Sarah Collins Honenberger

CATCHER, CAUGHT

To my brothers, who were forever daring me

to join them in their adventures

CHAPTER ONE

When I first met Holden Caulfield, I didn’t know I was dying. He’s way more cool than me, but I like how he tells what it’s like to be him. Straight out. Real. And even though his story is lots more exciting, I’m going to tell you mine anyway. It may be the last thing I do.

So how’d I hook up with Holden? The Catcher in the Rye is required reading for tenth grade, along with a long list of other books, mostly ones I’ve never heard of. The Essex County library has four copies of Catcher. Worn edges, faded covers. Obviously lots more people than me have read it. The front’s what grabbed me. Plain maroon with little yellow letters, like it was no great shakes. And the way Holden writes, you can almost hear him thinking. It’s wild how clearly the dude’s voice sounds in my head.

You have to excuse my skipping around. I don’t have a lot of practice at this kind of thing and I’m short on time. According to the doctors.

Daniel Solstice Landon, that’s me, soon to be dust. My name’s from the Bible, though my parents would never credit that. They’re into the great cosmos, not God. That’s where the Solstice comes from, straight out of my parents’ hippie phase, a phase they’re still stuck in. Another thing they don’t admit. My opinion is they picked Daniel because they liked the idea of the little guy, the underdog. To tell the truth I found out what my name really means from a girl I wanted to date last year but was too chicken to ask. Cassie Jones. She said Daniel translates as “judged by God.” Tough standard.

Being sick puts you right out there. Kind of like being the lead in the middle-school play when every little sixth-grade teenybopper stares at you in the caf and fights over the stool you used at lunch or insists on chewing the same kind of gum you do. Where we live in Virginia they still teach sixth through ninth in one school. According to Mom, educational theory says teenagers don’t settle down until tenth grade, so it’s better to keep the raging hormones all together. My take, they’re trying to wear you down. Four years with sixth graders hanging around you would wear anyone down. It’s definitely killed the teachers.

Last winter, before we knew about the leukemia, I played Captain Von Trapp in The Sound of Music. At the time I didn’t mind the attention so much. It was kind of flattering, even if the sixth-grade groupies tracked my every move. At least someone liked me. And I was lucky. I had only one song all by myself, I was the good guy, and I got to kiss Marissa Bennett. Counting practice and performances, twenty-two times. My big brother said to enjoy it, most ninth graders don’t kiss anyone no matter what they tell you.

Aside from the kisses, being in the limelight is more complicated than you might think. The whole time I was kissing Marissa I didn’t realize that someday I would wish people didn’t know everything in the world about me. When you’re sick, everyone talks about you behind your back. They pass around all the gory details like they’d share M&M’s, but don’t kid yourself, it’s not the same as wanting to know you. They won’t even talk to you.

That’s partly why I admire Holden. Everyone knows he’s been kicked out of that high-end prep school. The teachers, the headmaster, even his roommate, Stradlater, and the guys in the dorm, they all have an opinion on why he shouldn’t have let it happen. And they’re all hot to tell him what they think. Good old Holden just acts like he doesn’t care. Okay, sure, he blows them off partly because it’s not any of their goddamn business. They’re not people he respects. But mostly, I guess, because he’s already figured out where you go to high school doesn’t matter in the long run.

No matter how much I try to convince myself to suck it up that everyone knows about me and The Disease, having leukemia is different. Dying is the long run. So it matters. There’s just nothing I can do about it.

CHAPTER TWO

“Daniel, front and center.” That’s my dad calling.

It’s long past end-of-the-year report cards and I haven’t broken any rules this week, so I don’t have a clue why he’s in his regimental father mode.

You gotta like my dad. He’s bearded, sandaled, right out of The Love Bug. Even when he’s seriously off base, he’s okay and you feel a little sorry for him. He lost six or seven of his “best buddies” in Vietnam. His entire life since then has been a shrine to the loss. He goes to every antiwar rally within a two-hundred-mile radius. On New Year’s Eve he calls their families to show he hasn’t forgotten them. And G.I. Joe toys and vehicles and paraphernalia were seriously off limits for us. We weren’t even allowed to play with our friends’ army toys. Although he avoided the draft because of a childhood injury to his eardrum, he announces regularly that he would have gone to Canada but for the 4-F. He tells it to anyone who’ll listen. “Hard of hearing before my time,” he always says, as if it were hysterically clever.

Fathers, at least the fathers of my friends, are big into jokes. It’s like they’re cartoon versions of what a father should be. Even though they tell the same horrible shaggy dogs over and over, no one ever calls them on it because it’s what fathers do. It’s supposed to be endearing. The joke thing must occur like Immaculate Conception as soon as a man has his first kid. It doesn’t bother the fathers that no one else thinks the jokes are funny. It doesn’t bother them that the wives all say, “Oh, sweetie, not that one again.”

Me and Mack Petriano and Leonard Yowell, whose father is a state senator and probably wears a three-piece suit to bed, all cringe in unison at the jokes our fathers tell. Even though their dads are straight and mine’s a held-over hippie, the jokes are all lame.

The military lingo has gotta be a father thing too. Leonard’s dad is forever saying things like “battle stations” or “at ease.” It so fits Senator Yowell, he’s a star-studded ’Nam hero. But when my dad talks like that, it always surprises me because he lobbies so hard against war. Any kind of war. Local school boards, gestapo-like anti-immigration tactics, Palestine, even sibling rivalry. He’s a certifiable pacifist. But as far as being an all-right, sincere kind of person, he is.

He’s also a vegetarian. And recycling is his favorite pastime. We never use paper plates, even though it’s a big pain to wash things now that we’re living on a houseboat. Hot water’s sketchy and not enough water is typical. There’s more good about my dad than bad, though. He’ll watch any movie I want, and he refuses to wear a tie. Not at all like Antolini, that touchy-feely English teacher of Holden’s, with the silk bathrobe and the itchy hands. Holden could have stayed on Dad’s sleep sofa without a second thought.

If you want to know the truth, until I got sick my life was boring. Truly and completely boring. You wouldn’t have kept on reading. School and summer, summer and school, mostly hot and more hot in our part of Virginia. Holden’s cab rides around New York sound exciting compared with my life. Even my little brother’s soccer schedule is more exciting. Seriously, I’m not into contact sports myself, but Nick’s definitely the star of the team, a brilliant sweeper at thirteen, just too nice to admit it. A zillion times a game he stops the other team cold. Anyone can see how much his team relies on him and how he lives to be that indispensable guy.

My older brother is a first-year at UVA, with more girlfriends than anyone I know. As Holden would say, he’s Joe College to the umpteenth degree, too cool to hang with me much anymore.

The thing is he’s a real Joe, short for Joseph Ides Landon. My parents stuck him, too, only Ides isn’t half as bad as Solstice. Plus, it’s way easier for people to believe Ides could be a real name, so he’s never embarrassed like I am. He’s not forced to make up some song and dance about Solstice being a family holdover from the old country, another freebie from Cassie Jones, who probably doesn’t even remember me or my stumbling discussion of the Harvest Dance that never quite made it to the level of an invitation.

Just to round it out, in case you’re into names like Mom obviously was, Nick, a.k.a. Nicholas, means “victory of the people.” Mom’s basic life philosophy. I’m not sure why the third time around she chickened out on the middle name and opted for the only Virginia ancestor in the family, Marshall. But it fits Nick. Nicholas Marshall Landon sounds like a politician, huh? He’s definitely the one who’ll change the world. He’s got the name for it. And the energy.

When Dad calls me, I’m in my bunk—right above Nick’s—in the front cabin of our houseboat. The houseboat is too cool. It’s like everyday and retro at the same time. My parents bought it two months ago, at a government auction. A knee-jerk reaction. They did it a week, maybe less, after the doctors told them I had The Disease. Joe dubbed the boat Nirvana. Because my parents pretended they got the joke, they didn’t object to it. They probably took it as a reference to Buddha. Whatever, it stuck. It’s the first big thing they’ve ever owned. According to them, cars—evil polluters, but necessary due to the unfortunate state of the world—don’t count.

Way back, BK (before kids), when they were madly in love, they quit college to make hammocks. They lived on their own personal commune, as Mom calls it. When they get seriously maudlin about their youth, they tell stories about the great parties they had there and how they were all one with the earth before Joe came along. Before they had to leave to finish school and get real jobs. Somehow, despite those jobs, there was never enough money to buy a house.

They don’t talk much about that part of it. Their version: ownership is kowtowing to capitalism. Supposedly being a tenant is more like being connected to the universe.

Doesn’t it just drive you wild when people make up stuff like that to justify their own situation? I don’t mind it so much with my parents, because they don’t force their views on everyone like some parents who take soda away from their kids’ friends because the sugar will rot their teeth. That’s embarrassing. Plus, what makes them think one less can of soda is going to save the kid or teach him to change what he drinks?

Anyway, since the commune, my parents have rented a series of houses. Some I can’t even remember. The one before the houseboat had faulty wiring, a good excuse for no television. And we were forever having to read by candlelight. My parents loved that. Back to nature. I warned you.

The Disease changed their attitude about ownership. It changed their attitude about a lot of things. They’re convinced the houseboat keeps germs at bay. No biggie. It’s different.

I’ve read Catcher a bunch of times—I even skimmed the Cliffs-Notes—trying to figure out whether I have it right. I like how Holden goes wherever he damn well pleases—the city, the hotel. He makes up his mind and just goes. That’s too awesome.

Next week I’ll be in tenth grade—big move to Essex County High and all—and I’ve never been near a city bigger than Richmond. Because my parents embrace the back-to-nature thing in a huge way, cities are not places they take us if they can help it.

When Holden considers running away, he’s already in New York, the city to top all cities. But something stops him from actually running. What is that? It can’t be fear. The guy has no fear. He talks with strange women and walks right up to the frigging hotel front desk. Amazing. Like I could ever just pick a city, plunk down my money, and go there all by myself? Order the taxi driver around and invite some stranger to dance in a bar?

I keep asking myself, why does he do that stuff? Maybe because he wants to be the kind of person who can. Or maybe he’s fumbling around, trying to work through being forced to leave Pencey before he goes home. His sister Phoebe is waiting for him and he doesn’t want to let her down or have her think he lied to her. Especially since part of why he’s so hung up on home is his dead brother. No matter what it is, he’s definitely fed up with the phonies, and that’s why he works so hard to get straight who he is, really. With his parents and with himself.

Although he doesn’t say it right out, he has to know he screwed up. It’s gotta be pretty obvious even to him. If he’d done his work, written the stupid papers, he wouldn’t have been expelled. The grown-up thing to do is to accept responsibility. Do it right the next time. Jeez, I sound like my father.

But you know Holden understands all that because he doesn’t argue with the powers that be at school. In a way, his leaving so quietly is an admission. Not an admission that it’s his fault, but more that he didn’t fit in right from the start. Which brings me back to why didn’t he do the work? It’s not like he didn’t know what would happen. It happened to him at the schools before Pencey. So there has to be something else, something more. The business of trying to figure out where you belong.

Down deep I think old HC knows something I need to know. I haven’t mentioned this to anyone. It’s a little weird when Catcher is required reading for next year and I finished it before it was even assigned. Joe says that’s okay, the book is one of a kind and better than anything they’ve given him to read in college so far. He even said we could talk about it when he comes home for Christmas vacation, like he really seriously cares about my take on it.

The greatest thing about Holden is he says what he thinks, no BS. Like I wish I could talk. But I can’t think fast enough. I’m too busy worrying whether the other person will think I’m being stupid or phony. Holden makes it look so damn easy. He shrugs off the insults, takes it all in, when I would be ready to explode. He even listens politely to the adults trying to give him advice. Like the old professor who feels sorry for him. Spencer, I think his name is. And Antolini, who’s convinced his precious protégé is headed for trouble. Sure, Holden caves a little to avoid hurting their feelings, but he refuses to get sucked into their games. And he doesn’t let them talk him out of how he feels. The whole world would be easier to take if people were like Holden and admitted what they didn’t understand up front.

As much as The Disease makes me think about things I never thought about before, it isn’t all that clear to me why I do stuff and react like I do. Every time I think I know what I want or how I feel, something changes before I can get a handle on it. Most of the things I say and do are mysteries to me. Holden deals with stuff like this, but he gets it, really gets it. I need him.

You would think with five people in my family I’d have someone to talk to. Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way. Joe’s not here most of the time. Nick only knows full speed ahead. He doesn’t sit down long enough to listen. Plus what my brothers think and feel is not what I think and feel. They have their own crusades. People always do.

It’s funny, because everyone outside your family always figures your family really understands you. Like it’s in the genes you share or the fact that you all breathe the same air inside your house. But if you wait for your family to stop their regular routine and ask what’s bothering you, you may never get a chance to talk about it.

Grandma Sumner used to say, “Listen up, gypsies,” like we were a traveling horde, instead of just three boys. No matter that we were her only three grandchildren. I never minded it because I liked the feeling of us three moving together. Like, you know, the old-world stories of big clumps of gypsies in those weird painted caravans with the dinner pot hanging from the back, odd parrots and goats and so many kids you can’t tell who belongs where. Although it may look like chaos, they all move in the same direction, to the same tune. And they cover for each other. Like they know it’s a conspiracy, us guys against the rest of the world.

When I was little, I thought it would be like that all the time, that Joe and Nick would come with me wherever I went. Just because. Without my having to ask them. It kills me now that I’ll be gone and they’ll be doing stuff we should be doing together. Or at least they’ll be talking about it together after the fact. You know from the way Holden doesn’t talk about his brother Allie that he misses not having him to talk with. It should be the three of us Landon boys sharing inside jokes and ribbing Joe about his lectures on how the real world is and getting pumped with Nick, that pure high of his about being alive.

When Grandma called us gypsies, I could see myself saying it to a string of my own kids, my team, once Joe and Nick were off doing their own thing. It would be a way to make the everyday junk seem like an adventure. I can hear Mack Petriano dissing me: “Mary Poppins, welcome home.” It isn’t that, honestly. I’m not that much of a wuss. Especially lately, I get it that no one can really understand what another person feels. But it’s the idea that chores or school or life don’t have to drag you down if you stick together. That’s what clicks with me. Or did. Too late to lose sleep over it now.

Even though Dad stole Grandma’s saying and twists it around in his lectures about communication as the solution to world peace by emphasizing the listen and not the gypsies, I don’t argue with him. The truth is the middle kid never gets much airtime. When Joe’s here, he controls every conversation. I guess you’d expect that. As the oldest it’s easy to get sucked up into Mom and Dad’s trial and error, Parenting 101. Joe’s the first at everything and he has to break all the barriers for Nick and me. So he probably thinks he’s earned the right to talk first.

Lucky Nick cruises right through things. Just because someone tells him he can’t do something, he doesn’t let that faze him. He waits until they aren’t paying attention and then does exactly what he wants to do. He and Phoebe Caulfield.

So, in a way, The Disease levels the playing field. Now they have to listen to me.

Holden’s working on the same thing. Trying to get someone to take him seriously. For totally different reasons, of course. And I’m not sure he knows that’s why he acts the way he does or even if he isn’t wondering what’s the point of it all. But he and I think a lot alike. We’re practically the same age. And even though, like me, he doesn’t have a clue what he’s going to do next, there’s one huge difference. He has his whole life ahead of him to figure it out.

It’s hard not to hate him for that. And Nick and Joe. They get to live. Maybe go around the world, sleep with a few girls before they find the right one, invent a new kind of car, run a business, or whatever. They have time to fix mistakes they made when they didn’t know better.

I’m stuck with whatever I’ve done so far and maybe ten or twelve months more. It’s like my name, the highest limbo pole ever. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t even waste time sleeping. There’s not enough time to do all the things I planned on doing before I got sick.

Twenty-five, thirty years ago when my parents were teenagers, buying plastic 45s and hoping someone brought weed to the sleepover, only little kids had leukemia. You’ve seen those bald heads on posters. Everyone has. Cute, smiley kids with no hair. But never the same kid from year to year. There’s a reason for that.

By the time leukemia found me, the hospitals were full of cancer patients, all ages. A teenager with leukemia was nothing special. AML, or acute myeloid leukemia, my mother forever corrects me as if the official name makes it easier to accept I’m going to be dead in a year.

Hard to figure when formality’s not her strong suit, but she insists on that precise medical term with other people, too. In some weird way it’s a kind of protection. No son of hers could be laid low by something as mundane as cancer.

CHAPTER THREE

I’m writing this the summer after the new millennium has come and gone. What a fizzle. Y2K was the biggest flop ever. And no one, me especially, has any great hope for the rest of the century. I mean, the Croatians are killing the Serbians, the Russians nuked everyone at Chernobyl but still refuse to admit they were at fault, and Saddam Hussein continues to shoot people and bury them in roadside ditches because he doesn’t like the way they tie their sarongs or whatever you call that headgear people in desert countries wear to avoid sun poisoning.

The only good thing about Y2K was that everyone had to stop and think about the future. Their ideal future. The ones who thought the world would end, the ones who thought they’d lose all their money because the banks would freeze and the stock market would fail, the ones who thought the terrorists would take over: they were all forced to look at their lives from a different perspective. We must have written about it in every class last fall. So whenever anyone asks how I feel about The Disease, I say, “It’s like Y2K, only personal.”

To tell you the truth, my life is simple compared with Holden’s. Compared with the whole effing rest of the world’s. Which a grown-up would tell you is good, but I know better. And so does HC. Grown-ups hate complications, even though that’s what makes any of it interesting.

So, leukemia, here’s the real story. You feel lousy most of the time. You turn into a total dud. Least that’s what Nick claims because I won’t run soccer drills with him like I used to last summer. No use explaining to him it’s more to do with having grown out of playing games like that than being sick. Plus I sleep more.

Sleeping helps because you forget. Trouble is, you wake up with no more energy than when you got in bed. And you don’t forget for long. You get real skinny and weak. Mack says I’m starting to look like Mick Jagger. You have to drop out of every public activity because you’re too tired. Or other people’s parents act like you have cooties. Or you’re just sick of answering their questions. And when they pat your shoulder, you’re sick of trying to smile instead of sinking your teeth into their hands.

The doctors sit around and shake their heads like they don’t really have a clue what works and what doesn’t. Then they say what they say to every other cancer patient: he needs chemo, she needs radiation. As if everyone’s supposed to know exactly what that means. And hop right to it, like it’s cotton candy or a free rollercoaster ride.

It feels like you’re living in some sci-fi movie, Star Wars AWOL at the Mayo Clinic. Continuous four-syllable words roll off their tongues, words you’ve never heard before. All that flash and burn technology, the next thing you know you start feeling hopeful. Someday, someday soon, they’ll be able to slide you through a metal tunnel and regenerate your old body with a new one, pure and whole, like a fucking starfish.

That’s the myth they want you to believe. And it’s tempting.

Let me tell you how it really works. First they tell you you’re sick. Duh. You’re supremely aware of that fact from the way you feel. Then they run you through every machine in the hospital. Sometimes more than one hospital. They take samples from all kinds of weird places with superlong needles and photograph every single part of your body, and they share the pictures with every doctor and nurse in a hundred-mile radius. Privacy, hah. Privacy means nothing to those know-it-alls. After that? They send you home and you still feel lousy.

Your parents stay up nights arguing and throwing things. It goes on for weeks and weeks. They get angrier. You get sicker. That makes them even angrier. Then, when you finally wake up and realize it’s not some movie—it’s for real—you get angry. But you still have to do your homework and pick up your clothes.

And if you have parents like mine, they don’t trust the doctors because those same doctors are part of the corporate machine tied to the big bad pharmaceutical companies. Who are all in league with the government with a capital G. So el parentos refuse the advice and talk to lesser-known gurus, who live in the Andes Mountains or the Yucatán, about natural remedies and you end up eating boysenberries pureed with rare duck eggs.

Leukemia sucks.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. And Holden will be ticked if I leave out the parts about him. And the funny parts. He’s the one who made me see that books without funny parts aren’t real. Because real life has funny parts, even when people are being lousy to each other or bad things are happening. If my English 9 teacher were critiquing what I’ve written so far, I can just hear what Stratford-Mains would say. I know, I know. Stratford-Mains sounds like a British village in an old black-and-white movie, but we called her Stepford-Hanes because her makeup was so perfect and she wore skirts with stockings every day. She was the only teacher in the whole middle school who didn’t wear pants. Great legs, like she could be the model in an ad for Hanes pantyhose.

If she were editing this, she’d say it needed more showing, less telling. I’ll try harder, but I have to get out the basics. It’s easier just to tell some stuff up front. And eventually I’ll get to the whole truth, like that I-am-not-a-criminal Nixon, a very odd man we studied ad nauseam in American History. Twisted.

When Dad yells for me, I unhook from the Discman. Even with the back-to-the-earth mindset my parents have drilled into me, I’m allowed to have semimodern technology for music. It’s like an exception to Mom’s phobia about microwave radiation and the new generation of brain-dead video-game junkies. It’s more the music she accepts than the plug-in entertainment. Through the open slats of the window’s plastic louvers I can see stripes of torso in Dad’s Jefferson Airplane T-shirt. They had their music. We have ours. A whole new meaning to fair trade.

He’s outside on the deck scanning the horizon as if we were halfway to the Panama Canal instead of sandbar-sitting in a creek off the Rappahannock River. We’re actually living down the street from our last rental house. Only not, because we’re on a floating houseboat.

I’m on my knees, working at locating my cargo shorts under the bunk. Today I feel pretty good, only a little dizzy. If I’m not careful, sitting up too fast brings up breakfast. The boat rocking doesn’t help. Unfortunately it’s not the kind of thing I can tell my parents when they’re already so over the edge about The Disease.

The Rappahannock is a crazy river, not as wide here as it is downstream past the power lines. Usually we tie up at the dock of friends of my parents who lost their boat in the last hurricane. By mooring in Hoskins Creek we’re protected from the north wind, where most of the bad weather comes from. Just out of sight of the Route 360 bridge. The bridge is also the transition point. It straddles the place in the river where the salt water runs out and the freshwater starts.

In the middle here the river current is deceptively sluggish. You can’t see it until you’re in it. If you don’t watch yourself, you can end up in Urbanna—heck, in England—but at least the salt water would keep you up. Hunger’s what would kill you.

Here’s what bugs me about some of the kids I go to school with. And about some grown-ups, too. Amazing to me that they live here their whole lives and are never curious enough to wonder where the water goes or to look at a map and see that it feeds into the Chesapeake Bay and then the Atlantic Ocean. Personally I think that connection to the rest of the world is pretty important. I always figured I’d be like Admiral Byrd and find a new place to explore. That would be my contribution.

Mack and I used to plan where we’d start, exotic places like Algeria and Tahiti. We made lists of what we’d take. We even practiced smoke signals and starting fires with stones. I was a little kid then and didn’t know they’d already found all the places in the world. What dorks we were. But it’s turned out to be okay. It used to depress me, but now…it’s no big deal, because I won’t have time.

Below the bridge, across from the mouth of the creek, the northern shoreline is an almost uninterrupted green. Washed-out, but green. No houses because it’s a protected wildlife sanctuary. By federal law. The green makes a clear demarcation from the brown river. If you squint in the summertime while you’re lying on the beach or on a float, you can pretend the jungles are inching closer. Like in Apocalypse Now. It’s a game Mack invented years ago, even better since we moved to the houseboat. He loves those kinds of psychological twists. That boy is intense.

Mack is my best friend since Joe left for college. Before then we were just buddies who spent time together. You can’t always do stuff with your big brother, even if he is your best friend. And little brothers are a total pain. Mack has one too: Roger (alias the Dweeb).

When Mack and I started elementary school, my family was living in a rented house on Jeanette Drive. It was tucked into a clearing on the same road as the defunct Hoskins Creek Marina. Defunct. Isn’t that a great word? It sounds exactly like what it is. Someday Nick can say that about me in his political speeches when he’s saving the world. My D-funct brother, may he rest in peace. Dead family members earn you a lot of sympathy if you’re in the public eye. Look at the Kennedys.

The Petrianos live on a dead-end dirt road behind Dollar Inn Motel on Route 17, same house they’ve always been in. Mack’s father runs the school-bus garage for the county. Mr. Petriano is one of the most boring guys I’ve ever met, hands down. I mean, he’s okay as someone else’s father, but he hardly ever talks, and when he does, it’s just reminders of things Mrs. Petriano has already said. Pick up your room. Church is at ten today. Your turn to clear the table. No wonder Mack is such a wild man. He has to train hard not to turn into his dad.

Mack is funny and a cutup and has a hundred ideas a minute. Every once in a while he gets a little off-kilter, like an HO scale train taking the curve too fast. He comes up with the oddest ideas. It’s like he doesn’t want to slow down to think them through. That’s one reason we’re a good team. Usually he’ll listen to me, and I am not a thrill seeker.

He used to walk to our old house all the time. Probably to get away from his dad’s rewind button. It would kill me if my father was like that and didn’t have any opinions of his own. Since we moved to the houseboat, Mack kayaks over from the public boat ramp in an old, beat-up two-man kayak his father found at the dump. They leave it in the reeds and no one bothers it. Typical Essex County.

That’s one okay thing about Mr. Petriano. He’s a junk fanatic. He finds the best stuff at the landfill. He’s like a bloodhound for it. I’ve walked with him and Mack by piles of debris and it’s the most amazing thing. You can pass a mound of metal and wood that’s all broken and bent, nothing worth looking at, much less carrying away. But Mr. Petriano stops and tilts his head kinda sideways. He shoves the pile one way or the other with his foot. Mack’s usually talking a mile a minute, so he doesn’t even twig that it’s happening. But once Mr. Petriano bends down and reaches into the pile, even Mack stops talking. He knows something incredible is going to come busting out at the end of Mr. Petriano’s arm. A BB gun, a perfectly good chain saw, a VCR that only needs a new plug—that’s the kind of stuff Mr. P finds.

My dad couldn’t find his own foot in a pile like that. His brain is always going, but its connection to the real world works more like a hose with kinks in it. You get spurts or dribbles most of the time, once in a while a geyser.

Every summer for my whole life it seems like Mack and I messed around the empty marina building and the junked boats on the creek. When we were little kids, he would make up stories and we’d act them out. It’s where we started playing jungle war, only not when my dad was around.

If Dad overhears any mention of the Vietcong or ’Nam, he starts right in with his standard lecture about the liars in Washington and the power-hungry military. Another reason my parents have never taken us to our nation’s capital: it’s a bastion of corruption.

In grade school my friends loved overnights at our house, cramped as it was. They didn’t know anyone else whose parents let them stay up all night. My mom and dad hardly ever said no. So between Mack and my parents, my childhood memories are awesome. Pirate games and campfires at midnight and sleeping under the stars on the dock of the D-funct marina. Not a bad life. Sorry if I sound like someone’s grandfather about the good old days. The only reason I’m telling you about back then is so you can see the difference now.

Somewhere between grade school and high school, life slowed down big-time. Pure mud. I didn’t notice it until this summer, when life feels like quicksand most of the time. But looking back, it started before The Disease and it’s escalating. My parents argue more, about a lot of little things, but mostly about money. The boat is falling apart. Mom’s not sleeping well. She’s too tired to do all the things she used to like to do, like hanging laundry outside and baking bread. She wants a clothes dryer, which you can’t run on a houseboat battery or with kerosene.

Dad’s confused because Mom has never been an appliance freak. When she brings up this stuff, he calls her a traitor. She yelps at the gross unfairness of that, the years she slung the laundry basket outside and hung up clothes, rain or shine. I know she wants to say it’s the germs and my being sick that makes her so paranoid, but she can’t because it would sound like she’s blaming me and I didn’t ask for the stupid leukemia.

All of that makes it impossible for them to focus on what I want, a car of my own, even though I won’t be old enough to drive until April. Dead by June. Even I can see it wouldn’t be a great investment.

Earlier this summer I interrupted one of their fights, before they told me what the doctors had already told them, that I had this sucky disease.

“Forget the car,” I said. “We can move to the city and I’ll take cabs like Holden.”

“I didn’t know you had a friend named Holden.” Mom forgot all about their argument. She’d cooked homemade spaghetti sauce. She does stuff like that to avoid the pesticides and gunk that’s added to food to make it look perfect. Anyone can see that perfect is stupid. Things in the real world aren’t supposed to be perfect. Look at people. Start with Adam and Eve. Reality is the apple. Perfect doesn’t compute when you’re dealing with humans. How else can you explain things like teenage pregnancy and child abuse, and diseases like AIDS? Or leukemia?

Back to the day of the car argument. Mom had even peeled the tomatoes herself because she was on a no-salt kick. (Food with no salt is disgusting, actually, but you can’t tell that to my mother.) She’d read that the salt in canned vegetables can turn the arteries of a twenty-year-old into the arteries of a sixty-year-old.

“Overnight?” Dad joked, but she’d already given the canned tomatoes to the homeless shelter.

Nick was trying to eat like a real Italian by sucking up the individual noodles. Little red flicks sprayed everywhere. That totally distracted Mom, who forgot she’d asked me a question because she was so busy mopping up the blips of sauce with a dish towel.

“I’m not really hungry.” I had to change the subject. Explaining about Holden would have been tricky. Joe’s the only one that even knows I read the book ahead of the class.

Mom looked like she wanted to scream. “You have to eat.” Although she didn’t actually scream, she spoke so loudly that even Nick stopped fooling around.

Like we hadn’t been eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast and lunch for years at that point. Peanut butter is the world’s best food according to Mom, one thing we agree on. Or used to. Only at that point I’d lost ten pounds in three weeks, so even I was starting to suspect something wasn’t right.

“Holden, huh?” Dad said. “Leave it to someone in Essex County to name their kid after a storybook character.” He put his arm around Mom’s shoulders—chummy all of a sudden, the argument forgotten—and squeezed, the way grown-ups do when they’re trying to cheer each other up.

It made me sick that he could dismiss Holden’s whole deal as a storybook. Holden lived through that painful stuff. And he’s not the only kid who has. Why do grown-ups always think what kids feel is fluff and can’t possibly be significant?

Last year a boy at the middle school hanged himself. The semester before he’d forged his father’s name on his report card after his father insisted he get better grades. Then he failed a course. When the school scheduled a parent-teacher conference, he must have figured the truth would come out. All the parents and teachers walked around in a fog like they had no clue what had happened, but the kids understood how the boy could have felt like he’d never be what his father wanted, that kind of hopeless over nothing ever changing.

Same thing with Holden. It’s not like he’s being a baby. Or whining about not getting a candy bar. Hard enough to figure out the world, much less the crazy way the adults have screwed it up. Insisting things like grades are so important and not caring whether you’ve actually learned anything. It never crosses their minds how scary it is for us to think we’re going to have to work around their messes or might even have to fix the world.

If I hadn’t been so glad my parents weren’t arguing for a change, I would have called Dad on the storybook jab. I hate it when adults put down kids for being inexperienced. Like we can help that we haven’t lived as long as they have.

Anyway, after the Holden crack Dad was smiling and doing that massage thing to Mom’s shoulders. He didn’t even notice me. Snuggling is something they do less and less. I didn’t want to spoil that by starting an argument over Holden.

Dad leaned over her shoulder, their heads touching. “Remember when we read that book? In Mr. Nolan’s Humanities class. And your best friend, Rose, decided to run away to New York City.”

“I was so jealous of Rose Pelletier.”

My father pressed his lips into a pout of perplexity. “You wanted to go to New York?”

Mom shook her head. “Her uncle brought her that beaded vest from India and she always managed to get the seat next to Lewis Murray in the back row.”

“She was a cutie.”

Cutie? I groaned. Didn’t they hear themselves?

But to be honest I was glad they’d forgotten about me. It’s wearing to be the center of attention for every little thing you do or say. Nick took the opportunity to scrape his spaghetti into the trash. Before Mom and Dad could say anything or even notice, he was out kicking the soccer ball against the side of the cabin. I slid out from the table too, turned to clear my plate, and they were kissing. See what I mean about my dad?

Fast-forward to late August.

“Daniel,” Dad yells again without noticing I’m right behind him. When he’s this focused, it must be something serious. He’s usually patient, an advocate of letting things happen naturally. He believes he has all the time in the world. Because his job is editing textbooks, he can do it anywhere. Lucky for us, with the floating house.

“Yeah, Dad. What’s up?” When he reaches out to ruffle my hair, I duck. “Dad.”

“Listen, your mother needs to do some grocery shopping and she thought you might want to go into town with her and get a haircut before school starts next week.”

“You said I could grow it as long as I wanted.”

“For the summer. You don’t want the high-school teachers to think you’re lazy, do you? Shaggy won’t cut it.” He laughs at the pun.

I groan. “Mom said she didn’t want me at the school anymore. You know, with all the germs.”

“We’re still talking about it.”

“You had long hair in high school.”

He looks surprised.

“Your yearbook,” I explain.

“Well, right, but there was a war going on. It was a statement.”

“Rwanda’s not a war?”

He hesitates long enough that we both know I’ve got him. Finally he reverts to standard parenting fare. “You won’t get into college if you don’t impress your high-school teachers.”

“You did fine without college.”

“I did night school. It’s the hardest way there is to get a degree.”

“I thought this was your dream life. You and Mom are always saying how lucky you are not to be in the rat race like Leonard’s dad or Mr. Hanaday.”

“Mr. Hanaday’s the president of a bank. No one wants to be Mr. Hanaday. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about being a bank president.”

Mom’s voice whips around from the front deck. “Stieg, you promised.”

“Promised what?” I ask, little stabs of pain starting to pulse behind my right eyebrow. If she’s using his real name, it’s important. His nickname is Red. For his hair, not his temper. And, if he were being one hundred percent honest, for his politics.

Dad kneels to straighten the mooring line. He stutters something about my math skills and ends the conversation before I can add the ultimate barb. Why do I need a haircut ever again? I’m not going to live long enough for college.

About now you’re probably wondering what I look like. People always do that with books, try to figure out whether someone has curly hair or who’ll play who in the movie. I sure as hell can’t play myself. (It’s okay, you can laugh. Sicko.)

Without giving too much away, I look like my mother. Not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Dad says it is. She’s blonde like the models you see in travel ads for Sweden. I’m one of the few people who know that her hair is dyed. I’ve seen her—after we’re supposed to be asleep—when she squeezes the tube of dye and sits under that blue plastic cap with the stiff bow at her chin. It’s a concession to the establishment she hates to admit.

Even without that gunk, though, she’s not old enough yet to be all gray. I don’t think the hair coloring is because she’s vain; she’s just not brave enough to accept that time is passing in a way she can’t control. It’s funny to think of your mother not being brave. In storybooks mothers are always the Mama Bears protecting their young.

Both sets of my grandparents are dead, but they were all real blondes, Scandinavians, double vowels in their mostly unpronounceable names. Joe says we’re lucky that Mom had her own ideas about names. We could have had weird names like Dad’s or military names like Helmut with double dots over the vowels. I figure Mom’s insistence on blonde hair is one last little throwback to that heritage. It would fit with all her reincarnation mumbo jumbo. She wears her own hair long and usually loose like Mama Cass on the cover of the Mamas and Papas record in their collection. A favorite of theirs. You can tell from the squashed corners and the white splotches where the print has worn off from handling. Of course, the fact that they know all the words when those songs come on the radio is another dead giveaway.

While I’m talking to Dad about the haircut, Mom comes around from the back deck. In her bathing suit—from behind where you can’t see all the worry lines on her face—she could be twenty-something. Once, when I was about thirteen, I had a friend who kept on making cryptic comments about how hot my mom was, until I beat him about the head and neck with my backpack one day. You can’t have kids mixing up things like that with adults. It’s too weird. It’s not right. After my father broke up the fight, neither of us would tell him what it was about.

Don’t get the idea I’m a violent person. I’m not. Even if I wanted to be, I couldn’t be violent with peaceniks for parents.

“Daniel, sweetie.” Mom spreads her words out like honey dripping off a spoon. She has that Southern accent that stops strangers dead in their tracks. People are expecting a dumb blonde and then it shocks them when they realize how smart she is. “Don’t argue with your father. We’ve been through all this. School is your work. And as long as you’re in school, they can’t draft you.”

“Jeez, Sylvie, they don’t draft fifteen-year-olds. Certainly not in peacetime when they’re not even running a draft. We’re talking about a haircut. Not a new world order.”

After Mom parks the Subaru Wagon on Main Street, she gives me a ten-dollar bill. “Don’t forget the change, but give the barber a dollar tip, please. At those rates they can’t be making a living wage.” She’s like that, always worried about someone else when her own clothes are from Goodwill and she reads her favorite magazines at the library.

She riffles through papers on the front seat, obviously fixated on what else she has on her list because she’s left the motor running. A real no-no with pollution and global warming. “Listen, Danny.”

Mom is the only one who gets away with calling me Danny. I get out and bend down to the window.

“I’ll be an hour or so. Last stop is the library. If you get through sooner, you can wait in the car. Or come in and find me… no, that’s not a good idea. Just wait in the car.”

Like hell. Lately I hardly ever have free time in town. The list of places I want to go, to see what’s happening and to be seen, grows longer every day. Even without The Disease, summer vacation’s a killer when you live on a houseboat.

Mack is luckier. His house is two blocks from the barbershop, two blocks from all the places kids our age hang out in Essex County. The Laundromat, Parr’s parking lot, the elementary school playground, the fishing pier, the library. Last week a family with twin girls moved in next door to Mack, the subject of several late-night phone calls between him and me. Though I have yet to meet the twins, Mack and I have been working through a plan to convince my mother to let us take them to the band concert. The weekly band concert at the community college in Warsaw is a favorite of my parents. Music events are an exception when it comes to organized events. As Mom would say, Closest thing to culture in this godforsaken wasteland of the Northern Neck.

After the haircut I should have enough time to cut across the motel parking lot to Mack’s. Plenty of time for a good look at the twins. He’s already told me they’re easy on the eyes. This may be my last chance to meet them face-to-face before September. Before the rest of the high school scarfs them up, and Mack and I won’t be able to get close enough to even talk.

When I come into the barbershop, the bell over the door jingles. It surprises me every time. And every time I jump. The chairs are full. The usual old geezers, each with three hairs to cut. It’s a good thing, because their hearts probably can’t take much more excitement. A mother with a baby in her lap and two little boys. They’re fighting over the chair with the torn vinyl seat. I’ve seen kids put half-eaten Life Savers down that hole. They can have that chair.

“Forty minutes,” the barber with the toupee announces. Both kids stop and stare at me. They’re afraid I want their chair. Ha. The other barber keeps right on cutting, so serious, so intent on getting it right. He must be related to my dad.

“Can you hold my place?” I ask the old one, he’s in charge. Mom wouldn’t want me to take a chance on little-kid germs. “I’ll be right back.”

“Leave your name.” He points to a pad by the phone.

Freedom.

Mrs. Petriano answers the door. “Daniel, what a pleasure.”

Mack says when his mom first heard about The Disease, she cried all night. If someone else’s mother feels that way, someone who knew me before I got sick, I can’t be but so lame.

She holds the door open wider. “Mack’s next door.”

“With the twins?”

She nods. “Would you like to come in and have some ice cream while you’re waiting?”

“I might go knock. Do you think that’d be okay?”

“Oh…of course. Of course.” She looks at me with big eyes as if it never occurred to her before that two girls my age might interest me more than ice cream. I feel bad for Mack. His mother’s in for a big shock when she finds out he’s not a virgin.

The house next door is identical to Mack’s on the outside. All one level, cinder block. White with green shutters and some kind of gray stone walkway and front steps and those little half-windows sunk into the grass along the front and side. I can hear U2 rumbling underground. They must be in the basement.

No doorbell. When no one answers the knock, I knock harder. No luck. I peer down into the half-window and scream over the U2, “Mack.” Instant silence.

Then his face pops up two inches from mine by the glass. “Daniel.” Some conversation in the dark space behind him. “Come around back.”

The twins’ house has one of those slanted basement doors like my grandmother had at her little farmhouse in Urbanna. She always kept these ancient slatted baskets of apples and potatoes and turnips on the steps, like they did on Little House on the Prairie. Which we were forced to watch during Thanksgiving vacation. Grandma’s basement was spider heaven. Mom would send me down to get whatever Grandma wanted because Mom has a thing about spiders. A major thing.

She’s not the only one. Three years ago, right before Grandma died, Joe and I collected a jar of creepy crawlies from her cellar stairs and threatened to put them in Nick’s bed if he didn’t stop following us. It was very, very effective. A chink in the golden warrior’s armor.

The metal door into the twins’ basement flies open and bounces against the concrete wall. “Shit.” The voice is female. From the murky underground a girl motions me down the steps. Long dark hair and a great tan. If there are two of her, this may turn out to be the best haircut I’ve ever had.

“You’re Daniel?” Like she expected a gargoyle instead of a boy.

“Mack told you.”

She nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” I look right into her eyes as I put out my hand to shake, an absolute prohibition laid down by my mother the minute she read the first chapter of the first book on AML. “I’m so glad to meet you, Sorry.”

The girl laughs. This could be all right even if she does know the truth about me.

“It’s Meredith, actually. And my sister, Juliann.”

A second girl, same long legs, same tan, but with short hair, appears with Mack right behind. Juliann gives a little wave. I nod back.

“Blabbermouth.” I hook fists with Mack and tug, but he lets go.

“They’re in tenth with us,” he says.

“You lie.”

The basement is set up for a party. A ping-pong table at one end, two couches and an ancient TV at the other. The lamps have colored light bulbs in them—mood lighting. And there’s a fridge in the corner. Too cool.

“Who brought you in to town?” Mack knows if it’s my mother we’re on a tight schedule, but if it’s Dad, we’re golden.

“Mom.”

“Rats.”

“Do you want a Coke?” Meredith says and flicks her hair over her shoulder, that thing girls do. They’re both wearing those shirts with the thin straps and there are no bathing suit lines on their shoulders. Too bad it’s the last week in August, and not June with a whole summer of beach and boats ahead of us.

“Coke’s perfect.” I say. My mother would go ballistic. Coca-Cola is a product of the devil.

Mack sits and Juliann perches on the arm of the couch at his end, her long legs swinging. His grin is as wide as the river. I know what he’s thinking. Evil dude.

“You been over to see the high school yet?” I ask. Mack blinks to warn me I’m working too hard.

“It’s so small,” Juliann says. “We were at Albemarle last year.”

“Sounds French.”

“Indian,” Juliann says. “It’s huge.”

Meredith hands me the cold can. “Haven’t you ever heard of it? State football champions two years running.”

I shake my head and fight the urge to shoot Mack a frown. Her reference to football makes it crucial to ask some background questions. A girl’s interest in football players cuts the odds on social possibilities for fringe guys like Mack and me. How he managed to get a girl to say yes to the big question still shocks me, a story for another day.

“Do y’all play sports?” I ask when Mack doesn’t.

Meredith looks at Juliann, who looks at her feet. Regulation sandals, but pink toes, whoa. Meredith’s smile is still all apology. “Not football,” she jokes.

At the same time her sister says, “Just phys ed.”

Mack and I do a silent high five and he adds, “Dan’s brother is a superstar in the county soccer league. Team sports around here are a little, ah, overwhelming. Not a lot of other stuff to do…” His voice trails off. I can tell he’s thought better all of a sudden about pointing out Essex County’s weaknesses so early in the relationship.

The girls nod as if they know that lack of activities is not the real reason for our dismissal of team sports. They’re so eager not to offend, I bristle all over again at Mack’s breaking our pact not to mention The Disease.

Of course I miss the allotted slot at the barbershop. By the time I realize it, my mother’s probably steaming, but we’ve convinced the twins to meet us Friday night at the public pier under the bridge for a fishing lesson. Much better than the band concert with the whole town on the alert. Dating 101—Mack’s getting to be quite the expert. Without a car, it’s hard to find places you can be alone with a girl.

When I get back to the barbershop, my mother’s sitting outside in the Subaru. Too warm, I try to cover up the puffing. She holds out her open palm.

“Give me the ten-dollar bill.” She’s really ticked. “You can bike in tomorrow and get yourself a haircut.”

“How about Friday? Mack and I were going to teach his new neighbors how to fish. They’re from Charlottesville.”

She just looks at me—that wise tight smile that isn’t really a smile—but she doesn’t say no, even though it’s not likely she’ll let me bike. Since June she obsesses that I’ll faint and fall off while I’m riding.

“If I were you,” she says deadpan, “I’d rethink fishing. Not a lot of girls like to fish.”

I’m speechless, too busy wondering how she figured out the new neighbors are girls.

CHAPTER FOUR

When we get to the grocery store, the assistant store manager is pacing outside. Effie’s face, already pudgy from too many doughnuts, is blotchy and red. She used to be a client of Mom’s at the Food Pantry, the unofficial arm of the local welfare group that distributes free government food, mostly surplus cheese and recalled meat. Mom started the project in Tappahannock years ago. It’s your standard redistribution of wealth scheme on a very small scale. Sometimes Mack and I help them unwrap the boxes and divvy it up into bundles for individual households. With Effie’s job at the grocery store, she has graduated. One of Mom’s success stories.

“Effie.” Mom swerves away from the automatic doors to hug the plump woman in an apron decorated with a purple lion. “What’s the matter?”

“They’re cutting my hours.”

“Oh, Effie.”

Mom takes her hands and makes her sit on a bench in the shade. Effie’s been crying, but now that she has an audience, she rants, getting louder and louder. The tiny angel tattoo on her shoulder dances as she warms up.

“No health benefits if I work less than forty hours. No sick days. No vacation. It stinks.”

“Who told you this?”

“The district director from Raleigh.”

I’m backed up to the building with only my toes sticking out in the sun. It’s almost like being invisible, the two of them are so deeply entrenched in their outrage. A real break, ’cause Mom’s hardly been able to leave me alone for ten minutes all summer. As I stand there watching customers come and go, the back of Mom’s neck turns pink. She only planned on errands, so she didn’t load up like usual on SPF 50. All of a sudden this summer she’s ballistic about sunscreen when she’s been only mildly enthusiastic about it before. Although she doesn’t say her concern is related, it’s obvious it’s all about the lurking terror The Disease has injected into our lives.

I’m not the only one who’s suffering. It kills me that she and Dad tiptoe through their days trying to avoid the very thing that caught me. They’re afraid to talk about it in front of me. They try every way they know to keep things the same. It’s ass-backwards. The same is what got us here. Because our parents are so worried about upsetting me, Nick gets the raw end of every decision. When Joe came home one weekend, they unloaded on him the minute I left the room. He played his music the rest of the weekend and hardly talked to me. No jokes, no funny stories—he was definitely in shock. Not that he broke all the garage windows like Holden did when his brother Allie died, but it could still happen. If things go as expected.

Joe left early that Sunday without much of a goodbye. What none of them twig is that it’s the fear, not the cancer, that makes me feel so fucking bad.

After ten minutes of listening to Mom and Effie go back and forth about the unfairness of employment-at-will, Virginia’s conservative bent, and its long-standing hatred of unions and minorities, the sweat is running down my spine in a river.

“Mom.”

“In a minute, Daniel.”

“Mom, give me the list. You can meet me at the register.”

She looks at me and smiles—a real smile—for the first time since breakfast. Someone needs her and she can help without anticipating a burial. What a relief that must be.

“Thanks.” And she lets me go without asking the inevitable “are you sure you’re okay?”

The list includes six things with vitamin C—Mom read somewhere that it counteracts nausea and it’s all she’s been talking about since. Nature cures itself, a constant theme in our house. The thing is, honestly, why does nature just not create diseases in the first place? Then nature wouldn’t need to waste any energy on finding cures.

Trained well, I choose the cheapest kind of orange juice, the store-brand cans you mix with water. But I do check the back of the package for the list of vitamins. Daniel Vitamin Landon—maybe I’ll get a nickname out of all this attention. HC must be chuckling.

The candy aisle catches my attention. Girls like candy. Unfortunately, I have no idea what to pick for girls from Charlottesville or girls period since candy has always been a huge NO at home. I’m lingering in front of the Hershey Kisses. Too obvious, too dorky. I’m debating whether I should bring snacks at all to Friday’s date with the twins and wondering what else besides candy would work, when my stomach lifts and slams itself into a bottomless hole. Doubled over, I’m looking for a place to sit as Mom comes around the corner.

Shoving past another customer, she grabs my arm. “Effie,” she screams.

It hurts my eardrums. “It’s all right, Mom. It’ll pass in a minute.”

At either end of the aisle people stop and stare. Which doesn’t faze my mother. She sweeps the cereal boxes off a stack of cardboard cartons and steers me to it. Effie and the produce clerk crash around the end display. Bags of Fritos fly everywhere.

“Should we call an ambulance, Miz Landon?”

“No,” I croak. “Don’t, Mom. It’ll pass.”

“No, no, he’s okay.” She could be talking to herself. “I’m sorry, Effie. I just panicked.”

The produce clerk, who looks like a kid in my Spanish class last semester—except taller and with more acne—hands me a towel from his back pocket. “Water?” he asks.

“That’d be great.” I roll my eyes and he rolls his back at me. Mothers.

Back on the boat I offer to unload groceries, but Mom insists I go and lie down. In the galley the cell phone beeps, so I know she’s calling the herbalist to report this latest incident. I’m not the best patient they’ve ever had, but I do keep them busy.

“Here, sweetie, drink this.” Mom hands me a mug with steam curls floating above it. The outside temperature has to be one hundred degrees and she’s smothering me with hot liquids.

I sniff. “Ugh.”

“Misty says tincture of lavender helps with cramps.”

“My stomach doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“She means it deters recurrence.”

“Does she know what causes it? That might be a better place to start.”

“Daniel, don’t be like that. Misty’s had lots of cancer patients.”

“Yeah, but are any of them alive to give an endorsement?”

Later I hear her weeping into the phone. Misty Underwood, whom Leonard Yowell nicknamed Miss T. Undertaker in one of his more clever moments, is Mom’s best audience for this kind of meltdown. She tends to fall apart when she’s alone, although I never noticed it much until this summer. Dad’s at the Richmond airport, on his way to a conference for his biggest client, a Chicago textbook publisher.

Nick stands by the door to our room, the ever-present soccer ball on his hip.

He glares. “Nice going. Mom’s a mess.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t do it on purpose, you turd.”

“Whatever. Why do you always do this when Dad’s away?”

“I don’t do it. It does it.” I throw the book I’m reading at him. He ducks and it slides along the deck, hits the gunwale, and catapults into the river.

“It’s a library book,” I yell as I try to stand, but my stomach won’t let me.

Nick kicks off his shoes, climbs over the rope railing, and cannonballs a perfect ten, water everywhere. When he resurfaces, he holds the book above his head. “And the winner is…”

It’s impossible not to laugh. HC gets an unexpected bath. He’d get a kick out of that. If the library won’t take the book back, I’ll have to pay for it, but at least I’ll have my own copy. And it’s already been underlined.

Mom had her first meltdown in July, when she found out the nurse at the family doctor’s office spilled the beans to Mack’s mother about the leukemia. Mrs. Petriano is a talker, which made it worse. The Essex County grapevine at its finest. I could hear my parents’ argument through the wall. Houseboats are not built for privacy.

“Sylvie”—Dad’s patience lubricated the words—“you can’t keep it a secret forever.”

“They could at least let us adjust before we have to listen to everyone else commiserating.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Carla Petriano is the biggest gossip in town.”

“She’s the mother of Daniel’s best friend. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.”

“Why should he have to be treated differently by strangers?”

“Be fair. Carla’s hardly a stranger.”

Something indistinguishable followed, punctuated by the sound of my father’s hand slapping the wall. “Damn it, Sylvie. This affects all of us, not just you.”

“Don’t you think I know that, Red? Look at Joe. He stays away. And Nick. He’s so focused on not talking about it, he’s stopped talking altogether.”

“Unless it’s related to soccer.” Only my father laughs, weak and short-lived.

Mom leaps in. “It’s just as well. He’s too young to understand how serious this is.”

“I think you’re wrong. I think he understands too well.” Dad’s dead serious now. “Nick sees Daniel wasting away. He sees the middle-of-the-night trips to the head. The endless laundry. Daniel couldn’t even swim all the way around the boat yesterday without resting on the mooring line. He used to be able to swim across the river, for God’s sake.” Dad’s anger came across loud and clear.

Mom interrupted. “You think Nick should be talking to a counselor?”

“Probably.”

“But we can’t afford that and Mexico. We agreed, Daniel first. That’s why Judy’s interference is so irritating.”

“She’s only trying to be supportive. She’s well-meaning.”

“If I had a dollar for every well-meaning word from these people.”

“‘These people’? These people were your friends five weeks ago.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t understand what this is like. With their platitudes and their casseroles and pound cake. What medical books do they read?”

“You wouldn’t wish this on their children.”

There was a silence and I found myself sitting up to listen, as if the solution to world peace would be forthcoming.

My mother’s voice was slower, less sure, as if she were losing steam, the debate a kind of verbal enema that had cleaned her out. “I do. Oh, God, Red, I do wish this was someone else’s child. In a heartbeat. I’d be the first one baking brownies.”

“This isn’t part of some grand master plan to punish the Landons. It’s like drawing the queen of spades in crazy eights. It just happens to be us this time. Some other boy in some other town will be the next one. Diseases like leukemia just happen.”

“I don’t believe that. It can’t be totally random. There are biological reasons, medical things that happen to certain people and not to other people.”

More mumbling, their voices flatter, exhausted, winding down into defeat. Dad opened the door, his rubber-soled shoes squeaked along the deck. “Sylvie, you have to let that go. You can’t help the boys deal with this if you’re angry all the time. It’s not your fault that Daniel is sick.”

“He’s not just sick. I wish he was just sick. He’s dying.” She choked on her own words and I missed his answer. She continued. “If it is random, if there’s no medical explanation, then how can there be a cure?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. You’re taking what I said out of context. I meant you have to stop blaming yourself for something that’s out of your control.”

Her words were whispers. I couldn’t hear them and neither could he because he stopped talking and walked back down the deck to where she must have been standing, still inside their cabin. And then the words that have come back to me over and over since that day: first thing in the morning, on rainy afternoons, in the middle of the night. In a flat tone—no anger, no despair, no frustration—Mom hung the words in the air one by one like the heaviest Christmas tree ornaments, the kind that drag down the other branches.

“But I gave him those genes.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday night’s supposed to be a full moon. Pure luck. On the phone Mack assures me he has confirmed the time and place with Juliann and Meredith. My backpack is stuffed with tortilla chips and red licorice. The salsa jar weighs down the bag. Dad’s back from his turnaround Chicago trip and agrees to drop me off at Mack’s on his way to the AA meeting in Warsaw.

I probably should have mentioned this sooner. In my father’s case Alcoholics Anonymous is a misnomer. His drug of choice is—was—marijuana; at least that’s what he’s told us. But apparently there are not enough recovering drug addicts in Essex County to justify a separate Narcotics Anonymous group. He still goes to the meetings once or twice a month, though he’s been drug-free for almost sixteen years, my whole life. One day when I was little and didn’t know it was a problem for him, I asked him why he didn’t drink beer like the other kids’ fathers. Even with the dumbed-down explanation, I could see it was really important to him.

Usually he makes light of things about himself. Not AA. Although he may not talk about it much, he never jokes about it. His promise to stay clean—a pretty hefty promise if you’re talking about not doing something ever again—was made in the delivery room the night I was born.

Not too long after the beer-and-AA conversation when he told me about the delivery room, but still years ago, my parents had an argument where Mom accused him of making the promise to me, not to her. That made me feel lousy at first, but after I got to thinking about it, I felt kind of good, too. When I’m really ticked at him about something, I remind myself about the promise and it helps.

The other truly significant thing about having a father who goes to AA is that drugs have no attraction for me. Zilch. Mack says he’s tried marijuana. Like every other kid in Essex County tries it because it’s such a nothing-ever-happens place otherwise. You can’t say stuff like that around Joe. When anyone uses boredom as an excuse, he gets really steamed. He says that’s a cop-out. Out of the blue he quoted some famous writer who basically said embrace a thing because you choose to embrace it, for positive reasons. Sounds hokey, but I can see Joe’s point. He’s the smartest person I know.

Plus he says girls dig guys who are enthusiastic and have ideas, not dopeheads. He should know: he’s had a hundred girlfriends. More than Mack, who’s only had the one, and then only for a night. But not for lack of trying.

From everything Mack says he doesn’t smoke much. His version, though I’m not sure he’s being straight. He said it makes him giggly, which has to be truly embarrassing for a guy. And he almost got arrested. Coming home from a party where they were smoking, he crashed his bike into a telephone pole, just as Officer Brewer, the fat dude who works for the town, cruised down the street. Part of the nightly drill for the Essex County blues before they roll up the streets. Mack said Brewer sniffed around a lot while he helped bend the bike wheel back so Mack could ride home.

I tend to stay away from parties where the potheads will be. Out of respect for Dad and all. Being arrested would be too much of a mess with parents like mine who are already so antiestablishment. For all I know they’re hiding out in this backwater to avoid being identified from the FBI’s photos of war protesters, Weathermen or worse. Dad has said more than once that everyone’s parents have secrets.

AA is like a religion to him. If he hears TV reporters allege stuff about a celebrity with a drug or alcohol problem, Dad snaps his head around and goes off on the right to privacy and how they ought to leave people alone who are trying to beat that kind of thing, what do they know about it, all that kind of emotional spewing that shows it’s still a soft spot for him. I wonder sometimes if Mom takes his rejection of that part of their early life together as a personal rejection. She gave it up too, but still, I know how I’d feel if Mack started telling everyone he thought Apocalypse Now was a lame movie. It would feel like a personal slur.

The night of our great fishing expedition with the twins Mack’s waiting on his front steps with his trusty tackle box and two poles. I bring two from our collection, several generations’ worth. What I don’t bring is the bamboo pole with a cork on a string and no reel at all. We used it when we were little, but the girls won’t appreciate that. Some days I catch more with it than all Mack’s modern rigs and reels, but it’ll look dorky on a date with girls who didn’t grow up around here.

“Boyo.” Mack’s batting at the bugs and the sun hasn’t even set.

“Seen the twins?”

“I told them I’d call before we came.”

“We’re walking over?”

He nods.

“So… what are you waiting for?”

When he fakes to his right and swings his left hook, I step back, laughing.

He goes inside to phone the girls to warn them. Mack and I have already learned that girls don’t like being surprised. While I wait on the porch, Mrs. Petriano appears at the living room window and waves. She’s not so bad.

By the time Mack comes back, Meredith and Juliann are halfway down their front walk. They’re trying not to smile or look at us, so I know they’re nervous too. Their heads bump in that whispery girl thing. No moon yet, just that silting dusk that melts the shadows and brings the mosquitoes. I’ve slathered up with bug repellent at home to avoid looking geeky in front of them. Juliann slaps at her bare shoulder.

“Hey, Daniel. Mack.” She slaps again.

“I have some bug stuff if you want it.” I offer the spray bottle.

Meredith reaches out. “We didn’t have so many bugs in the mountains.”

Mack grunts. “That’s ’cause they’re all here at the river.”

We scuff along the sidewalk by St. Margaret’s, the private girls’ high school on Water Lane, out of session until mid-September. When Juliann bends down to apply bug spray to her ankles and calves, Mack eyes the rear view. I elbow his gut. Such a pervert. These girls don’t seem the type to appreciate that kind of interest.

“Monday’s the big day,” Meredith says once she’s done.

“Sure you’re ready for Essex County High?” I ask. They’re the newcomers after all. It’ll be harder on them.

“We’ve started at five new schools. It’s no biggie.” Juliann doesn’t sound convinced. I’m getting the idea that she’s the second twin, the follower.

Mack trots up to be next to her. “It won’t be too bad. You know us.”

“So true.” She looks back at me when Mack laughs. I guess to be sure we both know she meant to be funny. “Plus we already met a few kids at the Laundromat yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah, who?” Mack says.

She and Juliann exchange looks.

“What’d they look like?” I ask.

“Bev something-or-other. Almost a crew cut, lots of mascara.”

“Bev Lintner?” Mack suggests and Meredith nods.

Juliann finishes the thought for both of them. “And her big sister. Jean? Or Jane? She didn’t stop reading the whole time.”

Mack exchanges a look with me. “No one knows her name.”

The girls laugh, which pleases him.

“Bev’s nice enough,” I add. It will be bad if they get the impression we’re snobs.

Juliann elbows Meredith. “Who was that guy? The guy who stopped by on his motorbike. Shoulder-length black hair, kind of Latino-looking. He seemed pretty interested in Bev.”

“That’s news,” I say when Meredith doesn’t answer her sister. It’s been almost three months since school let out and I’ve been busy with the doctors and all, haven’t kept up with the social scene. “Who d’you think that could be, Mack?”

“Maybe Leon Barker? Or one of the strawberry workers’ kids?”

Juliann answers. “Leon sounds right. Bev introduced us.”

Meredith’s frown gets lost in the thickening night, but not before I catch it. “At first she didn’t much want to. Leon had to ask twice.”

Although Mack looks discouraged, he goes along. “Bev sprints for the track team. Fifty-yard dash, I think. She’s actually not that fast.”

“He looked muscular all right.” Juliann giggles.

My turn to look at Mack. Good thing he asked them to go fishing this weekend. After Monday and the first day of school we might not have another chance if muscles turn them on.

The tackle box is a mess. After expressing appropriate disgust at the worms, the girls watch while Mack baits hooks and I straighten out his box. I can’t stand that kind of disorder for no good reason. I’ve been like that since I was little. The box has the compartments built right in, for God’s sake. All you have to do is put the things that match in the same little square. How hard is that? Mack and I have had this discussion before, but it’s never really bugged me like it does tonight.

By the time I have my own line baited and set, Juliann has caught a fish and the girls are analyzing it in the bucket. With the sun going, going, gone, the streetlamp’s light makes a murky pit where the pier starts and the pavement ends.

“It looks so soft.” Meredith sticks her hand down to touch the catfish before I can warn her. When it stings her, she pulls back fast, but doesn’t scream. I’m impressed.

“It bit me,” is all she says, wrapping the injured finger in her shirt, exposing more tan at her waist.

“Stung you. Those whiskers are their protection. When they’re threatened they secrete some wild kind of protein that feels like a giant bee sting. Suck your finger.”

She doesn’t even hesitate. She puts two fingers in her mouth and makes a quick swipe at her eyes with the palm of her other hand. I know from experience how much it hurts.

Mack apologizes. “We should have made you throw it back, but it was your first one.”

Juliann doesn’t seem to care in the least that her sister is injured. She scoots closer to Mack on the pier and stares out at the wide path of moonlight that has just appeared across the water.

“It’s perfect,” she sighs.

Meredith glares at the bucket. “Can you eat catfish?”

“Revenge, eh?” I like her more than her sister.

“Yeah.”

“Here, hold my pole and I’ll bait another one for you. You’re looking for blue. They’re better eating.”

“What about crabs?”

“You catch them in wire cages called crab pots.”

“Oh.” She smiles in a way that sends me. “I’ve never lived near the water before.”

“First time for everything,” Mack says. I could kick him.

Meredith’s polite enough to laugh when most any other girl would have a hissy fit at a boy making fun of her. Let me tell you, I’m usually nervous around girls, but she’s sooo easy. Like Phoebe Caulfield seems from Holden’s descriptions, easy to talk to. Easy to be with. Nice. I mean that in a good way, not spastic. She’s not like most of the girls I know who are forever calling attention to themselves as if no boy would notice them if they didn’t whine and fuss. HC would like her. He’d probably call her old Meredith, invite her to a show.

After we’ve thrown back four or five catfish and there’s one ten-inch spot in the bucket—mine—Mack stands up. Juliann stands too.

“I’m starving,” he announces.

Meredith hands me her pole. She pulls out a sweatshirt from her backpack and drapes it over her shoulders. Pale yellow against that tan, wow.

A breeze off the water is chasing the mosquitoes inland. A little night music, as Dad always jokes. I give the pole back. With a maestro’s flourish I pop open the lid on the salsa jar and set it on the dock. After Mack digs out the licorice, he takes the package and a giggling Juliann out to the end of the dock. But he doesn’t come back for salsa, so he couldn’t be that hungry. For salsa.

When Meredith and I sit down to eat, her knee touches mine. Now I know those magazines in the doctor’s office are true. Women do shave their legs every day. Even though I hardly know Juliann and she’s being like every other girl with that thing about moonlight, I have to agree with her. It’s as close to perfect an evening as I’ve had in my lifetime.

“Have you finished the summer reading?” Meredith asks between chips.

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you think of Atlas Shrugged?”

I’m thinking fast. I could lose the whole shooting match here if I come off sounding like a pseudointellectual coffeehouse type of guy, the kind Holden accuses of being fake just to impress a girl.

Meredith flaps at her ear. “Kamikaze mosquito.” She giggles. “You must have thought something?”

Choking back panic, I look right in her eyes, kind of a dare to show her I’m not hesitating for lack of an opinion but because I want to be precise. “The characters are so sure of themselves. That’s not very realistic. I mean, I don’t think it’s very believable.”

“But I know people exactly like that. They’re scary.”

“Scary how?”

“What makes them think they’re right? There’s a ton of things you can’t know. Like, I mean, you only live your life with your own family. In your own town. You can’t know how it is to be someone else in another place. But when they do that, it makes other people feel small, less. It’s not fair.”

If she has moved five times and feels that way, who am I to argue? Essex County’s the only place I’ve ever lived. Farmers and fishermen, that’s all I know. To have to depend on the weather isn’t a huge confidence builder.

“Did you finish it?” She’s licking salsa off her fingers and I lose my train of thought. “Atlas?” she reminds me.

“Uh…I read ahead some.” As soon as I say it I hear how really geeky that sounds. “Since I’m not sure what my schedule will be this fall.”

“Because of the…”

“Leukemia. It’s okay to say it. It’s no big secret.”

“Mack said you just found out.”

“Two months ago.”

“So you’re doing the chemo now?”

I wonder how much she knows about chemotherapy, whether there is someone close to her who’s had cancer if she uses the lingo so handily. That may explain why her father doesn’t live with them.

You’ll have to get used to this. My imagination’s always been hard to control. One time last year when I’d written something wild that didn’t exactly fit the assignment, Stepford-Hanes said my imagination would stand me in good stead later in life. When she said it, it made me feel better about the B minus she gave me for not following instructions. Not only did she recognize some part of me as particular to me, but it was something I could depend on. It would always be there. Later in life implies you’ll be an adult someday doing worthwhile things instead of the way it is as a kid, just feeling ignorant and having to be learning stuff all the time. Her comment felt especially good because I don’t have the kind of talent that Nick and Joe have.

Since The Disease struck though, the imagination thing is actually more ironic than anything else. Stepford-Hanes taught us about irony, too. My mind projects into the future, I just don’t have much of one.

Meredith stops eating and waits for my answer, another point in her favor.

“My parents are investigating all the options.”

“The way Mack described it, fourth stage and all, I would have thought the doctors would want to move fast.”

“Yeah, well, my parents aren’t sure about chemo, radiation. Putting all those poisons into one body. They know this herbalist, Miss T. Undertaker, and she says there are less invasive ways to stop the cancer.”

“She should change her name.”

I laugh right out loud. “Well, it’s actually Underwood. Yowell came up with the nickname.”

“Yowell?”

“Another guy at school, Leonard Yowell. He’s in tenth too.”

I can’t quite figure out why I don’t describe him as a friend. Although he’s smart and that makes him a little arrogant, which is annoying since we did rec camp together for a bunch of summers. That’s where you get to be blood brothers. No kidding. For life. Seriously, I’m just explaining to you what we did back then. Like background. None of us really believe that blood-brother junk anymore. Except maybe Nick, and I won’t spoil it for him.

As I watch Meredith sweep that great hair off her shoulders, it comes to me why the distancing with Leonard. He could be competition. Apart from the temporary acne issues, he’s the old-fashioned kind of handsome. His family has money. His dad’s a powerful senator—at least everyone treats him as though he is. I mean, they always talk like politicians are the movers and the shakers. Maybe that’s why I’m not keen to claim Leonard as a friend.

Plus I don’t want Meredith to get the wrong idea about me. Name-dropping is not a virtue. I don’t even need Dad to lecture me on that. No one likes the guy who acts like he’s got the seat next to the king; he’s a suck-up, all hot air.

She sticks another chip in the jar and holds it out to me with her hand under it to catch any dripping salsa. “Have you talked to the doctors yourself?”

“My mom handles all that. She’s read a ton of stuff about AML.”

“You can still ask. You’re the patient.”

A debate over my physical condition isn’t exactly what I had in mind for the evening. “Can we talk about something else?”

She lets her shoulder bump mine. “Sorry. That was pretty rude. You’re all set to teach me about Virginia wildlife and I’m being nosy.”

“It’s okay, really. I’m just not used to talking about it with anyone except my parents. Or talking about it at all, actually.”

When the pier starts to shake, we watch Mack lumber toward us, a white cape of moonlight on his shoulders. He slumps down next to me on the dock and whispers, “Juliann has a boyfriend at Albemarle.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

“He’s captain of the debate team.”

“So…you’re here and he’s there.”

Mack starts chomping on the chips like a machine. It’s a little gross. I can hear Juliann singing at the end of the dock. Any girl who can sing in front of people she hardly knows is a romantic, like right out of those grocery store books where the muscled man drags the big-chested woman into his arms. Why can’t Mack see that she’s probably dying for a kiss in the moonlight?

When Meredith disappears into the sweatshirt, her arms wiggling in the air as she pulls it over her head, I signal Mack to go back to Juliann.

“Get lost, buddy,” I mouth. Uncharacteristic of me, but I told you I was short on time.

It takes him two minutes to talk Juliann into walking over to the 7-Eleven for ice cream and two more minutes to pack up their half of the fishing gear. He’s a quick study. A great guy, willing to sacrifice everything for a friend.

CHAPTER SIX

“Did you want ice cream?” Meredith asks after they’re gone, though she doesn’t stand.

“I’m actually on restriction from public places like convenience stores. But I’ll walk you up there. If you want to go.”

She looks confused. “What did you do to deserve that?”

“Me? Nothing. It’s just… too many germs,” I explain.

“Oh.”

I can tell she’s starting to feel bad for me, which is kind of nice and kind of a bummer because it won’t make her see me as enthusiastic and full of good ideas.

Her words sink into the night air like skipping stones that don’t make it. “It must be a hard thing to get past.”

“I mostly ignore it.”

“How about bridges? You’re not restricted from bridges, are you? That one looks germ-free.” She points to the bridge above our heads that spreads across the Rappahannock River in a broad arc of concrete decorated with a steady red streak of taillights.

“It’s an illusion.”

“It must go somewhere?”

“Only to Warsaw.”

“Have you ever walked across it?”

“Never.”

“First time for everything.” She jumps up and sprints ahead.

My parents gave me permission to spend the night at Mack’s on the condition that I sleep in the basement and nowhere near Mack’s little brother’s bedroom. Not that Roger the Dweeb is sick, but he’s only seven. Little kids are germ factories and Mom doesn’t want me to risk it on account of the lowered immunity that comes with leukemia. By prearrangement, on the chance that we might split up, Mack promised to leave the basement door unlocked. The whole time Meredith and I are walking on the narrow sidewalk and the cars are swooshing up behind us, sailing by like birds escaping from a tunnel, I’m thinking about later, when I can lie on the pullout couch in Mack’s basement and replay the evening. It’s not even over yet and somehow I know I’ll want to savor it.

Meredith’s pointing out stars and talking a mile a minute, so she must be nervous too. Or honestly fascinated with constellations. She wiggles out of the sweatshirt, loops it over one arm. Warm from walking, I guess. I’m too busy analyzing the bumps of her spinal column and her shoulder blades, exposed under those narrow little straps. Those bright white lines against her shoulders right in front of me make her tan darker and more exotic. It’s all I can do to keep from touching her skin to see if it’s as warm and smooth as it looks.

When we get to the highest part of the bridge’s arc, she stops and turns so fast that I run right into her, head-on, because she’s turned before I even knew she was stopping.

“Oh, jeez, sorry.” What a klutz. But the feel of her breasts against my chest has me all choked up.

“Sorry doesn’t mind,” she says. Standing sideways she spreads her arms so that her breasts lift her top just enough to reveal her bare stomach. Also very smooth-looking. And tan. “It’s incredible out here,” she says. Then she slips her toes into the openings in the concrete barrier and leans out over the silvering ripples. Her arms wave at the river, painted with moonlight, so glittery that you’d never know it was brown and muddy underneath all that silken silver coating. “Feel the wind.”

Without the first warning of danger or flicker of disgust that she might be pretending to be Drew Barrymore, I drop the backpack and copy her by sticking my feet into the balustrade holes. My arms rise up of their own accord. My free will is nonexistent. If she asks me to jump, I will.

“Life is glorious,” she yells into the wind.

It’s almost as if you can hear her words soaring downriver. Over and over.

“Say it,” she says.

“Life is glorious,” I repeat and think how much more meaningful it is than the stupid LIFE IS GOOD T-shirts that are everywhere. “Life is glorious, glorious, glorious.” I’m making my own echo. When I look over at Meredith, she leans close and kisses me.

This is the part I will remember when I’m back on the houseboat. Marissa Bennett’s stage kisses are ancient history. I can hardly remember what she looked like. This single salty salsa kiss from Sorry, a girl who knows my sad story and likes me anyway. It’s worth everything that happens after.

Off balance, I lurch. When I rock backward to try to save myself, I lose my footing. One foot slips and I pitch forward. My sandals stick in the concrete bridge behind me.

Free fall at night is mind-boggling. It’s like driving without headlights in a tunnel. And you’re stuck in slow motion, the end of the tunnel never comes. At the high point of the bridge the clearance is huge, commercial-boat height, so I have plenty of time to prepare. Lifeguard class comes back to me, complete with the numbered illustrations. The idea is to make yourself as thin as possible when you hit the water, which they say will feel like a stone wall, not at all like water. I take a big breath and straighten my body, arms at my side, toes pointed. I order myself to think about sliding up through that water and not about going down. It’s like a test; I’m cramming, deep in concentration. No time to be scared.

After the initial shock, the river is surprisingly warm. I hear Dad saying, “It’s like bathwater,” when we did laps together last week before he left for Chicago. “Enough,” he said after once around the boat, even though he knew I used to do one hundred laps along St. Margaret’s beach last summer. And it’s suddenly clear to me as I’m sliding through solid blackness to possible sudden death that it’s not the fear of my getting weak and sicker that haunts him but his wanting to protect me from the disappointment of missing my life. What was supposed to have been my life. It’s the delivery-room promise all over again.

By the time I’ve run through that whole scene, I’m back to the surface, sputtering and dragging air into my burning lungs. I had no idea the channel was so deep. Meredith must have flagged a car, because there are four faces peering over the concrete rail. They’re all blurry from where I am.

Meredith screams, “Daniel, grab something. Is there anything you can grab? They’ve gone to get a boat.”

“I can tread water.”

“Seriously, Daniel, for how long? The man said it might be twenty minutes.”

But all I can do is laugh. The whole situation reminds me of Bill Cosby’s Noah skit, one of Dad’s favorite shaggy-dog stories. God is frustrated with Noah for giving him a hard time about building the ark. So He asks Noah how long he can tread water. But beyond the joke and the fact that an icy weight is beginning to drag at my feet and my lungs are on fire, I think about the fact that the most beautiful girl in the world is rescuing me. Me, Daniel Solstice Landon, the klutz of the year.

The rescue squad with its frantic blue lights screams into the landing in front of Atkinson Fuel Company, and a Boston Whaler with its green and brown Game and Inland Fisheries seal on the side appears from wherever. After they lasso an old docking post next to the one I’m hugging, they use another cross line to ease the boat up close enough to drag me in over the transom without crushing me against the pilings. I can’t help squealing when my anklebone scrapes the gunwale in the process of being hauled aboard like a prize bluefish.

“Daniel Landon?” The duty officer is Mr. Lassiter, who teaches algebra at the middle school. He gave me a B plus and said I was capable of better. At the time I considered that to be incredibly silly. How could he possibly know that about me, if I’d only ever done B work in his class?

“You okay?” he asks.

I grunt because my chest hurts a lot and my ankle is throbbing like a loose muffler.

“This some crazy dare?”

I shake my head and manage to answer. “Just clumsy.”

Meredith is at the dock by the time Mr. Lassiter in his neon orange vest slides the boat in sideways. I can barely see out of the blanket wrap they’ve covered me with like a straitjacket, but I can hear her breathing hard.

“It was an accident,” she volunteers between gasps.

Mr. Lassiter looks up. “You were up there on the bridge with him?”

“Meredith Rilke,” she says. “We’re friends.”

They won’t let her ride in the ambulance to the emergency room. The rule is only family. When she offers to call my parents, Mr. Lassiter says there’s no need. He’ll drive over in the Whaler to let my parents know I’m on the way to the hospital while one of the squad people fills out the report. My parents can pick me up at Riverside ER. That’s not a scene I’m relishing. Mr. Lassiter and the squad driver move ten steps away, their voices raised and their hands moving in time to the volume. It doesn’t look like anyone’s too keen on the idea of the paperwork.

“Couldn’t you just take me home in the Whaler?” I ask.

“Hospital is protocol, once the squad’s been called in.”

Meredith slips out of sight as the ambulance tech motions everyone clear from the ambulance doors. I hear the boat’s engine spit water. Then it’s over. The doors shut, the rescue squad van streaks off, and all I can think is that Meredith has to walk home alone, knowing she’s just kissed the biggest loser in Essex County.

Much to Mom’s surprise I don’t get pneumonia. She makes three loaves of banana bread and delivers them to Mr. Lassiter, the rescue squad, and the Rilkes. I’m not allowed to go with her, even to Meredith’s. Mom says it’s because I’m under doctor’s orders to stay off my ankle. My foot is buried in a splint contraption, a blue-gray wrap laced with little pickets of hard plastic that line up on my ankle to keep everything stiff. It’s not broken, just sprained from being twisted by my sandal catching on the balustrade on my way over.

In spite of everything, Meredith calls Monday night. Thank you, Mack, for giving her our number. It always strikes me as incredibly idiotic of the cell phone companies not to print a directory of numbers so more people would use their phones and more minutes would be charged. I mean, if they’re in it to make money and all.

“You left your backpack on the bridge,” she says.

“Valuable salsa and chips.”

She laughs. “I liked them.”

“How was the first day of school?”

“Okay. Bev introduced us around and Mack said to tell you Stepford-Hanes graduated to the high school and is still wearing those amazing skirts.”

“Oh, great.”

“Who is she?” When Meredith’s voice tightens, I’m right back there on the bridge with her shouting choruses of “Glorious.”

“Just a teacher. English nine. She’s okay.”

Meredith breathes loudly enough that I can hear the relief through the receiver. “I guess your parents aren’t going to let you come to classes this year?”

“They haven’t said—right now they’re blaming it on the ankle thing—but they’re still looking into possibilities for… the other, deciding. It’s complicated.”

“Last year this kid at Albemarle got hurt playing soccer, and he was unconscious. His parents refused to let the rescue squad take him. It turned out they were Christian Scientists. They don’t believe in germs or medicine. Supposedly Christ heals you.” She’s talking fast, as if she’s afraid someone’s going to tell her she has to get off the phone. “The kid already had had like six concussions. But this time he was bleeding in his brain. The state filed charges against his parents.”

“For murder?”

“No, he didn’t die. For child abuse, or something like that. A kid has rights too.”

“So you think I should sue my parents to let me go to school?”

“It’d be more fun if you were there.”

Her argument makes perfect sense to me. Somehow, though, I don’t think it will sway my parents.

Lying on the couch with my foot propped up on pillows, I try to think what Holden would do. Okay, it’s a stretch to draw parallels between a kid who’s been kicked out of school for making a conscious choice not to do his schoolwork and a kid who’s been kept away for something totally beyond his control. HC was the first to admit he hadn’t followed the rules. Still, I’m damned if I know what rules I broke.

My parents, not being rule followers themselves, try hard not to be rule makers. I’ve heard their conversations with Joe. Stuff that most kids don’t talk about with their parents. Even beyond the substance-abuse thing, which, as you might expect, my father is particularly vocal about with his kids.

Being in the middle, though, is different. You listen more than you talk. Joe’s mistakes have all been hashed over in front of Nick and me. The one advantage to being younger, I know a lot of things thanks to Joe that he didn’t know ahead of time. With The Disease though, knowing things ahead of time is starting to feel less like an advantage.

When Mom and Dad first told me about the leukemia, we’d been to a bunch of doctors for tests, blood work, scans, a physical exam where they did things I can’t mention to anyone. No one would go through that kind of stuff if they weren’t sick. I don’t think my parents had any idea how sick I was. I sure didn’t. Once I heard the word cancer I put my hands over my ears and started humming like a brat having a temper tantrum. Not my best moment, huh?

I guess maybe it was a nervous reaction, like people who laugh during a robbery instead of fainting. Of course, Dad let Mom calm me down. Then, almost as if they had planned the whole thing, he talked all around it like he does, about mixed-up cells and the science of it, how they were experimenting, making breakthroughs every day, and how sometimes they get it wrong. It was like he was helping me with another homework assignment, that’s all. But I wondered if they had known ahead of time what the tests showed, if they had secret meetings with the doctors before they decided to tell me.

I got what Dad meant, though. What he really wanted was for me to think I shouldn’t lose any sleep over it. But that convinced me more than ever that the whole thing was a setup. The conversation arranged when Nick was out; Mom and Dad sitting together on the couch, the way coaches try to prop up a losing team with a psych-up when they know the talent is missing. I’d have to have been an idiot not to recognize how serious it was.

The only reason Dad didn’t finish the monologue was because Mom put her hand over his mouth and cut to the chase.

“The doctors don’t know everything, Danny. We can fight this.”

Dad’s eyes closed and he sank back against the cushions like he had a headache so humongous he couldn’t hold his head up any longer. Mom kept looking at me, the magic disappearing son. When I didn’t fall apart, she laid her head on Dad’s shoulder as if she was already wiped out from the effort of it all. A race well run. Another brilliant parenting accomplishment.

I just stood up and walked out, humming again to drown out their pleas for me to stay, to hear them out. We were living in the Jeanette Drive house then, before Mom’s epiphany about the houseboat. I walked right out the front door and left it open. Screw them, screw the mosquitoes. Down the block, down the next block.

It was one of those summer nights when bugs swarm the streetlights, the buzz so loud you can’t hear yourself think. Their tiny wings beat so furiously, as if they’re desperate to be transported to another world. The kind of night when even though you can see people talking in their cars, they’re like mimes. It’s impossible to hear their words with the windows up and the air conditioners running full blast. They’re drowning in their own little worlds while scraps of their lives—a wave, a nod, a glance out the window—fall into the night like shards from a cracked mirror and splinter into smaller and smaller pieces until you have to pull your hands back to avoid getting cut.

Just remembering makes me sweat again like I did that night. The collar of my T-shirt, ringed with sweat, clung to my shoulders and neck. Walking and walking, putting the leather down hard and not paying the least attention to where I was going. I don’t even remember crossing Route 17, but I must have because I ended up blocks away at the high school baseball field. It was totally empty. No cars, no people, just the overhead spotlights glowing like spaceships. The team must have quit playing minutes before I got there. I sat in the middle of the field, out past second base, and yanked out clover as the lights faded. Until it was too dark to see my fingers or the grass.

That night I was a speck in God’s eye, one little speck, like one of those million blades of grass I’d just ripped out by the roots. He couldn’t think of anything to do about the speck except rub it out. Goddamn Him. When it started to rain, I thought, He’s crying. He’s rubbed and rubbed and the speck that’s Daniel Solstice Landon is still bugging Him. So He’s going to cry me out.

My parents had each other. Joe was off living his own dream and Nick had his whole life ahead of him. God was trying to get rid of me and doing a damn fine job of it. It was the worst fucking night of my life.

Now, even with the stupid sprained ankle, Meredith’s around and I have Holden to help me figure out how to deal with the world. I might have stretched the truth a bit on the bridge when I said life is glorious, but I’ve decided one thing. I’m not going to just let Him rub me out or cry me out like a worthless speck. I’m going out kicking and screaming.

Still feeling a little sorry for myself, I decide to take Meredith’s advice and insist my parents let me go to school. What the hell? They grant dying wishes to prisoners, even serial murderers. Why not people whose cells are all screwed up? I can feel the stupid tears behind my eyes, the dam’s about to overflow, when in walks Nick, home from soccer practice after the first day of school with an armload of books. He dumps them on the built-in bench in the front cabin. “Welcome to tenth grade,” he says with this idiot grin like he’s the Easter Bunny.

“Who asked you to bring those?”

He rips open the bag of carrots—carrots for God’s sake—and shoves a few into his mouth. Then he talks with his mouth full of pulp. Disgusting.

“Mom, that’s who. How else are you going to keep up?”

“What’s the point?”

“Don’t give me that. You love school. Science Fair projects, essay contests. Look at all the books you have junking up our cabin. And don’t forget you started the Plato Club last year. You’re a geek.”

What can you say to that? Hard to believe we share the same genes.

“You’re adopted,” I say.

But he’s not done. “Jumping off one bridge doesn’t make you a super jock.”

“I don’t want to be a super jock. I’d just like to know I could jump off another bridge if I wanted to. Or use my library card next year.”

He takes a double swallow from his water bottle. “Fine, jump off any bridge you want. No one’s stopping you. I was only trying to help.”

Holden would have told Nick to shut up and leave, like he did to Ackley, the dorm mate from hell. Give me my goddamn comb back. Or he would have stomped off himself and left Nick to stew. I don’t get the chance to do either one because Mom honks from the shore and Nick has to take the skiff and go get her. My ankle throbs like hell and you can’t stalk off anywhere on a houseboat.

By scrunching over, I can just reach the new pile of books without getting up. Biology’s on top. Heavier than any textbook I’ve had in school so far, it’s full of diagrams and photos. I look for Dad’s name in the credits, but he’s not there. In the middle is a section of plastic overlays for each system of the human body. Muscles are the first illustration I turn to, and there they are, strapped over anklebone clusters, those pesky little bloodred ribbons that have laid me up before I’m ready to give up the ghost. I forgive Nick. He’s only the messenger.

The table of contents lists twenty-five chapters, including one called “The Immune System.” I’m hooked.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The third week of school my parents get a letter from the Essex County School Board. I had to pick up the mail from the post office box because Mom wouldn’t go in at the last minute. She’s avoiding this witchy woman from the pharmacy who told her Miss T. Undertaker is a quack. On one envelope in our stack I noticed the official gold seal for the county. I figured my parents must have applied for some special school dispensation for me. This letter could be the county’s decision on the attendance issue. Unlikely it’s the county telling us they’ve found money for a tutor or to send me to Timbuktu for the alternative treatment Mom has decided is the preferred way to save her ailing son.

The unopened envelope sits on the counter until Dad gets home. Not that Mom doesn’t pick it up six or seven times and put it right back down again. By the time Dad comes in from using the Internet at the library to send back the newly edited chapters of the latest textbook manuscript, Mom is agitated way beyond normal. She holds the letter up to his face like he ought to know what it is and what she’s thinking. When he doesn’t take it, she rips the envelope open and holds the letter like a medieval royal decree while she reads it. There is a moment of quiet—maybe she’s rereading—and then he moves behind her so he can read over her shoulder.

“Summons,” she says, loud enough for him to step back. “The County School Board ‘summons’ Mr. and Mrs. Stieg Landon? Who the hell do they think they are that they can order parents around? We pay taxes just like everyone else. I’m not going anywhere.”

She reads from the beginning and her voice gets louder. All that official-sounding language. “Re: Daniel Solstice Landon’s failure to report for tenth grade.” With a list of dates. “In violation of” with another string of numbers. Laws, regulations, whatever.

“Did they summon me?” I ask.

“No.” The look of horror on Mom’s face is classic. She analyzes me for the longest time, like she’s not sure who I am.

Dad takes the letter from her and sits down, smoothing the page against the table with that intent look he uses on his editing work.

The solution seems simple to me. “I’ll go with you guys.”

Mom stops pacing long enough to shoot a look of daggers at Dad. Her voice twists in disgust. “The almighty school board suggests it would be preferable if we came without the named student ‘to allow for open discussion.’”

Like I have attention deficit disorder and am incapable of sitting still for a meeting longer than five minutes.

“They can’t force him to go to school if it makes him sicker,” she continues, her words directed at Dad. Is he even paying attention? She’s apparently already decided they should ignore the letter and skip the meeting. “That has to be…unconstitutional.”

“Sylvie. Listen to yourself. What does the Constitution have to do with voluntary medical treatment? You’re making too big a deal out of this. It’s a routine matter. They just figured out some kid on the rolls is missing. They’re only following protocol. Forty, fifty families get this same letter. The school board probably doesn’t even know about Daniel’s leukemia.”

“They’re sticking their noses in our business. Everyone thinks they know what to do and none of them actually have to deal with the reality of it. Nowadays everyone’s a damn expert.”

Earlier that day Dad admitted to Mom that his trips to Chicago, two in three weeks, were conferences with pediatric specialists in AML. This is more of that same argument. She’s apoplectic he went behind her back to consult doctors. She doesn’t trust anyone in the medical establishment since the second the tests came back and proved leukemia was poisoning her offspring. Although it’s hard to fathom how a pediatrician could help. How precise can medicine be if the experts lump a six-foot-tall teenager in with little kids?

Still, I’m glad Dad has finally stopped trying to hide the discussions from me. Although it’s not the same as inviting me to be part of their decisions about my future, it’s easier to take than the whispered conferences and closed doors. I’m not sure why he’s had this sudden change of heart or if it’s simply a temporary lapse because he’s on the defensive about the secret consultations.

Doctors, not The Disease, are the enemy, according to Mom. She religiously meets with Misty once a week to collect the herbal concoctions Undertaker recommends for my “condition.” If Miss T. Undertaker treats all this like it’s temporary, it’s okay by me. In my mind, temporary means “not fatal.” It’s a weird and comforting kind of logic.

For weeks I’ve been primed and ready for this debate about school. Since Meredith’s suggestion, I’ve been lining up my arguments like soda cans on a fence. I worked out all the ins and outs so I’d be ready to shoot holes in both of their theories. After Mom sits down across from Dad, I sit too. When I start to talk, they both look up in shock as if they’d forgotten I was there. So much for the out-in-the-open-time-to-share-everything theory, but it doesn’t stop me.

“School attendance is mandatory, right? The government can make kids go to school.” Despite the splint bracing my ankle, I’m still careful not to knock it against the table leg. Expressing pain at this point would be fatal to my credibility. “So…maybe the opposite is true too. I have a right to go. That might be constitutional.”

“Daniel, your father and I are talking about adult issues.”

“That affect me.”

Dad puts his hand on top of hers, a signal I recognize. He thinks she’s getting into dangerous ground. I take the opportunity and run with it.

“Don’t you have to sign a religious waiver or something to homeschool?” This is all part of my game plan.

Because the idea of Essex County telling Mom what’s right for her kids doesn’t sit well, there’s a glimmer of connection in the way she doesn’t leap to argue. Dad gives me a look of Thanksgiving gratitude. I’m making sense, making his job easier. If there’s a regular procedure to bypass the argument on principle, it would be the easiest way to settle this without making a federal case out of it. Dad’s nightmare is Mom on a rampage.

He nods agreement. Relief floods his face and he actually smiles at me, the one who has brought all this trouble down on the Landons. “We could sign a homeschooling commitment, Sylvie.”

“It’s not right. He’s doing all the same schoolwork the other students are doing. He just doesn’t physically go to the building and sit through the lectures. I want them to give him the same tests as all the other students.”

“Let’s just go to the meeting and see what they have to say.” Dad holds up his hand for me to be silent. “Listen and keep an open mind. And we can start by not assuming they’re the enemy.”

After the board meeting, but before the superintendent makes his official pronouncement, the Essex County Department of Social Services mails out a second letter, same gold seal, telling us they’re sending an inspector, but no date, which seems to defeat the purpose either way. Mom doesn’t wait until Dad gets home to go ballistic. But when Dad finally reads the letter he dismisses it as standard operating procedure.

See? Another one of those military phrases. It shuts her up temporarily.

Mack and I are in the middle of a chess game when a dinged-up black sedan parks under the field cedar by the dock.

“Whose car?” Mack points.

He’s beating me. Badly. Mack, at least, shows no consideration for my condition. It’s piddling rain, firing off little pings on the fiberglass roof of the houseboat and fatter pongs on the river. With the binoculars I can see the same county seal on the driver’s door and that pale blue license plate for a public service vehicle.

“County gestapo,” I say.

The lady honks, then yells something through a two-inch crack where she’s rolled down her window. Mack takes the binocs and lifts his glasses to his forehead to focus. He talks through the strap.

“Maybe she melts when she gets wet,” he says.

I add, “Like the Wicked Witch of the West.”

She yells again. “Is your mother there?”

Mack hands me the binoculars. “She could be an alien.”

“Nothing so exciting. Some nosy government person. No name, just a camera hidden in her nose. They’re stalking us.”

She must think we’re deaf because she yells even louder. “I said, is your mother there?”

Mack shrugs, but he’s smiling. I yell back, “No, ma’am.”

“Are you boys alone?”

“No, ma’am,” we yell together and can’t help laughing at the obvious.

Stepford-Hanes trained us to be precise. We’ve answered the question exactly, yet the wicked witch from Social Services is not happy. Still, my insides tighten at the insult, her inference that we’re too young to be alone in the first place.

At the yelling my father comes out from the back cabin, with his finger in the book manuscript he’s editing. He holds it to his chest, moves along the side of the cabin to stay inside the dripping roof, and shimmies up the ladder to the top deck. Hunched over the manuscript to protect it from the rain, he edges in where Mack and I are sitting under the bimini trying to stay cool in the humid drizzle that drips all around us. Dad shades his eyes to see across the water.

“Whose car is that?” he asks me.

I motion to Mack to give Dad the binoculars. “Some lady from Essex County, maybe Social Services.”

“What’s she yelling about?”

Mack moves his chair back to give Dad some dry space, while I explain the extent of our analysis. “She says she needs to talk to Mom.”

Dad moves to the edge of the bimini and yells through the wall of rain that sheets across the creek. “What do you want Mrs. Landon for?”

With her mouth lifted to the top of the open window, the woman shrieks. “Excuse me, sir, we’re not allowed to talk with anyone who’s not part of the family. Are you related to Daniel Solstice Landon?”

“Only his father.”

After a minute for her pea brain to digest that, she yells back in her official voice. “I’m here to do a home investigation. I’ll follow you to your house.”

She stays in the car, though. Clearly she’s confused, but she’s not taking any chances with these crazy people. My first thought is they should issue binoculars to Social Services personnel so they don’t come off sounding so idiotic. And umbrellas so they can brave the elements to have a civilized conversation. But actually it’s probably better she can’t see the details. Dad’s T-shirt is one of his favorite (and oldest) Beatles shirts, WHY DON’T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD. The wicked witch might swoon like the women in those Jane Austen books. She definitely wouldn’t give the Landons a good report.

Dad hands me the manuscript and leans out over the edge of the roof. Maybe so she can see he really is old enough to be the father. The rain sprays polka dots on his shirt at the shoulders. He starts to speak, cocks his head to the rising wind like a question, then clears his throat. This time he yells louder.

“This is our house.”

And just like Holden at the ridiculousness of the situation, my face burns, one hundred fifty degrees, and as red as Babe the Blue Ox is blue. Regular people don’t actually live on houseboats. Regular people talk on telephones or on doorsteps.

I aim my mouth up at the sky and let the wind carry my words in her direction. “Mrs. Landon’s not here and I’m not talking. To anyone. Go away.”

Dad doesn’t even wait to see if she stays or goes. With an exaggerated frown, he takes his editing back to the cabin.

The next day she’s back with a county deputy. Not Brewer, who’s the only policeman I know by name, except Sheriff Jessup. It wouldn’t be Brewer anyway, he’s a town cop. It’s closer to dinnertime this trip. Dad is off at Nick’s soccer game and the storm has long passed. I wake up from my daily nap about the time Mom is refusing to let the witch come on board.

“Do they really need a warrant?” I ask after the cruiser’s gone.

She shrugs and turns back to slicing tofu for the salad. “Your father’s right, I’m not a lawyer. But this is personal. The state shouldn’t get involved in family decisions.”

“Meredith says at Albemarle High they charged the parents of a boy who got hurt in a soccer game with a crime.”

“Surely not for keeping him home with a sprained ankle?”

“For not letting the rescue squad treat his concussion.”

“What was the charge?”

But I can tell by the way she only stops for a minute, then keeps on sorting through things in the refrigerator that she has already made up her mind that the answer doesn’t matter. She has enough problems of her own. And once my mother decides something, her mind is made up. One good thing about my parents, they’re independent thinkers. In case you hadn’t caught that so far.

“Maybe you and Dad should talk to a lawyer.”

“That’s the last thing we need right now. Lawyers are expensive.”

She doesn’t have to say, “Because of the medical bills.” I know that. The stack on the shelf over the radio has been growing all summer. Dad finally stuck all the bills in an old boot box in the cubby under their bunk. I found them there when we were searching for the cell phone. I guess Dad was as sick of looking at them as I was. I can’t imagine how much higher the stack would be if I were getting the chemotherapy and radiation like the doctors suggested.

When Mom takes me to the high school for the first set of tenth-grade tests—Bio and Algebra II midterms—the ankle splint is off, and a skin-colored stretchy brace thing is on. Not cool, but at least I’m back in sandals. Three more weeks and the whole ankle thing’ll be history. Not that I’m particularly anxious to forget how it happened.

When we walk through the side door by the gymnasium—Mom called ahead for special permission to avoid the front office check-in and all those free-floating germs in the main hallway—the first person I see is Leonard “The Man” Yowell. He’s leaning against the Nabs machine and yakking away to the twins. He’s spiffed up his wardrobe since last year’s Mötley Crüe T-shirts and sandals. To impress the teachers, I guess, since he’s probably already angling for college recommendations. You know that his father the senator who lives in the public eye has to be way more into that “appearances are important” mode than my dad.

I’m impressed, though, with Leonard’s costume. Not that I’d be caught wearing that fancy prep stuff. The pale blue button-down shirt makes him look older. Good decision, Master Yowell. And it distracts from his complexion, which looks rubbed out in places like he dug at it with a bad eraser, a long-standing problem for the poor guy.

The twins seem to have fallen for it. Big-time, I hate to admit. They’re rapt as he holds forth. I can feel my fists clenching, the ends of my fingers pressing into my palms, nails stinging the soft flesh. How has Mack let this happen?

The minute Leonard sees Mom he rushes over to hold the door. “Mrs. Landon, Dan. Great to have you back.” A politician in training, a miniature Senator Yowell. Why didn’t I ever see that before?

“Thank you, Leonard.” Mom has always liked him, despite the Yowell family’s political leanings. Maybe what she likes is their activism, even if they are on the wrong side. You’re starting to see where Joe gets his enthusiasm from, aren’t you? She leans closer to hug Leonard, but stiffens when she remembers the whole purpose of coming in the side door instead of signing in at the office is to keep the germ exposure to a minimum. She must be remembering her own rants. How all teenagers have bad hygiene and I’ll die from something I catch. It’s absurd really when The Disease is already inside and working away at its Grim Reaper role. As Mom steps away from the threesome, she glances down the hallway in both directions, the good Mama Bear checking for danger.

“Hey,” I say to Leonard. The slap of my hand against his, a small gesture of rebellion against the whole damn twist my life has taken. “What’s happening?”

The twins have followed him across the gymnasium. Meredith slips by Leonard and her sister. When she pecks me on the cheek, I flush red all over and Mom just stares like she can’t believe it. Although she’s talked to Meredith on the phone, Mom hasn’t seen her face-to-face before this minute. Leonard’s eyes pop too, but for a whole different reason.

When Meredith steps back, a rush of white noise surrounds me. I’m locked in place, nowhere to look but right at her. Her eyes are green. I can’t believe it’s taken me all this time to notice how different, how deep, how green. It’s not until I look away from her eyes and see her smile that I realize I must be grinning wide enough for a 747 to land.

Juliann copies her sister with a kiss on my cheek, another surprise. Leonard relaxes. Now he’s convinced himself we’re cousins or something. Revived, he steps up to the plate.

“I was just telling the girls what a hole there is in class discussions without you.”

“I bet,” I mutter.

Mom perks up. She must be suddenly feeling peachy keen at the compliment to her boy. About now I’m not feeling as pissed at Leonard because the con is helping Mom relax. You can see how her eyes are drinking in all of his six-foot-two, his khakis, the button-down shirt so new it still has the crease lines in it, and his oh-so-pleasant smile. He’s the poster child for orthodontics. Before I can move past him or think of something brilliant to say to the twins, Mom has to ask.

“How’s your brother liking Harvard, Leonard?” She doesn’t mean anything by it, but she just doesn’t get the girl thing.

Juliann’s looking at Leonard like he’s an interesting specimen all of a sudden. Meredith tugs her sister’s backpack strap.

“We gotta go. Mom’ll be out front, waiting.” She doesn’t move, though. She turns and looks right at me. “Good luck on your tests, Daniel.”

From Leonard’s clutch, I guess he’s wondering how she knew without my saying anything. You can see his brain rethinking the cousin conclusion. He has to assume we’ve had conversations elsewhere. Recent conversations. Sweet.

While I’m waiting between tests for Mr. Lassiter to corral a proctor so he can leave for some meeting, I start to worry again about Meredith and Juliann and the whole social thing at school. Every boy in the school probably has his eye on them. New meat. And each and every one of those guys has a better opportunity than I do. They can sit with the twins in the caf. Wait by their lockers. Invite them to in-school scrimmages or the computer lab. Sit behind them in class. Not being here is torture.

Parents should never discount the social pull of being physically present at school. No matter how much you might hate class, it’s the best place to see your friends. Most kids won’t even fake the flu if there’s a girl or guy they like in their classes. In a single day playing hooky you can lose too much ground when you’re sixteen or seventeen.

Outside the classroom window the football team is doing laps. The sounds, even from across the teacher’s parking lot, are disgusting. Grunts and groans. Some of those guys are so heavy they can barely lift their feet off the ground. The pebbles skid from under their cleats across the pavement. Three or four of them fall farther and farther behind their teammates. When the coaches yell at them to pick it up, pick it up, it must be so discouraging. To have to eat more than you want to maintain that kind of weight, that must be painful too. I’d never make the team. I can hardly finish half a sandwich these days. But feeling sorry for football players is a first for me.

Joe says the guys he knows at college who play defensive line take a nap every day. They can’t go out on weekends because they have to eat a special extra-protein meal at nine p.m. on the Friday before game day. Plus a carb feast for breakfast. Girls can’t get too excited about snuggling up to those jelly bellies.

You know how that is. Everyone complains if they have to sit next to a fat person on the bus or in the auditorium. Even as skinny as I am and still dropping weight, it takes me less than two seconds to decide those guys might be thinking it’s not so bad to be me.

“Daniel Landon?” The woman in the white lab coat is a total stranger, but not much older than me. She looks like one of the really smart girls Joe might hang with at college. Fingernail polish, short hair, crisp and efficient. “I’m your algebra exam proctor. Don’t bother asking me any questions because I’m not a mathematician. I’m a chemist.”

I shrug. “Chemistry’s junior year, right?”

“Maybe you’ll be in my class next year.”

“Probably not.”

She bristles. “Chemistry is required to graduate. You don’t plan to graduate?”

“That’s a tougher question than you might think. Maybe I ought to just take the Algebra II test.”

Although she thinks I’m being flip—I can tell from the little huff that escapes from her lipsticked lips—she checks her watch and hands me the test. “Fifty minutes. No extensions.”

She doesn’t yell or lose her cool. She’s probably not a bad teacher, but I’ll never know.

When I finish, Mom’s not waiting out front. Mack is.

“Your mom said she’d pick you up at my house. If I’d walk with you.” After a short silence, he adds, “Think your ankle’s up to it?” I start walking. The ankle can fall off for all I care. He catches up and walks for a while before he stops moaning about the new format for morning announcements and the changes in the cafeteria menu.

“Hey.” He punches air by my arm. “Are you mad at me about something?”

“You’re supposed to be my ears and eyes at school, remember? If Yowell’s hanging around Meredith, that would be important for me to know.”

“He’s just a friend.”

“Not anymore. He’s turned into a wolf.”

“Whoa, I didn’t realize this thing with you and Meredith was that serious.”

“It’s none of your goddamned business. Just keep Yowell away from her.”

Neither Mack nor Mrs. Petriano can talk me into coming inside. I’m legitimately waiting on their front porch for my mother, but it feels more like spying. No movement at the Rilkes. Although Mrs. Rilke’s van is in the driveway, no one comes in or out. No music wafts over from the basement. Mack raps on the living room window.

“Your mother called to say she’d be another fifteen minutes. Sure you won’t come in? Mom made brownies.”

“No.” I can’t believe when I’m this close I can’t have ten minutes alone with Meredith. “Thanks.” It’s a lame afterthought, Mack’s gone anyway.

Mack’s mother brings out a plate of brownies and a glass of milk in one of those double-sided glasses that aren’t supposed to sweat. Everyone who lives at the river has some of those perspiration-free glasses. When Mack and I were about ten, we smashed one with a brick to see what was inside. Just air, it was disappointing. We were trying to invent a way to wear our swim trunks to school so we could skip out at recess and swim in the river without being caught afterward with wet jeans. The possibility that those glasses were filled with some kind of fluid that absorbed moisture occurred to us almost simultaneously.

Mack and I do that sometimes. Stephen King–ish, but I like it that my thoughts aren’t totally off base. It’s weirdly comforting to know there’s another guy who thinks kind of like I think, even if it’s only once in a while.

The experiment didn’t work and I had to wash windows to pay Mom back for the glass we broke. It turns out, from a little online snooping by Mack, that the guy with the patent is raking it in. Then Nick had the brilliant idea we should have stripped off the swim trunks and gone back to school in our jeans. Duh. He surprises me sometimes with that kind of practical solution.

Mrs. Petriano waits to be sure I eat part of a brownie. “Your mom didn’t sound good, Daniel. Is there something I can do to help?”

“Invent a cure for cancer.”

She goes back inside. I’m such a jerk. Even though I’m not hungry, I eat four of the brownies to try to make it up to her. When Mom drives up, she’s got Nick in the car. She doesn’t even say hello or ask about the tests.

Once I’m in the backseat, I raise my eyebrows in the visor mirror at Nick, who’s riding shotgun. Silent, he signals back with the same eyebrow lift. A warning that Mom’s on a rampage. My stomach twists so tightly I think I might be sick on the way home.

“Mom, can we stop for a Coke somewhere?” Fizz helps sometimes.

She bursts into tears.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It turns out that the Social Services witch in the black sedan is mad because she doesn’t think my parents are cooperating. The school board issues a whiny one-page decision on the school attendance issue. It says I’m excused from attendance pending further investigation. But, here’s the kicker that upsets my mother so much. They withhold their decision on whether my parents are breaking the law.

Things are calm for a week or two. Dad cooks dinners because Mom’s practically living at the library, using the free Internet to research the junk Miss T. Undertaker’s feeding her about alternative cures. Mom comes home late at night, the Whaler putt-putting from the dock to the boat in skipped beats like a scratched CD. I hear my parents in their cabin shuffling through the printouts. Everything’s in terms of success rates and dollars. The treatment-center names sound like Christian-novel titles: the Haven, Outlook of Peace, Crossroads.

Out of the blue, it seems, the county attorney files papers at the courthouse against my parents for neglect, a very definite accusation of criminal wrongdoing according to the statute number recited in the notice that’s stuck in the cabin door. It’s waiting for us when we come home from the weekly white blood cell testing at Riverside Hospital, Essex County’s “leading medical center.” Read leading as only.

There’s an article in the newspaper about us. The county attorney is quoted as saying if my parents had gone ahead in June with the treatment recommended by the doctors, I would have been back in school already. He accuses my parents of contributing to my delinquency, a.k.a. my truancy. They don’t actually issue a truancy charge, though the threat is obvious from the article. The veiled accusation that my parents are killing me is the part that drives Mom wild. Ridiculous, if they only knew my mother.

The lawyer my parents hire, Henry Walker, is practically dead. He mumbles and you can’t understand a word he says. Every time they come away from his office they’re like zombies themselves. Walker goes to court with them twice, but nothing happens. With the obvious intent to keep me out of the controversy, my parents don’t talk about what it really means, and I resort to scouring the newspapers. The Rappahannock Record has a tiny column on legal news in Tappahannock, but personal information is protected in cases involving juveniles, according to Mrs. Petriano, who catches me with their copy one afternoon while I’m waiting for Mack to come home from school.

The newspaper reports that the case is adjourned. I call the court from Mack’s house once his mother goes upstairs. The clerk hedges.

“I can’t really say since I’m only allowed to release public information,” she says.

“It’s my file. It’s about me. Don’t I have the right to read about myself?”

“Actually, because you’re a minor, it’s a closed file.”

I guess she feels sorry for me, though, because she goes on and on.

“There will be court dates coming up. The court will notify your parents for each of those. And they can follow the procedures about witnesses at that point. If they have a lawyer, he can make copies from the file as part of his preparation. He’ll know the way to do that. Even though you’re a minor, you can attend the hearings if you want to. You should talk to your parents about all this. And the lawyer.”

It becomes very clear even though she doesn’t say it right out that adjourned doesn’t mean ended. She does mention that the court records list it as “pending a trial date.” That can’t be good.

When my parents notice the newspaper article, I volunteer to go back to school. But the truth is I can’t stay awake for more than four, four and a half hours in a row, so it wouldn’t help. Falling asleep in class lands you in detention. I’d be a permanent resident. And the other kids in detention are not people my mother would trust in the hygiene category.

The official court summons arrives with Officer Brewer in a county cruiser one evening in mid-October. Dad, being the nice guy, rows in and takes the documents from Brewer. I can hear Brewer explaining from the front seat in that bullhorn voice of his. He announces that he only does this, serving papers for the court, in his off-hours. They let him use the county car. Along with several apologies, he explains that he’s not a county employee and he’s sorry it’s come to this. After he leaves, Mom and Dad have a huddle on the deck back by their cabin. It ends in Dad telling her to calm down, which, of course, only makes her angrier. She slams the cabin door. When Dad comes into the galley to make coffee, I get my chance.

“Why won’t they let me talk to the judge? It’s my life.”

Mom appears in her bathrobe. When Dad motions for me to sit next to him at the table, I understand we’re getting into serious issues.

Dad pours two mugs. “The law isn’t set up that way. You’re a minor.”

“I have no rights?” I put out a third mug.

He ignores it. Coffee is a stimulant, not good for growing bones. “That’s not it exactly. We’re your legal guardians. The way Mr. Walker explains it, the state expects us to take responsibility. And if we don’t make the right decisions, the state can make decisions for us.”

“Not the right decisions,” Mom interrupts. “Decisions they think are right. They don’t care what we think, even though we’re the ones who’ve talked to all the experts.” She has said this over and over since Social Services stuck their nose into things. What’s so offensive to her is their assumption that she’s ignorant for not choosing the traditional chemotherapy route. Slumping down in the chair next to Dad’s, she leans in like a cat seeking comfort from the biggest cat hater in the room. Without touching her, he folds the papers and turns them around and around in his hands, one of his favorite I’m thinking poses. Almost more than being sick, I hate to see what’s happening to my parents. It’s my fault.

Mack says not to worry, his parents argue all the time. But before this when mine argued, it was over before it started. Afterward, sometimes the same day, sometimes the next morning, they would tease each other, a kind of remember when they laughed about as if it was an achievement, not a failure, to disagree and to work it out without falling apart. The court case and the damn leukemia have pushed them into a hole. Even I can see they’re drowning in it.

Mom’s voice frays around the edges. “The collective IQ of everyone at the Social Services Department is lower than my age.”

“Maybe we should ask Misty to testify.” Dad speaks directly to her. They’ve forgotten me again.

“She’s done so much already.” Mom’s voice has lost that killer edge. “I hate to drag her into this.”

“She wants to help.”

“I know, but—”

“Sylvie, ask her at least. She can always say no.”

“She doesn’t even have a college degree. They’ll crucify her.”

In this relatively peaceful interlude Nick gathers up his school papers and retreats. No secret handshake for me, abandoned in the Colosseum with the lions.

“I want to talk to the judge,” I announce.

My parents hardly take a breath. They speak in unison. “No.”

“I’ll tell him if you won’t.”

“They won’t let you. You’re too young.”

“Too young for what? Too young to talk about what I want for the rest of my minuscule life?”

“You have no experience with this kind of thing.”

“And you do? How many kids have you nursed through cancer? How many have you buried?”

Mr. Walker agrees to meet with me only if my parents sign a waiver of the conflict of interest. Dad argues with him about that on the cell phone. “How can there be a conflict? He’s our son. We want the same things.” Dad repeats Mr. Walker’s explanation to Mom in whispered asides as Walker offers it to Dad on the phone. Supposedly, according to Walker the Great Legal Mind, different people have different interests and there might come a time when I want something different than what my parents want for me. Mr. Walker insists on the signed waiver. When Mom signals Dad to cave, it crosses my mind that for her it’s just about the expense of cell phone minutes during the daytime. Concession is so unlike her. Two days later, they sign Walker’s three-page waiver when it arrives in the mail. Mom pushes the form across the table at me.

“I’m allowed to read it?”

“Just sign,” Dad ignores my sarcasm, his eyes on Mom in that I’ll handle this signal.

So I don’t ask any of the questions that are keeping me up at night. He folds the forms and creases the edge.

“Your appointment’s tomorrow at one.”

Mom drops me off with a zillion cautionary instructions and reminders. My head is so full I can hardly focus on the mental list of questions I made. Then Walker is late getting back from court and I have to sit for an hour in an office that reeks of cigarettes and leather polish and those weird dried curlicue plant stalks that smell like the medicine Mom spread on my chest when I was little and had a cough. When Walker breezes in, he’s already not on my A-list and I’m about to puke.

He stops with a jolt just inside the door and bows his head at his receptionist while he stares at me, this stranger in his space. There is a huge spot of ancient ketchup or barbecue sauce on his tie.

“Mr. and Mrs. Landon’s son,” she says. “Daniel.” Like my name is an afterthought, hardly significant once he has the relationship right.

“So, Daniel Landon.” As if he’s been waiting all his life to meet me. What a crock. He’s supposedly come from court—quick to mention it so I can be impressed with how important he is—and he nods to the receptionist as if he knew all along who I was. This is not starting well.

In his office—which is a total pigpen, coffee cups wedged between files and loose papers on chairs—he picks up one pile, sets it on another chair, and motions for me to sit. Once he places his briefcase on his desk blotter, he gives a huge sigh of relief. I guess I’m supposed to believe it’s so heavy because he’s such a flipping fantastic lawyer. He pops up the briefcase top as if it’s one of those plastic windows in a prison to keep the prisoner from slitting the visitor’s throat, a clear demarcation of his space versus mine. When he starts to unload the files, I can see the bald space on the top of his head and tiny little gray sprigs. Hair implants?

“What can I do for you?” He uses that fake welcoming tone of voice again. Holden would split.

I start slowly, trying to show him how reasonable and calm I am. “Can I be straight with you?”

“Of course. Whatever you say in a lawyer’s office is confidential.”

I’ve been doing some reading—in all my spare time—and I know that what he says is not exactly right. Confidentiality is for a client and I’m not his client; my parents are. But there’s no point in calling him on this when there are bigger issues at hand. It’s not what I meant anyway.

“Go ahead,” he says from behind the open briefcase in that dull voice that tells me he’s reading something.

“Aren’t my parents paying you by the hour?”

He looks across the piles at me. “Ah… yes, but—”

“Then I’ll wait until you’re done reading.”

Although he shuts the case and glares at me, at least I have his attention now. Tit for tat, my grandma used to say. He tried to make me feel small and I caught him at it. We’re even. And he knows it.

“My parents are running out of money and nothing’s been decided.”

“That’s not exactly true. They just don’t like the lower court’s decision.”

I can’t tell him that all my parents talk about at home is moving to Mexico, where they can get me a new cure, some combination of herbs and diet that Miss T. Undertaker recommends.

“What is the court’s decision? Can you put it in plain English?”

After a brief hesitation in which I wonder if he’s swallowed his gum, Walker starts. “The short list? You need to receive the prescribed chemotherapy, the follow-up radiation, and return to school. Return to your normal life. The normal life of”—he opens a pretty hefty file and scans the inside cover—“a sixteen-year-old.”

“That’s the court’s brilliant conclusion?” It’s hard to stay seated. “It doesn’t sound very legal.” I can feel my leg jiggling madly with repressed anger. “My normal life doesn’t exist. And the normal life of a sixteen-year-old isn’t my life. If you had your facts right, you’d know I’m not sixteen until November. And normal sixteen-year-olds don’t have chemotherapy or radiation or fatal—”

When the intercom buzzes, instead of telling the voice in the box he’s busy, which would be the polite thing to do, he punches another button and talks. Mumbles, really, but after I’ve calmed down, it’s pretty interesting. Some guy’s DNA has to be tested and to avoid witness tampering, they’re hiding a girl who’s been raped and two witnesses in another town under false names.

That imagination of mine takes off. Witness tampering could lead to murder, I’m thinking. I can imagine this bumbling Walker guy looking both ways before he crosses the street and his car blowing up just as he reaches the stunning expanse of the marble courthouse steps. Never mind that the Essex County courthouse has two very short, plain old poured concrete steps.

But the longer Walker talks about the faceless criminal to an unknown “buddy,” the more irritated I get. He’s so important, and dumb schmuck Daniel Landon can wait? No wonder Mom is depressed about the court stuff. Walker’s supposed to be helping us. It’s exactly Holden’s point—Walker’s like the disciples, saying one thing and doing another. Like Peter denying that he knows Jesus when the Roman soldiers ask, Walker seems to have forgotten he’s supposed to be fighting for us.

The “conflict” is coming across loud and clear, but not the kind between my parents and me that Walker was talking about. He sounds like the marketing department of the Essex County family court, when what he ought to be doing is filing motions and researching new arguments to show the court that my parents are doing their best in a bad situation. He’s not paying any attention to the Landons.

And when he’s forced to deal with us, he wimps out and tries to convince Mom and Dad that they should do what the court tells them. The county might as well be paying Walker’s fees.

I know my parents picked this pinhead, but who else was there to choose from in our crumby little town? He’s still talking into his phone, a clear violation of the privacy of some other client. I get up and walk out.

The receptionist looks at me funny. “Finished already?”

“All that time talking with his other clients better not show up on our bill.”

The shade trees in front of the Episcopal church cover the entire graveyard. My favorite grave is Benjamin Frisbie’s. For real. But he’s too ancient to be the one who invented the actual Frisbee. Friend Benjamin’s grave is all the way back from the road in a shady corner. It’s decorated with an avenging angel and the letters are gouged away into slight indentations you can barely see with the rain: A GOOD FRIEND AND PATRIOT.

I’ve always liked to sit on the tomb of good old Ben and sound off. He never argues or tells me I don’t know what I’m talking about. No one much comes through the graveyard, at least not on the afternoons I’ve been here. Mostly weekdays. I can’t even think the last time I saw anyone in here. Episcopalians must not like their relatives much.

I make up a poem about Walker and rework it until it rhymes perfectly with stick. Losing your temper is exhausting, though. The stone top is cool and once I lie down, it’s easier to close my eyes than stare at the shifting leafy ceiling, especially because the feeling that I might pitch my lunch at any second is getting stronger.

The voices drift in, at first almost like a dream. I’m half asleep anyway.

“So what are you thinking?” The voice—male, vaguely familiar—is some distance off. Slick question, soft enough that I know whoever he is, he’s talking to someone he’s trying to snow. “Come on. You can tell me.” And he’s a little pushy.

“Classes are… okay. The kids are mostly nice. I mean, we’ve only been here since August.”

I know that voice. And there can only be so many new students in a county as small as Essex. It’s Meredith. My Meredith. She talks slowly, as if she hasn’t really made up her mind and is thinking seriously about the question. No giggles, she’s not a silly cheerleader-type. And, even in my limited experience, it doesn’t sound like she’s flirting.

Filtered through the sun and the cool shadows, her voice takes on a mystical quality like the Ravi Shankar music from the seventies. I hold my breath, rabid for the next word, the next thought. They can’t have noticed me.

The guy speaks quietly, maybe close to her ear. “A hundred guys must have asked you out already.”

There’s only one guy I know who’s that smooth and over-anxious.

“Boo.” I lunge up from the tombstone. I see instantly that I’m right about the predator and do a clumsy two-step on the top. “Ta-da.”

Three graves away on the far side of one of the family monuments Meredith twists around, startled, then smiles when she sees it’s me. She climbs up on another tomb and dances back at me.

“To-di-do-di-do-do.” She’s laughing and flicking her hair off her shoulders. She swings her feet back and forth like a puppet, a mirror image of me atop old Ben’s grave.

The boy with her doesn’t respond so quickly. Slicko Leonard Yowell is not even smiling. My mother would be shocked.

At dinner my parents can’t leave off the harangue about the Social Services people. I guess they figure it’s all out in the open now since I’ve talked to the lawyer. Nick, though, is action man and he interrupts before I can confirm what they’re hinting at, that Walker is truly a jerk.

“Hey, guys,” Nick says, swallowing a whole tomato slice like a circus flamethrower. He loves his vitamins. “I’ve got the solution. They can’t serve any more court papers if you’re not around to be served. And they can’t haul Daniel in for chemo, either. Why don’t we take off? It is a houseboat.” He practically screams the second syllable.

It’s the first real connection he’s made to my situation. The first moment when I’m sure he understands that things are getting serious. But I know too that he’s a joker, so I play along.

“I like it,” I say. “Sign Nick and me both up as homeschooled. You’re in for one, might as well go for broke. We’ll take this tub around the world. How educational is that?”

Dad rests his hand on Mom’s arm to keep her seated, a safe distance from these crazy boys. And he’s the one with the red hair. “Don’t you guys have homework?”

In the cabin Nick flings himself on the bottom bunk. I go to fit my right foot on the ladder, but miss. My left side swings around and crashes into the bedpost.

“Fuck.” I try again and miss. “Double fuck.”

About that time Nick realizes I’m not goofing around. He scrambles up and stands there with his hands out to help me. I bat his hands away.

Disgusted, I mimic a whine. “More, sir. Please, sir, can I have some more?”

“Maybe it’s time to switch bunks,” he says, no small amount of pain in a voice that cracks on the vowels.

“You are such a punk.” My fist hits his stomach, high enough to stun him but not cause collapse. You have to remember I’ve had Joe practicing on me for years. “Time to switch bunks? Like you’ve been planning this for weeks? Waiting for just the right moment of weakness? The truth finally out?”

“Yikes, I was only trying to help.” He flings himself back on his bunk. “If it’s just you’ve had too much to drink, fine. Keep the stupid bunk. Just cut out the scotch tomorrow night.”

Neither of us laughs at his pitiful attempt at humor. I take off my shoes and socks. Strip to boxers and put on my sweats. Holding on to the ladder for balance, I jam the bio textbook onto my bunk with a notebook and pencil for the problems at the end of the chapter. Even hang up my jeans on the hook on the wall. With one hand on each side of the ladder, I wait for the swell of the river to pass. Wind from the south shifts the boat off the marsh in a steady rise. Then I start with the bottom rung and climb, more slowly, more deliberately, each foot on each rung, like a toddler goes up the stairs.

CHAPTER NINE

By the time I finish chapter five, about the neurology of pain, in the bio book, Nick’s snoring. This stuff is really interesting. Seriously. When you’re trying to translate puking and shivers and instant headaches into cold scientific fact, it helps to see how it all connects. If my parents ever ask my opinion, I’ll sound halfway intelligent for a change.

Outside, the last of autumn’s cicadas complain in long Morse code phrases, a certifiable madhouse of white noise. Across the phragmite stalks the deep voice of one lone bull toad blats out a warning to the cars on Route 17 above his head. Watch out, watch out, state police cruiser lurking. Every local knows the police sit in the empty Dairy Queen lot, ticket pads at the ready, mean, evil. Almost like magic, I hear the siren and red lights flicker across the cabin ceiling. What is it with policemen? They can’t let people enjoy a little fresh air without calling it speeding, showing off their badges and their power to punish. It’s all about rules for rules’ sake. Holden had it right.

No sounds from the upper deck or drifting forward from the back cabin. The parents are in retreat, gone to bed at nine instead of their usual midnight. Lately it seems as if they mimic my own escape to bed, hiding their exhaustion until I admit mine. I close my eyes. I’m too tired to climb down and turn out the light clipped to Nick’s headboard. Poor guy, he’s caught in the middle, helpless, unable to stop the opposition or even punt to protect his team.

He’s not much older than Holden’s sister Phoebe. But boys are different, really out of it as to what other people are feeling. This whole protect-my-poor-sick-brother thing, where did that come from anyway? Who would have guessed he paid enough attention to know Mom and Dad were in trouble? For Nick homeschooling would be pure torture. His friends are his life. He’s the soccer star, the team’s savior. His volunteering to leave those friends to save the Landons from a court order says a lot about what kind of guy he is. But it also means The Disease has caught him, too. If he was holding out hope for a cure, he would be lobbying for something altogether different than a cruise around the Chesapeake Bay on the Nirvana.

Now I get why Holden worries about Phoebe. As cool as she is, she’s still a little kid and any halfway decent big brother would care. I feel like rereading that scene with Phoebe’s suitcase, but the book is buried in my backpack, down that irritating ladder. So I just think about it instead. She sees his struggle and she thinks if she’s with him, it’ll help. Just like Nick putting himself in the same boat with me to make it easier for me. He just leapt right in, probably didn’t even think about what he’d be giving up. Phoebe too. She’s so sure she can fix it. And then Holden has to be the responsible one, to save her from throwing herself under the train. So he tricks her into going home.

I’m trying to figure out what hidden motivation Nick could have, whether there’s another angle, but his offer seems real enough. He said straight-out that we should switch bunks. No secret agenda there, because there’s way less headroom up here. No one would opt for the top bunk if they had a choice.

But Phoebe gives up on going with Holden. She lets him drag her suitcase home. That’s not so simple. I guess it’s possible she’s just pretending to be fooled, a kind of sneaky way to box him in, force him to keep his promise to come home. Girls are so much better at that kind of deception.

Take Meredith. When she calls me at night—her mother has eased up on the three calls a week to any one boy—she’s forever talking about something we’ll do next summer or when I come back to school. For a smart girl, she’s acting pretty dumb. The odds are not good on another summer for me. I don’t have the nerve to call her on it, though, because I like thinking about it too. And the last thing I want is to argue. Her calls—funny monologue-type run-ons—are a lifeline from the wreck of my life. She goes on and on about stuff in history and the school cliques and the football games, and I just listen. It’s the only time all day I stop thinking about my worthless body and the destruction it’s spreading in my family.

Phoebe’s like that for Holden, his lifeline. Everything else may stink, but Phoebe’s there, the same cheerful, glad-to-see-her-big-brother, predictable kid. Of course he likes how she takes his screw-ups in stride without judging him. Her faith in him. And her conviction that it will all work out. He admires her faith because he doesn’t have it. I get that. Nick’s partly the same way, not that I’d ever tell him straight-out. He doesn’t need more kudos on top of the endless soccer awards to swell his head.

Still, he’s going to turn out all right when I’m gone. When he needs to talk things over, he’ll have Joe. His other big brother. Joe’s like a safety net. He’ll help Nick learn the important stuff. How to step away from Dad’s steel-trap control of his emotions and Mom’s falling apart at the least little thing. Round and round my brain floats between Phoebe lugging that suitcase and Nick proposing a world cruise, until it all melts into a dream of the Bermuda Triangle and an endless expanse of green ocean. I sleep.

My parents argue all weekend about that fathead Walker and the Essex County Social Services witch. And about Mexico and the brand-new cure Mom’s heard about from her buddy Miss T. Undertaker. Nick’s suggestion to flee is like the tip of the iceberg. Dad starts in about wanting to take the boat downstream. Just a little overnight adventure, he calls it. Not like they don’t know the river well from Mom having grown up in Urbanna and all. But he’s enamored with the idea of a family road trip, an adventure on waves instead of wheels. It’s probably because he’s excited that for a change Nick has no soccer games on Saturday and a check for a big edit job has just arrived.

“We could leave after lunch if that gives you more time to get ready,” Dad says.

Mom’s so used to being the opposition she can’t help herself. “I hate to waste the money on fuel.”

He’s ready for that. “It’ll be a good break for everyone. Take in a little fresh scenery, catch a few fish, laugh a little. There won’t be many more warm weekends like this. Come on, let’s do it for the boys.” Through the open windows I can hear the clink of Dad’s spoon in his coffee mug and her silence as she scrambles to think of a rebuttal.

Nick groans from his bunk at Dad’s sticking us into the role of bait for his blackmail. I was already awake, but bracing myself to get out from the warm covers. October mornings on the water are a little nippy until the sun gets geared up.

“Red.”

Dad laughs with her because she’s caught him laying it on so thick, but it doesn’t stop the debate.

She says, “Have you asked them? They probably don’t even want to go. If they had their choice, they’d spend the weekend with their friends. Not their old, fuddy-duddy parents.”

“Well, that’d be okay too. We can drop them off and go, just the two of us.” What a faker.

Nick kicks the bottom of the bunk, his laughter stifled in the pillow. I’m all yawns and stretches, enjoying the normality of this discussion, wondering if she will relent. That yearning in Dad’s voice, how can she not give in? Having me around all the time must be a pretty grim reminder that their life is going to hell. If I were them, I’d leap at the chance for a break.

While they counter each other with more pros and cons, I start planning the weekend at Mack’s. He’s been raving about his redone basement. The twins can come over for a movie. Mr. Petriano brought an old TV/VCR combo home from the school-board auction and they let Mack paint the cinder-block walls with all their leftover paint. Psychedelic, he’s been bragging, but I haven’t seen it yet.

His growing obsession with sixties terms scares me a little. If I say anything about it, he shuts down, like you do when some geek starts explaining how to write HTML code. If you listen to Dad’s version of back then (and to everything you read or see in movies), drugs were a huge part of that scene, but in a way that made their crowd seem like innocents compared with kids now and the stuff they’re into these days. Even though Mack insists he’s only tried drugs once, and only marijuana, he talks about parties and people we never liked before. It’s so damn obvious that he thinks I’m out of touch.

Dad’s silence lately when the subject comes up is noticeable too. It’s not like him. He used to be so adamant, taking every chance to talk about how a little experimentation leads to worse and about the friends he lost to overdoses. He describes the whole withdrawal from activities and from people until you’re alone in a room worrying about the next fix. It makes me think there’s some guilty link between that bad time in his life and his refusal to let the doctors give me chemicals.

Mack can’t be but so far gone if he keeps inviting me to the new basement when I’ve made my stand on the drugs clearer than clear.

“The stereo’s pretty basic,” he qualified the invite on the third go-round. “Not as comfy as Meredith and Juliann’s basement with the two couches, but still…” He waited for me to say yes, but I was more curious about what he’d use to convince me. “It deserves to be christened.”

I’m remembering all of Mack’s reasoning as the debate about the boat trip lingers. Sliding down the ladder, I scramble for jeans and a sweatshirt. Dad won’t give it up.

“It may be our last chance.” He hesitates. “Winter coming, I mean.”

Mom must think I’m asleep. “What if something happens while we’re away? Misty says Daniel could crash at any time. Carla Petriano wouldn’t have a clue where to start. She’d probably feed him cookies.”

“He knows the routine. He might as well learn how to handle some of these details.”

“Needles and medicine and restricted activities? Not the kind of details a boy his age needs to handle. It’s bad enough he feels lousy all the time.”

“He says he has good days.”

“You can’t really believe that with the way he looks. What if tomorrow, while we’re cruising along to ‘Good Day Sunshine,’ he has a bad day?”

“Sweetie, you can’t protect him from all the bad things in the world.”

“That is the understatement of the year.” Her voice cracks.

There’s a long pause before Dad speaks. “I think we need this trip. For the family.” And when she doesn’t answer, he announces in his most fatherly voice, “It’s decided then. We’ll leave in an hour.” His footsteps stop outside our cabin door.

“We heard.” Nick groans again, this time an exaggeration to make his point. But Dad just laughs.

We don’t leave until eleven because Mom has to make a grocery run. She’s definitely in her bomb-shelter preparedness mode. When I volunteer to go with her, she doesn’t object, which only proves she’s preoccupied, not that she’s changed her mind about germs. On the way over to Food Lion she drives about ten miles an hour. I can’t figure what’s bothering her about all of this beyond what she’s said, but I’m working on getting up my nerve to ask her to stop by the twins’ house. I need to talk to Meredith about Halloween.

For the past three years, since Essex County Board of Supervisors banned kids thirteen and older from trick-or-treating, the Petrianos have let Mack have a party on Halloween. That was before the basement redo, so the party was in their garage or their backyard. Last year Leonard and Mack and I dressed up like characters from Young Frankenstein, the movie. I was the hunchback since I didn’t want to be burdened with more lines. I was in training for Captain Von Trapp. “Walk this way” was all I had to say. Mindless, but funny. Anyway, last year we invited girls, too…for the first time. The party was outside because it was like eighty degrees. Mack disappeared about the same time Marissa Bennett, my costar-to-be, disappeared. That single fact made me wonder for a long time whether that was the night he had sex. Although he continually said no, he’d smirk like he meant yes. Finally months later he told me the truth. So at least that image can be purged from my imagination. It wasn’t Marissa Bennett getting it on with a green monster.

In the grocery checkout line, where there are a dozen people who know Mom, I ask her about going by Meredith’s house. Not surprisingly with all those witnesses and her boulder-size guilt, she says yes. No dead brain cells yet in this kid.

“So this girl Meredith, you like her?” she asks.

I swallow and let my smile come and go. The question cannot be answered in front of people who live in Essex County. It will spread like a thunderstorm on the river.

At the Rilkes’ house the van is parked on the lawn and the girls are in their shorts, sudsing it up like a dog.

“Can I—” I motion to where Juliann mans the hose.

“Don’t get soaked. You’ll have pneumonia by tonight.” But Mom’s smiling. Normal’s good for her, too.

Meredith gives me a half hug and I come away damp already. Luckily Mrs. Rilke motions for Mom to come inside.

Meredith hands me the hose. “Just hold it, okay?” She and Juliann are on opposite sides of the van, stretching to soap the roof and having trouble covering the whole area.

“Do you have a ladder somewhere?” I ask.

“Behind the garage,” Juliann says.

“I’ll get it.” I walk backward so I can get a better look at Meredith’s legs when she doesn’t know I’m looking.

Mrs. Rilke’s face appears at the window and she shakes her head, eyebrows raised. How can she know what I’m thinking?

After I drag the ladder around to the front yard, being careful to keep the ends from scarring the lawn, I snap it open by the driver’s-side door. Meredith climbs up and grins back at me.

“Can you stay for lunch? We’re having homemade pizza.”

“Mom won’t…” I shrug my shoulders. “We’re headed out on the boat, actually.” I wish I could ask her to come with us, but that is hardly what Dad had in mind. If he’s going to keep up this chumminess for long, it’s going to get old. It’s already old when I think of how much more fun it would be to show Meredith the river than play cards with Nick.

As she leans to the right, the ladder quivers. Foot out as a prop, I grab the sides to steady it.

“Easy, easy. No more injuries. Your mom will think I’m accident-prone.”

“She already does.” But she laughs again and flips her hair back. Does she have any idea what that does to me?

Mom and Mrs. Rilke come out on the front stoop in serious conversation.

“Hey, look who’s getting to be buddies.” Meredith waves the soapy sponge and sprays all of us.

“Could be dangerous,” I say. “They’ll want to hang around whenever we get together.”

“More like they’ll keep each other busy.”

Juliann flips her sponge over the roof in our direction. “Daniel, you’re distracting the help. We need to get this job done and move on.”

“Oh, listen to that.” Meredith makes an exaggerated frown. “She has a hot date with Mack tonight and suddenly she doesn’t have time to hang around with us.”

The question I want to ask beats a drum roll in my head. If Juliann is going to Mack’s, what is Meredith going to do?

Mom’s jingling the keys. “Okay, Daniel. Time to go.”

Mrs. Rilke hands her a paper bag curled over at the top. “Nice to see you, Daniel. Bet you don’t miss that ankle cast.”

“No, ma’am.” No point in mentioning it was only a brace. With my eyes averted, I wait at the bottom of the ladder for Meredith to climb down. “Hey, I wanted to ask you if you’d go out on Halloween with me—us—Mack and me. He does a great party, costumes and stuff.”

Her feet are on the ground, the ladder behind her, and I’m in front so she can’t go anywhere. I can smell lotion and soap and damp hair. A quick glance at the mothers and even though they’re halfway to our car, they’re head to head, back into something serious again.

Meredith kisses me so quickly it feels like a puff of wind on my face. I kiss her back harder but all in a flash because I’m not sure whether she wants her mother to know she does that kind of thing.

“Yes,” Meredith says and I don’t know if she means yes to the party or yes to the kiss or yes to something more. As much as I’d like to kiss her again, I can’t because my mother is stationed by the car and staring over the hood at the two of us.

“I’ll call you,” Meredith whispers as I walk across the squishy grass to the car.

It’s only on the way home, once the Rilkes’ yard is out of sight, that I remember we’ll be away on the family cruise all weekend and I still have no idea what Meredith’s doing during Juliann’s hot date.

Once we’re home and the anchor’s up, Mom starts in all over again, listing potential disasters and pouting. Dad nods, silent. He must have decided she needs to get it all out. When I offer to make the sandwiches, she looks surprised.

“Nick can do it.”

Nick swallows the mouthful of leftover milk he’s just slurped from his cereal bowl. “Me? I’m barely thirteen. I can’t make sandwiches.”

“I’ll help you.” Not that I’m such a nice guy, but the constant debate is wearying. Every little thing has to work itself around to me and The Disease and how useless I am.

Mom gets up, even though she just sat down with the newspaper out of the wind. “No, you rest. I’ll help Nick.”

“Nick.” Dad’s commander voice erupts from out on the deck. “Make the sandwiches.” He signals Mom to come with him up to the bridge. When he pinches her rear on the way up the ladder, she bats his hand away, but at least he’s gotten her to laugh. Together they stand by the steering wheel, Dad’s arm around her waist, his baseball cap on backward, a little boy on an adventure with his buddies. You gotta like my dad.

Although he’s lowered his voice, they’re shoulder to shoulder. I stand in the cabin’s shadow, next to the ladder where they can’t see me. Their words drop down like rainwater in a gutter spout.

“Let the boys work it out,” Dad says.

“But Daniel needs to rest before Monday. Maybe I should tell him so he knows why it’s important for him to save his energy.”

“He’ll just worry, maybe not sleep well. Let’s wait.”

“It’s going to be a shock either way.”

My brain is whirring, that famous imagination going crazy. What the hell are they talking about? What’s the big secret? What news could be worse?

Mom lowers her voice. “At least until then I can make this easier for him. I can make the sandwiches.”

“You can’t do everything.”

“I’m not doing everything. If I were, I’d take the damn chemo instead of letting them drag him off against his will.”

So that’s the big secret. Chemo on Monday, countdown forty-eight hours. I ought to be shocked, scared, but it’s actually a relief. Something’s being done. The debate is over. All the doctors think it’s the right thing to do, the judge agrees, even the Great Wizard himself, Attorney Walker.

The little bit about leukemia I’ve managed to read always lists chemotherapy as the remedy of first resort. I mean, I like Miss T. Undertaker, I love my parents, but what can they really know from their little corner of Essex County, Virginia? They’ve never lived through chemotherapy. How bad can it be? I’m already puking up my guts and banned from school and stuck on this moving island. Plus Meredith thinks chemo is a good idea, and she’s lived other places besides this hole-in-the-wall.

As Mom is backing down the ladder, I’m scrambling to get myself back into the cabin and into a chair. Lucky for me, she doesn’t come in, only looks in the window and then turns. I watch her grab the rail, though the water is as seamless as ribbon. Never letting go of the railing, she follows it to their cabin until she disappears, her head bowed. Under the weight of a dying son.

A minute later, music blasts out. One of the old tapes of their favorites. The songs take her back to an easier time, I guess. Before kids, before bills and a houseboat without a dryer, and before the constant possibility that her son won’t get the full twelve months they promised if she doesn’t let them poison him in the meantime.

Mom’s oldies tape competes with the lean pitch and moan of the engine as the houseboat chugs downstream. We’re passing houses I’ve only seen once or twice from a motorboat. In every half-moon bay little pockets of cottages huddle together. If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the mor-or-ning croons from the back of the boat. Whole words hang on the wind and then fade as the boat plows forward.

Honestly, I’m not a snob about music, but it’s painful to hear most of those tapes. Outside of the guitar’s repetitive strumming, which is down, up, down in continuous threes, song after song after song, the tapes are ancient and they sound ancient, all scratchy. These are songs that only show up in Disney movies for first graders about the history of music. My parents do listen to Coltrane and some other more relevant stuff, but she’s punishing the three of us with Peter, Paul and Mary when what she really wants is to punish the judge and the Social Services witch for forcing chemo on me.

With the southeast breeze and new vistas, I tell myself it’s going to get better after lunch. Life goes on.

But it doesn’t get better. It gets worse. Mom refuses to eat. When Dad orders Nick to take over at the wheel so he can talk to her, she locks him out of the cabin. I put on my swim trunks and grab a towel from the stack in the closet. Where the sun is really hitting the deck, I’m dancing a little in my bare feet and perspiring like I’ve just taken a shower. The idea of that cool water sluicing over my body has me humming.

You might already know this about October water in Virginia. It’s never as cold as April water. It comes off the summer and holds on to those warm spots like a girl clings to her date on a roller coaster. Swimming in any kind of water has always meant freedom to me. You’re outside your skin. You’re a fish.

Mom bursts out of the cabin and starts up the ladder just after Dad has gone back to the upper deck. He must have given up. Headed downriver, he’s at the wheel.

“I’m looking for a place to pull in so we can all swim.” He waves at me.

With the rising breeze, Mom’s hair is all over her face and she has to claw it off in order to see. Climbing and yelling at the same time.

“Now do you get it?” She’s yelling at Dad but pointing down at me.

He obviously doesn’t get it. Neither do I.

“What’s the matter, Mom?” I call over the motor, “We’re just going to swim.”

“Red, tell him.”

“Tell him what?” I ask, my hands slick with the sunscreen I’m slathering on like we own the company. An inspired idea to try to appease her, to show her I’m being careful. If I’m not going to grow up to be the perfect son she always wanted, I might as well give her the satisfaction that I heard her advice about ultraviolet rays.

Confused too, Dad raises his eyebrows. He’s clueless. Or else he still thinks if we ignore the bigger issues, they’ll go away. Without waiting for him to pull himself together, Mom plunges ahead.

“No, Daniel, you can’t go swimming. Absolutely not. Misty says your body can’t take that kind of stress. If you swallow water, or go too deep… even just the shock of the temperature change.”

“I swam this summer.”

“That was different. In August the water’s closer to air temperature. You weren’t so far…” There’s no way she can finish that sentence. “In cold water your lungs have to work overtime and that stresses your heart. It means you’re at risk for a heart attack.”

“A heart attack from cancer?”

Mom’s eyes don’t leave my face. “That’s just the point. Misty says they don’t know where the bad cells are.”

“Dad?” My knees are buckling. “Is that true? They could be in my heart?”

He finally speaks, though his face is closed, as if he’s reciting multiplication tables. “Once it’s in your blood, it can go anywhere.”

You would think that would be enough to get them to stop picking at each other.

I wrap up in the biggest towel and leave my bathing suit on, not ready to give up on the possibility of swimming later. With the wrinkled copy of Catcher, which the librarian didn’t charge me for after all because she found three more copies in the box for the Friends of the Library book sale, I climb into Dad’s hammock on the sunny side of the deck. Maybe HC has some advice for someone about to have poisonous chemicals injected into his body.

Dad and Nick decide to fish. Back and forth they joke about catching dinner. Nick’s getting the gear organized while Dad swings the boat into the wind and drops anchor in an inlet lined with reeds. If I weren’t so wiped out, I’d fish with them. It would reinforce Dad’s view of his temporary remedy, one big happy family adventure. He’s not used to being the sad sack, but there’s no point in all of us being miserable. With the sun drilling into my bare skin like acupuncture needles, I keep reading and let the wash of their voices drift in the breeze around me.

Holden’s chapter about the elevator guy coming to collect the five dollars has always bugged me. Why does that girl Sunny let him do that to Holden? She ought to feel grateful. Holden wasn’t mean to her. She didn’t even have to do what she was supposedly paid to do.

That decision by Holden I understand completely. As badly as I want to have sex, I don’t like to think I would do it with a total stranger, totally cold like that, no buildup, no conversation, no relationship. She didn’t know him, didn’t care about him. It would be mechanical, unfeeling. Is he that desperate for company? Mack says none of that matters, it just happens. And that does make sense. Sometimes I can be standing next to a girl in line or watching a movie with a girl in a bathing suit, and I have to excuse myself. It’s embarrassing.

Plus, how awful would it be to not know who else she’s been with recently? Or even just kissed. I mean, you can’t ever be sure, but with someone you know beforehand, like from school or whatever, at least you kind of know who she bums around with. You have a pretty good idea of the last guy she hooked up with.

What’s worse is old Sunny in Holden’s hotel room doesn’t pay any attention at all to how Holden’s feeling. She’s just there angling for money. A lousy five dollars at that. Even as bad off as my parents are with the medical bills and the lawyer’s fees, I have trouble imagining how five dollars could be that important to anyone, even back in the last century or whenever Salinger wrote Catcher. Sunny and the elevator guy just stick it to Holden because they can. Because he’s alone and young. That truly stinks.

The question that keeps bugging me is, could Holden have done something to prevent the whole episode? Is that the reason he tells us every embarrassing detail? The hairy chest who corners him, and his crying when they take the money from his wallet. He didn’t have to tell that part. If he weren’t feeling so depressed about school and having trouble connecting with old friends, he wouldn’t say yes when the elevator guy suggests the girl in the first place. And he sure as hell wouldn’t open the door to her that second time.

Then after all that mess with them in his room he takes a bath. What kind of guy takes a bath? He fabricates the whole movie scene, which is totally silly and really out of character for someone as straight as he’s been before that. I totally understand that it’s meant to be a foil. I can hear Stepford-Hanes suggesting that. Something so off-the-wall he wouldn’t be able to go through with it, to show the real Holden, not the pretend brave king of the city. Reading it this time, the fifth or sixth time, the last three lines really hit me, though. You really worry that he’s serious, that he might be so depressed or scared of facing his parents that he would jump out the window. He totally misses the point about jumping, though. Once you jump, it doesn’t matter who the hell is looking.

From my spot in the hammock I can hear the whole conversation between Nick and Dad on the upper deck. Nick’s telling Dad about his friend Thomas Lynch, who’s failing fifth grade. As if anyone could actually fail fifth grade. It’s mostly book reports and art projects and spelling bees, how hard is that? But Nick has talked to me about Thomas before. A couple of times. His father drinks a lot and when he’s drinking, he hits. Nick’s trying to convince Dad to go and talk to Thomas’s father about AA. Dad says no.

Not “no” because he won’t talk to Mr. Lynch, but “no” because it won’t change anything. Dad’s big thing about AA and making a decision to change your life revolves around Step One of the AA philosophy. You have to acknowledge you have a problem that you can’t solve yourself. We Landons have heard the drill a hundred times.

Dad’s calm when he talks about the Lynches. “Nickie, no one can make that decision for Mr. Lynch.”

Nick argues, but his voice is soft and wavery like he’s about to cry. “What about Thomas? He has a problem he can’t solve himself. Who’s gonna protect him?”

“Maybe Thomas should tell someone who can help him. Like an adult.”

“They’ll take him away from his father and put him in foster care.”

From the dull repetitive thumps on the roof, it sounds like someone’s pacing. Even without seeing them, I can imagine Dad’s forehead, hard red ridges across it from worrying about whether Mom’s still mad, whether the chemo is going to mess me up, whether Nick’s rod will go flying into the river at the first bite because he won’t stay close enough to guard it. Dad’s footsteps continue back and forth above my head. It can’t be easy to have all of us to worry about and then Nick’s friends, too.

Nick’s on a tear. “It’s not fair to punish Thomas for something his father does. And if they take Thomas away, he’ll only worry more that his dad will do something really crazy. Overdose, maybe.”

“One thing’s for sure. You can’t solve Thomas’s problem or his father’s. They both need help.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“He needs more than that, Nick.”

“Friends are useless, then?”

“Not at all. Thomas is lucky to have such a good friend.”

“Dad. That’s garbage. Worthless garbage if he’s dead tomorrow.”

“Then he needs to tell an adult who can help him. A trained adult, a professional.”

“Oh, right, so now you’re promoting professionals? Then why don’t you and Mom let Daniel do what the doctors say? They’re the professionals, aren’t they?”

To tune them out, I reread the end of the chapter where Holden thinks about jumping out the window. I read it again. There he is all alone in the city, he’s passed up sex with a strange girl, and he’s getting ready to go out and see another girl he knows but doesn’t really like. He’s thinking about ending it, just like that. Sure, jumping out a window may seem like a quick and easy end to your problems. But what about Phoebe? And old Mr. Spencer? And his parents? Holden’s more concerned about the rubberneckers. Something’s wrong with that picture.

Holden, buddy, you don’t see how good you’ve got it. At seventeen, you have your whole life ahead of you. There’s plenty of time for Jane or Sally and dancing and making new friends at a new school. You don’t have a father who’s beating up on you. You don’t have to worry about money. You don’t have The Disease.

To keep from losing it over the waste of the whole asinine world, I get up and jump in the river. Only thing is, if I did lose it, I’m not sure who I’d be crying for.

We moor for the night in Urbanna harbor. Turns out the houseboat doesn’t move very fast. Dad puts away the charts for his dream family cruise. We’ll have to go back upriver on Sunday for Nick to be at school on time Monday morning. In the narrow harbor the sailboats on moorings jut out every which way like spilled toothpicks. No breeze at all. You can smell the Italian food from the restaurant on the pier. Nick doesn’t ask for pizza, which surprises the heck out of me. He’s taken the family cruise idea more seriously than I thought. After dinner he pulls out the Scrabble board. Yikes. I spoke too soon.

Just because I like reading and books doesn’t mean I have to like Scrabble. Some games are so random. If you get the right letters, you look like a genius. But if you get the tough ones, you can be snuffed out in a couple of rounds. Anyone with one good six-or seven-letter word on a Double Word space and you can’t catch up with the Q in your hand, even if you’re brilliant.

“I’ll just watch,” I say.

Nick flips the board up and letter tiles fly everywhere.

Mom’s knuckles turn white on the handle of her mug. “That was totally uncalled for, Nick. Go to your room.”

Dad starts picking up tiles.

But Nick’s had a tough afternoon, and he’s not ready to give it up. “That’s just great, Mom. Ignore the spoiled brat and punish me. What did I do wrong?”

Dad takes over, the ultimate diplomat, a dyed-in-the-wool UN peacekeeper. “Sit down, both of you. Daniel’s just afraid of losing to his little brother. He’ll play one round. Won’t you, buddy?”

That strategy, trying to make me feel competitive, is truly juvenile. But Mom’s swiping at tears and anyone can see Nick’s only letting off steam about Thomas, so I give in and pick seven tiles. Of course, I make party and quirk and feel like a real louse when I have the high score.

Bright and early Monday morning the sheriff’s back at the creek. Nick’s already left for school. We have just picked the mooring back up after Daily Devotions at June Parker Marina. When we first moved to the boat, we had to get used to the timing, when to fill the water tank and empty the sewage tank and get fuel for the stove and the motor. Mom nicknamed the whole process Daily Devotions. It was almost every day then, because we had no idea how things worked. The joke was so perfect since my parents honor Mother Nature above all else, and these were basic functions of nature, at least for houseboat dwellers. Daily Devotions is not that funny anymore, just what we call it.

Sheriff Jessup glides into the creek in the game warden’s borrowed Whaler. He isn’t taking any chances on cooperation.

Dad takes the line and loops it around the railing, but he doesn’t move closer to shake hands. “The order said noon.”

“I know. I’ll be back to get him then.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Dad’s voice is steel. “I think we can manage to deliver our own son to the hospital.”

“It’s in the court order. The county has to transport him. You can follow the cruiser. And afterwards you can bring him home.”

“Fine. If it has to be that way, fine.”

“I’m sorry, Stieg. I know this seems endless and personal.”

“It is personal.”

“The county people are just doing their job.”

“Let them find a cure for Daniel, then.”

In the long silence that follows the sheriff fumbles with the clipboard to free a bunch of papers while I’m watching through the louvered window slats and thinking disloyal thoughts, that Dad has it right without meaning to, that finding a cure is exactly what the county is trying to do. After Sheriff Jessup makes a notation on his clipboard, he hands Dad the papers, all different colors, stapled together and creased permanently where they’ve been trapped in the clipboard for who knows how long.

Dad reads in silence, exchanging each page for the next without raising his head. He doesn’t even look up when the sheriff unties the line, points the Whaler away from the houseboat and heads back up the creek to the boat landing. As soon as the sheriff’s gone, Mom grabs the papers out of Dad’s hand.

“There’s nothing in here about the chemotherapy,” she says.

“Nothing,” Dad says.

“This is a criminal order, a totally different statute number. They’ve convicted us of neglect. Criminal neglect.”

“Yes,” Dad says in the same dull tone.

The county has won. Round one and round two. Another court order and my parents are suddenly criminals. They stand outside the main cabin in shock where I pretend to watch the morning talk shows. When a bunch of high school kids from Oklahoma wave to the cameras outside Rockefeller Center, I have a flash. We could do that, take our case to the media and wave signs that say SAVE DANIEL or FREE THE LANDONS. But this is probably not the right time for that argument so I file it away for later.

Mom whispers to Dad, “Do we have enough in the bank for me to take Daniel to Mexico?”

Dad’s voice is as sad as I’ve ever heard it. “I give up. I can’t fight you and the county both.”

The stark river edge from Apocalypse Now blurs in front of me as I envision Mom and me on donkeys crossing the scraggy hillsides under that bloodred sun they write about in every book on Mexico. We pass reams of bright orange butterflies and those wide-petal yellow cactus flowers you see in all the movie scenes of deserts. The horizon shimmers in the distance, a turquoise and purple line crimped against the sand hills. See what I mean about my life getting exciting?

The only thing about going to Mexico is I’ll be sorry to abandon Meredith to Leonard’s spit and polish. But if the Mexican cure works and I come back a sophisticated world traveler, a starched-shirt senator’s son won’t have a chance. If being the operative word.

CHAPTER TEN

Riding in a cop car is not as thrilling as everyone makes it out to be. They only deliver me to Doctor Morley’s office on Route 360 in Mechanicsville. My parents are supposed to meet me there, where the medical people will hand off the official prescription for the chemotherapy and the directions to the treatment center at Medical College of Virginia in Richmond, all per the court order. That’s where they’ll shoot me up with the drugs, according to the sheriff, though those aren’t his words. He’s mostly silent on the ride down, except for asking three times if I’m hungry. So I know he meant what he said to Dad. He does feel bad about the whole thing.

With Sheriff Jessup in his waiting room, Doctor Morley is a whole lot more nervous than on my earlier visits. Makes me wonder if he’s second-guessing his own professional opinion.

“Hard to be in the spotlight, eh?” He stares at his hands, maybe trying to ignore the uniform at attention by the open door. But when he looks up, it’s not at the sheriff but right at me. Up until this point Doctor Morley’s been one of the few medical people who talk to me instead of about me to my parents. Since I’m the patient, I appreciate it, even though Mom probably would prefer that some of what he says he’d save for just them. With the legal issues turning my condition into some kind of big-deal public controversy, I’m hoping for a few minutes alone with the doc. My questions will only upset Mom.

“Can I talk to Doctor Morley in his office?” I ask.

Sheriff Jessup nods. “Just so you’re not planning to escape by throwing yourself out the window.”

“I won’t let him near the window,” Doctor Morley says before he motions for me to go into the examining room.

Meredith’s lecture about my right to ask questions is inspiring this burst of pushiness. And it makes me realize how the court order punishing my parents makes that right almost worthless. But Holden would have asked. So I plow ahead.

“How does this chemo thing work?”

“You lie down and they set you up for the IV. After the prick for the intubation, it’s painless. They’ll give you an antinausea medicine first, and probably Benadryl because the antinausea drug makes you twitchy.” He’s watching my face as if I might burst into tears. “Takes a while for the medicine to empty. The nurses check on you every few minutes. They have to watch your tolerance, particularly this first time.”

“‘This first time’? There’s going to be more than one session?”

“Three is the way we plan to start with you.”

“‘We’?”

“With a complicated disease like AML, doctors from each part of the treatment consult. And they have to gauge your reaction without going too far. The medicine is expensive and a kind of trial run saves time and expense in the long run.”

It’s been four months since they found the tumors in my neck, throat, lungs, whatever. Four months since they said I had a year left. In the long run takes on a whole new meaning. Doctor Morley doesn’t wait, so he must think my pause means I’m ready to hear more.

“The tricky part is redefining the treatment once we know how your body reacts. Everyone’s different. Given that your stomach has been giving you fits already, I’d say you should plan on not traveling for a good couple of hours after your sessions. And we may have to set you up for an overnight if it gets too hard to take. Or depending on your white blood count.”

“I’ll lose my hair and puke?”

“The hair, yes, that happens in about ninety-nine percent of the cases. Most people tolerate the drugs pretty well, though, so maybe not the puking.”

Laughing at the serious doctor using a nontechnical term, I push. “Anything else? I’m better if I can prepare. My, ah, imagination is not easy to control sometimes.” Shrugging to let him know I can handle this, I still feel uneasy. It’s too little information for this complicated a medical procedure. He’s not telling me the whole truth.

Doctor Morley doesn’t wait for the next question. He seems to be following a memorized checklist. “Some people get migraines. Ever had one?”

“No.”

“Mostly they make you feel nauseated, more of the same. But they can cause fainting, blackouts.”

“There’s a difference?”

“The level of consciousness. Memory loss. Fainting is a short incident with relatively little impact on your general health. Blackouts are more serious.”

“There’s no way to prevent them?”

“The nurses will let you know that kind of thing. If you do black out, we’ll keep you overnight for observation. If your counts are skewed, we’ll keep you overnight anyway.”

“Are you the doctor who testified against my parents in the court hearings?”

His face floods with recognition that this is where I was headed all along and he moves back behind his desk as if to protect himself. Or perhaps to add substance to his position, the way a judge wears a robe so the criminal will accept the authority of the court at sentencing. Protective coloration. Sixth-grade science.

“I was subpoenaed, Daniel. I had no choice about testifying. It’s simply a matter of how best to save your life. That’s what the court wants. That’s what everyone wants.”

“But no guarantee, right?”

“No, no guarantee. Still, there’s no reason to believe with an active, otherwise healthy teenager that the standard regimen won’t work for you. Chemotherapy is effective in the short run for a majority of cases. And if it doesn’t work, we have other treatments we can try. Saving your life, that’s the goal.”

“If you can.”

“Well, of course, if we can. We’re not miracle workers.”

Mom comes in without knocking. “He’s a minor, Doctor Morley. You have no right to speak to him outside of our presence. Court order or not.”

“He asked.”

She looks stunned, and suddenly very fragile and not at all the opinionated, confident person I know.

“It’s okay, Mom, I only wanted to understand how it works. What to expect.”

She starts to take my face in her hands, but pulls back at the last minute as if she’s remembered I’m not a little boy. Instead she mouths an apology. But she refuses to shake Doctor Morley’s outstretched hand. After she moves to the window, her side turned to us, he sees the session is over. He motions to the door.

In the meantime Dad’s taken care of the paperwork with the nurse. She’s printed directions to the hospital, a confirmation of the appointment time, a copy of the fact sheet about the chemotherapy drugs with the warnings in bold capital letters, a prescription for more anti-nausea medicine to take at home afterward. Dad shows them to me while Mom’s in the bathroom.

“Your mother’s going to go home for the first treatment,” he says as he folds the papers and tries to fit them in his shirt pocket. Of course they’re way too thick and he looks spastic when they hang up on the edge of the pocket. “To be with Nick. The chemo session may very well be delayed.”

He’s not telling the whole truth either, but now I know better. Thank you, Meredith.

It turns out he’s more right than he knows. After we sit and kill time for an hour in Doctor Morley’s waiting room while the lab work is processed, my blood is so screwed up they can’t use the first chemo appointment. We go home in Dad’s car with Sheriff Jessup’s cruiser a silent shadow behind us down Route 360. He probably has to report to the court that we’ve complied.

Before my “count” straightens out, that idiot Walker finally gets his act together. The appeal order gets entered with a stay on the government’s authority to force the chemotherapy on us. On me.

Despite Mom’s secret plan, we don’t actually go to Mexico in October. Walker tells my mom it would be a crime for her to leave the country while the appeal of the neglect charge is pending. They can drag her back if she flees the jurisdiction. Extradition. I have to go to the dictionary to look it up.

While my parents and Walker are debating how to prolong the delay of chemotherapy during the appeal, I catch the flu. Because of my lousy white blood count, I’m shipped off to the hospital until enough antibiotics can be pumped into me to avoid a new infection. Although my parents fall all over themselves blaming each other, it doesn’t even bother me because of how I catch the flu. Meredith, of course.

Leonard Yowell decides to throw a Halloween party. Which ticks Mack off big-time. I guess he wanted to be the king of Halloween parties. He says he’s been busy at school with a new club and that classes are harder in tenth grade. Plus we had that fight over his watching out for my interests with Meredith, so we haven’t talked much.

I refuse to go begging for friends. I’d have trouble telling who was just feeling sorry for me. Even people like Holden who are good judges of character would have trouble.

About the party. The Yowells have way more money than the Petrianos, or anyone in town that I know for that matter, which means the food’ll be way better. And there’ll be more space for more people. That could be interesting or a hassle depending on which kids Leonard invites. If he’s using the whole shebang as an excuse to impress the preppies, then it could be more than touchy.

Preppies are really the most dangerous group in any high school. Adults don’t get this. It’s like camouflage. Preppies have been taught good manners, but their disdain for their own kind sometimes fools you into thinking they’re in sync with you, when all they’re really doing is getting a few laughs at your expense. Barracudas. Like Stradlater, Holden’s roommate at Pencey, who combs his hair all over you like you were nothing, while he pretends he likes hanging out with you. Borrows your jacket and then stretches it with his muscled shoulders, just to impress a girl he has no business messing around with in the first place. When people like that—ones who’re used to being the leaders—are being generous and funny, they’re actually planning their next meal. And if the right friends show up, you’re likely to be the appetizer.

For me—outside of Mack having his feelings hurt—the thing about Yowell’s party is to make sure Meredith’s not too impressed with any of that glitter. It wouldn’t be in character, but stranger things have happened. I certainly can’t claim to understand girls.

What saves me is that Joe comes home the weekend before the party. Perfect timing as usual. When he shows up unannounced, Mom starts right in sobbing. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she’s been medicating herself when he’s not there. After hugs all around, Nick asks if we can have pizza. It’s a never-ending thing with Nick. He must have a cheese deficiency or something. Joe volunteers to go pick it up. How useful would that be, to have your license so you could go just hop in the car and pick up pizza whenever you wanted?

“Come on, old man,” Joe says to me.

Nick yells, “Family road trip.”

From the way everyone laughs, I can tell that’s going to be a joke from now until forever. Dad tells him no, he needs to stay and set the table. Which ticks him off. He kicks a chair and disappears before they can punish him. Houseboat cabins are good for that kind of escape. Duck into an opening and you could be anywhere. No long echoing hallways where angry screams chase after you as you leave.

Before pulling off in the Subaru Joe changes all the settings, the mirrors, the seat, the radio station. Reggae explodes from the dashboard.

“Whoa.” I twist the dial back. “A little on the loud side.”

“Man, are you in a pissy mood too? I won’t come home if everyone’s going to be creepy.”

I don’t want to argue. I’m glad to see him—really relieved, honestly—because I have a zillion questions for him about Meredith. But it’s tough when someone just sails into your life when it’s convenient for them.

“I’m not in a bad mood. It’s too fucking loud, that’s all.”

“Fucking too bad,” he says and twists the dial back.

I won’t deign to answer that. If he’s turned into a jerk, I don’t care. He’s the one who has to live with a jerk, not me.

At the pizza place, our order isn’t ready, so we sit at an empty table. Face-to-face, like a stare-down contest, except neither one of us looks at the other. We wait. And wait. Joe’s usually like Dad, patient. But his knee’s jiggling and he’s squirming around, a sure sign that something’s up with him.

He apologizes first. “Look, I’m sorry for losing my cool. Music’s music. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. You probably feel awful and I’m attacking you.” He frowns like he’s thinking really hard and tilts his head at me. “How do you feel?”

“Tired all the time. Sick to my stomach a lot. But right this minute, I’m just glad to be here.”

“You are all right, kiddo. All fucking right.” He lays the two twenty-dollar bills Dad gave him on the table and smoothes them out. “So what’s happening at Essex County High? Who’s pregnant this semester?”

“I’m not there.”

“Jeez, I forgot. You’re probably acing the tests without the lectures and the teachers to confuse you.”

I smile because he’s so right.

“How did the Catcher in the Rye unit go?”

“I aced it.”

He punches my arm. I wince and pull back, cradling the arm.

“God, Daniel.” He stands up and rushes over to my side of the table. “I am such a jerk.”

I’m laughing like a hyena. When he realizes it’s a setup, he snarls and spins on his heel like I have cooties.

“Landon,” the girl at the register yells across the room. “Landon, your order’s up.”

Joe starts laughing with me. “Same old Daniel. You turd.”

On the way home he flicks the radio off altogether. “Tell me about this bridge queen from Ohio. You kiss her yet?”

I nod and grin. “She’s from Charlottesville, actually.”

“Way to go. Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Actually… I’m gonna see her next Saturday at Leonard’s Halloween bash.”

“Senator Yowell’s letting loose some of his cash for a non-Republican function?”

“Yeah, wild, huh? And Mom’s letting me go. But that’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about. What if Meredith’s impressed with the Yowells? The big house, the pool, you know.”

“If she’s that shallow, let her go, man.”

“I didn’t say she was. I’m just trying to be ready, that’s all.”

“Whatever. It’s like this. If her eyes are blue and you like brown eyes but otherwise she’s the perfect woman for you, do you reject her?” He stops at the red light and turns onto the side street like he’s not sure this is the right way to go. “No way. No girl is ever going to be perfect, but some things are more important than others. Only you get to say which.”

The Subaru crawls along. Joe’s leaning sideways to see something in the side mirror.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer, just puts his tongue over his upper lip, concentrating like he does when he’s trying to figure how not to lose his queen in chess.

“Joe? What the hell is it?”

“I think there are two young ladies behind us you might know.”

I whip around and look out the rear window. Sure enough, it’s the twins in their sweats, jogging. Meredith is waving madly.

“Stop.”

He guns it.

“Joe, for God’s sake, quit fooling around and stop the effing car.”

He brakes hard, then puts it in reverse right there on Water Lane and starts to back up. Man, my brother is…a real cowboy.

“Enough. You’ll hit something.”

The rear wheel squeals on the curb and he cuts the motor. “You coming?” He leaves the driver’s door wide open.

And he’s right. The chances of another car coming down this last stretch of Water Lane before Jeanette Drive are a zillion to one. Everyone turns at the post office road.

After the introductions, Joe lets me do the talking. He’s angled his foot on the fire hydrant and he’s looking out across Hoskins Creek like he’s just biding time, humoring me. You can see Juliann is fascinated. Speechless, in fact. That Jane Austen look is in her eye again. Girls are so weird.

Meredith’s T-shirt is pale green like apple tree leaves in the spring. Next to that shirt, her tan looks like you could eat it. When a girl looks that good, it’s hard to concentrate.

She smells great, too. “Daniel, you still planning to go to Leonard’s on Saturday for the Halloween party?”

With the girls turned toward me, Joe’s out of their line of vision. He pushes his lips together in a know-it-all smirk and nods. If I react and the girls turn around, they’ll know he’s cutting up, so I have to keep a straight face. I look into Meredith’s eyes.

“Yeah, sure. Did Mack talk to you about getting there?”

“Mom said she’d drive us, but now she’s supposed to meet friends of hers, from work, and they want to eat at some restaurant out past Warsaw. Good Eats?”

Joe is bobbing his head up and down like an old lady at a tea party. My lip’s going to start bleeding if I have to keep this up.

The driving thing I can solve. “It’s not that far to Leonard’s. Just beyond the Catholic Church, right off 17. Maybe Mack could drive us all.”

Joe is smiling and tipping his head from side to side, Mr. Happy from the kids’ book. It’s almost impossible not to laugh.

“Okay,” Juliann says, like that would be acceptable, but without her usual enthusiasm when Mack’s name comes up.

“I’ll check with him again and call you,” I say to Meredith. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

When Joe starts walking back to the car, I wonder if I should say something more, about school. Or Halloween. Or that I’ll call her sometime just to talk. It’s not as easy to talk to her face-to-face as it is on the telephone. Why is that?

Juliann raises her arms to the sky and starts jogging in place. Meredith’s shaking her head in that can you believe this way.

Juliann looks daggers at her, then turns to me. “Is your brother at the University?”

When I look from Meredith to Juliann, she blushes. It’s all over her face that she’s just fallen for Joe big-time. Man, oh man, I’m in trouble now. Mack’ll have my head. There’s no good way to tell a sixteen-year-old girl that a twenty-one-year-old college guy is too old for her. She ought to have enough sense to know. Meredith sees it too, I can tell.

“I’ll have Mack call Juliann directly, don’t you think?” I whisper to Meredith.

She nods. “That’d be good. Yeah, do that.”

And louder, to both girls. “I’ll talk to y’all tomorrow. Or later tonight…”

When Joe honks, I sprint for the car because it’s already rolling.

“Man.” Joe starts to punch my arm, but draws back at the last minute. “Those are two cute chicks. You and Mack did good.”

I can’t exactly tell him the whole truth. Because I sure haven’t done anything special to impress them. I fell off a bridge. How random is that? Twin girls just happen to move next door to my best friend who just happens to introduce me and we just happen to take them fishing and they just happen to end up liking us. Until Joe College comes home. All I can think is I’m lucky Joe lives somewhere else most of the time.

“So,” Joe starts, “what did you want to ask me about? Need condoms?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mom and Dad are all jokey and funny at dinner. Joe tells one story after the next about the kids in his dorm, his professors. One old guy who shuffles in and stands in front of the board, greets the class, opens his notes, and asks a few questions. No one answers. The students look around, confused. The professor repeats the question. He scans the rows. No one speaks. He excuses himself. When he comes back in, he has a different notebook. “Wrong class,” he says.

Dad repeats the punch line about six times and we’re all laughing, way too hard for the joke, but I can just see the fuddy-duddy professor wondering what’s going on when no one knows the answer. They haven’t even read the book.

Nick volunteers for cleanup duty. Amazing. Joe lugs his back pack into the main cabin, turns on all the lights, and settles himself at one end of the couch with a book propped on a pillow in his lap.

“Can I use the cell phone to call Mack?” I ask Dad.

When I come back inside, the whole deal with the Halloween party and the twins is figured out. Mom is pacing back and forth and Joe has closed his book.

His forehead wrinkles exactly like Dad’s, which I never noticed before. He’s intent on the conversation and doesn’t acknowledge me. He drills his words at Mom. “I don’t understand why the lawyer can’t stop them.”

Mom’s answer is like raining bullets. “Apparently it’s a special law. To protect children. As parents, we have no rights. They’ve already found us guilty. Neglect and abuse. It’s been in all the papers. They filed this special petition that says Daniel is a child in need of services, CHINS. They asked the court to order the treatment over our objection.”

Joe looks at me with a question on his face.

“Don’t ask me. They won’t even let me go to the hearings.”

“But do you want the treatment, the chemo, radiation, whatever?” Joe asks.

There’s kind of a swollen silence like the sound right before a balloon pops when you know you’ve hit something sharp or hot and it’s likely to explode any second.

Mom claps her hands and puts them to her lips as if she’s shocked that the question would even be asked. “Of course he doesn’t want the chemo. Misty’s been treating him with herbs and vitamins and he hasn’t been sick to his stomach in days. He’s getting better. His color’s better too.”

To tell you the truth, I can’t think what part of me has any color at all, much less what’s changed. I sleep two hours out of every six. My knees and elbows ache like I’m one hundred years old. My face doesn’t have a pimple all of a sudden as if even the oil and dirt have fled for fear of the skulking cancer cells. If you ask me…but even as Joe is saying the words that no one else has said, it hits me that from the very beginning of this entire mess no one has asked me what I want. And with the court and the county and my parents at war, they’re all too busy building their own moat and fortifications.

Nick’s on his bunk when I go in to grab a sweatshirt.

“Has Joe finished his homework?” he asks.

I shrug.

“He said we could play Risk.”

My sweatshirt gets hung up on one arm, inside out, and I’m stuck but trying to get it untangled without having to take off the stupid thing and start over.

I mumble, half in, half out of the sweatshirt. “Could is the operative word. He said we could play.”

“Don’t you want to play?”

“Grow up.”

“Why don’t you want to play? Joe does.”

“You and your games. Jeez, Nick, you’re so into beating other people. What is it with you and winning?”

“You’re the one who won at Scrabble last time. You used to like to play games. Before you…before.”

“Yeah, before I found out I might not be here this time next year. Death. It’s just a teeny little thing that changes your perspective.”

Nick throws his Game Boy at me. Lucky for him, I catch it.

“Don’t be throwing this away, boyo. You can play it when no one else wants to play Risk with you. When I’m dead and gone.”

I toss the little machine back to him, but he’s already halfway out of the bunk, his head tucked, aiming for my legs. Everything turns into slow motion. There’s silence from all sides and then there’s Nick. So compact, all muscle, he hits me like an anchor, twists around my legs, drags me down. With one arm still inside my sweatshirt, I’m pinned and helpless. Joe appears at the door. In a split second he takes it all in and digs through the tangle to grip Nick around the waist. He plants his leg by my chest so I can’t reach Nick.

“Picking on someone weaker than you, eh?”

Who knows which one of us he means? Who cares? It’s an old-fashioned pig pile, like we used to do all the time before Joe left for college. Nick squeals, I grunt, Joe pulls. I push, Nick squeals. The bunk bed probably gets the worst of it. And when we’re all exhausted, no one’s able to stand because we’re laughing so hard, like clown chimpanzees at the circus.

Although Dad and Mom have to be able to hear us from the living room, they leave us alone. And that’s the thing that reminds me most of old times. For a change no one’s worrying about poor sick Daniel.

“So, what did Mack say?” Joe asks at breakfast as he’s stuffing Dad’s famous veggie omelet down his throat like he’s a refugee from the Sudan who hasn’t eaten in a month.

“Juice?” Mom asks no one in particular.

“Me,” Dad, Joe, and Nick say at the same time.

Mom pours four glasses and gives the first one to me.

“I didn’t want any,” I say.

“You’re the one who really needs it.”

Joe looks at me like he suddenly understands what I’m up against. “Mack?” he repeats.

“He’s gonna get the twins and then swing by the public boat ramp for me. Nick can run me up there in the Whaler.”

“Maybe I can’t,” Nick says.

“Why can’t you?” Mom’s refereeing again. So much for the anonymity of the pig pile.

“Never mind.” I’m not about to wait for the blessing of a thirteen-year-old worm. “I’ll take the rowboat.”

“I don’t think that’s a great—” Mom starts.

Dad cuts her off. “When is all this social activity taking place?”

When Mom’s back is turned, Joe takes a swig of my juice. He swallows in one gulp and grins. “Saturday night, the Yowells’ Halloween party. Daniel has a date with a gorgeous girl.”

Dad grins like he’s actually really pleased for me. I’m so busy feeling halfway normal at the whole scene that I miss Mom’s frown until she sits down.

“Won’t there be a lot of kids there?” she asks.

“I hope. It wouldn’t be much fun with just Leonard, Mack, and Meredith.”

“Daniel.” Dad’s irritated now. All that good feeling gone in an instant and I’m back to the whole fishbowl feeling.

“I think I’ll row for a bit.” I put my plate with the half-eaten omelet in the sink. If we had a dog, it wouldn’t be so wasteful. I can just hear Mom, though, on the subject of a dog, a germ factory. “When are you going back to school, Joe?”

“Pretty soon. I’ve got a term paper due on Tuesday. Gotta start researching it.”

When Mom and Dad go ape about being prepared and staying focused, I slip out. Joe’s okay.

The creek is like a big blank brown paper bag, not a mark, not a wrinkle, not even an otter sunbathing on the mud flats by the reeds. If it were July, it’d be too hot to even be out in the rowboat like this, but October’s perfect. The top of my head is baking, but the air is cool on my neck and on my arms where I’ve pushed up the sweatshirt sleeves. I’m not in a hurry, not headed anywhere, no schedule. The boat is ancient, a metal body with a few telltale dents, wooden seats that Dad replaced when he found it washed up in the reeds. With forty different paint colors chipped off in different places, the hull looks like modern art.

When I’m alone like this, away from my family, it’s so much easier to think. I don’t know how Holden stood it so long at Pencey or the other boarding schools he was farmed out to by his parents. With kids like Ackley and Stradlater coming in and out of his room all the time, using his stuff and interrupting him, even when he’s in the john. Privacy’s pretty important to me. If the only way out was to not write the assigned papers and to not pass the tests, I might have done the same thing.

I don’t want you to think I’m a nutcase or anything, but out on the river by myself is where I have my best conversations with Holden. He knows how it feels to be on the outside of everything. After he read Isak Dinesen on exploring Africa, he wanted to call the author up and talk. I understand that completely. I wish I could call Holden right now.

Mack’s an okay friend, but he doesn’t like to read and he doesn’t always tell the truth. He exaggerates to make stuff sound more exciting. It’s not that I mind so much. Even when he won’t admit it, I know when he’s stretching things. I mean, it’s not okay that he does that. It’s a character flaw he needs to get past. I stopped leaving my chewing gum on the bedpost when I was nine. Ha-ha.

Dad says people usually grow out of bad habits like they grow out of clothes. Things happen to make them see how destructive the habit is. Either way bad habits definitely get in the way of what’s important. They can hold you back. That’s Dad talking. I’m the first one to admit I have a few bad habits. I’m definitely obsessed with Meredith, but at least it’s not girls in general anymore. I’m antisocial. Not that I don’t like being with people. It’s certain people I can’t be in the same room with. You’d think I could focus on their good traits and ignore the lousy ones. I’ve tried, but faking it would be worse, in my mind.

Holden has plenty of bad habits and he knows it too. He wants to be a regular guy so much that he puts up with jerks. He doesn’t want anyone telling him he has to do something. He has trouble when it comes to priorities. That’s one of the problems I used to have, but not anymore. The Disease really cuts to the chase.

Not that he’d admit it, but Holden’s working through the honesty thing too. Personally I think he almost has it right. Being honest with other people if it means you’re going to hurt their feelings is not always necessary, but being honest about some things is crucial. Like, if Meredith didn’t know about my being sick, I’d have to tell her before we slept together. This is all hypothetical, now. I’m talking it through with myself. It wouldn’t be fair to her. She ought to be able to choose before she commits, if a guy she’s serious about might not be around to take her to the senior prom, that kind of thing.

Under the bridge I row hard, maneuvering the boat away from the concrete pillars. My elbows ache and my knees ache. The sun slashes across the boat like the scene in Apocalypse Now where the ceiling fan blades are spinning and Martin Sheen’s character is in some kind of drug fog or heat exhaustion. This bridge always gives me the creeps like that scene. Something’s so not right. But there’s nothing to see, you just feel it.

It’s probably the creepy half-sunken old dock with the fishing boat tied up. The boat’s too new and kept too well for the age and condition of the dock. Almost like the owner has hidden it there for a getaway. Except it’s right out in the creek for anyone to see who comes on the other side of the bridge. Not that many people do come all the way up here. Unless you’ve done it in a little boat, you don’t have any way to know whether the water’s deep enough and you wouldn’t take a chance of getting stuck in that mud with a big boat. There’s nowhere to turn around.

On the other side of the bridge the phragmites are waiting. Out in the open. Their ditzy blond heads make them look like a line of cilia on the paramecium in my bio book. Even without a breeze they bow and dip like those couples in the ice-dancing competitions. It’s better up here, back in the open air and away from that strange fishing boat at the falling-down dock. The creepiness is gone.

Phragmites (pronounced like mighty) can’t be just in Virginia, because they’re actually weeds. And weeds grow anywhere. Miss T. Undertaker and her rank-and-file environmental saviors raise money every year to pay for a gazillion gallons of safe herbal spray to kill the phragmites. Supposedly they block out the good plants. I know it’s weird, but I kind of like them. They’ve figured out a way to grow no matter what. They morph or something. Every season they’re slightly different and they rise again out of the mud, to hell with the pesticide squad.

As I row against the current, I’m thinking about Meredith again. It’s not that I’m so sure she’ll say yes about sleeping with me. God, I can hardly let myself imagine how that might happen. When am I ever alone with a girl? Either Mom or Dad, or both, is always at home. Or Nick’s bouncing in and out. I won’t live long enough to get to college, where Joe says almost anything’s possible. In college dorms you might have a single or your roommate sometimes goes away for the weekend.

Plus, how do you bring up a subject like wanting sex? Especially with a girl like Meredith. Only she does put off these signals like she might be interested, and she likes being kissed. According to Dad, adults talk about everything beforehand. Plus, I know she’s the kind of girl who would want to not just get led away in the dark. Mack says, mention being dead next year and any girl would let you do it, out of sympathy.

See what I mean about Mack? It’s not exactly honorable how he thinks. And if I only have so many chances, I don’t want just any girl to “let” me do it to her. I want her to be part of it, wanting it as much as I want it.

If Meredith thinks about it at all—I don’t mean with me, but with her ideal guy—I bet she wants it to be perfect, not rushed and sleazy in the backseat of a car. When Mack told me about his first time, it knocked me out. In the woods at some church camping retreat with a girl he’d never seen before. Or since. Last year I might have gone for something like that, but it’s different when you know you might have only one shot.

The kind of girl who’d stand on a bridge and yell at the top of her lungs to the world is going to have an idea of the perfect first time. I don’t even have a sister and I can figure that out. Although I don’t think Holden ever talks to Phoebe about sex—she’s too young to know about stuff like that—he knows that a girl like Jane has a different idea about the first time than a girl like Sunny. You have to think about who the girl is. I mean, if you want to be fair about it. To be honest—sorry, old Holden—girls are way more savvy these days. They’ve seen it on TV and all the movies are full of it. Maybe just to earn the R rating to increase the box office take, but maybe because girls are different now, more up-front too. With Victoria’s Secret and that kind of public display, I wouldn’t be surprised if Nick’s friends are all popping some girl behind the soccer stands.

I’d like to ask someone, Joe, I guess, or Dad if he remembers his first time. I don’t want to hear the details—God, no, no details—just whether you forget or whether it’s worth remembering. If it was a mess or a good memory, something he likes to remember. Just to know if I’m on the right track.

My thinking is if Dad or Joe said the first time is always a jumble and no one really remembers it because they’re too scared and it’s too new, then I might stop being so nervous about it. Trouble is, if I ask Dad a question like that, he’ll know what I’m thinking and he’ll probably figure out Meredith is the one, since the subject is coming up right after I met her. That would be the kiss of death. He’d say something to Mom. They’d never let us be alone together after that.

The rowboat is really cruising along now. Upstream the mudflats disappear and the creek twists. The current’s weaker, so I can row less and glide more. The river is narrower, too. And there are tons more birds. They must like it here because boats don’t invade very often. The birds can sit on the reeds or the phragmites and look out without being disturbed. It’s also warmer because the shore breaks the wind.

Then this flash hits me. I should bring Meredith up here before winter. With the binoculars she could see the kinds of birds we get in this part of Virginia. They’re bound to be different from the mountains. No room in the rowboat for Juliann. Or Mack. The more I think about it, the more I know Meredith would like it. There’s a first time for everything.

When I pull alongside the houseboat, Joe’s ride from Warsaw has arrived. Joe’s already in the skiff. Nick’s getting ready to pull the choke and start the engine. Big smile when Joe sees me.

“Dan. You been hiding out? Listen, come spend a weekend in C-Ville. See what college is really like.”

“I’ll ask Mom.”

“Don’t do that. Just pick a date. Rusty’s girlfriend drives from Warsaw almost every weekend.”

Rusty’s waving from the shore for Joe to hurry.

“Come on, Daniel, say you’ll come.”

“I have to ask.”

“What’s with that? You’re not a kid. It’d be different if you needed them to drive, but Jessica can bring you. Any Friday. She’ll drop you back on Sunday. Say yes.”

“Okay, yes, yes, I’ll come, but I’ll have to let you know about the date after I talk to Mom.”

“All right, baby brother, be that way. If I were you, I’d start doing what you want to, I’d—”

Nick has to get in the picture. “Joe, cool it. He said yes, leave him alone.”

“What is it with you guys?” I can’t stand it. “Let’s just drop the whole thing.”

Nick can’t let it go. “He’s not here enough to know how tired you get.”

“Jeez, Nick, I think I can handle this without my little brother taking up for me.”

Joe starts to say something else, but then just reaches over the railing and hugs me hard. Maybe he does understand. Halfway to the D-funct marina dock, he calls back.

“Danny boy, you better be there one of these Fridays. I mean it.”

Nick jerks the skiff hard and the spray arcs up and rains down on Joe, who flips him the bird.

Once Rusty has driven off with Joe waving madly from the side window like a weak sister, I go inside to change out of my sweaty rowing clothes. He’s left me a present on the top bunk. An envelope with my name in his perfect draftsman block letters, with extra tape on the flap. Inside are two condoms.

Saturday night Mack drives the four of us to the party at the Yowells’ house on the Gold Coast where all the other “rivah” mansions are. Mack’s so full of himself, not that I blame him. He’s dressed up like Johnny Cash, sporting my father’s belt with the huge metal buckle from the sixties, black jeans, and a black shirt with little white metal snaps instead of buttons. Oh so cool.

Juliann walks around him in circles after he parks the car in Leonard’s side yard, next to the dozen or so vehicles already there. “Where’d you ever find that shirt? It’s so perfect for the man in black. Real rhinestones?” She peers closely at Mack’s chest, which sends him strutting around, right in character.

“Not very scary,” I say. “Halloween’s about ghosts and goblins, not rock stars.”

The twins come as one thing, a doppelgänger. They wear matching gray sheets and have big black circles around their eyes to make them look otherworldly and miserable. Their arms, covered in black stocking material like those black stretchy suits dancers wear, stick out from holes in the sheets. My mother would never have let us cut up perfectly good sheets. They spray-painted baseball hats and Meredith’s D on the front of the sheet is backward, to be the mirror image of Juliann’s. Pretty simple, but effective. Unfortunately the costume only works if they stay together, the opposite of what Mack and I were hoping for. And the opposite of what we’ll be doing our damnedest to have happen.

Mack’s building the right mood, working up from the compliment on his costume. “You know, a doppelgänger might not be so happy to have his shadow follow him, ah, her everywhere. She can’t have any real fun.”

Although Juliann giggles, she stops immediately as if she remembered who she was supposed to be. “Not shadow. Mirror image. Her missing half.”

“Doppelgängers don’t want to have fun.” I’m baiting him.

“You know, misery loves company,” Meredith chimes in.

When I pour it on, I can see Mack frown, like Why don’t you shut up. I pitch my voice low. “Doppelgängers wander the earth for all eternity. They don’t belong in either place. They’re meant to be miserable.”

“What if…” Mack puts his thumbs in the belt and sputters nonsense, caught between staying in character and thinking of a credible reason half a doppelgänger would go with the Man in Black and half would go with Captain Hook. “What if they’re really two separate people and the doppelgänger has taken possession of their bodies? June Cash, for instance. And…”

There’s no place for him to go with this. Captain Hook had no female admirers. We’ve been standing in Leonard’s yard for ten minutes it seems like and all kinds of other ghoulies have passed by with the appropriate whistles at Mack and shivers at the girls and me. Meredith whips off the hat and jams it on backward.

“This doppelgänger is unhappy because she isn’t getting to dance.” She grabs my hand and we’re gone. I can hear Mack and Juliann working painfully through the analogy until we’re inside and I’m introducing Meredith to the senator and his wife.

Senator Yowell’s shirt is starched, the collar a stiff castle inside his V-neck sweater. No suit jacket or sport coat. It must be a rare day when the senator doesn’t have to worry about impressing people. The insult, the inference that his son’s friends are not worth impressing, hits me a few minutes later when I’m pouring Meredith a soda after our first dance and feeling PO’d because Leonard cut in and I couldn’t think fast enough to say no. Heck, she could have said no.

I try not to stand there and stare at them. Leonard keeps swinging her under his arm with enough momentum to bring her crashing back into him. And she keeps circling away. I know Leonard has had dance lessons, so I know the excess swings are for a whole different purpose. Creep.

Guys are so single-minded. Except Holden, who had dance lessons with Sally or Jane and goes ape when Stradlater stays out late with Jane. Some of the kids I know at prep schools still do that debutante social thing. My parents couldn’t afford any fancy dancing classes and probably wouldn’t understand why anyone would think it was important. No wonder Leonard’s a way better dancer than me. First off, he’s probably had dance classes for three or four years. In the second place, he’s way more experienced with girls, period.

He’s so confident that people just assume he knows what he’s doing. To be honest, I could care less most of the time. It’s not that I want to be smooth; I’d just like to be able to dance with Meredith without looking spastic.

Stepford-Hanes would say I should simply seize the day. Carpe diem. She sees things so clearly. It never seems personal or critical because she can make you laugh. She’s one of those teachers you know from the first day of class that you won’t forget. She sees you, the real you, and not just twenty-five nail-biting, gutter-mouthed teenagers. I miss her class. I miss her.

Studying alone is not the same. There are no jokes, no cutups, no paper airplanes from the back row, no other fools to make you feel better. I miss her voice, too. It has that Northern pushiness that doesn’t allow for wasting time. Not harsh or mean, just let’s get to the important stuff.

I should go see her, talk to her about Holden and the hotel-room scene and how he tricks Phoebe when she comes with her suitcase, one of the few dishonest things he does in the whole book.

“Whoa, whoa.” Senator Yowell yanks my wrist to stop the soda flowing over the top of the plastic cup. There are chocolate-colored lines of bubbles on the cabinets and a puddle on the floor.

“Oh, jeez. I’m sorry, sir. That was careless of me. I was thinking about…just thinking, not paying attention.”

“Reinventing the wheel, I hope.” He smiles broadly and hands me a sponge.

The idea of him watching over his possessions, his house, his family, comes to me as I mop up the sizzling puddle and squeeze the sponge over the sink. He’s a father, too. Although he steps back through the doorway when Meredith comes in from the den, he doesn’t leave. Probably wants to be sure I’ve managed the mess, that there won’t be any slip-and-fall injuries on his watch. I’m not used to this kind of management from the sidelines. My parents have no image to maintain, nothing to guard against except whatever nature delivers. I’m not sure Dad would even notice if I poured something all over the floor.

Leonard follows Meredith into the kitchen. He elbows past his father. His costume is really weak, a baseball jersey over jeans. The newly ubiquitous button-down peeks out from the jersey. When I asked him who he was when we first arrived, he looked right at Meredith and said, “Barry Bonds on steroids.” Now he’s practically tripping on her doppelgänger sheet to stay connected. It would be funny if it didn’t piss me off so much.

Last year he had a girlfriend, Sarah Messimer. He’s had several, actually. Sarah’s father is a real-estate lawyer in town. Leonard and Sarah were a perfect pair. Her shoes matched her sweaters. No telling what Leonard did, but it ended abruptly and he refused to talk about it. Mack and I agree, chances are she just figured him out. Or he got too personal too fast. He has this entitlement thing, like how could any girl resist him?

Just because Meredith’s the new girl in town, he has to make this a contest, prove he’s the better man. It’s like Nick’s win-win obsession in soccer, except more twisted because Leonard and I are supposed to be friends. Friends don’t steal each other’s girls.

He turns and frowns at the senator. “I think we’ve got it under control now, Dad. Isn’t Mom waiting to watch the movie with you upstairs?”

When Senator Yowell starts sputtering, I have to look away immediately. He’s so shocked, his mouth is open, not any photo op he’s used to. Kid power. Or maybe it’s more about Leonard showing off for Meredith. Whatever Leonard meant, it comes across as an underhanded dig at his own father. I’m liking him less and less.

After I hand Meredith the cup, I wave the plastic pirate hook taped to my left arm. “Time to walk the plank, matey.”

And hard as it is for me to believe, she catches the hint. She walks past Leonard, links her little finger to the hook, and leads me out to the porch.

“You okay?” she asks, sharp glances into the corners as if more than a few couples might be snuggled down out of sight, though the room feels and looks empty.

“I spilled the goddamn drink like a five-year-old.”

“Why did you abandon me to the Steroid King?”

“He’s everywhere.”

“Everywhere he wants to be,” she says.

“Nowhere I want to be.”

“You don’t want to dance with me?” She sounds really hurt and it gripes me.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all. Of course I want to dance with you. I loved dancing with you that one time we did it. Dance, I mean. I would dance with you forever.”

I realize I’m being an idiot, but when she looks a little teary-eyed, I realize it’s not a bad kind of idiot. As I raise my arm to offer her a dance, the hook smashes into the screen door leading out to the pool. Good thing it’s only plastic or Senator Yowell would be back with a roll of screening and the directions to his staple gun.

“Fuck,” I say, then, “Jeez. What a jerk. Sorry.”

Meredith giggles. “You don’t have to apologize. I’ve heard the word before. Anyway, pirates have issues other people don’t have.”

“I warned you I was different.”

With one black arm, she’s stroking my hook and tugging the sleeve of my dad’s peacoat, which I’m wearing to hide the duct tape. It still surprises me that the coat is not that big on me. It’s way too weird that I could still be growing while the sicko germs are attacking my blood.

“How do you keep that thing on?” She tugs the sleeve up to her face.

“No fair peeking. I didn’t ask you what’s under the doppelgänger sheet.”

When she steps down onto the patio that surrounds the swimming pool, I’m right behind her. Mack and Leonard and I have spent hours in this pool. It has wide steps that match the curve of the concrete edge and the designer tiles. My mother didn’t even want to hear what it looked like; she thinks it’s environmentally damaging to seal up the ground and wreck the habitat for the newts or earthworms or whatever lives in people’s yards.

“How come no one’s swimming?” Meredith asks.

“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s almost November. A little chilly for laps.”

“But Leonard said they swam last week. He asked if Juliann and I wanted to come over and try the pool.”

I do my best pirate growl. “I bet he did.”

“We could try it now. You and me.” She leans down and sticks a hand in the water, raises it dripping, and beams up at me.

I can see the gears turning in her gorgeous head. This is the bridge climber I know.

She whispers, closer to my ear than is safe with other people around, “We’d have it all to ourselves.”

“Would I get to see what’s under a doppelgänger’s outer layer?”

With that, she yanks the sheet over her head, steps out of her black flats, and drops her jeans. When she tugs the black jersey thingy over her head, I catch a glimpse of white before she slides into the water and turns into the shadow of a mermaid. The flash of white is gone almost before I register what it is.

“Meredith.”

“Shhh.” She surfaces. “Hurry up and rescue me, Captain Hook. There might be alligators in here.”

Mack doesn’t want to leave when we do. Juliann and four guys from the lacrosse team are playing with a Ouija board. The guys are chugging from beer bottles they’re hiding under the coffee table. Ouija’s something I haven’t done since I was ten. And am not about to repeat. I feel bad for Mack. He’s shorter than every one of those guys, but smarter than all of them put together. He ought to be singing “Ring of Fire” and carrying Juliann off into the night. But he’s chugging with the best of them. And surprising me because he’s doing such a good job convincing them that he’s a pro at it.

Senator Yowell is noticeably absent, which gives Leonard room to make a big deal about what a great party it is. Don’t you hate that kind of self-promotion? He’s such a phony. It may be the best party ever, but the host can’t get away with saying it. Even I know that and we’ve never had a party at our house. And certainly not on the houseboat. Can you see the headlines? Kids Drown at Teen Party on Houseboat.

The fireplace hearth is decorated with beer bottles and another bunch crowds one end of the mantel. Maybe the lacrosse players brought the beer. I have a life-size picture of duly elected Senator Yowell stocking the larder with Bud before the party. The Yowells’ life is a fishbowl compared with Holden’s or mine, even taking into account The Disease and the neglect conviction.

The court hearing has to be the big news in town because most of the adults we know are turning down side streets when they see us coming. If my parents hadn’t appealed it and won the stay hearing, I’d be in chemo right now and not holding Meredith’s hand, missing what’s already turned into the best night of my life. No holds barred.

The music’s softer and only two couples are dancing. Other couples on the couch in the den and the living room are deep into it. In the corner two guys I don’t recognize are huddled over an end table, which gives me a bad feeling that the party is getting out of control. I feel like I should shield Meredith’s eyes, but then the hook business in the kitchen comes back to me and I remember she’s from the big city of Charlottesville, so she’s probably way more experienced than I am. You’d think that would take some of the pressure off. But it’s amazing how just the thought of some other guy touching her tears me up. I can hardly breathe.

Behind me, she stays close, the doppelgänger sheet wrapped around her shoulders. I smell her perfume and the chlorine in her hair. Every two or three steps, someone jostles us and a drip from her hair falls on my neck. Cold but wonderful because it touched her skin and then mine. No one notices the damp patches spreading on the doppelgänger sheet.

When I walk, the condoms crinkle in my jean pocket. Like a tornado whistle it seems, but no one’s head even turns, so it’s just me, being nervous.

While I was putting the costume together—at the last minute of course, though Nick was very helpful—I transferred the condoms from Joe’s envelope to my pocket when Nick wasn’t looking. With his competitiveness I have to be careful or he’ll decide he has to try whatever it is he sees me doing, to keep up. Typical thirteen-year-old.

On the way to the party I worried about Meredith seeing the condoms. With two of them, she might think I’m overly confident. Maybe she’d stop liking me. To be brutally honest, I’m also worried about using them. There are no directions and I’ve never used the suckers before. One of them might rip. How am I supposed to know?

We move together to stand behind Mack where he sits outside the Ouija board group with Juliann’s butt wedged in his lap. Things aren’t that bad. His back is to the druggies in the corner. Maybe he’s doing okay after all. He looks happy enough. When Meredith’s hair drips on his arm, he touches the spot, looks at the ceiling, and up at me.

“You two took a shower?”

“Swimming,” I whisper. “We’re outta here.”

“You want the keys to the truck?”

“No driver’s license, remember? I’m younger than you.”

“Yeah, yeah, but not as high.”

“Maybe you should give me the keys. How many beers have you had?”

“It’s not the beer, kiddo.”

Mack’s grin is ghoulish. Meredith puts her arms around my waist and I want to leave so badly and forget the whole frigging conversation with Mack.

“So. Stop drinking now.” I swipe the bottle right out of his hand and shove a chip bag at him. “You’ll be okay if you dance some and eat.”

“Just gimme a minute, I’ll run you home.”

I pretend to slap his face. As my open palm hits the inside of my arm—such a realistic sound—Juliann whips her head around and stares. She and Mack whisper in between kisses and then she smiles at Meredith, who smiles at me and winks. Can they really know what I’m thinking?

Mack grabs my shirt and tugs me down so our faces are within inches. “Hey,” he starts. What I said must finally register with him. “Oh. Right. Okay, no more beer. No more…illegal shit. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” His burp is lost in the music. “Be safe.” He laughs at my grimace. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Jeez, how does one time make him such a damn expert?

CHAPTER TWELVE

The courthouse clock says it’s only just after ten. Dad has taken Nick and some of his soccer-mad cohorts camping at the state park across the river. A Halloween campout, complete with greased grapes for eyeballs, marbles in Jell-O for kidney stones, and a bowl of cooked spaghetti for brains. You know the drill. Dad loves this kind of thing. It uses all his Boy Scout skills. And it eases the pain of his sons having failed to follow in his scouting footsteps.

Mom went to visit a college friend on the other side of Charlottesville. She and Dad argued about the gas, but in the end he apologized and said she should go. Anyone can see how she’s been unraveling with the constant back and forth to the lawyer. Walker is driving her crazy. She finally went to talk to Senator Yowell for advice about switching lawyers. They didn’t actually switch, but he must have told her something positive because that night she and Dad went out to dinner alone and they came back laughing and joking about college and their political activist friends. If they act normal at least part of the time, it takes a lot of pressure off me.

Anyway… even Dad with his head in his manuscripts could see she needed a break. The point is, astrology aside, the stars have aligned for me. For once. The houseboat is empty.

Meredith and I run across Route 17 like mad dogs. The band playing at Ferebee’s is loud, very redneck, and a lot off-key. No one’s on the sidewalk, though, so they can’t be but so rinky-dink. Up ahead of us Officer Brewer cruises along at about five miles an hour. His huge silhouette, easy to recognize, fills the rear window of the cop car. Everyone in Tappahannock, even the criminals, knows that Sheriff Jessup’s mostly home at night. I once overheard Dad say it’s his much younger wife who keeps him busy. And the town force is mostly traffic cops anyway. Not a lot of crime in this backwater.

I raise the pirate hook to Brewer in greeting. Joe told me once it’s always better to connect with adults, and especially cops, than to leave them wondering whether you’re hiding something.

“You know him?” Meredith asks. The gray sheet drags along behind her like a little girl’s blankie.

“When you live in this small a town your whole life, you know everyone.”

Brewer brakes and waits for us to come even with his window, open despite the October crispness. “You two been at the Yowell boy’s party?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Going straight home, not walking by way of the bridge tonight, captain?”

“No, sir.” Word of my diving prowess has spread.

“Going to introduce me?”

The dude must never have taken a girl on a romantic walk in his sorry life. Mood is crucial, even I know that.

“Meredith, this is Officer Brewer of the Town of Tappahannock Police Department. Officer Brewer, Meredith Rilke.”

Brewer nods. Meredith smiles. I tug her back into the shadows. Our clothes are wet from Leonard’s pool and Brewer has been trained to notice stuff like that. No matter how much I dislike Leonard for trying to snake my date, I sure don’t want Brewer to get it in his head he needs to visit the party. I’m thinking I should call Yowell and warn him, when the cruiser pulls away and heads toward Wal-Mart. Brewer sure knows where the action is on a Saturday night in Tappahannock. I stop holding my breath.

We walk down the block by the original town clerk’s office, from the 1700s. I think Jefferson and all those speech-making dudes. It’s a miniature brick building that invites peeking. Meredith stretches up to the tiny window and trips on the sheet. I catch her before she can fall. Her body sinks into mine without either of us having time to think about it.

“Easy,” I say, but I don’t want this to stop. She needs me. It’s a great feeling.

After she steadies herself, we’re that close. And alone. Finally. When she looks up, I kiss her, a real Hollywood-type kiss because I’m holding her close enough this time. She tastes sweet, a little like the soda she drank at Leonard’s house.

“Look,” she says.

As the cruiser pulls out onto Route 17, Brewer is flicking the cruiser’s taillights on and off. How juvenile can you get? But he’s got the feeling exactly right.

By the time Meredith and I walk down the alley behind Water Lane to the D-funct marina, I’ve told her some of the famous Landon “rivah” stories and she may be starting to think I’m truly charming. The condoms in my pocket are the size of a yo-yo, they feel so conspicuous. I help her into the rowboat. The only thing that’s missing is a full moon. But then someone on shore might be able to see us on the boat. It’s probably better that it’s dark. Farther downriver voices from a loud party float back up to us. A band starts and stops, starts again. Over the thick slurp of the oars in the creek, I ask Meredith about her childhood.

“Juliann’s always been more athletic, more social. You would think with the same genes I would be that way too. I’ve tried. Put ten people my age in a room, my stomach turns into a tangle of … of… I don’t know, something coiled tight, and I shut down.”

“You did fine tonight.”

“Because you were there. I knew if anything happened, if Leonard pushed too hard, you’d be there.”

“Leonard’s pushing?”

“All the time. He calls you Dead Man Walking. Says there’s no future, why waste the present.” Her face still shows the gray paint and the black circles under her eyes. If I didn’t know it was makeup, I’d think someone had hit her. In that instant I could easily have hit them back.

She rests her hand on my thigh because my arms are busy stroking oars through black water. While her fingers move, up and back, I stay silent. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. But I don’t think it’s fair that he lets you think he’s your friend. It’s so phony.” She’s crying, but so quietly I can barely hear.

“Don’t. Merry, don’t cry over Leonard. He’s not worth it.” I’ve never seen a girl cry except Mom. And in the movies. This isn’t like that. Meredith hasn’t flung herself, sobbing, on the couch. Still, it’s totally terrifying. She’s crying because of me, and I don’t even know what I did.

Although we’re only a few boat lengths from the houseboat, it doesn’t seem like such a hot time to give her the tour. Instead I row steadily up the creek toward the Route 17 bridge, figuring I’ll show her how cool it is with the reeds on both sides and the world gone. And I’ll invite her to go back with me another day, when it’s light. But even up by the public boat ramp, she’s still crying, little lifts of her shoulders when she breathes, even if it is to herself, her chin tucked so I can’t see her face, as if the whole time she’s been holding this in and now the dam is broken.

“Forget Leonard, Meredith.”

“He’s the one who got Mack started on the coke.”

The oars are poised above the water and I’m frozen. She says it like I’m supposed to know, but it’s the first I’ve heard. It fits, though, and that chills me.

“I shouldn’t have told you. I’ve ruined everything.”

“It doesn’t bother me at all. If he’s letting cokeheads come to his party, he’s not who I thought he was. Forget it.” What I’m really thinking is how I’m going to blast Mack tomorrow morning. What the hell is he thinking about? All the stuff he’s heard from me about my dad and he thinks he can screw around with that garbage and not get into trouble?

About this time the oars are getting heavy. And I’m thinking maybe I should’ve rowed around the houseboat instead of coming all the way up here. It’ll be twice as hard rowing back against the current. If my arms give out and I can’t row, it’ll so wreck everything. Can you see any girl—even a nice, considerate girl like Meredith—liking a guy who made her row them home? Jeez, I am such an idiot.

What would Holden do? He’d let the boat float and put his arm around her. Duh.

But I can’t because the current’s headed the wrong way, and my mind is spinning about Mack. I’m not that far gone to forget we’re in a boat. When you grow up around water, you learn to be respectful. Although I keep on rowing, I’m slowly turning the boat so Meredith can see upstream while I battle the current. She’s quiet, her face still turned away.

“Hey, you okay? Here’s the bridge I was telling you about. See how the creek just keeps on going?” I wait for her to say something, anything. “Can you see? Is it too dark?”

Of course it’s too effing dark. “Never mind. Stupid idea anyway.” I know I’m mumbling, but the whole situation is…I’m a total failure. Who would take a girl in wet clothes in a rowboat to see a bridge when it’s dark? Only yours truly.

Once she sees the running lights on the deck of the houseboat, she perks up. Only sniffles every once in a while. She’s probably embarrassed. What can you say after you’ve cried over something like that, the stupid things guys do? I’m giving her time to get over it. I concentrate on rowing, even whistle a little, though it sounds lame out here in the blackness, only the ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum of car wheels running over the bridge stress seams. Even that fades into the creek’s quiet lapping. Mack using cocaine? That means I’ve really been out of it, a frigging ostrich.

Right now, though, Meredith’s here, waiting to be charmed. I’ll deal with Mack tomorrow. I’m damned if he and Yowell are going to spoil my night with Meredith.

“Here we are. Home sweet home.” I dock the rowboat as gently as I can next to the houseboat. After I twist the line around the cleat in the neatest figure eight I can make, one-handed no less, I swing my leg up over the side. Kneeling on the deck, I offer my hands to help her up. The doppelgänger sheet is bunched up in the bow of the rowboat as if the other half had decided to nap there rather than butt into her sister’s private time. All of a sudden I wonder if that special communication between twins means that Juliann knows when I kiss her sister. Can Juliann feel what Meredith feels? Does sixth sense mean that a twin can share her twin’s experience? What pops into my head is that movie where the alien girl zips out of her skin to make love just by touching. You know, the movie where the nursing-home folks swim in the neighbors’ pool without realizing they’re stealing the life force of the aliens. That kind of nonphysical sharing.

It’s not like Meredith’s a regular girl who can go home to her own room and undress by herself. She has Juliann, waiting, curious, fully able to look at her twin sister and see through any deceptions. Oh God, this is over-the-top complicated.

“Hey, Daniel.” Meredith shivers a little where we stand together on the deck. “Were you going to give me a tour?”

I shake my head to clear it. My hair, still wet from the Yowells’ pool, feels like a bowl of ice wrapped around my head. Hers, long as it is, must be like a polar ice cap.

“Oh, sure. You’ve never been here before.”

“Ah… no.”

She smiles at me, at my ridiculous self for making such an inane comment. Like I don’t know she’s never been here before. Jeez.

“Welcome to our houseboat, Nirvana. This is the deck.”

She laughs again. Mom always says I can be charming when I want to be.

I unlatch the main cabin door and push it open. “The Landon living room. As it appears on a regular basis.”

There are newspapers on every surface. The sink is piled with dishes. Three bird feeders are on the table, little houses with their roofs raised, begging to be filled, the bag of bird food propped against one leg of the table. The middle of the bag pudges out like a glutton who slid from his chair without enough energy to move completely away from the scene of his excess.

“Wow.” She’s being really polite. “Your family reads a lot, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I’d never thought much about what other families did.

I scrounge for two towels from the drawer under the bench seat while she’s taking it all in, spinning slowly to see the room in its entirety. When I drape a towel around her shoulders like a coat, she flips it onto her head and starts rubbing.

“But you gotta understand. This is standard operating procedure for the Landons. My parents are a little spacey. Their priorities are different from most parents. They define neat as ‘without interests.’”

“It’s kind of neat. In a way. I mean, you can see the things the driver would need are all here.” She points to the dials on the instrument panel.

“Oh, yeah. Compass. Depth finder. Wheel. They’re nailed down.”

She laughs. With a fair amount of interest she looks into the flat space beyond the wheel where Dad keeps his nautical maps. The wide windows don’t open, but form the windshield for the pilot at one end of the living space.

“There’s another wheel on the roof. For fair weather.”

She examines all the gadgets and the books on the shelves. Everyone always loves the compact efficiency of boats.

“The galley.” I point at a section of the shelves behind the wheel and before the bunk room.

“Cool,” she says as I open cupboards to show her the system of hooks and movable trays to keep things from sliding in rough weather.

She lets me lead her back to the deck. Her hand is cold and I pull it close and blow on her fingers.

“Foredeck, to port.” I motion, but walk backward and she follows without letting go of my hand. Her fingers are curled from the cold. When she bends to peer into the back of the cabin where Nick and I bunk, I tug her away.

“Tut-tut. In a minute. Aft cabin, first. For parents, currently elsewhere.” I don’t open the door. No point in scaring her with the state of their cabin. She already has the idea.

As we both step under the passageway that separates the two cabins, she stays with me. I wonder if she feels that little pocket of warmth out of the wind. When I start to step out on the other side, she tugs back.

“So there’s no one else here?” she asks.

“Nope.”

You would have to be stupid not to hear the invitation in her voice. I may be geeky and antisocial, but I’m not stupid. I spin on one foot and face her.

Her grin practically glows in the dark. I kiss her. More than once and it’s incredible how great it is. She puts her arms around my neck. It’s getting warmer by the second. Her lips graze my cheek, my ear. I can’t even think how to describe the way the feeling in your lips moves into your body and makes you warm all over. And how much better it is when you really like the person you’re kissing.

She whispers, “Say my name again, the way you did in the rowboat.”

“Meredith.” I try to hold the syllables longer and let them sink in around us.

“No, the nickname you used.”

“Oh… oh. Merry? I don’t know why I said that, it just slipped out.”

“I’ve never had a nickname before.”

“First time for everything.”

The kisses get a little crazy. I can’t hold her close enough. Joe would be disappointed I hadn’t planned this better, waited until we were in the cabin, near a bed.

“Lemme finish the tour.”

More kisses. She likes the place right in front of my ear.

“Meredith, Meredith.”

She walks close as we pass down the other side of the deck. When the boat rocks with the breeze, she pulls herself even closer. Her fingers are like little ice statues, bent and hard against my palm, the way toothpicks roll. I can feel her tremble, shiver.

“It’s too cold out here,” I say. “Let’s go in.”

Because Nick packed for camping before I left, I’m fairly confident our cabin is respectable enough. In the dark my fingers crawl along the wall until I find the light switch. A glow appears in four corners, low-wattage bulbs powered by the battery. Meredith looks around. There are not enough bookcases, so there are boxes of books in every corner. Maybe she’s thinking about the bunk beds being dorky. But there’s no other real solution on a houseboat.

Nick’s prize landfill find, an old television set that’s bigger than a chair, sits on the built-in dresser we share. He’s wedged it in with a blanket and a bungee cord to keep it from shifting with the boat. It still sticks out over the top of the dresser about six inches. That’s the way they made those early TVs. But Nick has to be able to watch the soccer matches and South Park when Mom and Dad are gone.

I turn off three of the wall lamps. Although the battery’s pretty strong, I don’t want to take a chance. Dad’s been fierce about it all summer and fall, drilling us on emergency procedures and the proper care of a boat. It’s not that sailors are cheapskates. They just always preserve their options, forever considering how to maneuver their way out of a storm. A working battery and motor are crucial.

Without curtains, the windows reveal the same black sky from earlier. The louvered windows rattle in their tracks, a reminder that hurricane season is not quite over. As the wind rises the boat’s shifts have become more like lurches, not quite predictable. Meredith grabs the rail of the bunk bed to keep her balance.

“But there are only two bunks and you have two brothers.”

“Joe—the one with me in the car the other weekend—is at college, so he uses a sleeping bag when he’s here. It’s been just Nick and me the last three years. You met Nick? He’s thirteen. The soccer king. What can I say?”

“Which bunk is yours?”

Pointing, I choke out the words, “Want to try it?”

“To get the whole experience of life on a boat, I have to, right?”

I nod, totally choked up now. She’s up the ladder and lying down before I can even think how to answer her question.

“Like it?”

“Maybe you should show me how you fit yourself up here. You’re taller than I am.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When the lightbulb blinks and dies, it feels like hours have passed and we’re asleep. At least I’m asleep, exhausted after the most incredible hour of my life. Meredith wakes me up.

“Daniel. Did you see that? The light just went off. Is someone here? Or is it on some kind of timer?”

As the wind slaps the siding, the boat snaps back and forth on the mooring. I know I should be paying attention to the boat, but the feel of Meredith’s hip next to my thigh and her bare breast on my arm is way too distracting. She lifts her head off my shoulder and peers into the dark space, her chin just above mine. I kiss it.

“Those little lights on the deck,” she says. “Did you turn those off when we came inside?”

“Oh, jeez, I forgot.” I sit up and bonk my head on the ceiling. I sink back on the pillow. “Dad’ll kill me if the battery’s dead.”

She’s watching me. Her eyes shift back and forth like a cat’s in the dark room. “Silly, the lights are already off. I just wondered if you did it.” She kisses me and there’s no way I’m getting out of this bed to worry about the lights. Who needs light anyway?

“Dan.”

My hands are stroking that dip in her back, working around the bones in her spine. I take her hips and try to lift her enough to work things out. Or in.

“Daniel.”

It’s an amazing feeling. How two people fit like that.

“Stop. Daniel. We can’t… we need another one of those… things.”

“Oh, God, Meredith.” Her skin is so warm.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re right. It’s just so hard to… you’re so beautiful and… so soft in the right places and…” I groan and wriggle out from under her. “I only had two.”

She starts to giggle. I have to laugh too. Great planner.

“First time for everything,” I say.

“Not anymore,” she says, laughing, and pushes me toward the edge of the bunk.

In the pitch black I grope around for my jeans. When I stumble on the plastic hook from my costume, I chuck it across the room. I’m laughing and telling her I’m going to check the battery, sorry about the condoms, is she okay, stay where she is, not to worry, I’ll be right back. I follow the bed rails with my hands until I feel her shoulder. With one foot on Nick’s bunk, I pull myself even with her face. I know what I want to say. The words are right there. The words. But all of a sudden, now that I know for sure it’s her first time too, it seems so self-centered to talk about how I feel, to just blurt it out like that. Without considering how she feels to have a dead guy in love with her. It’s not like she can look forward to going to the senior prom with me or that we can apply to the same colleges or put photos of each other on our yearbook pages.

“Merry,” I whisper instead, her lips so close I have to kiss them. “Thank you.”

The battery is fine. It’s just the bulb that’s burned out in the bedroom. Meredith thinks it’s the funniest thing ever.

“You were the one who panicked,” I say.

“Me? You were swearing and saying how your dad was going to go ape.”

“I did not say ‘ape.’”

“Did too.”

“Did not.” I have to silence that. I have to kiss her.

She’s trying to pull the black stretchy shirt on over her head while I’m trying to kiss her. It’s just that I’m not ready to let her go. If I get dragged off to Mexico, it could be months before there’s another chance for us to be alone.

“Dan. Daniel.” Her laugh is muffled in fabric. “Stop kissing me. I have to go home. Juliann and I agreed we’d both show up at one—that way, Mom could hardly be suspicious of either of us.”

“Does she know? About… us?”

“My mother?”

“God, no. Your sister.”

“Not yet.”

I’m being good. I smooth her shirt over her chest, slide my hands around her waist to help tuck it into her jeans. Just checking to be sure everything’s in place. God, she is so beautiful.

“What are you going to tell her?” I ask.

“My mother?”

“Funny. No, Juliann.”

“Maybe nothing.”

“This is not important enough to tell your twin sister?”

She looks away, reaches for her sandals, leans down to be sure she has the right one on the right foot. “I might just keep it to myself for a while. It’ll be different once she knows. Right now it’s just you and me. I like that.”

“I like it too.” I stammer a little when I realize she might think I’m trying to tell her what to do. “I mean, you can tell her if you want. Whenever.”

“Are you going to tell Mack?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Guys are different. If I tell him, he’ll think it’s no big deal, like we had a pizza or something. He might even say something to someone else. I don’t want him to blab it all over school.”

“It’s almost one o’clock.”

“You’re right. I’m gonna take you home now.” I kiss her again. “Seriously. I am. I’m gonna kiss you one more time, then I’ll row you in and walk you home.”

She waits like she knows I’m not finished. How can a girl know me like that? By osmosis maybe.

“And then…” I pull her out to the deck, wrap her in Dad’s peacoat, and bring the rowboat close for her to step in. “And then I’m going to walk out on that bridge and yell, ‘Life is glorious.’ And jump.”

She looks at me like it’s the most logical thing in the world to say. Or do.

Sunday morning I’m all alone on the houseboat. Outside the storm has arrived. Rain. Wind. When the boat rocks madly, my stomach rocks with it. I’m unbearably warm. The pillow smells like Meredith, a faraway memory, but I get warmer still. I peel back the blanket where I’m lying on the cushioned bench, green and miserable. Hours earlier when the pain in my gut was only a periodic clench, I checked the second anchor, and turned on the cell phone in case Mom or Dad call to check on the boat. I crash back on the couch, too exhausted all of a sudden to climb up to the bunk. No one calls and I doze. At every tenth pitching I halfway wake up, lean over to the window, and stare into the slanting sheets of rain to see if the Whaler is still tied to the D-funct marina. It feels like I’m in one of those werewolf movies where the wolf’s snarl will come shooting out of the dark, blood dripping from its jaws. I try not to think about Meredith and what we did, it’s worse than wet dreams.

When Dad and Nick finally arrive, they’re soaked. Sleeping bags, tent, everything. They don’t talk, not a word, and Dad’s face is all washed out. After they’ve lashed the camping gear under the small bimini on the back deck, they strip off their wet clothes and stand in the living room in their boxers. The space heater there glows red like the end of a thermometer. Outside every other wave sends the empty skiff, with its tiny nine-horsepower motor, bouncing up higher than the deck.

“Maybe we should bring it on board,” Nick suggests.

“We don’t need any extra weight in this kind of weather.” Dad stares at the skiff. “Has your mother called?” He’s looking at me as if I should be able to report exactly that. Positively that she’s called and all is well.

“No.”

“Is this a hurricane?” Nick asks me. Like I’m suddenly an expert. Or maybe he thinks I tuned in to the weather station. Way too logical.

Dad opens the door, slams it behind him, and disappears in his skivvies into the wind, though there’s not much danger of anyone being out there to see. He reappears a minute later with rain gear and dry clothes balled into one of his wheeled suitcases.

“Only way to keep things dry,” he explains as he turns his back on us, drops the wet boxers to the floor, and pats himself dry with the sweatshirt before he puts it on along with his khakis. Once he’s dressed, it’s like he’s official now and can do his job as a father. He moves his face close to mine. “Are you okay? You look wiped out.”

“I am wiped out.” My eyelids are so heavy, I feel like I may fall asleep while we’re talking.

The wind screams downriver. When Dad finally gets reception on the TV, the Richmond station is showing pictures of downtown Urbanna underwater. The power lines are down and the harbor has risen enough to spill into the street that connects downtown with the fancy sailing club under construction at the edge of the harbor. The TV flickers and dies.

“Think we ought to call Mom and tell her not to come home?” I’m making this up as I go. None of us have ever lived on a houseboat during hurricane season.

“Duh,” Nick says, grumpy and complaining about being deprived of the Cheers episode he’d been planning to watch.

“That show’s way too old for you,” I say from the couch, where I’m prone and slurring the words.

But Dad has other things on his mind. “I should have called you last night and had you take the boat up to June Parker’s Marina. This storm’s blowing from the wrong direction, coming right up the creek. We’re going to have to get the boat to shore.”

And with that I dump the entire contents of my stomach on the floor. Lucky for everyone I’ve been too busy to eat much in the past twenty-four hours. After Dad cleans up, he puts his hand on my forehead, turns to look at Nick as if realizing the very certain probability that three guys in one room means that the other two will be sick in short order. So it’s a bug or something, not just The Disease.

Dad’s indecision is making me nervous. He’s talking to himself. “We can’t go out on the river now.” Lost in thought, he slaps his arms against himself to keep warm. “This boat sits too high, I’m not sure it will respond in these waves. We may not even be able to get her in to the old dock in this wind.”

Nick and I exchange looks. The phone rings and keeps on ringing until Nick ends up finding it under me, between the cushions.

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah,” he says politely enough.

Without raising my head from the pillow, I gesture for a hint as to who’s calling. Nick hands me the phone.

“Boy, Meredith Rilke is sweet on you.” I’d like to know how he can tell that from a phone call. And what would she have to say to Nick that would take so long?

It shocks me when it’s Mack’s voice on the phone. “What were you saying to my brother about Meredith?” I ask.

If Mack’s blabbing about the double date and the fact that Meredith and I left the party together, I may have to disown him as a friend.

“Nothing,” Mack says. “She has the flu, that’s all.”

“So do I.”

“There you go.”

“What?”

“He’s a smart kid. You have the flu, the girl you went out with last night has the flu. Germs pass with contact. Like maybe saliva?” His laugh is louder than it needs to be.

“What did you and Juliann end up doing?”

“She wouldn’t quit that stupid game.”

“Bummer.” What if Juliann is avoiding being alone with Mack because she’s pining away for Joe? Mack will never forgive me.

He’s on the same wavelength. “Did Meredith mention anything about Juliann being mad at me about something?”

“No, but getting high might have something to do with it. I don’t get the feeling Juliann’s into that kind of junk. Meredith sure isn’t.” I have to catch myself before I volunteer that I know about the cocaine. Or how Meredith and I were too busy to talk much about anyone. Or anything.

“Fuck you, Daniel. Everything’s not about you and your condition. Other people have problems too.”

“Like what? Your grades are too good. Your father’s sober and they let you drive already.”

“Don’t talk about my father.”

“Jeez, Mack. Are you tripping now? I didn’t say anything crummy about your dad.”

“Yeah, well, your father’s laid-back, you wouldn’t know what it’s like. Mine expects me to be a doctor or a lawyer. He’s on endless rewind. How the hell am I supposed to know what I want to do in ten years? I sure as hell don’t want to be schlepping to the same job every day for the rest of my life like he does, looking for VCR machines in the garbage.”

My head pounds like a marching band stamping on bleachers. I wish I knew how to get him off of this downer. I can’t ask Dad. He’ll see straight through the BS and realize what Mack’s gotten himself into. A little twang way back in my overheated brain is remembering something Dad said one time about drug-induced depression. I sit up, instantly sorry I did as the back of my head splits and the lightning crashes right behind my eyes.

“Mack, my man.” The words are like bubbles, popping just as I get the right sound, harder and harder to form with my muscles tightening like a vise on my head. “I see, I see. Life’s a bitch, and then you die. But at least you’re going to be around to make some changes. That’s gotta be worth something. Maybe you should stay away from the stuff for a couple of weeks. See if you can make peace with Juliann at least. I think she really likes you.”

“Great advice from the all-time fresh air junkie. Thanks for all your concern. I’ll catch you later.”

Well, I’m zero for zero on that one.

The storm burns itself out by late afternoon Sunday. About the time the flu is raging. Dad has banned me to the bunk room and banned Nick from coming in. Still distracted, Dad brings me a glass of ginger ale from an old can he found in the back of the icebox. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s flat. I’m not sure I could swallow it anyway. Through the sliding door their voices dribble, muffled and intermittent. A word here and there. My mind tries to fit them together like a hangman puzzle, shifting and shuffling, then falling into sleep so cottony and thick I can’t remember the words or the reason I’m trying to.

When Dad comes in to check on me the next time, he reports that Mom called to say she’s headed back, to go ahead and eat without her. The idea of eating catapults me back to the bathroom and a position on my knees more familiar than I like to admit. The dream follows me, an army of marching cancer cells, with AML emblazoned on their uniforms. Unwavering warrior lines crest the hill, and below them an army of flu cells marches through the valley. Trumpets sound, flags wave, and on the periphery of my field of vision, television cameras whir as they interview my parents standing with Mr. Walker, who’s dressed like a cheerleader, his thick hairy legs like stumps below a pleated pink skirt.

“Pizza?” Nick again with the pizza, his voice crashing from the front cabin into my dream. The nausea rises in my gut.

Dad’s getting quicker. “I’m not going anywhere except to get your mother in the Whaler.” With that little bit of reassurance, I fall back asleep.

Who knows when Mom gets home? I’m finally done with the heaves. Feverish and shivery, I sleep, in and out of dreams that beat anything my waking imagination could fabricate.

Sometime later—evening again, who knows what day—I wake up, drenched, and can actually open my eyes. I’m surprised to find myself in the bottom bunk. It’s logical. As out of it as I was—am still, maybe; I’m not awake enough to be sure—the ladder would have been tricky. Impossible actually, because when I look more closely, it’s not even there. Dad. One of those parent things they do: anticipate and eliminate even the possibility you might make a mistake and do harm to yourself. Does he blame himself for the leukemia because he didn’t take some parental precaution last spring?

With my palm on the cabin wall, I trudge to the head to pee. The ghost in the mirror vaguely resembles Daniel Solstice Landon. It’s scary enough to send me slinking back to bed without looking again. The next time I wake up, it’s dark outside and the light is on over the desk Nick and I share. Mom’s there, her head on her arms. Maybe asleep. I wriggle a little, way too warm, and slide my legs across the mattress to find a cold stretch of sheet. When the covers catch at my feet, I have to fight the urge to fling off everything and get free.

“Daniel.” Mom shoots up and takes my elbow. “Feeling better?”

“How long have you been here?”

“It’s Tuesday morning. Two-something last time I checked.” She watches me struggle out and up. When I shuffle in the direction of the head, she relaxes, like I might have been preparing to jump instead.

She whispers, “I thought I would read in here, in case you needed something when you woke up.”

I hum in agreement. My skull drags down like a bowling ball. I don’t even know if I can carry it all the way to the john and back to the bunk.

“You turned sixteen just now,” she says, slightly louder, as if even she is having trouble believing it.

More humming from me. I don’t understand what she’s talking about.

“Did you know you were born in the middle of the night like this?”

“Born?” I mumble through the closed door.

“Yes, your father woke up Joe so he could see you. He was about five. We had this wonderful midwife, Mary Stewart Elliott. Sixty-two or sixty-three, maybe. She had delivered hundreds of babies.”

“Like in the movies, when the midwife is giving the woman a stick to bite and the husband has his head in his hands at the foot of the stairs, sick over what he’s done to the woman he loves.” It’s the clearest thought I’ve had in days.

Whoa, I must be getting better. Although this could be my subconscious talking. Even more clearly than the midwife movie scene, I see what I’ve done to Meredith. I change her life forever and then disappear into a haze of fever and night sweats. Even in her own flu-induced haze, she’s probably wondering what the hell kind of guy I am to not have called in two days.

Although Mom holds my arm to keep me upright, I’m stalled midway across the room, sicker over how I treated Meredith than the flu could ever make me.

“You’ve got it all wrong, sweetie. The husband is worried about what can go wrong. Having babies is a complicated thing, scary. I mean, the birth part is less scary today, but… but still…”

She is definitely lost in that memory.

“So, was I everything you expected?” Scrambling to think how I can ask for the phone without clueing her in to my dilemma with Meredith.

“Well, we’d already had Joe. We knew what to expect. You were a different baby, though. Less greedy, more patient. But curious right from the start. You climbed as soon as you could boost yourself up. Joe never did that. All he had to do was squawk and we would come running.”

“No wonder I’m so messed up.”

When she laughs, I know she appreciates my joking. Her eyes stay on my face, her hand at my elbow. She’s doesn’t have to think very hard about the possibilities of what can go wrong.

At breakfast the whole family sings “Happy Birthday” to me through the wall to maintain the quarantine. Nick’s tenor-breaking-to-bass solos the standard extra line, “And many more.” Followed by the cabin door banging open and Nick, tears jammed in the corners of his eyes. He stands on one foot and then the other.

“Sorry. Sorry, Dan, I’m so sorry. It just came out. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Forget it, dude.” Which, if you think about it, is as stupid as people saying “no problem” after you ask for help or complain about something.

He fumbles around at the desk, changes his sweatpants for jeans, and looks back at me where I’m lying on top of the blanket on the lower bunk, too tired to get under the covers.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask.

“Back in their cabin. She and Dad are arguing about whether to call the doctor or the Undertaker. I mean, Misty Underwood.”

It’s still a good joke, makes us both laugh.

I prop myself up on my elbow. “Can you get me the phone, bud? I really need to talk to Meredith.”

“That’s for sure. She’s called like eight times. Didn’t leave a message. Actually, she could hardly put two words together. Flu.” His grin is wider than the houseboat. He’s so proud of himself.

“Yeah, okay. My brilliant little brother. Listen, Sherlock, I need the phone now. Not next Easter.”

He’s as good as his word. And even though it’s a Tuesday and free minutes don’t start until seven o’clock, I call Meredith. She’s still sick too, home from school. Her mom’s at work. After she makes me promise to call back, I hang up and count to 120 so it’s after seven. We talk for half an hour and then Mom the warden comes in and makes me say goodbye.

After she settles me back in Nick’s bunk with covers and all, she tests my forehead with the back of her hand. “I guess Meredith’s more than a friend?”

I can’t help the grin.

“Her mother and I bumped into each other at the library. She said the girls might go to their father’s house for Thanksgiving this year. Apparently they switch on and off.”

“Meredith hasn’t even mentioned her father.”

“That’s sad.”

Truly. How much is there I don’t know about her? It’s even more sad than Holden holed up in Phoebe’s room, whispering because he hopes his parents don’t come up and give him grief about being kicked out of Pencey. He doesn’t even realize that having a father to give you grief is way better than not having one at all.

Mom rearranges the covers and shuts the blinds. “One more nap and you may feel like some dinner tonight.”

I wait until she’s gone, then I bring out the phone from under the covers—she’s forgotten all about it—and call Meredith.

She answers. “Daniel.”

“I forgot to tell you something.”

She doesn’t ask what or even giggle. This girl is so awesome.

“I hope this doesn’t spoil it, the phone and all, and not being able to see your eyes, but I just can’t wait any longer.”

At her end I can hear her breathing, maybe a little gasp, maybe holding her breath for whatever the surprise is. My imagination has her in cream-colored pajamas with cobalt blue piping, the kind of pajama top that looks like a man’s shirt and buttons down the front. Straight out of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. A couple of buttons are undone and those bones—the bones on either side of her neck—are showing. I know those bones. I like those bones.

Now, with the hesitation, the buildup is huge. I don’t want to choke on this. How can she not know I’m serious?

“I love you.” And when she only breathes, I add, “I guess you already knew that.”

“I did,” she says.

So, it’s official. I can go back to sleep.

Without even arguing, Mom concedes visits from Meredith and Mack are important for my mental health. Sometimes they come together and we play Hearts or Risk or watch a movie. And sometimes Mack rows Meredith over and leaves us alone. Not alone, alone. Dad’s there editing in the back cabin. I know he remembers what it was like being sixteen and in love because he always makes a huge amount of noise on the deck before he comes in the front cabin. I’m not allowed to take Meredith into the bunk room—that’s one of Mom’s rules. Too late, I want to say, but it’s a secret I enjoy hoarding. Meredith does too.

Her visits are random. She likes to surprise me. Since my swallowing problem makes it hurt to talk, she brings things to read to me. No mushy poetry. I didn’t even have to say anything. She’s so incredibly awesome she wouldn’t like it either. Newsweek articles or the school newspaper. She reads some from a book about Africa by a woman pilot named Beryl Markham. A woman pioneer: that’s one of the attractions for Meredith. The more she reads, the clearer it is why she picked this story. Markham went where no other woman had gone, where not many other pilots had gone. It’s the future of the world Meredith’s reading to me from way back then. Too cool.

While she reads, I usually close my eyes. I can hear better. I hear her hand smoothing the page, that light brush of skin to paper, and it takes me back to our one perfect night.

“What are you doing?” she asks, like about the second time she’s reading from West with the Night.

I open my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Your right hand. You’re rubbing your blue jeans, there on your leg.”

It’s hard to describe how it feels to have the person you love so close, her voice all around you in this warm enclosed space, and not be able to lie next to her and let her skin melt into yours. I haven’t forgotten one second of that night. I dream it all the time. But it comes back to me most clearly when she’s here, talking, her voice tunneling into my subconscious or whatever. Thank you, Doc Freud. I’m agonizing over how to explain to her how I feel without sounding truly ridiculous, one big teenage cliché. But it’s not.

The worry lines collect around her eyes. “Why are you doing that? Does it hurt?”

I hear that same hint of panic that is a constant when my mother talks.

“No. I’m just remembering. That night.”

It’s only a second that she hesitates, her eyes widening, and then she looks back at the book and begins to read again. She’s blushing.

I can’t lie. We do spend a lot of time kissing. Once I’m over the flu and I’m mobile again. All of a sudden on her visits she wears loose T-shirts and never a bra so we don’t have to waste time with all that fumbling. I’d love to know how those guys in the movies do it so smoothly. It wasn’t my idea about no underwear, but it helps.

Mom explains in laborious detail to Meredith that I may be contagious with things they don’t even know about. After that warning, I tell Meredith we can’t kiss anymore. She has seventy years ahead of her. But when she threatens not to come back, I know I can’t live with that.

She argues. “Fine, then. I’ll have to date Leonard. Maybe he was right about you.”

“Why, what did the creep say?”

“It was a joke. God, Daniel, lighten up.”

“Please don’t be mad. This is new to me, too. Can’t we talk about it?”

“Talk is cheap. I don’t want a boyfriend who doesn’t want to kiss me.”

“I never said I didn’t want to.”

“Well, then. That’s settled. Shut up.” She sits on my lap and convinces me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

After the flu episode, when I discover that I still can’t swallow, Dad panics and insists on taking me back to the doctor. Although Mom tries to argue with him that Miss T. can handle this, he won’t back down, so I spend two nights at MCV. It’s a zoo.

MCV is supposedly a clinic. Associated with a medical school—heck, named for the school—and smack in the middle of downtown Richmond, the hospital has a constant stream of patients funneled in from its emergency room. A kid with leukemia might be in line behind a two-year-old with third-degree burns from being held in scalding bathwater or behind a husband whose wife just escaped by hitting him over the head with a frying pan. It’s a city. And they say it’s the city with the highest murder rate in the U.S.

But MCV is a hospital even Mom can live with. Like the Statue of Liberty it takes anyone and everyone. Very democratic, she says. The docs in training—they’re called residents because they live there around the clock—treat the patients. They tell the docs what’s what and not the other way around. Okay by me since I’ve read the Internet articles on AML and it’s obvious no one really knows a damn thing about the stuff. I’m not holding out much hope anyway.

Once they release me, we wait for the results. And we wait. Incredible that with a life-threatening illness, the test results from the lab can take a week or longer. I still can’t swallow, which means I can’t eat, which means I’m not getting all those vitamins and minerals that make strong bones and feed brain cells. Mom’s livid and leaves nasty messages for the doctor every day. I dream about the food pyramid from kindergarten, solid food in all the food groups. Red meat, oranges, cheese, even Brussels sprouts. Just the thought of another milk shake is starting to make me woozy.

After a too-blustery Thanksgiving on the houseboat, where we rock so hard no one can eat, my parents move us to an apartment across from the post office, a two-bedroom sublet from a Rappahannock Community College professor who’s on sabbatical in Nairobi. Kenya, I look it up. It’s an oxymoron, a stable African country.

Dad’s trying to finish an edit for a deadline that has passed. Even I notice he’s moving more slowly than usual.

“Shouldn’t they put him on an IV?” Mom asks Dad when she thinks I’ve fallen asleep watching Scrooged. Bill Murray is such a funny, ugly guy.

It used to be when I watched Murray, he gave me hope that someday a really nice girl-woman would fall in love with me, like his Claire who runs the homeless shelter in that movie. Now that I know Meredith, I’m thinking Murray doesn’t deserve Claire, but where does that leave me?

“Red. I’m talking to you,” Mom whispers.

Through slitted eyes so they won’t realize I’m not asleep, I watch him put down the manuscript. He’s trying hard to smile, but it’s not working.

“What was your question, Sylvie?”

“It wasn’t a question. I think they should put Daniel on an IV. How long can he live without food?”

“It’s been four days. He’s drinking the milk shakes. I think he’s okay.”

“They had him on an IV in the hospital. I’m going to call the doctor.”

“Which doctor? Doctor Morley won’t tell you anything. He’ll just refer you to the ER team who saw Daniel when we went in. You’ll never get any of them on the phone. They work a twenty-four-hour shift, crash, and work another twenty-four-hour shift.”

“Maybe the nurse can tell me something.”

“Maybe.” He’s fingering the pages on the sofa. I imagine a timer ticking away in the background. As long as she’s talking, he’s losing money. And if she stops talking to him, she’s going to be on the phone with the medical people and those bills will go up, so he’s still going to be losing money. I wonder if fathers, even fathers without dying sons, lie awake worrying about where the money will come from to take care of their families.

“Did Walker phone about the new hearing date?” Mom asks.

“Sometime in February, he said.”

“When did he call?”

“He didn’t. He said that before. You don’t remember?”

“No… but I believe you. If the court hears the evidence in February, when will we get a decision?”

“I have no idea. Walker’s the one to ask about that.”

“I can’t. It costs us money every time I ask him a question.”

Dad picks up the manuscript and sets it on his lap. Silence.

Two weeks to Christmas. Although the other tenth graders are scheduled to take exams after Christmas break, the county school board gives me the option. I go ahead and get it out of the way. Partly because I know Mom is still trying to finagle a way to get me to Mexico. And partly because Joe’s coming home for Christmas. But mostly because Meredith’s going to be out of school for ten whole days and her mother works days.

Four exams in one week is a grind. Especially after two blood transfusions earlier in the month. The school people, though, are overly considerate. They let me schedule the exams first thing in the morning because I get so tired by the afternoon. It turns out Stepford-Hanes proctors two of my exams, English 10 and World History to 1600. She doesn’t even blink when I turn the World History exam in early.

“You found the course work easy enough without a teacher?” she asks afterward. We’re just shooting the breeze while I wait for Mom to come back and pick me up.

“History is almost straight memorization.”

“It won’t be like that in college. You have to draw conclusions and apply them to other events. They’ll want your opinion, not just regurgitated dates and places.”

“You think I’d like college?”

“Of course you will. It’s the time in your life when you figure out where you’re different from your parents, what you’re good at, how you can alter other people’s opinions with your expression of ideas, not just by what you’re wearing or how many goal kicks you can get past the goalie or what friends you hang out with.”

“I’m not going to college.” This is not something I’ve said right out loud before and it’s harder than I thought to make the words loud enough for her to hear.

“There are scholarships.”

She means well, she’s just not used to kids with my particular predicament. It seems too incredible that she can’t have heard about The Disease.

“A scholarship isn’t the only thing I need.”

“Daniel, I… I don’t understand. Both your parents went to college. Joe’s at the University. Why wouldn’t you go to college too? Don’t you want to go?”

“It’s like number thirty on my list.” From her face I see maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. It may change her opinion of me as a serious student. Loving Meredith endlessly and forever is at the top. I haven’t told that to anyone, except Meredith. To be honest, going to New York City used to be second, but now it’s having children with Meredith. I know, I know, a sixteen-year-old boy can’t possibly be interested in children. But the idea of Meredith and me creating something that will last beyond me, into the unseen future, that’s too amazing, like sci-fi, when I know that I won’t even be able to swim come June and there’s no English 11 in my future.

Meredith would be the coolest mother in the world. I can see her lining up three or four little blond kids on skis at the edge of the mountain and having them shout “Life is glorious” before they bullet down the slopes. It’s not the Landon male heir thing. I know Nick can carry on the family name, but having kids of my own who look and act like Meredith would be exponentially cooler. It’s as close as I’m going to get to growing old. But it’s only a dream. I can’t ruin Meredith’s life any more than I already have.

Stepford-Hanes isn’t ready to change the subject from college. “Well, I daresay your list will change more than once before you get to graduation.”

Mom looks in from the hallway and waves, then disappears immediately. Since Thanksgiving she’s been making a conscious (and obvious) effort to let me have my own relationships, without second-guessing every decision. Dad must have read her the riot act. There’s no other logical explanation.

“Mrs. Landon?” A summons from Stepford-Hanes. She stands up and rests her hand on my shoulder for just a second as Mom steps back into the room.

“How’d it go?” Mom asks me while they’re shaking hands. She’s doing that brave-parent thing, a dead giveaway that Stepford-Hanes does know the whole truth and has all along. I’m confused now about our conversation. If she knows about the leukemia, why does she talk about things she knows are impossible?

“Daniel and I were just talking about how different college classes are. Have you started looking at schools with him?”

Mom looks blank. Her fingers work themselves around the car keys in her hand, the way a blind person tries to familiarize herself with something new. Stepford-Hanes waits for another second or two for an answer. Her face puckers at Mom’s silence.

“Well, it’s a big decision. Whenever you do start, if you decide you want some suggestions… I think I could steer Daniel to a couple of schools that would really fit well with his interests and talents.”

“Thanks, thanks a lot.” Grabbing my book bag, I move toward the door, hoping to get Mom out of there before she breaks down.

“Don’t be a stranger.” Stepford-Hanes says, her face creased into a zillion wrinkles over the whole incident.

In the hallway Mom puts up her palm to signal no questions. Walking past the open classroom doorways where I can see blue jean legs and flip-flops stretched into the aisle and lacrosse shoes dangling from the backs of chairs, it’s hard not to agree with Mom. Silence is safer.

Four days to Christmas and Joe arrives in snow flurries that are barely more than raindrops in white coats. Mom’s banging around in the kitchen like she’s in a hurry or hacked. The smells are sweet, though, Christmassy. I can’t think when she last baked cookies. When we were in grade school, maybe. She must have found a recipe that substitutes honey for refined sugar, another serial killer of humans according to her. Nick helps Joe carry in his stuff. A lot more books than normal.

“My man.” Joe high-fives Nick, who’s chomping at the bit to go see the new Batman movie. They confer in tight side-of-the-mouth whispers. Like I’m already dead and gone. Ticks me off royally, right when I was feeling so mellow for a change. Meredith’s just gone home.

“Hello to you too.” Pretty obvious and pretty juvenile, but I can’t help myself.

“Daniel. You look like shit.”

Big brothers are such idiots.

“You look a little grungy yourself. Too many late nights?”

“You should ever.” He chucks his duffel bag behind the sofa, a badly beaten-down plaid thing with wooden arms that makes me think we’re living in a TV sitcom rerun, one of the unfunny ones. “Want to go with Nick and me to see the Caped Crusader?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s just what I’d like. A taste of immortality. If only on the silver screen.”

Joe has Nick in a headlock and is drumming on the top of his head. His teeth glisten as he laughs. “Didn’t Danny boy miss me? Nick missed me. What’s the matter, Danny boy? Meredith have a new flame?”

“Leave Meredith out of this.”

Even Nick, his eyes on me, starts to shrink away from the conflagration that is Joe. One foot of Nick’s is in the hallway, his hand on the door frame to give him enough leverage to spring himself free. The sound of me grinding my teeth reverberates in the living room so loudly I’m shocked no one else seems to hear it.

Joe lowers his voice ever so slightly. “Guys, guys. Can’t we loosen up a little? It’s Christmas. I came home to celebrate.”

“Sorry.” I stand up and ram my arms in my fleece jacket. “Celebrating is not exactly what’s on my mind lately.”

Surprise of surprises, Nick comes back out of hiding. “Leave him alone, Joe. You don’t know anything about it.”

I don’t wait to hear the rest of the sad story. People can die from suffocation and I need air. A lot of it. If I call Mack from the dry cleaner’s, he’ll come and pick me up. We’ve run this drill before, more often than I like to admit.

As I cut across the backyard to Washington Street, through the kitchen window I see Joe hug Mom. It’s easy to imagine how he gives her the rundown on his exams and then hedges at her question about when he has to be back for next semester. We’re all used to not hurting Mom’s feelings. It comes naturally.

When I call Mack, he’s out. Mrs. Petriano is full of the Christmas spirit.

“How are you doing, Daniel? Merry Christmas. Nice we missed that snowstorm, isn’t it? We’ve been thinking about you. Your mother said you took your exams. I bet that felt good.” I can see her looking around like a deer in headlights. What the hell do you say to your son’s dying friend?

“Yeah—I mean yes. Ma’am. It’s nice to have it over with.”

“You don’t have to be proper with me, sweetie. I’ve known you since diapers.”

“Yeah.” I’m damned if I’m going to correct it again after that home run at making me feel small. “Do you know when Mack will be home? I really need to talk with him.”

“I think he has his dad’s cell phone with him. He said he was going to meet up with friends. I thought maybe he meant you.”

There’s no suitable reply to that when I know he’s been avoiding me since the last time we talked. “Can you tell him I called?”

“Of course I can. I’ll write it down so I don’t forget. I’m getting so fuzzy lately. Early Alzheimer’s.”

She actually giggles and I’m getting claustrophobic, wondering if I can ever end this call.

“Did you want the cell number?” she asks.

“No, I don’t want to bother him. Just tell him I called.”

She’s still talking when I say goodbye.

Mack doesn’t call me back, but in one of my calls to Meredith, Juliann leaks that he’s avoiding her, too. It worries me. Mack mad at the world is not the Mack I know and love. Something’s happened or he’s gone over the edge with the white stuff. I decide to rest up and corner him over the school holiday. He can only hide from me for so long.

I finish the first semester of tenth grade without ever attending a class. Three A’s—Biology, World History, and English—should put me at the top of the class, but then Algebra II wrecks my average with my all-time favorite math grade of B plus. I can’t remember any math grade I ever received higher than a B plus. How can it be that I can get that close but not any closer, no matter how hard I try?

You’re thinking, just like my dad, that the bio grade was a fluke. Science has never been a favorite of mine. The measurement and recordation of each little detail, the constant comparison of one thing against another, it’s just so much minutiae without meaning. The thing is, now it’s so much more important for me to understand biology than history. It’s an incentive I’ve never had before. And Meredith grilled me. She’s an ace at science.

Two days before Christmas Mom sends Nick to the public library Internet to check on plane fares to Mexico. Supposed to be a secret, but they have this big powwow in the front cabin when they think I’m asleep. Dad hogs the cell phone to call his textbook people to drum up more business. He snakes me into philosophical debates, almost out-and-out dares me to discuss the headlines, to focus on bigger issues, but he’s no better than I am at the distraction. What do I care whether the U.S. embassy in Nairobi is attacked again? I’m never going there.

Although Holden doesn’t say much about his dad, I see right away that it’s an obvious black hole in his life, compared with the way my dad is right there in mine. Holden says he doesn’t want to hear the grief from his dad about yet another prep school failure, but there’s more to it than that. Rereading about his secret visit to see Phoebe, I hear a panic that doesn’t fit the crime. You get the impression his father is a big corporate guy. HC never disses his father. So my take, the problem for Holden and Leonard and Meredith—kids whose fathers are mostly absent from their lives, too important, too busy to really connect with their kids—is bigger than you think.

Parents are already nosy, right? Born that way, by definition. They want to know what their kids are doing, eating, thinking. It may be natural, but too much of that nosiness isn’t healthy. Especially once a kid is self-sufficient. Sixteen or seventeen for a guy, a little later for a girl because of all those protectionist issues with females. Like in the studies they do with chimpanzees on the Discovery Channel, a kid has to separate himself from his parents. You would think if adults were so smart, they would make sure the schools taught you how to forage, how to cook, how to lease an apartment, instead of algebraic formulas or when the Mongols tried to take over the world. Those are not skills crucial to making your own way in the new-millennium world.

Every parent’s goal, from the first step to potty training to driving a car, is to have his or her kid survive on his own. Checking books out of the library is not a survival skill. Playing soccer is definitely not a survival skill.

But here’s the real problem. When there’s only one parent, that parent can obsess or be neglectful. Without the other parent, there’s no counterbalance. The heavy end of the scale drops. The kid flails and drowns. Sure, you can argue that some kids do fine with only one parent. Yeah, and some blind people manage to find a job. But some have to be taken care of their whole lives. Look at my mother. If Dad weren’t there to keep her grounded and realistic, we’d be eating mushrooms in some godforsaken mountain village. Maybe wearing coffee plant leaves. Good intentions.

I love Mom, don’t mistake this for anger. But she’s working with a huge disability here. She loves me. She doesn’t want me to be in pain. She could never make the hard decision to amputate. But Dad has a different perspective. It means that they can talk about possibilities and make decisions without the whole weight being on one of them. When Mom loses it, Dad takes over. When Dad blows something off, Mom keeps bringing it back up. It’s a good system, one I never noticed before when they were yelling at me for jumping all over Nick or forgetting to write Grandma a thank-you note.

Which brings us back to the humongous danger of a parent being absent. Not that I’d change a single thing about the one perfect night in my life—my night with Meredith—but someone wasn’t paying attention. I’ve never met Mr. Rilke. From Meredith’s descriptions of her visit with him over Thanksgiving break, he loves her. Even if he couldn’t stay faithful to Mrs. Rilke. But what if it hadn’t been me, what if it had been Leonard or some fugly football player who took Meredith home after the Halloween party and just used her? Mr. Rilke dropped the ball. He wasn’t there to remind Meredith or her mom that curfews are set for a reason. And beautiful girls like Meredith need protecting.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not making a moral judgment about sex before marriage. I didn’t take advantage of Meredith. We’re in this together. That’s the point in spades. If her father knew how messed up her life is going to be when the boy she loves dies before he turns seventeen, her father should have been here to enforce the goddamn curfew. And he sure as hell ought to be around after I die when she falls apart.

How come I’m so sure she’s going to fall apart? I mean, I’m not trying to kid anyone. Daniel Solstice Landon is not the most incredible sixteen-year-old guy in the world. My hair’s too long and stringy. I’m bony. I can’t run worth a damn. I get freaked out under dark bridges. I think phragmites and having a little sister like Phoebe Caulfield to talk to are more interesting than playing spin the bottle or winning a soccer game. I fall off bridges, for chrissake.

Apart from the fact that I love the way Meredith lets the last word of a paragraph drop into silence and that thing she does, rubbing her bare feet on the rug when she’s worried, and apart from being sure she loves me because, although she knows my favorite song is a hymn called “Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning,” she would never, ever reveal that to anyone…apart from all that, I know she’s going to fall apart when I die because our sleeping together was the first time. There’s only one first time for everything. And when it happens at sixteen and then one of the people dies, it’s traumatic. For both people.

Meredith calls on Christmas Eve, but she doesn’t talk to me. Mom comes into the kitchen where I’m drying dishes as Joe washes. The turkey carcass hulks on the counter. The leftover stuffing odor of onions and spices fills the room with the comfort of the familiar.

Joe’s holding court. “In my geography seminar about colonialism, Professor Abelard says it’s all economics. You’d like him, Daniel. He uses novels to teach history.”

Mom nudges Joe, elbow to elbow. He shuts up as if they planned this. The silence is telling.

“What?” I say.

After a sharp nod from Joe, Mom speaks. “That was Meredith on the phone just now.” They’re looking anywhere but at each other, another dead giveaway.

“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.

“Joe can drive you over to Meredith’s house. I’ll finish here.”

He grabs the towel from me and dries his hands, halfway to the door before he turns and lobs it overhand toward the sink. I catch the towel before it lands on the floor.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

Joe snorts. “Don’t be an idiot. She’s waiting for you.”

“How the hell do you know? What is going on?”

Mom’s swiping at her eyes with her fingers, pretending to laugh, fooling no one.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go see Meredith, but I don’t get why my life has to be everyone else’s business.” I wipe the perspiration off my face, but when I put the towel down, there’s red stuff all over it. I look at my hands. Streaks of red.

“What the…”

Mom starts screaming. I’m trying to remember what I ate with cherries or tomatoes in it. When I turn to grab the sponge, Joe pivots back into the kitchen, his head peeking out of the fleece as he tugs it into place.

“You cut yourself?” he says.

“I was drying plates, cups, like I’ve done a million times before. I didn’t cut myself.”

Enter Dad. “Oh, my God. Sit down, Daniel.” Arms open, palms up, he steps close in one long stride, arches my head back and assesses my face, then puts both hands on my head and pushes it down between my knees. “Okay, okay. He’s going to be okay. It’s a nosebleed, folks, that’s all. Sylvie, calm down.”

“A nosebleed? Since when do I get nosebleeds?” I garble the words and watch the drops splatter in rapid succession on the scuffed linoleum.

Nick’s sneaker toes poke into the edge of the picture and then a towel is thrust up from my ankles.

“Thanks,” I mumble, slime thick in my throat. A choking cough sprays crimson across my boots and Nick’s sneakers.

With Mom’s sobs as background noise, I wait for Nick’s “gross,” but it doesn’t come.

“Sylvie, call Misty. She’ll know what to do,” Dad barks. “Joe, ice in a plastic bag. Nick, another towel.”

Basic nosebleed care, I had no idea Dad knew anything about medical stuff beyond how to treat poison ivy from the Scout manual. Once Joe’s back and Dad gets him into position with the ice pack, he leaves to check on Mom.

Joe talks in my upside-down ear. “Your timing stinks. Mom was trying to make your Christmas perfect. She and Meredith planned the whole thing and you had to screw it up. How does Meredith put up with you? Falling off bridges and bleeding all over everything.”

The fake rant is meant to fill the time and I appreciate it. Joe tells me about a date where the girl threw up on him between dinner and dessert. When Nick laughs from the other side of the table, I realize they’re all just standing around, waiting for me to stop bleeding. Like so much else in my life, we’re all just waiting for frigging Daniel to straighten up and fly right.

By the time the bleeding stops, Dad’s back. He and Joe walk me to the bedroom where extra pillows draped in towels form a sultan’s throne. I’m half asleep before they’re done propping me up.

Meredith’s voice in the living room floats into my conscious. I hope it’s not just a dream.

“Can I come in?” she asks from the doorway.

“Better ask the border patrol if you can cross into the ‘no flu zone.’ Though I’m not too dangerous right this minute.”

“Your mom said it was okay.”

“I heard you and she were buddies.”

She pulls the desk chair over so she’s facing me. “Merry Christmas.” She’s fighting tears.

“Meredith Christmas, you mean.” I will her to laugh. “It was only a nosebleed.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry’s back again? And no bridge in close proximity?”

This time she does laugh, mostly to accommodate me, I guess. I’m trying to be upbeat even though this kind of setback is bound to ruin our plans for ten days of unsupervised time at her house over vacation.

“So much for TV movies and popcorn in your basement while your mom’s at work.”

She doesn’t answer right away and I think maybe she thinks I was really only interested in movies and popcorn. What do I know about how you proposition a girl? It’s been two months. She must know how much I want her. I’m scrambling to think if I’ve told it to her flat out like that, or if I’ve somehow misled her into thinking I’m not into repeat performances.

When she speaks, her voice is low. “I’ve been meaning to call you about vacation.”

You gotta know with that kind of lead-in, I’m crashing. Nothing good can start with those words.

“Daniel, I really am sorry. I’m not going to be here after all. Dad called and Juliann and I have to go to Colorado to see him over break.”

I’m so relieved, I laugh. “He must have heard who you’re hanging with.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Daniel Solstice Landon, straight-A cutup, definitely the wrong crowd. My dad is worried.” She massages my feet, her thumbs and fingers press each toe and she strokes down to the arch and up again.

It feels incredible. I lay my head back on the pillows and imagine what could happen if we were alone, really alone. The image of me in the bed and Meredith on her knees, her hands on my body, finished with my feet, moving up my legs. It’s amazing I can feel so good after I felt so lousy an hour ago. This could get out of control very quickly.

“Hey, cut that out. I’m not a cripple.”

Her hands snap back and she freezes.

“How long?” I ask.

“Nine days.”

“Oh, well, then. Just the whole effing vacation. He’s definitely pegged me. Merry Christmas to Daniel.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you. He probably thought it’s what divorced parents are supposed to do during vacations. It’s the first school break we’ve had since the—”

“Thanksgiving doesn’t count?”

“Mom made us go then for her job.”

“It doesn’t matter. It looks like I’m stuck here for the duration. Even without parental interference.”

From somewhere she pulls out a velvet bag and lays it in her lap like a puppy. For a minute I watch her stroke it and the tingling is moving up my legs again. One hand disappears inside the bag and comes out with a small flat package with a tiny bow. She sticks it in my hands.

“Open it.”

I fumble with the ribbon one-handed, the other hand maintaining the ice pack on my nose. I don’t get very far, so I abandon the ice pack and take a good long look at this girl who hasn’t given up on me yet. What weird luck. It’s a Holden kind of moment. I’d like to kick the door shut and sweep her into my arms. Take off each piece of clothing and memorize her once and for all. If she leaves tomorrow, I’m afraid she won’t come back or I’ll die in the meantime and I won’t have a chance again.

“Did I ever tell you that I love you?” I say. The nasal twang makes my voice sound foreign and unfamiliar.

Although her eyes never leave mine, she pulls out nine more identical packages and spreads them on the bedspread within reach.

“Daniel Landon, if you have another nosebleed before you open my presents, I’ll never forgive you.”

I bite through the ribbon. The wrapping paper flaps loose. The tape cassette has a small white label. In Meredith’s crazy curly script she’s written DOCTOR ZHIVAGO, TAPE 1.

“You read that book into a recorder?” I ask.

“In English.”

“You didn’t think I knew Russian?” I hold up the next package. “Tape two?”

She nods, smiling and laughing at the same time. “There are ten. Juliann says she is so sick of hearing about blizzards. You haven’t read it already, have you?”

“No. The real question is, will they last the whole nine days you’re gone?” I ask.

After the knock on the door, Joe’s head pops in and then out. He talks through the door. “Mom and Dad have gone for a walk.” Not such a bad big brother.

Meredith’s asleep next to me when he knocks the next time. “Daniel,” he whispers without opening the door.

Meredith tucks her head into my shoulder and kisses my neck. “Pretend you’re asleep,” she whispers.

Joe’s voice is louder. “Daniel. They’re back. And Meredith’s mother’s called.”

“Drat,” Meredith says and kisses me again.

When she lifts herself up and slides across me, I hold her so she can’t escape. “Wait. I have a present for you.”

“I can tell.” She sinks down into the best fit, her toes at my bare ankles.

“Not that.” We’re laughing, choking and laughing. At the taste of salt, I push her off and grab the towel, jamming it under my nose and lowering my head. Another nosebleed. “God, I’m worthless.”

She hugs my back. “Maybe I’m a vampire.”

“Now, there’s a comforting thought. Eternity in Transylvania.” But it beats Christmas vacation in Tappahannock if Meredith’s in Colorado.

While Joe’s driving Meredith home, Mom deals with the second nosebleed. Without screaming this time. Incredible how quickly a person adjusts.

“She’s a nice girl,” Mom says.

“Nice as in, don’t take advantage of her?”

“I only meant she seems to have her heart in the right place. She really cares about you.”

“Hard to believe a girl like Meredith could like a boy like me?” I ask, confused that, despite Mom’s desire to protect me by isolation, she’s willing to let someone else into the inner circle. Would she be so generous if Meredith were a different type of girl? Does her generosity stem from her desire to let me be happy on my deathbed? Would she have been this understanding if Meredith were simply the first in a lifetime of girlfriends who might skew my loyalty to my parents?

Mom pins my head down to slow the blood flow. “Stop painting me as the bad guy. I didn’t expect nosebleeds. I didn’t call her father either and demand he take her away.”

“I can still be bummed.”

That makes her think. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.” She circles her hand in encouragement. “Go ahead, let loose. What else is bugging you?”

Suddenly here I am, a little kid again, with his mother’s permission to whine and fuss because he needs a snack or a nap. Holden would be so embarrassed. He’d bolt. Even when Antolini stepped over the line, Holden didn’t whine. He made a decision and dealt with it.

Mom moves my hand to the ice pack and starts straightening the bedcovers.

“Back to bed. Misty says bed rest for a day or two.” She sits and waits while I get settled, then readjusts the ice pack and the towel.

“Go ahead with the rant, Danny. I’m listening.”

“Never mind. It’s not like she’s moving to Colorado. It’s not permanent.”

“No,” Mom says, “it’s not like that.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Senator Yowell parks his white Suburban in the driveway of our apartment on a Saturday morning in January. It dwarfs the Subaru. Since UVA doesn’t go back into session for another week, Joe’s still here, sleeping on one of the camp cots set up in the living room. He’s up late most nights reading books in German and French that were written at least a hundred years ago. When he answers the front door, I’m on the phone with Meredith trying to choose a movie. She volunteers to stop at the video store on her way over later. Nick’s staying overnight with a soccer teammate. Joe’s been scheming to get Mom and Dad out somewhere with him to give Meredith and me some time alone. If I claim fatigue, it’s hard to convince Mom she can leave me.

The truly amazing thing about the apartment is that it’s so much easier than the boat. I’m amazed at how quickly I’ve forgotten land etiquette. We don’t need to cart people back and forth for them to come and visit. We have lots of visitors. And the second amazing thing is the guy who usually lives here left his landline hooked up. No more risk of going over our cell minute limit.

“Joe, good to see you. On break?” Senator Yowell’s voice reverberates like a boom box in a parking garage. The silence means he’s doing his regular handshaking bit. Because politicians insist on shaking hands so much, I told Leonard one time that there must be a secret subliminal message being passed from hand to hand, like that advertising scare in the eighties.

After Meredith says goodbye, I come out to the living room to say hello. Senator Yowell was not expected and he’s never dropped by before. I can only guess it has something to do with reelection or Leonard. Leonard is dating a girl from St. Margaret’s who’s from the Bahamas. Christie. A tiny girl with a big chest and a very rich family, according to Leonard. Whenever I run into him she’s all he talks about. Lately, since he started dating Christie, it’s been on Water Lane where we see each other. I’m usually taking a walk to the used bookstore or the cemetery or Meredith’s, and he’s picking Christie up or dropping her off. She’s the right girl for Leonard, that’s for sure, though I can’t figure how she stays upright and doesn’t tip over onto her face with all that extra weight on top.

The senator has his hand out in my direction. “Good morning, Daniel. Leonard said he saw you up and about last weekend.”

This may be the way the whole town characterizes my walks, “up and about” like some ancient rickety neighbor who’s been in bed for years and suddenly recovers. I prefer the anonymity of last year when I was simply a scraggly-headed boy with no manners. My taking a walk then wasn’t front-page news.

“He was headed to St. Margaret’s basketball game, I think,” I babble.

“Yes, Christie cheers.”

I look sideways at Joe. What the heck?

The Senator must hear his own words on instant replay. “You know what I mean, she’s a cheerleader. She cheers for the team. They played Collegiate. I think that’s what Leonard said.”

You can tell by the way he hesitates between the words that he’s not sure about the game itself, but he’s trying to be hip, to talk about things he thinks teenage guys might be interested in.

“Say hello to him for me.” I step past Joe and through the living room to the kitchen.

“Daniel.” It’s very like an order.

“Yes, sir?” I’m sure the good senator hears the ratcheting up of my irritation.

“You should stay,” he says in an even, steely tone. “I came to speak to your parents about this neglect conviction. It concerns you.”

“Did my parents ask you to come here?” I’m not inclined to hear a lecture from the great Senator Yowell on community responsibility or some such.

Rattling his keys in his pocket, he scrutinizes Joe, as if deciding whether Joe might intercede so the senator doesn’t have to deal with this belligerent teenager.

He doesn’t answer my question. “Are they here?”

Joe motions at a chair for Senator Yowell. “I’ll get them.”

It’s incredible that Joe would offer up Mom and Dad that easily, like sacrificial lambs, to a man who’s made his reputation making deals. Joe, of all people, knows what purists Mom and Dad are. They’ve already paid Walker for the appeal. They’re not going to make a deal that admits any kind of misjudgment on their part. They’ve set up their lives based on their principles. More than any other adults I know, my parents do not compromise, for money or any other kind of personal gain.

Senator Yowell, as much as he is always talking about his commitment to his constituents, can’t be any different from all the other politicians who race around in Richmond. He makes deals. In order to get six things he wants, he bargains away five he doesn’t care so much about. I’ve heard Mom talk about the lottery money that’s supposed to go to libraries. He let that payment be reduced in his battle for the repaving of Route 17 and the rebuilding of the West Point Bridge, all to make it easier for tourists to get to Essex County.

Although Dad admits it’s the way of the world, I don’t think either of them voted for him. More traffic and more tarmac hurts the ecosystems and fuels global warming. Two of their favorite causes.

Senator Yowell sits, but he doesn’t stay seated for long. In the back bedroom Joe’s voice slides in and out between Mom’s and Dad’s. The closet door opens and shuts. The toilet flushes. They’re getting dressed after a lazy Saturday morning in bed with the newspaper.

“How are you, Paul?” Dad’s first out, rolling up his sleeves as he comes, barefoot, but smiling. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Between Nick’s soccer games and Daniel’s schedule, Sylvie and I don’t get many chances to sleep in these days.”

Senator Yowell steps forward to shake hands. “Daniel’s schedule is actually what I’m here about.”

“Oh?”

“I’d rather wait for your wife.”

“Sure, sure. How about coffee?”

“Only if it’s already made. I had some at home. Can’t put too much strain on this old heart.”

Dad looks at me perched on the radiator, surveying the street. “Don’t you have some homework, Dan?”

“I asked him to stay,” the Senator says. He’s standing awkwardly in the center of the room, in the duck-duck-goose position of having been too slow. Except for the night of the party when Leonard sent him upstairs, I’ve never seen him look so awkward. The dark suit and striped tie are enough to set him apart in our house. The Yowells and my parents are not the kind of friends who go to dinner at each other’s houses or to movies together. At other people’s parties, though, they must meet and talk. And the Senator knows Mom’s first name.

When she comes down the hall, she’s running her fingers through her hair as if she just realized she forgot to comb it. Dad seems mesmerized by her appearance. Which is a wicked good clue that they weren’t actually sleeping in there. He winks at her, then flushes when he notices I caught the wink. Mom’s oblivious. She goes straight to Senator Yowell and hugs him.

“It’s so good of you to do this, Paul,” she says.

Do what? I’m completely and totally confused. Has the neglect conviction made us such social pariahs that it’s dangerous to be seen at our house? So good of you to do this? What has he done except interrupt a perfectly good Saturday morning with a reference to the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to the Landon family, brought on by the failure of my body to make the right kind of blood cells?

“Would you be more comfortable at the kitchen table?” Mom asks. “Paper and pen?”

“Good idea.” He follows her out. Dad follows him out of the room and I’m left sitting on the radiator wondering what’s the matter with me that I can’t figure out what the heck they’re talking about and when they got to be such buddies.

“Daniel,” Dad calls. “We’re waiting on you.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

While the Senator talks about the law, the way it’s written now, the reasons why the County social workers pushed the case against Mom and Dad, we listen without interrupting. Walker has already explained this to Mom and Dad, probably more than once, but I’ve only heard bits and pieces. The Senator’s recitation is wordy. I’m impressed by his command of the details, though. I wouldn’t have thought one little case in his district would merit this much attention.

He smiles back and forth at Mom, then Dad, as if the eye contact alone will keep them nodding. “Of course you know this year’s legislative session’s already started. Time’s running out. I’ve brought you the draft language of the new law, not that it will mean so much to you with the legalese. The gist of it is that it gives the courts an escape hatch on the neglect and abuse issue, if the child is 14 and fully informed about medical issues and treatment options. And…of course, if he or she consents.”

The senator slurps his coffee as if the time might run out right there in our kitchen if he doesn’t get the words out fast enough. My parents are rapt. I’m burning at the idea that I’m the child they’re talking about, so I miss a lot of what he says about which senators are cosponsoring and how he anticipates each delegate will vote.

“As you might expect they’ve added a few conditions.” He laughs but forges ahead. “The child has to be ‘mature’ and the illness has to be life-threatening. Of course we can’t be sure that’ll be the final language.” He continues with the committee assignments, who’s already committed to the bill, who’s on the fence. Some of the names are familiar from the six o’clock news, but people’s voting records are not high on my list of interesting facts. Senator Yowell seems to characterize every other politician by their votes on certain issues, half of which I’ve never heard of before. Mom and Dad are still nodding.

I lose track of the discussion when Mom begins her litany of questions about how it relates to the abuse and neglect statute that gave rise to their conviction. What makes her think the Senator cares about the neglect conviction? Why is he buddy-buddy all of a sudden with my parents who will never be campaign contributors of any substantial sum? The Landon family finances must rank right up there on the gossip scale with The Disease. Their voices drone on as I search my brain for movies or TV shows about political intrigues that might explain Senator Yowell’s sudden interest in such insignificant matters when he has much bigger responsibilities, like the legislative agenda of a state.

Holden would take definite issue with the Senator’s sincerity. Shades of Pencey and the old guy who donated sacks of money to the school so they would name a dorm after him. Old Ossenburger and his hotshot view of himself. I wished I had Holden’s friend Marsalla to lay one out right here—poot or burp, whatever—just to put things in perspective. In spite of all his big words and fancy phrases, I’d lay money the Senator has no idea what the whole extent of my options are exactly. I’m not sure myself. He has to have some reason for wanting this law changed. For a slick minute I wonder if Leonard is sick too. Maybe the stupid river water is poisoning us all. But even I can see that’s crazy, Invasion of the Body Snatchers–type garbage.

Without noticing he’s lost me, the Senator presses on, eager to persuade, what he does best after all. “If the Health and Human Services committee passes it, it’ll go to the floor next week, maybe Tuesday. The same language would need to be approved by the Senate committee and then the Senate itself before the end of the week. I’ve been talking it up.”

Mom’s eyes are glistening, but Senator Yowell is orating.

“I think, with a little arm twisting, I can get the votes. The Christian right loves it. The Republicans love it because it takes power away from the state and gives it back to the individual, to families. If we can just get enough votes to get it passed.”

What Senator Yowell is saying basically is that he’s trying in seven days to change a law that’s been in effect for years, centuries probably. I’m barely sixteen, but even I can see that’s pretty optimistic. Everyone’s always talking about how old-fashioned Virginia is.

I can tell from Mom’s face that she wants to believe him. But the past six months have made it hard for her to believe in anything. Still she doesn’t argue back.

Dad looks lost. “It sounds… complicated, Paul. And… isn’t it too late for us? I mean, not Daniel, but with the judge and our conviction.”

“Oh, no.” Senator Yowell shakes his head, like a Hollywood gambler at a poker table. I’m right behind you kind of sincere. “The courts haven’t heard the appeal yet. The delay should help you. Get you out of the limelight. A judge might look at it differently if Richmond speaks loudly enough.” His voice changes from man-in-charge to bedside manner. Very smarmy. “Sylvie, I’m not asking you to lobby or make public appearances. I just need your approval to move forward. What happened to you and Stieg paints a clear picture for the delegates. I’m selfish enough to tell you your situation is what we’ve been waiting for to break the lock on state interference in family matters.”

Mom’s voice cracks. “Will we have to appear before the committee?”

“Probably not necessary. You’ve done so much already. Let us handle this now.”

Dad starts, “You’re sure the press won’t descend on Daniel—”

“The social services people will scream,” Mom interrupts. “That woman’s not going to let this thing die. She’ll fight this. You know she will. It’s probably her job on the line if she doesn’t chalk up enough wins: so many convictions, so many kids in foster care. She’s still furious that we qualified for Medicaid after our savings went into the houseboat.”

This is news to me. And it really rips me. Here I’ve been thinking all along that Mom and Dad basically hocked themselves silly in order to keep me safe from germs on the effing houseboat. When what they were really doing was manipulating the system. Cheating maybe.

“Daniel,” Dad must see the flames shooting out of my ears. “We can talk about the Medicaid later.”

“No. Not later, not now.” I’m standing. “You guys are all the same. Making deals, trading school for blood transfusions, dealing away my life.” I dare Senator Yowell to smile at me. I glare at Dad. “No more aye-aye, sir, whatever you say, sir. You all just work this thing out however you see fit, make your backroom deals, but leave me out of it.”

I’m halfway to Meredith’s house, racing past the post office, before the storm door hits the frame. I hear the slap of it and out of the corner of my eye I can see Dad on the front step in his shirtsleeves. He beats his arms against the cold and says nothing, just watches me as I disappear. Good practice, Dad, good practice.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sometimes in January or February the river whips up a wind that comes from the east. Freaky kind of thing, same as tornadoes in Virginia, not a regular weather event. That east wind is all stealth and secrets like little kids waiting for Santa Claus, happy giddy, but a little bit afraid, too. Not the wrestling referees’ hammer strokes from a northeaster. Not that creepy ticklish July breeze from the south that bugs you like some strange old lady’s hand on your arm until you have to go inside to get away from the gagging sweetness.

The east wind only comes when it’s the dead of winter, polar bear time, which is also rare in this part of Virginia. Some winters it never gets that cold. But when it comes, it skates across the open river, loud and boastful. It sticks on the edges of the marsh grass, playing, teasing. Icicles under cars, and gutters kind of stuck. None of those television weather folks in their circus-colored jackets and matching handkerchiefs and oh-God-not-that voices ever predict it. Still when it hits, it feels like a storybook you vaguely remember from when you were little and forgot until just when the wind repeated it again.

The words underneath that wind are like Meredith’s fingers on my back, digging into me, making me hard and telling me to hurry. It’s nothing so definite that you can describe it. You don’t want to miss it though. It’s a connection to some other place you haven’t even been to yet. It says, sure, circumstances separate people, circumstances out of your control, but there’s still something there, something between you and that place you can’t describe. Or even see. No frigging certainty in that wind, only possibilities.

Even when we lived on Jeanette Drive in the other rented houses before the houseboat, I always liked winter on the river better than summer. Winter’s sharper. The river opens up. You can see the way it threads through the land. You know without seeing them that there are otters and cranes and herons moving through the reeds. The east wind talks loudly, more about the future than the present.

Mom hates the moan of it. Dad only tilts his head without comment. He never acknowledges it. Nick pretends it’s a giant who hibernated in the muddy bottom of the river, turning over and passing gas in his sleep.

But the scudding winter clouds that barge in on that east wind catch me up and carry me away. Away from Nick and Joe, away from Mom and Dad, from everything I know. As a kid flying on that wind I was grown-up. Just like that. I could do anything. Riding on that wind I would pass myself in the future like a holograph at Disney World. Once years back before The Disease I saw myself as the father of a long-haired daughter, her hair red like Dad’s. I carried my wife’s photo in my wallet and showed it to everyone. Another time I sang songs, not like a rock star but like a farmer throwing the songs out like seeds or parade candy. People scooped them up as fast as they could as if they were valuable. And I had to back up to keep from being mobbed I was so popular. The east wind carried me to rooms within rooms, like an M.C. Escher drawing. Black and white, but tons of the most minuscule details, and always another room and another beyond that. So clear in my mind I could have sketched them out on paper in seconds. Only when I tried, the drawings were lame and I tossed them.

With the leukemia battling under my skin, playing hide-and-seek between bones and muscle, this winter I stay awake on the nights when the temperature drops below freezing. I listen and wait and hope for that east wind to come again and carry me off. I need to see that future. I want to know if I’m remembering it right, if it’s still there because I’m having trouble remembering the details now.

After Christmas, after Mom insists we leave the houseboat until spring, several times I slide out the window of the sublet apartment and walk to the defunct marina or to the bridge because I’m afraid the road noise on Route 17 is blocking the wind. A blanket wrapped over my jacket, I stand under the winter sky on the edge of the riverbank like some lonely Afghan mountain man and listen for that east wind, for a hint of my future. When it doesn’t come, I begin to think it was all my imagination.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

One night, long after all the lights are out, I’m huddled in the bunk, not quite asleep, groggy with the memory of an afternoon making out with Meredith in her basement. The muffled gurgle of an idling car engine outside the apartment comes to me in my cocoon. It separates from the night like an oboe solo rising out of the long muted strokes of distant French horns. My bedroom door opens—Nick’s at a sleepover and Dad’s gone to a publisher’s conference to drum up more textbook business to pay Walker’s legal bills—and it’s Mom’s voice that whistles in the shadows.

“Daniel, wake up. I have the tickets. Let’s go.”

My knees draw up and I pull my head under the covers as if the world of my dream with all its mystery is safer. Her hand claws at the blanket to find my shoulder.

“I’ve packed clothes for you from the clean laundry. Just put your books and CD player in your backpack and get dressed.”

In the stiff shuffle of a hypnotized volunteer from a magic show audience, I climb out of bed, pull jeans from the pile on the chair and a sweatshirt from the bottom drawer. She hands me clean socks.

“Is this a Santa Claus thing?” I’m not fully awake.

She sniffles and croaks out a halfhearted laugh, “It’s March, sweetie. Keep moving. I can’t remember what they said about airport security and baggage check.”

As I lace the boots, I repeat her words in mumbles and wonder what Dad thinks of whatever this is. Or if he knows. Bent over in the dark, with the doorway blotted by her dark intractable shape, I realize that she has done this—whatever this is—without telling him. How else could it happen?

“Hurry,” she says in that voice that brooks no dissension.

We drive forever. I sleep and wake only partway at the whiz-whir of signs that shoot past us, lightning letters on green felt, unreadable languages, like subliminal messages in a dream. Before I can mouth the words to help my fuzzy brain interpret, black tunnels of trees replace those rapid-fire reminders of civilization. I feel woozy big-time. Mom is driving with such intensity her shoulders hunch forward and her head juts out over the steering wheel like a turtle’s. In a weird kind of symbiosis I peer over the dashboard and concentrate on the neon taillights of the car in front of us. It’s the only thing in this upside-down world steady enough to keep my stomach from spinning. The next thing I know Mom’s slowing for the ticket booth at the airport parking lot and I’m awake.

DULLES, GOLD LOT, I read, LONG-TERM PARKING. PLEASE TAKE NOTE OF YOUR ROW AND SECTION NUMBER.

Although line after line of cars spins past in a mind-boggling parade despite it not being daytime yet, the terminal is deserted. Mom streams ahead of me onto the escalator, assured somehow I will follow. Ten steps below her, I’m awed at how confidently she moves in this unfamiliar, futuristic place. On the upper level she stops before a computer screen and presses her fingers against it like a piano player who’s memorized the keys. My mom, an accomplished traveler; how have I missed that? When a paper emerges from the machine, she takes it, pokes the two-dimensional button in front of her, and grabs the second paper when it spools toward her. With sideways glances at airline people at the counter, she waves the two pieces of paper at me and strides off toward a glass wall and a line of passengers who look as directed and intent as she is.

Security: the signs dictate having your passport at the ready. I’ve seen this in the movies, otherwise I’d be nervous about lining up to be screened and admitted, the way the Holocaust victims did what they were told with such trust. Mom hands me my passport—I didn’t even know I had one—and we pass through the metal doorways one after the other as if we did this all the time.

“Shouldn’t we call Dad and tell him we arrived safely?”

“No.” Her answer is sharp and efficient.

“He won’t be worried?”

“No.” Ten to one, she hasn’t told him.

My poor father has spent his adult lifetime keeping himself on the straight and narrow. Here’s his wife stealing away in the dark, breaking every law in the county and state according to Henry “Do Nothing” Walker. No wonder she didn’t tell Dad. He can’t be considered an accomplice to something he knew nothing about.

It will drive him crazy that she did the opposite of what they spent hours and weeks deciding together. That she’s willing to risk his anger and the jail time Walker says is guaranteed if she can’t produce me for the next hearing tells you how much she loves me. And how confident she is that the Mexican treatment will work.

I should have listened to Meredith and explored the website when I had the chance. It would be nice to know what’s coming. Already I’m exhausted and I haven’t even gotten on the plane yet. Still, Mom would not have gone to all this trouble if she wasn’t convinced. Waiting in the line of sight of uniformed officials with guns and X-ray machines, who stand between me and living past my next birthday, I’m willing to buy her version of the argument.

When they announce last call, we’re already on board, our bags stowed. My first flight. I’m amazed at how like the comedy club skits the whole flight attendant routine is. By the time the plane rolls away from the gate, the blue ink of the horizon to the east has already leaked pink to signal a new day. The captain announces a slight delay on the runway, but we’re buckled in and rolling.

“Are you sure there’s enough money for this, Mom?”

“Not everything is about money.”

“But I heard Dad tell you he didn’t want you to spend the money.”

“He’s not a risk taker. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. Sometimes you just have to jump.”

I’m glad I stuck Catcher in the backpack at the last second. I need to reread some of those scenes again. After I figure out how to buckle the seatbelt and start the movie. I’m starving.

When we land in Mexico City, a chunky man in a Los Angeles Dodgers hat holds a cardboard sign with LANDON FAMILY printed in red ink. Underneath that is MCINTYRE FAMILY. Mom smiles and tries out her ancient high-school Spanish. With the sign held above his head, the man listens politely.

“Howdy,” a man’s voice booms behind us. “Just where Doc said you’d be. I like that. Arkansas reliability.” The plaid of his jacket and the wide-brimmed cowboy hat make him seem twice as wide.

In his shadow is the thinnest girl I’ve ever seen. She’s the same height as Mom, but her shoulders curve forward and her sweatshirt sleeves hang below her wrists. Her fingers—what I can see of them—are bony enough to be sparrow’s claws. My first thought is she’s sicker than I am. And I’m relieved, which makes me feel terrible.

“Spike McIntyre, missy, pleased to meet you.” The newcomer finds Mom’s hand and pumps it several times, then drops it to put his beefy hand on my head. No time to duck, I didn’t see it coming. “This your ailing cub?” he bellows.

Mom nods, the silent laugh in her eyes aimed at me.

“Daniel. Daniel Landon,” I say, but I’m looking at what must be his daughter, whose eyes are shuttered and whose shoulders are quivering. Mr. McIntyre ignores her and moves on to the man with the sign. The voices mute around me as I try to decide what to do. I know that pain. She’s going to faint any minute. She needs a chair. I hug her. It’s all I can think of. When she goes limp, I swing her featherweight around to my suitcase, her slippered feet skimming the floor. With a slow bend of my knees, I fold her onto the suitcase, her spine against the pull-out handle, her head on my shoulder.

“You’re okay,” I whisper. “Want to put your head down?” I speak over her father’s complaints about the turbulence in the air, the limited drink menu, the cramped legroom. He doesn’t turn around.

When the man with the sign coughs and dips his head, Mr. McIntyre finally turns and moves into high gear.

“Dahling.” More surprise than concern. “Dahling child, there you go again, Southern charm just making those boys fall all over you.” He clamps one hand on my shoulder and twists me away. “I’ll take it from here, son.” And those two tree trunk arms scoop her off the suitcase as if she were a chick just fallen from the nest. “What the hell we waiting for?” he announces to the whole airport.

Mom and I are speechless. But the man with the sign steps forward and shoulders all four bags. Apparently he’s done this before.

“Welcome to Mehico. You bring the good weather, no?” Without waiting for an answer, he heads for the blinding sunshine beyond the automatic glass doors.

Behind him the sign floats to the floor like a failed kite. We have no choice but to follow. Mom’s smile is fixed to her face, her hand on my arm to keep me close. We’re not in Kansas anymore.

The Dodger fan fellow, our greeter, drives the old black Mercedes up and down the Mexican hills, all shale and sand. There are pockets of pale green undergrowth in the gulleys, but mostly open space. The sky is cobalt. No lie: deep blue, almost purple. I swear it would be blue forever if you cut it open like a melon. I wish I’d thought to bring my camera. Meredith would love the colors. Mr. McIntyre has his arm across his daughter’s back, her head on his knees. Sputtering coughs punctuate her light snores. Mom pats a tissue at the corner of her eyes. Grit, I think, but know better than to ask.

The clinic is three whitewashed buildings in the middle of a desert. A dorm marked MEN on one side, another marked OMEN.

Mack would love the Stepford-Hanes irony of it. Two dirt paths lead to a long low L-shaped building. I’m guessing offices and treatment rooms and maybe some kind of cafeteria, although I’m not sure acceptable standards of hygiene allow the mingling of sick and well. On either side of the dust bowl of an entry road there are only cacti and weeds in the sand. No roads out.

To tell you the truth, despite the odd piles of junk and seediness, I like it. It’s blunt, honest, no frills, no decorator lounges or travel magazines. This is serious business. And it can’t have cost that much if it looks this worn. Hard to tell what Mom thinks, she’s so quiet. I do wonder if she imagined something softer, gentler.

“I’m starving,” Mr. McIntyre says to our driver. “You got any nachos or”—he bumps me with his elbow—“what’s those other things Mexicanos make?”

“Quesadillas?” I’m short on Spanish vocab.

“Yeah. Kay-so-dee-dahs.”

But I don’t correct him. The driver ignores the backseat and speaks to Mom who’s sitting up front. “Dinner, four. After you meet Doctor Henkins. Wash now. Meet at one and thirty in white building.” He points. When Mom tries to open the trunk to take our luggage, the driver waves us away. “I take to rooms. Too hot. You go in.”

Ten minutes later we’ve peed and are sitting on plastic folding chairs that are arranged in a circle, staring at each other. Seven adults and four kids. It’s not hard to pick out the adults who are sick from the ones who aren’t. Mr. McIntyre and his daughter are not there. Right on the dot, the doctor and his staff, five of them, march into the welcome session as if it were a military drill. The first badge reads DIR. PABLO JENKINS with the IR in such little letters I wonder if it’s supposed to look like Doctor from a distance.

None of the staff are introduced as doctors, only by first names, which should add extra credibility in Mom’s eyes. One nurse in white whose tag says MARTINA tries to show a video but the tape sticks in the machine. The director is not at all flustered. He repeats several things and smiles widely, showing off his perfect line of bright white teeth, while Martina fiddles with the equipment and finally gets it running.

Afterward the other families crowd in on each other at the reception. The staff in assorted white shirts and pants circulates with forms on clipboards for the parents to fill out. The adults are eager to compare information, to reassure each other they’re not crazy to have come out to this wilderness. The kids are silent. I try not to stare at a boy who’s younger than Nick and already bald, the stump of one knee resting on an empty chair while his father corners the director and fires questions in a pig Latin kind of Spanish.

“I thought they were very straightforward, didn’t you?” Mom asks as we head back to our assigned rooms once we’ve completed registration and the director has circulated and has shaken hands with everyone.

“It sounds pretty simple,” I say. “Did you know it was all natural, no chemicals at all?”

“Sweetie, I gave you the printout from the Internet.”

“I was studying.”

“Studying Meredith maybe.”

I laugh with her, I can afford to. This is the paradise that will make me whole again and it’s Mom’s perseverance that got us here.

“When we get home, it’ll probably still be sitting on the table right where you left it,” she says.

Seven days in a row the airport driver comes for me in my room in the men’s dorm. We wear paper bathing suits that the staff throws away after each session as if we are contagious. First they feed us green stringy mush with the odor of salt water. Literally they feed us like babies with Teflon-coated spoons, maybe to keep track of how much we actually ingest. I’m guessing it’s seaweed. It tastes like asparagus with too much salt and no butter. As part of the meditation frame of mind, the loud speakers fill with Andean flute music like the traveling carnival musicians at the Essex County Fair. We wash down the mush with something that smells like gasoline. It makes me light-headed and sleepy, but we’re not allowed to sleep during the treatments. If you start to nod off, they jiggle you to keep you awake.

When I try to describe it to Mom at the communal dinner—the bathtub jets and the massages and the three bowls of mush—she pats my hand and smiles. “Thousands of people have been cured here,” she says. Her tan deepens every day and the circles under her eyes have disappeared. She tells me about the card games she plays with Mr. McIntyre. And how sometimes she walks out into the sand hills with the older mother of a young woman who has liver cancer and goes everywhere with her oxygen tank.

Although the treatment room has five cots and five bathtubs, the only patients in it are me and a very old man, Gerald Hovenfelt, whose belly is like a basketball. When the attendants leave, we talk a little. Mr. Hovenfelt has a tumor in his stomach, and over the ten days it shrinks so that he can’t stop grinning. He asks me every day if I’m feeling better. I’m so tired I can’t tell, but I say yes because I know it’s what he wants to hear.

Mom doesn’t ask me any questions. She does say that she talked to Dad on the phone in Director Jenkins’s office and that Nick and Joe are fine. They are all going to meet us at the airport. I want to ask for Meredith to come, but am afraid the police may be part of our homecoming.

“We leave on Friday, right?” I ask her the second week.

“Whenever Director Jenkins says.”

“How will he know? He never comes in to examine us.”

“The nurses must have to file reports.”

“Mom, are you sure these people are trained? The two guys in with me have a gazillion tattoos and they talk about our esteemed Director Henkins like he’s a joke. They mimic his voice and make faces at each other when they’re feeding us, when they think we’re not looking.”

She thinks about what I said. “If you’d read what I gave you at home, you’d have seen the testimonials from people who’ve been here. Their tumors are gone. They’re living regular lives. Playing golf, dancing, going to work.”

“Yeah, well they wouldn’t print what the dead ones said.”

“Daniel.”

After dinner we’re allowed to stay in the main building for movies or games. Mr. McIntyre and Bethany, his daughter, who’s still a stick, usually leave right away. But on the fourth night, when they announce they’re going to show Breakfast at Tiffany’s, she begs her dad to let her stay.

“I can walk her back to the dorm, Spike,” Mom volunteers.

“Please, Daddy.” Her voice barely stirs the air.

He nods without speaking and I can tell it’s hard for him to refuse her, which makes me wonder how many other treatments they’ve tried.

Mom lets Bethany and I sit together and she takes a chair in the back row. Most of the kids have stayed, and a few adults, but still the rows are mostly empty. Perhaps Director Jenkins’s treatment center has seen better days. While they’re fiddling with the film and clearing the buffet table, I ask Bethany about her hometown.

“My friends are scared of me, boys especially. They don’t understand cancer. They think it’s like the flu and they can catch it.”

“People are so ignorant. Did you have chemo?”

“That’s how I got so thin. You won’t believe it, but I used to be fat. I mean really fat, like a plus size. Pizza and french fries and double chocolate fudge cake. Since my mom left, Daddy lets me eat anything I want. I think he feels guilty.”

“About your getting sick?”

“No, about running my mother off with his gambling buddies and his NASCAR trips. They argued all the time. And she drank a lot of wine.”

“My Dad’s in AA.”

“Oh, my mother’s not an alcoholic. Once she didn’t have Dad embarrassing her anymore, she stopped drinking cold turkey. That shows she never really loved him.”

“I like your father. He’s a little loud, but he really cares about you.”

“I know. Mom only married him because he was rich. It wasn’t good for either of them.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost nineteen.”

“I would have said fourteen.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“No offense. I guess it’s ’cause you’re so thin.”

“I can thank the cancer for that.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“I did. He broke it off as soon as I lost my hair.”

“Wigs are so not cool.”

She looks at me funny, her eyes all squinty, and I realize she’s trying to figure whether I might be wearing a wig.

“Oh, no.” I laugh. “Chemo is poison according to my parents.”

She doesn’t laugh. The lights go off and the movie starts, grainy images on the white wall from a squeaky VCR tape. She could be offended if she thinks I was making fun of chemo. Struggling for a way to change the subject, I reject six or seven ideas until the figures on the wall start talking.

I whisper, “Why do you want to see this movie so much?”

“I don’t. But the room they have me in is a double. I’m sharing it with the woman who has the oxygen tank.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-seven. She hates her mother and that’s all she talks about. I try to change the subject or just not comment, but she rants and rants.”

“I’m lucky. I’m all alone. I could even alternate cots if I wanted to.”

“Maybe I’ll come over and hijack one of yours.”

“Fine with me, but the building says ‘Men.’ How you going to pull that off?”

She shrugs and turns her face up to the screen as if it were sunlight.

Monday night after dinner I’m so bored I sign out the Scrabble game from the dining room collection. Nick would go ape if he knew. Bethany goes out with her dad after dinner. I can see their cut-out silhouettes against the sunset as he walks her to the dorm. Little dust billows collect at their feet as she shuffles along the sand. Alone in my room after saying good night to Mom, I spread out the letter tiles and the board and play two hands against myself. At eight thirty I can barely keep my eyes open. Stripped to my boxers, I lie on the cot on top of the sheets and take out Catcher. They wash the sheets every day and put on clean ones that are practically crunchy from being dried on the line in the hot sun. A blue bedpan sits at the ready by the foot of the bed. We’ve been warned not to use the public men’s room in the night because of scorpions.

Holden’s drunk when he calls Sally back to apologize. Maybe he meant it to be funny, but it was kind of sad the way she humored him. He still hurt her feelings and ruined everything. It’s almost like he intended to do it, to prove to himself he wasn’t a good guy and not worth her attention. I’ve been drunk twice and it does make you think crooked.

Both times I was in ninth grade. Mack and I stole some of Joe’s beer and drank it in Mack’s canoe the first time. We rowed back to the public landing and walked to my house to crash. We were asleep by the time my parents came home. We lost one paddle getting out, and Mack couldn’t use the canoe for a month until he had saved enough to buy a used paddle from the attic at A to Z Antiques. The second time the Petrianos had taken Roger and his dweeb friends bowling in Richmond for his birthday. We invited Yowell because he promised to bring three girls from St. Margaret’s. Only two showed. When the girls came to the front door, we invited them in just like a legitimate party. But Mack was worried about spilling something on his parents’ furniture so we went to his room. Their basement wasn’t done back then. Yowell didn’t want beer. He made drinks for all of us in the bathroom from rum he’d taken from his dad’s liquor cabinet. He explained the way he added water with a funnel after he took the liquor so no one would notice any was missing. I never would’ve thought of that, but Yowell’s smart that way.

I don’t remember too much because the rum went straight to my brain. But Yowell wasn’t nice to the girls. He made their drinks stronger and tried to get them to dance on the bed in their underwear. Mack passed out and I ended up being the one to walk them back to the dorm. They had a friend inside who let them in the side door that opens out to the river. A little dicey because you can’t be but so quiet when you’ve been drinking rum and Cokes for two hours. Brewer must have been napping that night.

Here’s the thing about Holden and the bars he hangs out in. When Holden finally hangs up on Sally, he knows he’s been a jerk. Which makes him feel even lousier than when he started. Not a good feeling, but it’s how I learned I didn’t really like to drink. I don’t think I’ll tell my dad. No point in spoiling what’s left of my crazy life or making him think he failed as a father because I drank when he’d worked so hard to convince us not to.

The whole point of this story, though, is Bethany coming to my room. I’m not sure who lets her in, unless it’s Mr. Hovenfelt who’s been teasing me all week about how cute she is. Yeah, cute like a lapdog. He’s a man who likes happy endings, definitely an optimist.

Anyway she knocks and whispers, “It’s Bethany McIntyre.” Like there were so many Bethanys in the Mexican desert.

“What’s up?” I open the door and she slinks in.

“I wanted to talk.”

“About?”

“Just talk. You know, with someone my own age. Kids’ stuff, music, school, not business or my mother.”

“Yeah, okay, have a seat.” I pull out the desk chair. But she ignores me and flops herself down on the second cot, the one that isn’t all messed up from my lying on it. She’s in her bathrobe. Pj’s underneath, I hope. My stupid body is going crazy and I’m mad at myself for being so disloyal to Meredith over just the closeness of a girl in pajamas.

For a couple of minutes we lie there on the cots, on either side of this crumby little bathmat they put in there for a rug. It’s bright yellow, but all mashed down like people have been walking on it for years and it’s never been washed. I try not to think about those other people.

“My mom doesn’t know I’m here. She thinks Dad took me for a vacation to the islands.”

Apart from “the islands” being an insider’s code for a social group I’ll never be part of, I feel like we’re soul mates in this whole experimental thing. There’s a reason we’re here at the same time.

“Are you a virgin, Daniel?”

If I’d been drinking, I would have sprayed soda all over the room. I hardly know this girl. The whole thing is too weird, sharing this kind of out-of-body experience in a foreign country where no one outside the clinic knows your whole name and you’re hiding from the authorities. I’m still stuttering when she goes on without my answer.

“I am. And it’s a drag. No one will go to bed with me now that I’m sick, and if I die, I’ll never know what it’s like.”

The echoes in my head are pounding through my skull. This girl who just met me knows my innermost thoughts. And if she knows this, maybe Meredith knows too and was just being nice to me.

“You’re shocked,” she says in the same singsong voice like an actress in a television ad, the emphasis on the wrong words. “Don’t you think girls ever think about sex?”

“Well, yeah, but not like guys. We’re obsessed.”

“Everyone under twenty-one is obsessed with sex. It’s the one thing you aren’t supposed to do until you’re an adult or married. It’s that verboten thing.”

“Verboten?”

“It’s German for ‘forbidden.’”

“No one speaks German where I’m from.” I’m getting a very different view of Bethany here in the dark.

“Whatever. I want to have sex before I die.”

“Is the treatment not working for you?”

“What do you think?”

“You seem better tonight.”

“It’s the fourth treatment my dad’s tried. When money is no object, the truth can be obscured for a long time.”

“Why don’t you tell him you don’t want any more treatments?”

“Why should he be miserable too? He’ll be miserable enough once I’m gone.” She’s doing these leg swings and her bare legs pump up and down in the air, so I have to look away.

“Stop doing that with your legs. You’ll make yourself sick. We’re supposed to rest at night.”

“What’s a matter, Danny, making you perspire a little? Making your heart race?”

I wish I hadn’t let her in. I turn over on my stomach to hide the evidence. “They say attitude can make all the difference. If you want to live, you can beat it.”

“Do you believe that? Truly? In your heart of hearts? Because if you do, I have a bridge I’ll sell you in New York.”

It’s my dad’s line and it reminds me of home and the houseboat and Meredith. I have to figure out a way to get this girl out of my room before something bad happens.

“I’m really tired, Bethany. Aren’t you?”

“No. I have to ask you something, a favor.”

I groan. This is going nowhere fast. I can hear Mack cheering and my heart knocking in my chest. This is ridiculous. I love Meredith. Sleeping with someone else will ruin that.

She comes over from the cot, straddles my back and massages my shoulder blades. Her fingertips are like razor blades. “Will you sleep with me, Danny? So I don’t die not knowing what it feels like.”

Yowell and Mack would do it. Hell, Yowell would have invited her over the first night and suggested it himself. Holden, what would Holden do? He’d let her down gently. Make up something about himself so she wouldn’t feel rejected.

“Listen, I’m not worth it. I’m too young for you, too scrawny, too inexperienced. You deserve better, someone who loves you.”

“I knew you’d done it. You sound like you know what you’re talking about.” Her fingers are pushing on my shoulder blades with little digs of pressure. “Who is she? You still love her?”

“Meredith Rilke, a girl at home.”

“Does she know you’re a dead man?”

That’s not an easy one to answer. Spoken out loud like that, it’s a little too much truth even for me.

“You do have cancer, don’t you?”

“Leukemia, same difference.”

“This Meredith, she knows and she loves you anyway.”

“She says she does. Yeah, she does.”

“Then she’ll understand. She would want you to help me out. Before I die.”

“You don’t mean that. Maybe you won’t die. Plus it’s not Meredith that’s stopping me. You’re pretty and…I’m interested. But making love is not the same if it’s someone you hardly know. I know, I know I sound like one of those women on Oprah, but it’s true. Sex is easy to do. Animals do it. Male and female, we fit together. Any two of us, but it’s not supposed to be that way with humans. It’s much more. Don’t ruin it for yourself, Bethany. Don’t settle for me like your mom settled for your dad.

“Everything you want will come to you once you get better, stronger. You’ll fall in love and someone will love you back. You have to believe that.”

She leaves then because I’m crying like a professional mourner in those old timey movies. She probably thinks, What a loser.

The next morning Mr. McIntyre and Bethany are not at breakfast. I knock on the women’s dormitory door on my way to treatment. No answer. I ask a passing nurse and she says, “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Please, I’m worried about her. She’s not trying to get better.”

“The doctor felt she’d had enough. Her parents agreed.”

At least that is good news. Her parents gave up their war long enough to listen to Bethany.

When my mother asks about the McIntyres at lunch, Director Jenkins simply shakes his head. “That is not public information. Suffice it to say, she’s on her way home.” When he beams, I feel sick to my stomach, but, for a change, it has nothing to do with the leukemia.

On Wednesday, my last day of treatment, Mr. Hovenfelt isn’t in the treatment room with me.

“Where’s Mr. Hovenfelt?” I ask Tomao, my nurse.

“He’s gone,” says Tomao. “They ship him out yesterday.”

“He’s cured?” I ask.

Tomao looks confused and I scramble to think of the Spanish word.

“He’s dead,” says Tomao. “Died happy. In his sleep.”

Here is another thing I can’t share with my mother, who waits so patiently in the Mexican sunshine for me to get well.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The D.C. airport looks great to me. So many different faces: white, black, Asian, Slavic. If I survive, I’m never going back to Mexico.

Out of the clumps of families waiting by the cordoned area outside the international arrivals gate, a girl in a blue coat runs straight at my wheelchair. Meredith. The airline has insisted on the wheelchair because one of the flight attendants overheard Mom talking about my trip to see “Doctor Jenkins.” Before I know it, Meredith’s wrapped herself around me, practically sitting in my lap.

Joe gives me the thumbs-up across the barrier. Nick’s watching wide-eyed. Dad winks at Mom who may have missed it because she’s staring at Meredith. I can’t not kiss her. When I do, the whole room cheers. It’s pretty embarrassing, but okay in a way. Meredith whispers in my ear, “You’ll never see any of them again. Don’t stop, you idiot.”

In the car Dad listens to Mom tell the whole thing without interrupting. Nick and Joe thumb wrestle and Meredith fills me in on what’s happening at school.

“What about Mack?” I ask when we’re on the other side of Fredericksburg.

When no one answers, I can feel everything in me stiffen. “Guys? Did something happen to Mack?”

Joe nods to Meredith, a knowing signal that ought to upset me, except she’s clearly committed to me.

“Mom, Dad. Somebody tell me what happened to Mack.”

Meredith looks at me. “He’s okay, really. But he had an accident. In his dad’s truck.”

“What happened?”

“A stone wall ran into him,” Nick says.

“God, is he hurt?”

“A broken arm,” he answers.

“Is that all?” I ask.

“The truck doesn’t look so good,” says Joe.

“What else? You guys are acting like it’s someone’s funeral.”

“DUI,” Dad says in a soft, terrible voice.

“Mack knows better than to drink and drive,” I argue.

“Apparently he doesn’t feel the same way about drugs.” Dad is so angry he doesn’t even try to excuse Mack’s behavior or soften it for me.

The image of Mack in handcuffs in the back of Brewer’s cruiser is crystal clear.

When Dad speaks again, his voice is flat. “Mack’s off-limits, Daniel. We can’t have you getting mixed up in that.”

“Maybe I can help him.”

“You’ve heard me enough times to know it doesn’t work that way, son. He has to help himself.”

Meredith inches closer. Although no one speaks, I spend the remainder of the trip home imagining my life without Mack. It strikes me that, with my concentration on Meredith and the restrictions of the disease, perhaps that’s exactly what he’s been doing in reverse.

April Fools’ Day we move back onto the houseboat after another huge argument. Mom says it’s too soon. Dad says we need a change. I get the feeling she’s weakening though. Instead of the triumphant parent of an almost cured son, she’s losing hope. I’m vomiting again and back to sleeping half the day. She doesn’t go on and on about the weather, but lets the argument stand at a draw. When Dad starts packing, so does she.

There are mouse droppings in the galley cupboards and under the rubber mat in the head. While they clean everything with Lysol, I find my first-semester bio book in the cabin and hide out on the top deck with a sleeping bag and a box of Ritz crackers, about the only thing I can keep down lately. Once the sun escapes the thick cumulus cover, I spread out on top of the bag, my legs bare below the boxers. It reminds me of our patio in Mexico and the drying stretched skin on my face while I lay on the lounger and Mom read out loud from Dad’s emails, which the staff printed out for us in the director’s office. As if we had all the time in the world and no place else to be, we baked in that sun, so deliberate in our routine, so sure of its power to heal.

The bio book actually mentions leukemia. The theory of the lavender cure is not totally off-base. I read and try to match this with the half-Spanish, half-English explanation of the nurse’s aide in Guadalajara. The technical language puts me to sleep though. When I wake up, my stomach doesn’t churn, my head is light, no dull throb behind the eyes. I feel great.

“Mom,” I call to her from the deck.

She comes out of their cabin so fast she careens into me on the ladder. As her feet slide out from under her, I grab both arms and she rights herself like a gyroscope, tilting, rising, then straight.

“What is it?” She’s not smiling. She anticipates bad news. I’ve done this to her.

“It’s working. I feel clear-headed. Less sore.”

She smiles, but it’s forced. I know what she’s thinking. It’s early yet. They warned us there might be temporary relief, but that the treatment had to work its way through my system and there would be bad days, too.

“Can I swim?”

“Oh, Daniel. It’s April. The water’s so cold.”

“I haven’t been able to for months. And I feel stronger. I won’t do laps. I’ll quit before I get tired. Please.”

“Maybe the Rec Center would let you even though we’re not members, since it’s such an unusual situation.”

“Never mind.”

“You said you wanted to swim.”

“Swim like I used to, in the river, not in some chlorinated tank with a roof and no blue sky, and everyone watching me like I’m a freak. They’d probably take pictures and use it for some PR campaign to sell more damn memberships.”

I leave her there on the deck and haul out the oars and the life jacket and the seat cushions for the dinghy. Once while I’m setting up the little rowboat, I see her face in the back cabin window, but it disappears instantly. The little boat slides along in the upstream current. When I’ve rowed past the defunct marina, I look back and she’s standing on the top deck, a hand over her eyes, staring in my direction. She doesn’t wave. Neither do I.

Nine Inch Nails rocks out of the Petrianos’ garage. It can’t be Mack’s father. It has to be Mack. I peek under the electronic door—open a foot at the bottom—and Mack’s in his sweats, polishing a little bright blue Nissan pickup truck I’ve never seen before. His hair is scruffy and uneven and he’s bouncing on his feet as he works the rag in big circles.

“Hey,” I yell over the music. “Whose truck?”

He straightens and bends his head sideways to see who’s talking to him. “Dan the Man. Come on in.”

I yank on the garage door handle but it doesn’t budge. I try again. Nothing.

“It’s stuck.” I yell through the wooden panel.

“No, it’s not.”

I kick it and heft it again. It’s stuck. But before I can yell again, the door glides upward and Mack is standing twelve inches from me. With one hand on my shoulder where it throbs, I step inside the fluorescent cube of the garage. He swings his arm down and the garage door closes behind us in one easy motion. I may feel better, but I’m losing ground here in the muscle department. I can’t even open a garage door on plastic slides. Mack doesn’t say a thing, just goes back to massaging the truck with the polishing rag.

“Nice truck. Is it true you totaled the other one?” I ask.

“Dad got this one from the dump. It needs a new transmission. But he says if I earn half, he’ll pay the other half.”

“Not so good for double dates.” I fix the smile on my face.

“You can borrow it. It’s Meredith’s favorite color.”

It takes all my control not to ask him how he knows that.

We sit in the cab and he fills me in on school stuff. Beverly got knocked up by one of the migrant workers’ sons. The motorcycle boyfriend is long gone. The word is the father of the baby is earning money to pay for an abortion, but Beverly’s not sure yet. Leonard’s in love with a girl from Heathsville who drives a silver BMW. Christie is ancient history. The quarterback for the football team was busted for cocaine possession.

“Who tells you all this junk?”

“You know, you just hear stuff.”

“We were never in the right place before to hear that kind of stuff. You must have new friends.”

“Maybe.” He jumps out.

The open hood blocks my view. I get out too and circle around to the front fender. His eyes are closed. One hand is tapping his thigh to the beat of the music when all of a sudden he spins and does this incredible drum riff on the workbench. His head’s lowered, his hair shakes, and his shoulders rock to the same rhythm.

“Whoa, where did you learn to drum?”

“Cal.”

“Cal Miles from seventh-grade band?”

Mack nods but keeps on drumming.

“Cal’s a pothead, Mack.”

“He’s an awesome drummer.” He shrugs and moves to the other side of the open-faced engine.

“You’re high now.”

“What do you care?”

When I start to edge around the front bumper to be able to see into his eyes, he slips into the cab and shuts the door.

“What the hell are you doing, Mack? This is crazy.”

“It helps me see things more clearly. I’ve got a lot to deal with right now.”

“Yeah, well, so do a lot of kids, including yours truly, but they don’t all go for broke with cocaine.”

“Cal had some leftover. I had a little extra money.” The words are muffled by the glass. “Like I said, I’m working for the truck.”

“He’s dealing now and you’re his ho?”

Mack punches at me, but stops just short of the window. He motions for me to go away.

“Jeez, Mack. You are such a lightweight. Juliann will never go for it. And Cal and his friends are limited brain-wise, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. You haven’t been around much.”

“What’s the matter with you? You’re smarter than this.”

But he’s out the other side. He flings up the garage door and stands there with his fucking arm extended like one of those miniature iron jockeys, his eyes half closed. The chickenshit.

No one’s home at the twins’ house. I leave a note on a scrap paper from my pocket for Meredith to call. Halfway home I have to sit down to catch my breath. It’s a mile from the creek to Mack’s and back, and I’ve come the long way around by Meredith’s for nothing. St. John’s graveyard wall is warm in the sun. When Yowell drives by in a shiny new convertible with a girl I don’t know in the passenger seat, I’m still cursing Mack and wondering if Joe has any good ideas on how to convince Mack to stop using. Yowell waves, but he doesn’t stop.

By my sneakers there are four little spikes of green poking out of the mud. Daffodils. I wonder if Bethany has noticed it’s spring where she is. Or Mr. Hovenfelt.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The idea is brilliant. So brilliant I can’t even sleep. My legs twitch and my back throbs and my eyes are gritty, but I pace on the deck in the dark starless night. This solves everything. No tubes and machines, no officious doctors barking “Stand back” or nurses snipping “Family only.” No histrionics from Mom, no piercing looks from Dad as if he’s afraid he’ll forget what I look like, no Nick scrunched into a lump on a hospital chair when he’s never been still in his life before, no last-minute brush of Joe’s hand on my arm, or Meredith’s mute tears. It’ll be Holden and me at the last in New York City, searching for whatever, hanging on to life like the first time you ride a Ferris wheel and realize how big the world really is.

After I pack a few things in Dad’s small rolling suitcase, I lock the cabin door from the inside and get out an old notebook from the desk drawer. Everyone knows that when you die you’re supposed to have a will. Not that I researched this stuff, but it can’t make any difference what kind of paper I use if I make it sound official enough. The point is to tie up all the loose ends. You want people to know you were prepared. That has to be comforting.

In movies they always read the will with the whole family in the room. I like that idea. A lot. Even if the will turns out not to be legal, what do I care? I won’t be around anyway, but Nick and Joe, my parents, and Meredith and Mack, they’ll know I was thinking about them.

To be honest just the idea of Meredith in some stuffy lawyer’s office listening to some poufy-ass lawyer like Henry Walker read my last words makes me want to puke. I almost don’t write the thing. But Holden keeps harping in my head, You can’t leave without saying something, to explain it. They’ll blame themselves and you don’t want that.

First I write the legal mumbo jumbo, those lines from the movies, after the date and my name, the whole thing in block letters so there can be no mistake. This is my last will and testament. I start with Joe. He’s the easiest. He was away for most of this last part while I was getting sicker. He won’t miss me but so much. I’ll be like a fingerprint on the edge of his glasses. Most of the time he’ll look through the memory of me and only notice me once in a while, in a vague, absentminded kind of way like you do when you clean your lenses. The memory of me won’t interfere with his career or his social life.

I’m not worried about Joe. Later on after he marries and makes a bunch of little Landons, he may tell them stories about his brother Daniel. At bedtime or on long car rides. It isn’t that he doesn’t love me. He just has a lot of other stuff on his mind. Perfectly understandable. I leave him my two-man tent. He can take a girl somewhere remote and memorable.

Nick is harder. The contents of our cabin. My bicycle. My rowboat, I write next to his name. Maybe the list isn’t enough. The law may require some kind of command. Clarity and all. So I insert between the list and his name a balloon and an arrow. Inside the balloon I add, to receive without condition or payment of any kind. For all I know people have to pay fees to the lawyer or the courts to get their share. Although I’ve left it too late to find out, I’m damned sure Henry Walker isn’t going to extract any more money from my family because of me.

I can almost hear Mack laughing, or trying not to so he doesn’t upset my parents, when he hears I left him my tackle box. He’ll get the joke big-time. I free the tackle box from the never-ending pile of Nick’s soccer equipment in the bottom of the closet and put it by the suitcase. Our Friday-night fishing trip with the twins seems so far away. I’ll have to store the box outside the cabin in case they take the will’s language about Nick and the cabin contents literally. Its being in the cabin would create a controversy and they might not let Mack have it. What I want most, more than Mack using my fishing gear so it doesn’t get rusted, is no more controversy.

My parents won’t care about any of my things. Bad enough they’ll have to look at my clothes and pictures and the empty bunk and be reminded. If I’d planned better, Meredith could have driven me to Goodwill and helped me dump most of it. But until this morning I didn’t know I was going to make this trip.

I write a separate note to her and put it in a sealed envelope with her name on it, adding a little smiley face onto a stick body diving off a bridge. Incredibly goofy, but I want her to have something to laugh about too. I won’t tell you what I wrote to her. It’s private. Holden would be proud of me, though. I don’t get mushy, just mention the high points and wish her a happy life. I sign it Love, Daniel. She knows that already, but it matters to me that she’ll hold the note, her fingers where my fingers were. I hope it matters to her.

You can’t write a will and leave out your mother and father. Especially not if you’re dying out of order and they have to bury you, their child. So I write my father’s name. It feels so weird to be writing Stieg Corneill Landon instead of Dad. I give him back the pocketknife he gave me for my twelfth birthday and the book of Robert Frost poems because he was forever reciting them and he’ll get the connection. I stick my report card in the book of poems and put it on my pillow, to be sure my dad can find it. All that arguing for nothing. If I’d only believed the stupid doctors from the beginning, I might not have wasted that time or energy. Still, there are other things I know now about my father I might never have known if we hadn’t had those fights.

So it comes down to Mom. She was there first and she’s the end, too, even though she won’t physically be there. I scan the bookshelves and open the desk drawers as wide as they go, looking for just the right thing. She has to know how important she is to me. From before all this. And because of these months. I need her to forgive me for all the idiotic stuff I did: bad table manners, not winning the third-grade spelling bee after she coached me all weekend, refusing to wear a tie to Grandma’s funeral, for being a jerk about Walker, for making her cry. Mostly I need her to forgive me for not getting better after the Mexico trip.

Remembering like that, I lose it big-time and I have to get up and find some goddamn tissues. You’d think a person’s tear ducts would dry up with so much overuse. God forbid Mack finds out what a wimp I’ve become. Even he may think it’s time to find a new best friend. When I can focus, there’s my mug from the seventh-grade trip to the Virginia Beach aquarium, with a lifetime’s collection of pens. I sort through them, but stop at the one I swiped from the Richmond doctor’s office where they first hinted at chemotherapy. Mom won’t want a pen from her dead son.

My Spanish book could be a memento of Mexico? The used-bookstore copy of The Catcher in the Rye Joe gave me for Christmas? Maybe then she’d understand my not sticking around. After she reads Holden’s take on growing up or not growing up.

In the way back of the bottom drawer, behind the old lab reports, the crushed diorama of dinosaurs, the Gideon’s Bible that Nick stole from some hotel room and wouldn’t own up to, I feel a small lump in crinkly paper. I pull it out. It’s a fortune cookie, no telling from when or where because Mom and Dad gave up monosodium glutamate years ago. For a minute I toss it from hand to hand, debating whether to open it or leave it to her unopened on the chance that it says something inspiring enough to count with her. I’ve had ADVERSITY MAKES YOU STRONGER before and LOVE HEALS ALL WOUNDS and PERSEVERANCE YIELDS RESULTS. None of that will work this time around.

The truth is there’s not a single thing here in my room, in Essex County, in my twenty feet of space, my sixteen and a half years, that means enough. I’ll write her from New York. It ought to be easier to say what I need to say with a little distance. I close the drawers and get ready to sign the bottom of the will with a flourish, to hide how weak and silly I suddenly feel. This is why Holden wants to leave before his parents come home. How do you talk face-to-face with people who love you in spite of your failing them?

The stupid little fortune cookie stares up at me in its pristine packaging. Some machine halfway across the ocean, or maybe in Secaucus, New Jersey, has stamped a single Chinese letter on the clear plastic. Meaningless because I don’t know Chinese, won’t ever know Chinese, and don’t fucking care. I rip off the end of the package with my teeth and smash the cookie on the desk. The little paper twists loose, deformed from its years of captivity.

Pick it up and read it, I tell myself. Read the damn thing and get it over with.

THERE ARE NO GIFTS OF LASTING VALUE EXCEPT LOVE.

I tape the small rectangle of paper with the fortune above my signature in the blank space next to Mom. After I fold the will, I prop it up with the letter to Meredith against the mug of pens. The desk light shivers with the lapping waves. Both bunk beds are neatly made. No sign of the hours of studying, brainstorming with Holden, debating theories on the end of the world with Nick, or that incredible night with Meredith. It’s been a good place to be. A hard place to leave.

Outside the cabin the sky colors purple and brownish pink, bruised already and shrinking as if it doesn’t want to see what this day holds. If I’m really going, I’ve got to leave now. The heat behind my eyes stings. Tomorrow I’ll be somewhere else and I won’t see this sunrise and this horizon with the bridge spanning it, that familiar solid line of gray that’s been the edge of my life for sixteen and a half years. I hope Meredith’s parents let her stay with my family after they get the final news. For a little bit at least. I should write Nick—but in a separate letter from Mom’s—and tell him to give Meredith the cabin to sleep in if she asks. Without asking questions or making a big deal of it. No point in upsetting Mom over things she doesn’t know.

No point, no point. The words echo in my head as I tiptoe over to the dinghy, the rolling suitcase in my arms like a baby. After I lay it on the far front ribs to keep it from getting splashed, I uncleat the lead line and let the little boat float away from the big one. The oars dip into the water. Silver droplets sprinkle the surface, blue for only a moment in the first beginnings of the filtered sunrise. By the time I reach the shore, the water is brown again.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mack’s supposed to be waiting at the far end of St. Margaret’s campus in the blue truck with the engine and lights off. We’ve been over and over this part. Like the D-funct marina summers, it feels good to have Mack as my partner in crime again. A secret from my parents. Whispered details and hidden supplies, even if the ending’s not as unpredictable as it used to be in those adventures. Everyone but Mack has turned nursemaid. I’m so tired, so ready for it all to be over, one way or the other.

The hill between the creek and Jeanette Drive sets me back on the timing. The boots were a mistake, lead weights on my toothpick legs. Where, oh where have my swimming muscles gone? I press my fingers into my chest bone, the sternum according to the bio textbook. One of those damn lung spots must have stuck there and started that ache, so deep that even my fingers can’t reach the pain. I’m sucking in air and have to rest before I even get to St. Margaret’s flat-roofed gymnasium, where Meredith told me she had started taking the birth control pills. I think about not ever making love to her again, not touching the shallow place by her hip bone that catches the moonlight through the cabin window, the warm corner of her lips where my tongue tastes leftover ChapStick, the perfect spaces and lines of her fingers when she slips her hand into mine on a walk.

From across the long open lawn by the administration building, through a tangle of overgrown crape myrtle limbs, Mack’s headlights flash once and die. A signal. Time’s up. My first friend, my last friend, reminding me to stick to the plan.

I rise from the curb, wave at the flashbulb residue of his signal. My arm falls, heavy and useless. Rowing Meredith upstream on Hoskins Creek seems like a fairy tale. The small suitcase rolls along the sidewalk in a gravelly anthem that sinks into the night around me. I force myself to walk to the truck without another stop. Mack’s out before I get there, hustling the suitcase away from me, laying it in the back of the little pickup as if it were made of glass. He boosts me by the elbow into the cab, shuts the door like I’m his grandmother, and jogs back to the driver’s side. As he rolls the truck down Water Lane and out onto a deserted Route 360 slowly, carefully, as if he has just learned how to drive, I take one backward glance. The bridge rises smoky and indistinct in the early morning mist. And then at the corner where 360 meets Route 17 the blaring open-all-night lights of the Texaco station blast me back to reality.

“How’d it go with Meredith?” he asks.

“She had homework.”

“You left without saying goodbye?”

“She’d never understand. She’d think it had something to do with her.”

“Fuck, you’re a cold bastard.”

“Yeah, well, dying does that to you.” That shuts him up.

He flips on the radio and keeps his eyes on the road. Past the churches, past the Gold Coast, Woodside Golf Course, Horne’s at Port Royal with its 1950s striped awning, into Spotsylvania County and the single-lane stretch.

“You falling asleep?” I ask him, but the words stick in my mouth and I’m breathing hard to just get them out.

“I’m fine. I just don’t want the cops to stop us. I mean with Holden waiting for you in New York and all.”

I have to look at him twice to be sure he’s teasing. “Uh, Mack, don’t you think if you drive the speed limit like all the other cars the troopers will be less likely to notice us in the first place?”

“Sorry.” He guns it and the little truck shoots forward on the unlit blacktop, sending my hip bones into my intestines.

“Jeez. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“No piss intended. No piss taken.”

He slows to the speed limit, flips the radio knob to a rap station, gives me a wide grin, and starts to slap the steering wheel with one hand. “She’s great, don’t you think?”

“Who?”

“The truck. Who else?” His eyes are glittery, his hands jumping off the wheel with the radio bass. It’s making me nervous, despite his insistence during our last phone conversation that he’s not using anymore.

“Juliann maybe? Your girlfriend Juliann, remember her?”

“That’s over. Been over.” But his tone is tight and too high as if he’s just admitted cheating on a test.

“What happened?”

“Not everyone hits it off like you and Meredith. Juliann’s too tall for me anyway.”

“Since when is height a reason to back off from the perfect woman?”

“I wouldn’t say she’s the perfect woman. She’s a little too straitlaced for me.”

I think about that for a while. Here’s Mack, the Mack I know, pretty much an honor roll student, a suck-up to the teachers, still goes to church with his family, and has a regular job to pay for his car insurance. A nice, steady type of guy, and he’s dissing a girl for being too tall? Something’s screwy about that. Plus Meredith hasn’t said a thing to me about Mack dumping Juliann. Why would he think that? Why would he say it?

He’s a good driver, even upset about Juliann, even streaming along the curves and shadows on Route 17 at sixty miles an hour on a starless night. Because 17 is a killer road for curves, I stop talking and let him concentrate. The truck stays inside the lines and there are no sudden swerves or unexpected braking. It reassures me a little. He can’t be high if he’s driving so well. But I’ve said my piece about the drugs and tonight’s not the night to reopen that discussion.

What if Mom wakes up and discovers I’m not in bed? She’ll listen to see if I flush the head. She’ll come and stand outside, knock on the door, maybe twice before she opens it when I don’t answer. Once she sees I’m not there, she’ll rush around the deck and up to the roof. She’ll call my name, whispering at first so as not to wake Nick until she remembers he’s at a friend’s. When she can’t find me, she’ll start to yell. Dad, his breath raspy at being startled from sleep, will pad outside about the time she realizes the dinghy is gone. She’ll be halfway to the dock in the skiff before he interprets what she’s yelling about. He’ll know right away that I’ve left for good, but he’ll let her go and search because it’s the only way she can cope. Action and argument, proof that she’s still trying to save her son from something stronger than she is.

“Thanks for driving,” I say to Mack, careful not to bring up the twins again.

“No problem. I hope the train isn’t late. If your mom calls the police, they might think to check trains.”

“She won’t call the police. They’ve been the bad guys since the trial.”

“Last year did you ever think you’d be headed to New York on your own?”

“Never crossed my mind. You ever think you’d be driving a blue Nissan with your name on the title?”

We’ve played this game for years. Hollywood fantasies on an Essex County budget. It’s always been fun because our imaginations could take us anywhere even when we were stuck in small-town Virginia.

He turns down the radio, seriously into the game now. And I figure it’ll distract him from the end of the trip, the train station, and a goodbye neither of us wants. A goodbye I’m way more ready for than he is.

He says, “How about…ever imagine you would be the first Essex County High student to leap off the Rappahannock River Bridge?”

“Ever think you’d have the highest grade in algebra?”

“Ever dream that a beautiful girl like Meredith would fall for you big-time?”

“I still don’t believe it. But Meredith’s better than a dream. She’s like solid rock.” I lean back against the headrest and think about how she looked in the half-lit cabin, her eyes, her smile. “How come some people are that way and—”

Mack snorts. “And others are all hot air and shadows like Yowell?”

“What’s with you and Yowell?”

“Nothing. You’re the one who thought he was a traitor.”

“I’ve forgiven him.”

“Because of the senator?”

“I guess. He did put his reputation on the line to get the law changed. Got my parents off the hook. But slicko Leonard? Mostly because he’s nice to my mom.” Probably the wrong thing to be thinking about at this point.

Mack shoots a quick look at me, then back to the road. Does he think I don’t know he worries about me? No way that you can drive your best friend to the train where he will ride off into the sunset never to be seen again without worrying. Truly impossible if you know he’s probably going to choke to death on his own vomit in a deserted alley.

Somewhere between Port Royal and the Fredericksburg golfing range, we lose the Richmond radio station. I twist the dial, force myself to settle on something loud. If Holden can do this, I can. Anyway, I’m tired of talking. Tired of thinking.

One minute the road is dark and we’re a bullet hurtling through empty space, and the next minute red strobe lights are crashing all around us. Sirens. Cops.

“I wasn’t speeding,” Mack is practically yelling.

“Okay, okay. So pull over. Maybe they just need to get by.”

“Yeah, and there are so many fucking cars coming the other way that they can’t pass?”

“Mack, pull yourself together. Don’t talk, let them do the talking.”

“Easier for you to be calm. You’re not the one whose license is on the line.”

He’s so bent out of shape I’m beginning to think he’s worried about something more than just a traffic charge. In the mirror I can now see that there’s only one police car. State trooper, actually.

“Mack, you don’t have drugs in here, do you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Mack?”

“Are you crazy?”

“You said you quit, but you’re going ballistic here. I thought—”

“It would be suicide to carry coke in a car. Every idiot knows that. Any routine stop of a teenager and they search.”

The silence settles between us as the sirens die. The flashing light slices across the empty field, the stubble of last year’s cornstalks glistening and then gone and there again. Minutes pass and finally the black bulky form of the trooper climbing out of the cruiser twenty yards back appears in the side mirror.

My head pounds. My fingers are clammy. “You lied to me. You said you were only smoking pot. You said you quit.”

“I meant pot.”

“You said coke.”

“I meant pot.”

“Goddamn it, Mack. I’m not going to be here and you—”

“Shut up, shut up, here’s the cop.”

Exactly like in every damn movie I’ve ever seen, the trooper raps on the window. Mack lets it scroll open.

“Just the two of you boys?” the trooper says. At his waist metal gleams in the holster. He scans the truck cab with his flashlight.

Mack nods. I nod.

“So where are you headed at four in the morning?” His words are clipped, official, but he’s smiling. As if he thinks it’ll loosen us up.

What was I thinking to leave in the middle of the night? If I’d strung out a story about Mack and me going to the mall in Fredericksburg, no one would have thought twice. All that planning for nothing. We’re underage. There’s probably a curfew in Fredericksburg. The trooper will call our parents. We’ll have to go back. My mother will never leave me alone again. I’ll never get to New York. And I can’t tell anyone the real reason. Not even Mack knows how badly I need to get out of Virginia and find a doctor who’ll listen to me.

“One of our friends from Mary Wash called about a party.” Good for Mack. Typical teenager putting his foot in his mouth.

“A party at the college? You two old enough for that?”

“Oh, it’s not that, officer. We’re not going to go to the party.” He’s buying time, thinking fast.

I’m glad he’s the one behind the wheel. My mind is totally blank. Holden, Holden, I’m falling apart here. This is my deal, not Mack’s. He’s having to rescue us when I should have worked the possibilities out in advance and been ready for this.

Mack turns off the engine, like he’s so concerned about the gas. Smart. “Carrie’s upset. Our friend. Some guy tried to…you know…take advantage of her. She’s pretty, uh, wrecked.”

“She should call the campus police.”

“I know. We told her that, but she’s embarrassed. Thank you though for the advice, officer. We’ll try that when we get there. When she’s calmer.”

The trooper shines the flashlight around the cab again, down to the floor, up along the dashboard. “The city has a curfew. Did you know that?”

“Curfew? No, jeez, no. Did you know that, Dan?”

I shake my head, a boulder in my throat.

“You’re lucky you weren’t speeding. I’d better check your license while I’ve got you here.”

Mack scrambles to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. The seat belt hangs him up and he’s stabbing at the button to release it, while I’m thinking, Be cool, buddy, be cool.

The trooper straightens, his hand at his back like it hurts. He has to be older than he looks. People my parents’ age have back problems. He must bend down to windows a lot in his job. He raises his voice.

“And if I were you, I’d wait until after seven before you head back to”—he takes the license Mack thrusts out the window and holds it under the flashlight—“Tappahannock. Seven is the end of curfew.”

“Thank you, officer. We’ll do that. Thanks.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. What idiots.

In Fredericksburg all the parking spaces below the train tracks are marked HANDICAPPED. Mack swings through the parking lot twice. When he starts in the third time, I put my hand on his arm.

“Just drop me off.”

“I’m not going to drop you off and let you stand here by yourself like some homeless person without any goddamn friends.”

“You are pissy. Park, then. We can huddle on the sidewalk and do that Boy Scout triple handshake and you can pat my back and talk about old times.”

“Can’t you read the signs? All the spaces are fucking handicapped.”

“I am fucking handicapped.”

He laughs at that.

Once we’re up the ramp and I’m huffing on the platform, he takes out his wallet.

“Dan, don’t get all twisted over this. I had money left over after I paid the insurance.” He sticks a wad of bills in my pocket. “Take it. You don’t know what those Broadway hookers cost these days.” With his head down, he’s in the shadows.

“You read it. You read The Catcher in the Rye, you dog, you. Why didn’t you say something?”

He’s embarrassing me, even though I know he’s not trying to. My eyes are blurring up. Damn. After the will, I said I was done crying. Don’t. I’m talking to myself. Not here, not with Mack. He read Catcher because I told him to, because his best friend is dying and there’s nothing more he can do for me except that.

He shrugs. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“Did you really give up the weed too?”

I can’t bring myself to say coke. Even now I want to believe it was only a few times. But when he doesn’t answer, we both look away.

“You’re a first-class idiot,” I say.

“You’re a know-it-all.”

“I’m entitled.”

“Just because you’re sick? You get to tell everyone else how to live their lives?”

“Because I’m dying. You know I’m right. It’s a bad habit. Dangerous. Drugs make you less, not more. If you get caught, everything else you want to do goes down the drain. Look what happened tonight. Why screw it up?”

“You’re the one who’s always promoting free will.”

“Yeah, but good choices, not lousy ones.”

“And disappearing in New York and leaving your family in limbo, that’s a good choice?”

“I don’t have many options.”

“You’re chickening out. You’re scared and you don’t want anyone to see it, so you’re running away.”

“Go screw yourself.” I stalk down the platform. Minutes later, when I hear the train, I turn to retrieve the suitcase and it’s sitting by itself on the empty platform. He’s gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Coming off the train in the underground station in New York City, my legs are shaky and my head weighs ten tons. I forgot to pack Tylenol. It’ll cost more here, my first mistake. And I need to eat. The train food was ridiculously expensive. I ate every one of Meredith’s organic cookies. I’d counted on one a day, but they’re gone already. Most of the way I slept, despite wanting to see the places I’d read about in books. Union Station in D.C., Philadelphia, New Jersey. I know, I know, no one really includes New Jersey on his list of must-see places, but it is north of the Mason-Dixon Line. They talk with that wild twang that makes me feel not a little sympathetic after the big deal they make about Southern accents. The long nap has left me groggy and not quite steady on my feet. When I hesitate on the top step, the conductor reaches for my suitcase. I had no idea I looked that out of it.

Penn Station teems with people. People in saris, in turbans, in cowboy hats, in motorcycle jackets, ballet shoes, lots of black business suits. Chinese, Indian, African-American, Spanish. Short and round, tall and thin. Good cover, one kid in a city this size, no wonder Holden came here. It takes two sightings of the purple I LOVE NEW YORK balloons before I realize I’ve gone around the station in a circle. And I’m no closer to getting out. Tentacled hallways spin out in all directions. How the hell am I supposed to know whether I want Madison Square Garden or Thirty-second Street?

The escalator rises above me and I make an instant decision. Stale humid air turns into a tunnel of wind. Smelly, cold, buffets of real world. I’m in New York, the big city, Holden’s stomping grounds. I’m actually really here. Mack’s voice echoes, “Did you ever think…”

A splinter of blue sky appears through the glass wall at the top and streaming yellow. Taxis. Nick would love the action. He’d be sprinting down sidewalks, jaywalking like a long-time resident. I’m with Holden, though. I like the idea of sitting back and letting someone carry me through the madness.

It’s not exactly what I expected. More people on the streets, more cars. Of course Holden skips telling about that part because he’s used to it. Plus he’s so busy thinking up people he knows that he can call. It isn’t anywhere near as exciting, though, as it would be with Meredith or Joe or Mack. Now that I think of it, Joe’s been here with his college buddies. Some TV network visit for his poli sci major? Museum research? I don’t remember much except his ranting about the cost of food and the number of gorgeous models in mink coats on Fifth Avenue. Food and girls are a huge part of Joe’s existence. To be honest, his stories don’t have the same power to impress as Holden’s. Not that I would ever tell Joe that.

I wish I could talk about the trip with Meredith. I didn’t—couldn’t—mention New York to her ahead of time. We were talking about other things, more important things. And at the end—when I knew I was leaving—we weren’t doing much talking. Still, she’d be a good traveler, curious but patient. She pays attention to little things. She’d notice a gazillion things I’d miss: murals in lobbies, men on I beams twenty stories high, Siamese cats in a Dumpster. I try to take it all in so I can write to her. I’ll have time once I find the right doctors and they start the chemo treatments. There’ll be plenty of time then. People are always talking about chemo in terms of the number of sessions. It’s bound to be a long haul.

With all these strangers around, it’s weird to feel so alone. If I only had some idea where the places are that HC talks about in Catcher. He should have done a sketch, like the one on the inside cover of Winnie the Pooh, with the Edmont Hotel, Central Park South, Ernie’s. Not that he’s the kind of guy to give directions exactly.

Even with the long nap on the train, I have no energy for walking. After watching people emerge from the station and immediately swing right into the taxi line, their suitcases like ducklings behind them, I edge into the line myself. Some people sit on their luggage, but Dad’s rolling bag is too small. I should have brought the folding camp stool. Then they’d really be able to spot me as a hick.

When it’s my turn, the taxi driver doesn’t get out to help with the bag. I wait a second, until I realize he’s not moving. Harem music is on his radio. This should be interesting. While I’m struggling to lift my suitcase high enough to stick it in the backseat, the woman behind me steps forward, grabs it, and throws it in.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Next time pack lighter,” she says. “You’re holding up the line.”

Welcome to New York.

The Edmont Hotel doesn’t exist anymore. At least the taxi driver has never heard of it.

“How about Horn and Hardart?”

He throws up one hand. “Is that some kind of dance joint?”

“It’s a cafeteria-type place.”

“You want eat. Tourists go Benihana.” He swings across three lines of traffic and swerves into a narrow side road in a new direction entirely.

“No, no, I’m not hungry. How about the Algonquin Hotel?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He makes an even wilder U-turn, yelling and gesturing to the honking horns all around us. The cab surges into the traffic, only to brake hard and lurch to the right to avoid a black limousine that screeches to a halt within inches of my door. The lady inside opens her mouth in a silent scream. When I laugh, my driver turns around and stares. Not worth explaining that a fatal car accident is not the worst thing imaginable to someone in my position.

At the Algonquin they want more money for one night’s stay than I’ve ever had to my name. Holden forgot to mention his father was filthy rich. I could kick myself for not figuring that out. Private schools and tweed sport coats that other guys want to borrow and a high-rise townhouse with an elevator. While I’m inquiring at the front desk for less expensive hotels, the cabbie gets tired of waiting. Just as well—I don’t want to think about how much he would have charged for the half hour it takes me to get the tiny foreign man at the desk to understand what I need.

By the time I finally choose a Yellow Pages listing that advertises rooms by the week, my stomach is growling. I use three of Nick’s crumpled dollars to buy one of those famous pretzels from a sidewalk cart and walked east toward Fifth Avenue like I know what I’m doing. In the shadows at one corner a girl catches at my elbow. She prances in place in the highest heels I’ve ever seen and the shortest skirt. While she talks, she glances up and down the block as if she’s on the lookout. Not sure what that’s all about.

“Wanna see New York?” Her voice is cracked and high. Hard to tell if she’s nervous or scared. “I can show you a good time and the sights for a bill. Two hours for a bill, buddy. Isn’t that what you had in mind?”

What I know is that when Holden said yes to the same kind of girl, he got stuck, and I’m not going there. He might have known the dancing hot spots and the bars that didn’t card, but I don’t have hours to waste sitting in a bar over small talk. If Mack had come, or if I wasn’t running out of time…

“Maybe another day,” I say, still walking.

Her face clouds and she reaches out for my arm. I step backward and miss the curb. The rush of a passing car, a blast of gritty exhaust. I stumble, lean forward, feel myself falling. Clawing at my sleeve, she closes her grip and pulls me back onto the sidewalk.

“Buddy, you gotta pay more attention. What country you from?”

And before I can answer or explain, she’s melted into the flow of passing arms and legs as if she were only in my imagination. The light changes and the sidewalk around me empties for the briefest second. When it fills in again, she’s nowhere.

A manic sweep of pedestrians carries me along until I finally spot the sign for Fifth Avenue. Here the sidewalks are wider and pedestrians are a mix of business suits and shoppers. More women in heels, flashes of jewelry, swinging leather briefcases. Without thinking, I let the crowd carry me past cheerful guards with polished buttons and through a spinning glass doorway. The words TRUMP TOWER are embossed on the wall. I’ve heard of it, but not from Holden.

Before I know it I’m riding the escalator. It’s all gold, reflections of storefronts on each level with glittery necklaces displayed on the engineered chests of headless mannequins in cocktail dresses. No one can pass me and my ratty backpack and Dad’s little rolling suitcase as I ride up past this incredible wall of water and vines and flowers. It’s like the pictures of Hawaii in the Sunday travel section of the newspaper.

Dad may come here when he’s meeting his New York publishers to deliver edited manuscripts. Meredith would love the way it makes you completely forget you’re in the city. If I could figure out a way to sound convincing, I’d apply for a job as a janitor here. Somewhere close by I could rent a basement apartment and Meredith and Mack could come and visit.

Just as my legs are about to give out, I get to the third floor. Pulling myself out of the escalator line, I sit down at an empty table at the edge of a cafe that overlooks the wall of water and the lobby. I’m perspiring, about to run to find the men’s room because I’m afraid I’m going to lose the little I’ve eaten since I’ve left Virginia, when the nosebleed happens. Trump’s penguin waiters are not pleased to see me, a regular fountain of blood pumping all over the starched white tablecloth. They crowd around me, jabbering in at least four different languages. With ice in a plastic bag pressed to my face, they escort me to a service elevator and I’m shoved out into the back alley, surrounded by Dumpsters and three men in rags suckling paper bags in the corners. Holden, where are you?

While I hug the fire escape railing and try to lean my head back to stop the bleeding, two of the bums tug themselves to standing and edge toward me. Mud stains or worse dribble down their clothes. Threads hang from their shirt cuffs in clumps of brown.

“You lost, boy?” The bigger man slurs the words as he steps in for a closer look.

The third man groans from where he sits on the ground. “Don’t touch him, he’s prob’bly contagious.”

“You can share your wallet, or we can share it for you,” the first man screams. The words, mingled spittle and germs, shoot into my eardrum. I’m relieved Mom’s not here. She’d be cringing.

He stops his head inches from mine, but close enough that I can see the veins etched against his eyes like the laces on a baseball. Blood drools down the side of the bag of ice. My blood. It drips onto the old guy’s sneaker. When he doesn’t notice, I think it’s a good thing he’s drunk. How badly can he hurt me if he’s drunk?

When I come to, I’m in a narrow white stall, curtains flapping on both sides, open to a waiting room full of chairs. It’s crammed with people who look like they’re related to the raggedy men in the alley. I’m lying on a gurney next to a white-uniformed nurse with bright orange hair and a line of studs in one ear that glint in the fluorescent glare. After she checks my pulse, blood pressure, all that standard stuff, and makes quick notations on a clipboard, she pricks my finger without warning.

“Ouch.”

“You should have thought of that before you fainted, kid.”

Without speaking she and I watch the slender tube fill with blood.

“Ever been anemic?” she asks as she pulls up my sleeve and stares at the inside of my elbow where it bends.

“I don’t think so.”

“Clean,” she says to no one in particular.

She’s looking right through me and I’m waiting for her to see the spots on my lungs with her bare eyes.

“Are you eighteen?” she asks.

“I’m not stupid. I know you couldn’t treat me if I was underage.”

“If you’re already thinking you need treatment, you’d better tell me what this is all about. Your sign-in sheet lists Edmont Hotel as your address. Far as I know, they tore that down a few years back.” Head tilted to share the joke, she drags a metal stool from the adjoining cubicle, tugs the curtain closed around us, and sits down like she’s talking trash with her girlfriends. “So…what’s going on, kid? No ID. Blood all over the place. Gonorrhea? Crack? You look half dead.”

“Wow, that’s impressive. You got that right on the first guess.”

Her feet crash to the floor and she leans in, her eyes fixed on mine. “Okay, funny guy, that ain’t funny. Where the hell are your parents? If you’re dying, they ought to be here.” Her hand is poised to tear back the curtain.

“Please, wait, let me explain.”

“I’m all ears. And I’ve heard it all before. You can’t shock me.”

“Leukemia. Almost a year.”

“Let me guess. Chemo and radiation slowed things down and now you’re feeling lousy again. You skipped out on round two.”

“No chemotherapy, no radiation. My mother took me to Mexico.” I can’t believe the words are spilling out, racing to be spoken in this cubicle to a woman—a girl, really—who doesn’t know me and probably doesn’t care one way or the other.

“Jesus H. Christ. What were they thinking?”

“It sounded really logical at the time. I agreed with them.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a teenager. I expect that kind of stupidity from a teenager, but adults are supposed to know better.”

When she turns to work the dials on a machine off to the side, I slide my legs off the gurney. The suitcase ought to be here somewhere. My jacket. My backpack. The papers from Senator Yowell, the new law that gives me the right to make treatment decisions on my own.

Next thing I know I wake up covered with blankets, still in the same little cubicle. The same nurse has the phone to her fuzz of orange hair. That same stare focuses on punching numbers, while her pen taps against the counter until someone answers on the other end and her head starts to nod like a groupie’s at a rock concert. The conversation is long and longer, but not loud enough for me to make out the words. I doze off and lose most of it, except “emergency” and “ASAP.” When she turns around, I try to smile. I need her and she knows it.

“You lied,” she says.

“It doesn’t matter. My parents don’t understand. No one understands. Anyway, it’s my life.”

“That’s what they all say. Well, now that you’re here, you’re going to get a chance to do a better job of explaining it. Don’t move.”

She brings me a tray from the cafeteria. Hamburger, fries, and orange juice.

“Daniel Solstice Landon, that your real name?”

“Yeah. Swedish.”

“I’m Jolie, but I’m not French.”

“Look, I’m sorry to be so much trouble. The nosebleeds are … I can never tell about the nosebleeds. Will they let me talk to a doctor?”

“Maybe. If you eat. You need strength. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“From the nosebleed?”

“I’d say someone took a heavy object to the back of your head.”

My fingers explore and discover that my head has been shaved. Tape and a bandage cover a padded square between my ears. So the men in the alley were sober enough after all. No wonder my head throbs.

“I’m not very hungry.”

“You’ll have to do better than that. Drink the orange juice at least. Blood sugar levels, you know. They have to take another tube of blood—a big tube this time—and you already fainted once with me. Who knows how many times before you got here.”

“How did I get here?”

“Listen, we aren’t writing biographies. This is the emergency room. No one comes here with a history all written out in plain English.” She holds the paper cup to my lips and shakes her head. “If you were my kid, I’d kill you for running away without telling me. I assume your parents had no idea you were headed here.”

“No idea.” I’m biting my lip to keep from throwing up the juice.

“You’re turning green. Need the bucket?”

“Thanks.”

While I spit orange drool into the plastic kidney-shaped pan that I know is meant for another kind of liquid altogether, the nurse smoothes my hair off my forehead and tucks it behind my ears.

“Ever thought about getting a haircut?”

“You and my dad.”

“First impressions are important. They can’t give medicine to just any old Harry who shows up at the emergency room. And certainly not chemotherapy. It requires a slew of tests and forms and doctor’s opinions, to say nothing of parental consent. And money or insurance. Did you think it would be like taking an aspirin?”

“If you open the backpack, the papers are all in there.”

“Listen, you aren’t Barbie. You didn’t come with a backpack.”

“I had one, and a suitcase. Is that here?”

She shakes her orange hair. “Sorry.”

“The law says I can make my own decision.”

“Not if you’re a minor.” She holds out the battered copy of Senator Yowell’s letter with the statute language stapled on the back. “These were in your jacket pocket.”

“Didn’t you read it? It says a minor can consent if he’s fully informed. That’s the whole thing, the reason I came to New York.” Holden will forgive me for not mentioning all my reasons.

She puts the papers in my hand. “Did you read it? The conditions include written verification from your parents that you’ve been informed of all your medical options. I guess I’m supposed to believe that piece of paper was in the phantom backpack.”

When Jolie comes back from dealing with the other patients that stream by in gurneys and wheelchairs, I tell her the story from the beginning. Not the sprained ankle and Meredith, but the rest of it. She smoothes out the pages of Senator Yowell’s letter while she listens, and I’m surprised when they buzz to say a second tray has arrived.

“Dinner,” she says.

“What was the other?”

“Lunch.” After she yanks the table around and props me up on the pillows in front of the tray, she turns down the lights and tells me she’ll check back later.

“With the doctor? I need to talk to someone official about starting the chemo. I’m not sure how much time I have.”

“We’re dealing with all that. Just eat as much as you can and get some rest.”

“Do you have to leave?”

“Shift ends at seven, kid. By tomorrow morning the doctors will have some results from the tests and they can make some decisions.” She nods at the tray. “Right now eating’s your job. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“And you’ll be back then?”

“Sure. In the morning.”

“You’re not just saying that? You mean it?”

She smiles and snaps a quick salute.

All alone in the curtained space, I go over the plan that made so much sense back in Virginia. It’s beyond embarrassing the stuff I’ve done to try to beat this leukemia thing: stealing Nick’s life savings for the train ticket, crying on the phone to Meredith, and seeing Mack strung out and not sticking around to be sure he stops. Even with Senator Yowell’s new law and all his political cronies’ high hopes for a more fair system, I should have known they wouldn’t make it easy for a kid. It’s not looking like I’ll be able to convince the New York doctors to give me the stupid chemo drugs. And I can’t even disappear.

To fail at this, too, after the failure of my body is too much. Now that I’m miles from home, I can see the mistake so clearly. Leukemia is one of those problems you can’t solve yourself. The list of Dad’s twelve steps from AA floats in my consciousness like the Ouija board, though the room is suddenly crooked and the white shapes move in and out of focus, on one side of the bed and then the other.

First, Dad says, you have to admit you have a problem you can’t control. Then you have to admit you need help from a higher power outside yourself. I’m partway there. A recovering leukemia addict? That’s not quite right. Leukemia’s the only part that fits. The room around me whirls. The clock, the machines turn fuzzy and unreadable. My eyes blur and my throat gets thicker. The walls are tilting up around me, so I know I’m sicker than I’ve ever been, sinking, dying. Just before it all goes black, a familiar voice tunnels into the cold slap of air from the automatic door that gapes open to the coal black cavity of a New York City night.

Mom’s found me after all.

I’m not sure how I get from the emergency room gurney to a real hospital bed. The room is dark except for the mechanical light that glows from behind the curtain rack above my head. They’ve hidden my bed behind a half-drawn curtain. Green this time, instead of white. The curtain confuses me because it’s hard to believe they’d put someone as sick as me with these scheming overblown white blood cells in a room with another patient. But I can hear the other guy breathing in long slow rasps just outside my space. From the rattle in his throat, it’s a good thing he’s on the other side of the curtain.

No surprise that there’s no mirror in a cancer ward. Outside the picture window the lights of New York flicker like the candles on the Phantom’s subterranean organ. I wonder how far down it is from this room to the street. There’s nothing in Essex County this high.

“How long did they say for the results?” It’s Mom’s voice directed at the doorway, the only block of solid light in the murkiness.

“It’s a long process.” The answer comes from a strange woman in scrubs who steps up to the bed as she’s stripping clear gloves from her hands. A stark white mask on an elastic circle rings her neck like jewelry. “They’ve already done the lab work. We rushed it through since it’s so… because of his condition. We’re lucky his white count is just high enough. If he’d spent any longer on the street… They’re going to try to do a super round first, about twice the normal dose, then stabilize him for the helicopter ride to Virginia.”

When Mom nods from the other side of the bed, a small rush of air brushes my face. I can’t help the smile, though I doubt anyone else notices it. The rest of me is wrapped in sheets, swaddled like a baby. Back at the beginning again. So… I haven’t made that leap to independence after all, but somehow I’m not as bummed as I would have expected.

Dad appears, his collar looking suspiciously like the one on his pajama shirt. “Doctor, are you sure he can manage the altitude?”

The unspoken joke starts me coughing again. Remember Butch Cassidy when the railroad’s hired guns are chasing him and the Sundance Kid? Standing on the cliff above the raging river, Butch says, “I can’t swim,” and Sundance laughs. “Are you kidding? The fall will probably kill you.”

The doctor, edging toward Dad and away from me, assumes her best bedside manner. “That’s why the medevac. It’s high-speed. He should be in Richmond by six tomorrow morning, even with the chemotherapy infusion here. MCV has a bed for him in ICU. You can visit him there.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Mom says, dredging her words through a monotone of guilt.

“Sylvie.” Dad’s voice. “Let these people do their jobs. This treatment is what Daniel wants.”

The doctor fiddles with the buttons on the machine. Even I can tell she’s giving my parents time to adjust. “You all sit tight now. Transport for the treatment will be here shortly.”

Nick’s bubble-gum breath is close. “Hey, Daniel, old buddy. You awake? Thought you could get away from us, huh? The Clampetts come to the Big Apple.”

I’m all out of fancy words.

Nick stays close. “Joe’s gone downstairs for coffee. He says you forgot this.” He spreads my fingers and he positions something in my palm; dry, smooth, the edges worn soft with use. My copy of Catcher. There in the blurred, overly warm air of nighttime hospital purgatory, the sharp memory of the dark cover and sunlit letters burns behind my eyes. Holden’s right after all. When you jump, there are lots of people watching.

I must sleep some. Coughing wakes me up and I turn toward the invisible roommate. But it’s my own coughing. The sky is crimson and bloody, the edges of the city skyline like a black marker scratched on the red wound in hasty stitches to staunch the bleeding. The coughing’s much worse. The band in my chest tightens. My ribs ache with the effort to suck in air after each spasm. With each whistling gasp, Mom winces as if she’s caught her finger in the door. She leans down, a whisper hovering, but when my hands loosen on the bedrail and the heart monitor’s blips slow, then pause, she stands back up and starts to yell.

“Help, oh, God, nurse, help. Stieg”—she shakes my father who’s asleep in the chair—“get someone. He’s choking.”

Before Dad makes it to the doorway there’s a new, deep voice and the broad bleached shoulders of a uniform bearing down on me. A male nurse works the dials and presses my chest with hard urgent thrusts with the heel of his palms until the blips are steady again and my lungs fill. For several long minutes no one says anything and he stares at me without any judgment, just intent on trained observation.

“Hey, kid.” He raises his eyebrows. “You back?”

And I nod. I’d like to thank him, but I’m afraid to breathe in and trigger the cough again.

“After we arranged for these high-powered drugs you asked for and went to all this trouble, you gotta stick around.” He lifts me, wrapped in the sheets, up off the bed and onto a mechanized stretcher. He moves efficiently, snapping and tugging the tubes and the hanging bags of medicine. Straps cross my chest and arms, another set over my thighs. He chats with Dad about the Yankees and the Dodgers. I’m disconnected and connected again without feeling anything except smaller shudders in my bones and gut. Everything is shrinking into itself, tighter and tighter. When my stomach twists, I fight the urge to curl into myself. That explains the restraints, illogical as it seems that my body is still laced as it struggles to find air. Razor cuts stab and twist in the deepest part of me. My teeth clamp down so no one can hear the moans I’m battling to keep buried.

The nurse ignores the choking coughs and the family trailing in my wake as he pushes the wheeled stretcher steadily. Once we get to the elevator Joe blocks the door to delay its closing, while Mom and Dad and Nick squeeze in around the stretcher. And even though Meredith’s not here, holding my hand with those perfect fingers, I imagine her with Mack and Juliann, the three of them shoulder to shoulder on his basement couch, waiting for word. I can see them lining up at the end of the fishing pier, setting off fireworks to celebrate my coming home. The elevator groans.

“Family road trip,” Nick says and we’re off.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In 1906 my seventeen-year-old grandmother snuck a buggy from the livery stable and drove the horses down Main Street and out of town. One hundred years ago proper young ladies did not drive carriages. When obstacles, expectations, and conventions jam me up, I think of my grandmother and embrace the risk. As a fifty-seven-year old, writing a teenage boy’s story was risky, even after three teenagers of my own.

Being a writer is different from being an author, more so today with publishing industry consolidations and the insistence that success as a writer is measured in sales figures. That Alex Carr, my editor, and AmazonEncore championed Daniel’s story speaks volumes to the future of books in whatever format readers crave, a vision that AE promotes in all that it does for writers and readers. I will never forget the ongoing support of a slew of fellow writers, librarians, and book-festival organizers who remain the foundation on which a writer’s bridge to readers is built. And without my friends from our small Virginia town and the doctors and nurses at Martha Jefferson Hospital in Charlottesville, Virginia, who treated my cancer and gave me insights into Daniel’s, I might have missed this chance to honor J. D. Salinger and Holden Caulfield.

Finally I have to thank Chris, my partner for life, who loved Daniel Solstice Landon from the first draft of the first chapter. Chris has worried over Daniel as conscientiously as he did our own children, and like me, he is relieved that Daniel discovered the true meaning of family.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. At first Daniel accepts his parents’ refusal to follow the established treatments for leukemia, but when he realizes he’s not getting better, he is forced to reexamine that decision. How much control should a minor have over his own medical treatment? What risks does Daniel face when he takes action for himself? Is a teenager capable of making life decisions without his parents’ input?

3. As J. D. Salinger’s character Holden Caulfield reports his feelings and actions, the reader begins to question Holden’s reliability as a narrator. Is Daniel a reliable narrator? Does he see his dilemma and the issues with his friends clearly?

5. Books and the characters in them often impact one’s view of the world or a particular challenge. Does Daniel’s fascination with Holden Caulfield add to Daniel’s insight into the issues he confronts or not? What changes occurred in your view of those same issues after you listened to Daniel’s reasoning?

7. Studies support the importance of family activities in confidence levels of children. How do Daniel’s brothers, Joe and Nick, influence Daniel’s take on the adult world and his ability to face his illness?

9. Courts and politicians impose rules that dictate personal and family decisions. Do you think the state has the right to dictate what kind of medical treatment a child receives? Is Senator Yowell’s effort to change the law to help the Landons an appropriate action for a politician?

11. Choices about sex and drugs hound today’s teenagers. What things do Daniel, Meredith, Mack, and Leonard consider when they have to make those choices? Should the fact that Daniel is dying affect his decision to sleep with Meredith?

13. As a result of cases like Daniel’s, several states changed their laws to allow informed minors to consent to their own medical treatment. Do you think that change is good? How might the new medical consent law affect other laws that regulate the behavior of minors?

A Teachers’ Guide with Writing Projects for a combined study unit on Catcher, Caught and Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye is available online at www.catchercaught.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catcher, Caught, Sarah Collins Honenberger’s third novel, was inspired by her desire to reconnect today’s teenagers with the voice of J. D. Salinger’s Holden Caulfield through a narrative based on the true-life story of a teenage boy suffering from leukemia whose parents refuse to allow him to receive traditional treatment. After penning Catcher, Caught, Honenberger fought her own personal battle with an aggressive cancer. With the cancer now in remission, she continues to write about families in crisis from her Virginia river house.

Previous Works By Sarah Collins Honenberger

Waltzing Cowboys

White Lies: A Tale of Babies, Vaccines, and Deception

Copyright

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2010 Sarah Collins Honenberger

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

PUBLISHED BY AMAZON ENCORE

P.O. Box 400818

Las Vegas, NV 89140

PRODUCED BY MELCHER MEDIA, INC.

124 West 13th Street

New York, NY 10011

www.melcher.com

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER:

2010907475

ISBN: 978-1-935597-10-0

Cover design by Chris Sergio

Author photo by SCH

Content

Sarah Collins Honenberger
CATCHER, CAUGHT

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Previous Works By Sarah Collins Honenberger

Copyright