anyone found out, I would cease to be a real live person. I'd just become a girl with cancer. That poor girl who will die soon, the one who will never have a full life, the one who—
“Mia,” Dad sighed. “You heard what Dr. Shreve said. There's not much—”
“I heard her!” I yelled, suddenly very angry with him, with Dr. Shreve, with Dr. Lambert, with Mom, with everyone. “I know howmuch damned time I have left. I have left! Not you, not Mom, and certainly not Dr. Shreve. Me! And, I don't want anyone to know. Can't you just respect that? Is that really too much to ask? Hell, I'm dying , here. Can't you just do as I ask and not for once in your miserable lives question me?”
I didn't wait for them to respond. Just turned on my heel and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. In my room, I slammed the door, and then opened it and slammed it again for good measure. Rage still boiled within me, pushing me to new and higher peaks of anger. I lashed out, kicking the bed post, smashing my toes against the hardwood, reveling in the pain. I whirled around, seeking out my next target. The desk. Within moments, all my meticulously ordered books, pens, pencils, and even the laptop were strewn around the room, the desktop devoid of even a single paperclip. Next came the dresser, and then the closet, and then the bed.
I tore through the room, a massively destructive tornado that lay waste to the village of my life. When it was over, when I'd finally spun myself to the point to exhaustion, I collapsed on my bed—stripped bare of pillows and linens—and stared up at the ceiling.
And came to a decision.
I wasn't going to just sit back and wait for Death to come claim me. Thursday afternoon after the appointment with Dr. Lambert and the ensuing conversation with Kal swung back at me with the force of a concrete wrecking ball. I'm not going to die today, and certainly not that way . I'd only been reassuring him that I was fine, that everything was going to be okay, but there was so much more to those words than I'd known at the time I'd spoken them aloud.
I may have been diagnosed with brain cancer, inoperable and, thus, terminal. The doctors may have given me only months to live, but that didn't mean I was going to die of brain cancer.
No. If I had to die, then by God, I was going to do it my way. I said when . I said where . And, I was most definitely going to say how .
PART TWO: ANGER
E IGHT
“I AM SO GLAD YOU'RE BACK,” Ricki said after she'd flung open my bedroom door. She stopped short; her mouth dropped open as she took in the disaster area my room had become. “What happened in here?”
I poked my head out of the closet, looked around, and shrugged as casually as I could. “I'm cleaning…er…reorganizing,” I explained and held my breath while she digested my words.
She glanced around again. Her gaze paused briefly on the overturned laptop lying on the floor next to the dresser. I didn't even know if it'd still work after being flung across the room and hitting the wall. Really, I didn't care. Apparently convinced, she picked her way through the clutter and dropped down onto my bed. At least, I'd remade it before she arrived.
“So,” she began, her voice dripping with curiosity. “How was it?”
I stiffened but didn't turn around to face her. “How was what?” I asked innocently.
She groaned loudly. “Oh, come on, Mia. Why do I always have to drag everything out of you?”
My eyes slid closed in an effort to shield me from her questions. Why did she have to ask? Why couldn't she be her normal self-absorbed self? The one time I'd prefer that she monopolized the conversation with talk of her boyfriend, her grades, her family, her life, she wanted to know about me? Why?
“Mia, I'm not stupid,” she said. “I know you didn't go visit Kal's grandmother.”
Shit. Shit. Shit . “You do?” My voice was nothing more than a terrified squeak.
She rolled her eyes, heaving out a dramatic sigh.
“Mia,” Dad sighed. “You heard what Dr. Shreve said. There's not much—”
“I heard her!” I yelled, suddenly very angry with him, with Dr. Shreve, with Dr. Lambert, with Mom, with everyone. “I know howmuch damned time I have left. I have left! Not you, not Mom, and certainly not Dr. Shreve. Me! And, I don't want anyone to know. Can't you just respect that? Is that really too much to ask? Hell, I'm dying , here. Can't you just do as I ask and not for once in your miserable lives question me?”
I didn't wait for them to respond. Just turned on my heel and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. In my room, I slammed the door, and then opened it and slammed it again for good measure. Rage still boiled within me, pushing me to new and higher peaks of anger. I lashed out, kicking the bed post, smashing my toes against the hardwood, reveling in the pain. I whirled around, seeking out my next target. The desk. Within moments, all my meticulously ordered books, pens, pencils, and even the laptop were strewn around the room, the desktop devoid of even a single paperclip. Next came the dresser, and then the closet, and then the bed.
I tore through the room, a massively destructive tornado that lay waste to the village of my life. When it was over, when I'd finally spun myself to the point to exhaustion, I collapsed on my bed—stripped bare of pillows and linens—and stared up at the ceiling.
And came to a decision.
I wasn't going to just sit back and wait for Death to come claim me. Thursday afternoon after the appointment with Dr. Lambert and the ensuing conversation with Kal swung back at me with the force of a concrete wrecking ball. I'm not going to die today, and certainly not that way . I'd only been reassuring him that I was fine, that everything was going to be okay, but there was so much more to those words than I'd known at the time I'd spoken them aloud.
I may have been diagnosed with brain cancer, inoperable and, thus, terminal. The doctors may have given me only months to live, but that didn't mean I was going to die of brain cancer.
No. If I had to die, then by God, I was going to do it my way. I said when . I said where . And, I was most definitely going to say how .
PART TWO: ANGER
E IGHT
“I AM SO GLAD YOU'RE BACK,” Ricki said after she'd flung open my bedroom door. She stopped short; her mouth dropped open as she took in the disaster area my room had become. “What happened in here?”
I poked my head out of the closet, looked around, and shrugged as casually as I could. “I'm cleaning…er…reorganizing,” I explained and held my breath while she digested my words.
She glanced around again. Her gaze paused briefly on the overturned laptop lying on the floor next to the dresser. I didn't even know if it'd still work after being flung across the room and hitting the wall. Really, I didn't care. Apparently convinced, she picked her way through the clutter and dropped down onto my bed. At least, I'd remade it before she arrived.
“So,” she began, her voice dripping with curiosity. “How was it?”
I stiffened but didn't turn around to face her. “How was what?” I asked innocently.
She groaned loudly. “Oh, come on, Mia. Why do I always have to drag everything out of you?”
My eyes slid closed in an effort to shield me from her questions. Why did she have to ask? Why couldn't she be her normal self-absorbed self? The one time I'd prefer that she monopolized the conversation with talk of her boyfriend, her grades, her family, her life, she wanted to know about me? Why?
“Mia, I'm not stupid,” she said. “I know you didn't go visit Kal's grandmother.”
Shit. Shit. Shit . “You do?” My voice was nothing more than a terrified squeak.
She rolled her eyes, heaving out a dramatic sigh.
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