Social Themes
"No, Layne," Mom said in a tight voice. Her eyes met mine again. "Not the bull riding. You know how I feel about that."
I knew all right. We'd been through this scene so many times it was like living in an instant replay. But this time I fought back. "Yeah, and you know how I feel about it too."
"I don't care how you feel," Mom shot back. "All I know is that I watched a bull kill my husband and there's no way I'll risk watching one kill my son."
In the photograph, Aunt Donna is very, very pregnant. My mother is not. I look up at my mom and she is crying—silently, with her hand over her mouth. I just make it to the bathroom before I lose my breakfast, my lunch and my mind.
Desperately I looked around for a way out. We couldn't get over the fence. The strands of barbed wire on top of it would rip us to shreds. Behind it, in the distance, the baseball game was going on. Why couldn't I have been there? The only way was the street...we'd have to dodge the cars. I took a step toward the street, but Sam put a hand on my shoulder.
"Nope," he said, shaking his head. "We're not running any farther."
"But...but...we can't fight them...we can't win," I stammered.
"We can't win, but we're going to fight them. Get rid of this," Sam said as he pulled the "I Am Chinese" button off my shirt and then took off his and stuffed them both in his pocket. "Cover my back and I'll cover yours."
They came forward slowly. They knew there was no place to go.
"I'm afraid I have bad news, Brendan. It's leukemia."
It goes right by me. I don't even hear it. I'm so prepared to hear anything else—a virus, mono, meningitis, even avian flu—that it's only when my mom gasps that my mind backs up, rewinds the tape, and I actually hear what he just said.
Leukemia.
I'm going to die.
It can't be.
It must be someone else.
Will it hurt?
Leukemia is for pathetic-looking bald kids with big eyes. Leukemia is for wasted bodies lying in hospital beds. Not me. Is there treatment? Is there a cure?
I'm going to die.
Dillon wakes me up. I fell asleep in the boots and leather mini-skirt and nothing else. He's brought a friend home. The friend is grinning down at me. I yank the sleeping bag over me. His name is Barrel, and he's big and round like one.
"She'll do," he says. Then he leaves.
"Do what?" My head is pounding.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it." Dillon heads for the shower. "Go back to sleep."
So I do.
