Cellular by Ellen Schwartz Page A

well lately, I’ve been tired, dragging my ass into school, and I can hardly get myself off the floor to make my jump shots. I’ve noticed that I look like hell, pale and thin, so I’ve stopped looking in mirrors.
    But this is really weird. It’s never happened before. I shift position to let Cassie rub herself against me. She starts unbuttoning her shirt, breathing those short warm breaths on my neck that tell me she’s ready. But still nothing is happening. And this is totally bizarre because normally I just have to smell her hair to get a boner.
    Finally I know it’s not going to happen. Gently, I push Cassie away. “Uh…you know what? I don’t feel so hot. We’d better not.”
    A look of disappointment flickers over her face. Then she puts on a smile. “That’s okay, Bren.” She looks concerned. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”
    That was when I knew something was wrong. The next time my mom pestered me about seeing the doctor, I agreed to go.
    Now, in the doctor’s office, my mom bursts into tears. Dr. Wong starts filling out hospital admission forms. My heart pounds. The word bounces around in my brain like a song you can’t get out of your head.
    Leukemia . Leukemia . Leukemia .

Chapter Two
    The family descends. Literally. My sister Maureen, heavy with child, as they say in my grandparents’ Bible, flies in from Calgary. Grandma and Grandpa, my mom’s parents, drive in from their retirement village in Kelowna. They’re dressed, as usual, in matching golf outfits—white pants, peach-colored shirts and spotless white shoes. Nana, my dad’s mom, takes the ferry over from Victoria.
    We all sit in the living room. We’re pretty squished, and I offer to sit on the floor, but they won’t hear of it.
    â€œNot in your condition, honey,”
    Grandma says.
    It’s been like this. Kid gloves. My parents have been hovering, doing everything for me. Pouring my cereal. Making my bed. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.
    â€œWould anybody like something to drink?” my mom asks.
    Everybody says they’re fine.
    â€œYou should have something, Bren,” Maureen says.
    â€œI don’t want anything.”
    â€œMilk? Juice? Something to keep your strength up.”
    â€œI’m not thirsty!” I snap.
    Everybody looks at me. Temper, temper. Not like you, Brendan , I see them thinking.
    Screw it, I think. This little gathering wasn’t my idea. Let’s just get it over with.
    My mom jumps up and starts passing around stacks of paper. “I downloaded information about leukemia, so you’ll know what it’s about.”
    My mom is one of those people who believe that the key to tackling any problem is to study it. Collect the facts and analyze the crap out of them. After falling apart in the doctor’s office, she pulled herself together and sprang into action. Surfing the Net, downloading, photocopying everything there is to know about acute lymphocytic leukemia, or all . Within two days, her conversation was all about lymphocytes and neutrophils and induction therapy.
    Meanwhile, my dad’s been a wreck. I hear him sobbing behind closed doors. He comes out red-eyed, forcing a smile, patting me on the back and saying, “Everything’ll be fine, Bren.” Like he’s trying to convince himself, not me. Freaks me out.
    Nana leafs through the stapled pages. “Says here that Brendan’s type of leukemia has a very high remission rate.” She scans the room. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
    I can’t look at her. Nana is a tall, broad-shouldered woman—should have been a linebacker, my dad and I often joke. She has a deep, husky smoker’s voice, drinks vodka and swears like a sailor. She’s famous in our family for getting stinking drunk at Maureen’s wedding and trying to do a striptease in the middle of the