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“You know,” she begins, “it’d be really cool if you could come talk to the school about your situation. Most people are so dumb when it comes to this kind of thing—and the transplant part. Even the media doesn’t talk about it. It’s cancer this and cancer that, and yeah that’s bad, but at least there’s awareness, you know? People know to get tested, but you almost died, Willa. You could’ve died, and it could’ve been easily prevented if we’d known what signs to look for.”
“I don’t know,” I hedge as my mom starts handing us each a breakfast plate. She has to set my dad’s down for him since he’s still absorbed in the newspaper.
“Think about it,” she begs. “The school year is almost over, exams are done in two weeks, so we have a lot of free time. I’m sure the principal would be all for it.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lie.
I spend ninety percent of my time pretending nothing is wrong with me, and most of the time I can believe it since I don’t feel sick anymore. The idea of getting up in front of an entire school, some of them kids I went to school with until this happened, makes me feel nauseated.
It’s not that I want to completely erase this experience from my life, that’s impossible, but it’s not something I’m sure I want to advertise.
“Please,” she says quietly. “It’d mean a lot to me, and I think it’d mean a lot to you too once you did it.”
“I wish I could be more like you,” I confess.
She chokes on her egg and pieces come flying out of her mouth. “Why?”
“You’re so …” I struggle to find the right word. “Vibrant,” I settle on. “And I’m not.”
She shakes her head. “Trust me, Willa. You shine brighter than any star in the sky. The thing is, it’s a rare person who can see their own brilliance. We’re all too blinded by fear.”
I take her hand and lace our fingers together. “Regardless, I got really lucky getting you as a sister.”
She smiles, her eyes lighting up. “Ditto.”
I flop onto my bed staring up at the ceiling. Above me, pages from books are glued to the ceiling.
Yes, I murdered some books, but it was all in the name of love and art.
When I first started doing dialysis at home, I couldn’t fall asleep and I’d stare up at my plain white ceiling.
It started making me crazy.
One weekend, my mom, dad, sister, and I tore pages from all my favorite books and glued them to the ceiling.
Every time I look at it makes me smile and I can’t help but feel loved.
Words from J.K. Rowling, Sarah Dessen, Sarah J. Maas, and many, many more gaze down at me.
Their words help remind me how small I am and how big the world really is—because with each book yet another world is created.
The door to my room slips open and I turn my head as Perry strolls in. Everyone’s left for the day so I knew it had to be him.
Or the cat.
But we never see the cat.
When Harlow was six she found this kitten hiding from squirrels, yes squirrels, and he’s been with us ever since. Webber spends the majority of his time hiding under Harlow’s bed and only comes out once in a blue moon. He’s funny looking too. His hair sticks up on end like he’s permanently electrocuted.
Since I’m home all the time, occasionally I’ll see him slip out of her room. We’ll exchange a look in which I know he’s telling me with his eyes alone that if I slip the news he’s been out of the room he’ll murder me in my sleep.
I’ll never cross that cat. I’m not convinced he’s actually a cat.
Maybe a demon.
Or a gremlin.
Possibly a goblin.
