I’m cured. I tell him Harry-with-an- i let me have the giant M&M bag. He helps me put it in the trunk of the car (since there are certain things tofu-obsessed mothers can live without knowing), but he doesn’t ask about it.
17
For the past few months, evenings have revolved around preparations for chemo or radiation or one of Jena’s appointments the next day, but tonight I am sitting on the edge of the bathtub in my parents’ bathroom, as Mom leans over me, giving me bangs to cover the stitches on my forehead for callbacks this weekend.
I sit quietly and watch pieces of my hair twirl to the ground. Mom squints and frowns and trims. When she is done, I’m disappointed at how much I still look like myself. How much hair do you need to start with, to cut and cut and keep recognizing yourself? How much hair do you have to lose to become unrecognizable?
I don’t even notice, until Jena points it out, that the bangs are slightly uneven.
* * *
On Wednesday when I walk into the cafeteria, the smell of B.O. and mystery meat thick in the air, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just lost another friend. Since I crashed his motorcycle, Spencer hasn’t said one word to me. He didn’t even come to the hospital after. I would sit with Lauren again, but it’s her first day back post-suspension and she stayed in to catch up on Spanish. So I walk toward Spencer and Candy’s table.
The sparkle in Candy’s eyes, her confidence and the fact that she actually brightens to see me approaching, only reinforces my feeling of unease. “Oh, hi, Danielle. We were just talking about you.”
I drop my tray beside Spencer, whose head is straight down, seemingly extra-attentive to his food.
“Funny, because everyone’s talking about that nose piercing you got.” And the accompanying infection.
She perks ups. “Really?”
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” I tell Spencer, who still hasn’t looked at me.
Candy butts in. “Actually, that’s just what we were talking about.” Her voice is high-pitched and so ecstatic she seems to be tripping over her words. “Spencer and I love you. We do.”
“Not as much as I love you, Spencer. And you too, what is it, Hard Candy Core ?”
She narrows her eyes at me, all out of sweetness. “We no longer want you to sit with us. Poor Spencer has enough crap on his plate without you going and crashing his motorcycle.”
“Does poor Spencer have so much crap on his plate that he can’t tell me himself?” I’m looking at him, not her. He’s still looking at his burger.
“I’ve been in trouble before,” he mumbles. “The last thing I needed was to spend an hour getting questioned by the police. And I could have been fired.”
“It was an accident,” I say, forgetting for a minute not to care.
“Well.” Candy claps her hands. “We’re lucky the cops saw it that way and that we were able to avoid a potentially nasty situation. I’m glad we all agree that the best thing is to go our separate ways.” She draws the imaginary separating line with her and Spencer on one side, and me on the other. “Spencey and I knew you’d understand.”
Even he reacts to that one. “Don’t effing call me that.”
“Sorry,” she says quickly, and I realize that they, Spandy or Canspence, are going to self-destruct. She’s too eager to please, too desperate to prove herself, and Spencer is kind of an asshead.
I go from the cafeteria to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and wait for lunchtime to pass. Sadly, time slows down, moving at sixty-one seconds a minute and sixty-one minutes an hour, so that being trapped in a five-inch-by-five-inch space quickly loses its novelty. I claw my way out and head down the hall again, stopping at the empty classroom where we usually have math. The wise thing would be for me to start in on the mountain of homework that was sent home—and which I managed to ignore—when I missed school last week.
Instead, I shuffle to a desk at
17
For the past few months, evenings have revolved around preparations for chemo or radiation or one of Jena’s appointments the next day, but tonight I am sitting on the edge of the bathtub in my parents’ bathroom, as Mom leans over me, giving me bangs to cover the stitches on my forehead for callbacks this weekend.
I sit quietly and watch pieces of my hair twirl to the ground. Mom squints and frowns and trims. When she is done, I’m disappointed at how much I still look like myself. How much hair do you need to start with, to cut and cut and keep recognizing yourself? How much hair do you have to lose to become unrecognizable?
I don’t even notice, until Jena points it out, that the bangs are slightly uneven.
* * *
On Wednesday when I walk into the cafeteria, the smell of B.O. and mystery meat thick in the air, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just lost another friend. Since I crashed his motorcycle, Spencer hasn’t said one word to me. He didn’t even come to the hospital after. I would sit with Lauren again, but it’s her first day back post-suspension and she stayed in to catch up on Spanish. So I walk toward Spencer and Candy’s table.
The sparkle in Candy’s eyes, her confidence and the fact that she actually brightens to see me approaching, only reinforces my feeling of unease. “Oh, hi, Danielle. We were just talking about you.”
I drop my tray beside Spencer, whose head is straight down, seemingly extra-attentive to his food.
“Funny, because everyone’s talking about that nose piercing you got.” And the accompanying infection.
She perks ups. “Really?”
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” I tell Spencer, who still hasn’t looked at me.
Candy butts in. “Actually, that’s just what we were talking about.” Her voice is high-pitched and so ecstatic she seems to be tripping over her words. “Spencer and I love you. We do.”
“Not as much as I love you, Spencer. And you too, what is it, Hard Candy Core ?”
She narrows her eyes at me, all out of sweetness. “We no longer want you to sit with us. Poor Spencer has enough crap on his plate without you going and crashing his motorcycle.”
“Does poor Spencer have so much crap on his plate that he can’t tell me himself?” I’m looking at him, not her. He’s still looking at his burger.
“I’ve been in trouble before,” he mumbles. “The last thing I needed was to spend an hour getting questioned by the police. And I could have been fired.”
“It was an accident,” I say, forgetting for a minute not to care.
“Well.” Candy claps her hands. “We’re lucky the cops saw it that way and that we were able to avoid a potentially nasty situation. I’m glad we all agree that the best thing is to go our separate ways.” She draws the imaginary separating line with her and Spencer on one side, and me on the other. “Spencey and I knew you’d understand.”
Even he reacts to that one. “Don’t effing call me that.”
“Sorry,” she says quickly, and I realize that they, Spandy or Canspence, are going to self-destruct. She’s too eager to please, too desperate to prove herself, and Spencer is kind of an asshead.
I go from the cafeteria to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and wait for lunchtime to pass. Sadly, time slows down, moving at sixty-one seconds a minute and sixty-one minutes an hour, so that being trapped in a five-inch-by-five-inch space quickly loses its novelty. I claw my way out and head down the hall again, stopping at the empty classroom where we usually have math. The wise thing would be for me to start in on the mountain of homework that was sent home—and which I managed to ignore—when I missed school last week.
Instead, I shuffle to a desk at
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