhelming me.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I hear Nick say as he moves off the bed. I want to call out to him that I’m fine, but I can’t because I’m really not fine. What Nick doesn’t say and that we both know is that I have to shave my hair off because they’ve already taken a hunk of it off to operate on my head. And who the heck cares about my hair when they are planning to stick a plastic tube down the back of my neck to drain off the excess fluid that is now collecting in my brain? And there’s the fact that since the surgery I have had a hard time comprehending reading or writing words down. It’d be a struggle to compete at a second grade spelling bee right now.

I know I should be so happy that I made it out of surgery, but all I can think of is how my seven years of gymnastics training are being flushed down the toilet; how everyone will stare at me when I go back to school; how my mom won’t stop looking at me like she’s afraid the next breath will be my last. My mom is never worried. She’s this business powerhouse who can climb giant mountains. But she’s afraid, which tells me I should be shitting my pants.

So I can’t stop crying even though I’m making Nick feel so bad he has to leave the room. The bed dips and a pair of strong arms gather me up. It’s Nate. I recognize his smell, and it makes me cry even harder because I have such a stupid, idiotic crush on him and I’m afraid no one will want to marry me because I don’t have any hair.

“You’ve done what legions of other girls at school wish they had the power to do.”

“What’s that?” I mumble into Nate’s cotton-covered chest.

“Make Nick leave them alone.”

Nate’s bad joke prompts a watery giggle, and I’m able to quell my hysterics. Pushing away, I wipe ineffectually at my wet face. Nate nudges my hands aside and sops up the tears with a couple of hospital tissues that are about as soft as notebook paper. I notice that the clock says it’s just after one in the afternoon.

“Isn’t your dad making you guys go to school?” It’s Thursday. At least I think it is. I’ve been here since Saturday.

“Nope. Your little brain tumor is getting us out of school for the week. Mom’s orders.” Nate leans back against the pillows of the hospital bed. Even though the bed is slightly larger, his big frame takes up most of the space so that when I lean back I have to rest partially against his chest. I remind myself that Nate is like my brother. Just a brother. Like Nick.

If only I could just convince myself of that.

* * *

Mom and Dad kick Nate out later that afternoon to share “good news” with me.

Unfortunately I don’t understand what they’re saying. Like, I know what all the words mean individually, but I am having a hard time putting it all together. And it’s making me angry. “Stop. Just stop,” I say. Or maybe I shout it because Mom presses her lips together, a sure sign she is disappointed.

The doctor had come in earlier to tell me that they didn’t think the tumor had resulted in any brain damage and that I was still as smart as always, only that now I might see some changes in how I used the information in my head. And that I might be more emotional now because I had a reduced ability to control my feelings.

I guess that explains why I am crying all the mother loving time. I am sick of crying. I am sick of the hospital. I don’t want to go to surgery this afternoon to have a port put in so that it is more convenient for them to put drugs into my body. I don’t want to undergo several courses of radiation therapy to make sure all my tumor cells are killed off.