Cellular by Ellen Schwartz

breath.
    â€œCongratulations, Brendan,” says my oncologist. “Your biopsy results are excellent. You’re in remission.”
    My mom grabs me in a hug. My dad bursts out crying, then laughs, then cries again.
    â€œWhoo!” A jolt of joy runs through me. For the first time since I heard the word leukemia , I feel a weight lift off me. The bands that have been cinched around my chest loosen, and I breathe deeply.
    Remission. No cancer. I have a chance. I’m not cured —no one’s using that word, and no one will for a long time. I’ll have more treatments over the next nine months and then, if all is well, go on pills. I’ve got a long way to go. But I’ve made it through this round. For the first time I allow myself to think, I’m going to live.
    I go back to the ward with my parents. I have to pack up, get instructions, make appointments for more tests.
    I go to my room and start collecting my things. My clothes, which are now loose on me. My schoolbooks, which I’ve scarcely opened. My basketball picture, a few novels, my music. My collection of baseball caps and tuques. I’ll still need those for a while.
    I move more and more slowly as I pack. I know I’m dragging my feet. I don’t want to leave without seeing Lark, without knowing she’s going to be okay. Besides, I need to find out how to get in touch with her outside the hospital. Because I’m definitely going to do that. We’ll hang out. We’ll tease each other about our wispy hair growing in, and I’ll take her to a basketball game and we’ll dance and eat pudding and listen to music.
    My parents come in. They’ve done the paperwork, and they’re all smiles. They look like they’ve dropped ten years each. They’re anxious to get home, call everybody they know, celebrate.
    â€œI can’t go yet,” I tell them.
    â€œWhat? Why not?”
    â€œI have to find out about Lark.”
    â€œBut, Brendan—”
    â€œI have to.”
    They exchange a look.
    â€œI’m not going until I’ve seen her—”
    Just then, outside my door, I hear, “Oh no.”
    I rush out. Harj has her hands over her face. I pull them away. Tears roll down her cheeks.
    â€œHarj—what—? Please—no—”
    She shakes her head.
    â€œNo!”
    Harj puts her arms around me. “The infection got out of control. She didn’t make it,” she whispers, choking back sobs.
    I throw off her arms, stare at her.
    â€œNo! No—you’re lying—It can’t—no!”
    â€œBrendan—”
    I turn and run back to my room, past my parents, who are standing in the hall. I start throwing things. The stuff I’ve gathered. Books. Clothes. Shoes. Pillows. Blankets. They hit the walls, scatter on the floor.
    My parents rush in. “Brendan, no,” my mom says.
    My dad tries to grab my arms.
    I throw him off.
    â€œBrendan, please, get ahold of yourself. This isn’t good for you. Let’s go home. We’ll—”
    â€œLeave me alone. I’m not coming.” I heave a book at the wall.
    â€œBrendan—,” my dad begins.
    My mom cuts him off. “He needs some space,” I hear her whisper. She puts a hand on my arm. “We’ll wait for you in the car.”
    They leave.

Chapter Fifteen
    There’s nothing left to throw. I pace back and forth.
    It can’t be. It can’t.
    I pound my fist on the wall. It hurts. I enjoy the pain.
    She can’t be gone.
    The inside of my head roars. I want to kill someone. I want to murder God.
    I want to hurt myself.
    I can’t go on without her.
    Something cracks. I throw myself on the bed and howl. A sound comes out of me, like an animal roaring in pain. The sobs rip up from the pit of my stomach.
    I draw my knees up and curl into a ball. I feel a hand on my back, gentle and warm, and know it’s Harj. I hear her sobs. I lean into her