Dessert First (3 page)

“What if it's at a different hospital? Or they forgot?”

She had me there. I passed her the iPad. Maybe I could get three bites of “beef bourguignon” in peace. But all I could manage was pushing around the gray lumps, while Mom pecked at the screen. “There's nothing,” she said finally. “Except numbers about mortality rates.”

I tugged it away from her and clicked back on the browser to Google. Her search terms included “mortality,” “morbidity,” and “risk of death.”
Please don't let insanity be hereditary.
“No one uses words like ‘fatality' to name a clinical trial. They don't
scare
people away. Tonight, back home, I'll look online.” I shoved my bowl away. Another bite of beef bourguignon would have killed my appetite anyway.

Mom's heels clicked on the corridor tiles while we marched back toward Beep's room, under the too-bright fluorescent light, passing through the pine-disinfectant hospital hallway smell. Back in Beep's room, Dad was still playing the videogame, running around onscreen in a spacesuit while Beep, smiling his little kid grin, blasted him with a laser rifle.

After Beep finished Dad off with the sizzling boom of an onscreen explosion, Dad scurried into the hallway with Mom for a mysterious parent conference before he bolted back to work. I used the break from hovering Mom zone to tell Beep about the AML.

“How bad is that?” he asked.

“Not great. Harder to get rid of, but probably easier in kids than in grownups. Mom didn't want to tell you yet.”

“How come?”

“She's insane.”

He snorted. “You're supposed to tell me the stuff I
don't
know.”

“Well, they're figuring it out exactly with tests. She didn't want you to worry.”

“Right. I'm back in the hospital, with a relapse. But not, you know,
worried
. So. What'll they do?”

I sat on Beep's bed next to him. “Well, they'll start chemo, but maybe with different drugs.” I took his hand. “Tonight we'll check for an even better, newer treatment program. And if the chemo doesn't get you into remission, you might get a bone marrow transplant, to get rid of the cancer, forever.”

“From who?”

“Me.”

“Cool,” Beep said. “About time someone else in the family got jabbed with a needle.”

On the BART ride back to the East Bay, I checked my phone.
Sorry—at a movie
, was the only text back from Calley Rose. Going to movies must be nice. But her family has a no-text rule after 10
P.M.
, and she actually follows rules, so there was no catching up with her.

On Facebook, my online flirt-buddy Hunter had updated his Facebook status.
Thinking of a great summer job—collecting on my life insurance. Profit$$$! And I don't even have to show up!

I usually enjoy Hunter's sense of humor, which is seriously sick and totally irreverent. But tonight I wasn't in the mood. Mostly, I entertained him. Tonight maybe he could help me. I sent him a Facebook private message.
Hey, handsome shiny-headed guy with a sick sense of humor (even sicker than your blood)—know anything about AML clinical trials? Beep just got diagnosed with AML too. Rough day.

Of course, it was already after 1
A.M.
on the East Coast, where he was. So no quick reply.

Evan had also texted me.
Future indie-band-mate: How is Beep? Email or text me. Or call.

It's scary
, I sent.
Now he also has AML—a worse blood cancer. I promised Mom I'd look online for clinical trials.

Whoa. So sorry. Can I help?

It would help to have two people looking, because you phrase your searches differently and find different things.
Sure.
I'll call you when I get home. Unless it's too late.

Call anytime
.
I dream of hanging out with you, even by phone.

Was that an over-the-top flirt? Or was he being sarcastic? Evan was probably just trying to make me feel okay about imposing in the middle of the night.
You have weird dreams
,
indie-boy
, I finally sent.
But I'll call anyway.

I sat there fantasizing about saving Beep, as darkness and lights flicked by and I passed Berkeley rooftops: If my bone marrow could fix Beep, somehow that might start fixing everything—my whole life. Instead of hating on each other, maybe Rachel and I could go back to getting along, like we did before Beep got sick. If Beep could survive cancer, maybe Mom could let go of worrying about every other little possibility. Or at least we could remind her that Beepster survived cancer, for perspective. Maybe Dad could stop stressing about money or how it felt to have a son with cancer or keeping our health insurance or whatever sent him running to work all the time.

Maybe I could give up being angry long enough to stop jabbing at everyone with sarcasm. And have multiple friends again. And even get my schoolwork done.

Or not. But, worst case, if not, I might still barely be okay: I could always say, “Sure, I had to repeat a high school grade—but I saved my brother's
life
.”

• • •

For anyone who's not a serious cancer sibling geek like me, it might be easy to miss what a horrible person those last thoughts make me.

Because “It would be really cool to save Beep with my bone marrow” really translates to “Wouldn't it be neat if Beep's horrible chemo and radiation
failed
, so he needed my bone marrow?” Transplant is a last resort. It comes with a lifetime of immune system–whacking drugs to keep your body from fighting off sis's bone marrow. Which shouldn't be a big issue because it's not like
I
often get rejected.

I just hadn't thought it through. What I did instead was check my Cipher email to see if Drowningirl had answered. Nope. Maybe Drowningirl had an actual life, full of friends and even a boyfriend. Although if she had lots of friends, it's hard to see how she'd be that miserable. And if she was that miserable, maybe she had as much trouble as I do making new friends.

• • •

By the time I bicycled home through darkness from the El Cerrito BART station to our empty house, it was 11:45. Skippy greeted me with four hours of pent-up enthusiasm. I petted his little belly and scratched his ears, which he loved, for so long that I realized I was doing it partly to put off the call to Evan. So after I gave Skippy his time in the back yard, I carried him upstairs to my room for moral support. I turned on my computer and sat at my desk.
Don't cross the line into flirting.
I took a deep breath and called Evan. Maybe it was so late he'd gone to bed.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hi Kat. Thanks for calling.” His voice was quiet, like he was trying not to wake his parents up.

“Thanks, uh, for helping.” My pauses between words were so long it sounded like I was translating French.

“I've missed talking to you so much,” he said.

Which was like a stab in my chest. I almost gasped at the quick razor-cut-through-my-heart sharpness of it, because of how I've missed Evan. “I was really mad at you,” I said. “You wouldn't have enjoyed talking to me.”

“I'm enjoying it now,” Evan said. “So maybe that means you're not as mad anymore?”

Long pause, on my end. “If you help me find a clinical trial for Beep, we might be able to work things out.”

“Enough to write songs together again?”

“Don't press it,” I said, and I had to clamp my teeth together to keep from calling him Skinnyboy, which is what I call him when I'm in my secret online identity of Cipher, who no one knew was me. It had been a long day, and I was almost dizzy. Talking to Evan felt like walking on a high wire. “Maybe if we find a complete cure for Beep's cancer.”

“Well, then,” he said, “let's
find
this cancer cure.”

I laughed, a nervous bark of scared, and we were off. I explained we were looking for phase III clinical trials for pediatric AML and then Evan pounded away on Google, while I searched the different blood cancer sites. We shot links back and forth by email about leads we were turning up.

The official Monroe house rule, instituted because of Rachel, is no calls after 11
P.M.
But Mom was at the hospital, Dad was back at work, Rachel was off fogging car windows, and we were fighting cancer. Forget the rules.

Evan found it first: www.clinicaltrials.gov, the searchable trial database of the National Institutes of Health.

Then it was a slog. The descriptions were in medical jargon about as readable as medieval French. In the middle of our search, Rachel came home and at one point banged on the wall, because I was talking so excitedly with Evan. I ignored her. After we turned up a bunch of random phase I trials, I finally stumbled on “Bortezomib and Sorafenib Tosylate in Treating Patients with Newly Diagnosed Acute Myeloid Leukemia,” a promising phase III trial accepting patients at 140 different hospitals, including UCSF Benioff Children's, where Beep was.

The chemicals were supposed to generally stomp little misshapen leukocyte butt, seven different ways. The trial was limited to patients with “High Allelic Ratio FLT3/ITD.” I had no idea what that meant, even as a serious cancer sibling geek, but for once I hoped it described my brother. Unless it was bad.

“Wow,” I said when we were done. It had taken almost two hours, and by then we were giddy, having won the online scavenger hunt, making unpronounceable cancer drug name jokes. It was after 2
A.M.
, and I was sitting in the dark in my room, lit only by the computer screen. The door thudded closed downstairs, from Dad finally getting home from work, after Skippy's quick who-woke-me-up bark. “Evan, you're my hero, and officially great.”

“Whew. You finally noticed.”

I don't know what he meant by that, but I had to hang up. “Dad just got in. I'm not supposed to be on the phone after eleven.”

“It'll be our secret. Good-night. Sweet dreams.”

“Uh, you too. See you tomorrow.”

“You mean today.”

I laughed. “Right. 'Bye. See you today.”

I sat back in my chair in the darkness and smiled at the glowing blue computer screen. I'd done exactly zero homework, which put me one day behind, but it was still early, not like the deep, undone homework crater at the end of last year. Plenty of time to dig out.
Yes
.
We would help Beep stomp cancer. I emailed Mom, put in the links about the trial, and told her Evan and I had found it. I sent Evan a bcc, to make sure he knew I was giving him full credit. I even copied Dad's work email, which I figured Dad would check again before bed because it was only 2
A.M.
I hit send. It felt great.

• • •

It was a shame to waste that nice feeling on being asleep, because the next morning Rachel exploded at me by 7:03. We share one bathroom, so we have a schedule. I shower first, then Rachel takes twice as long, since she has actual gorgeousness to assemble.

Tired from being up late, I played tag with the snooze alarm. That put me behind, so Rachel pounded on the bathroom door. Mom had spent the night at the hospital, and Dad had already left for work.

“Why don't you take less time?” I opened the door, wrapped in a towel, letting steam escape. “And settle for almost completely stunning.”

“Why don't you stop being a selfish jerk?”

Okay, game on. “Oh—you need extra blow dryer time? To inflate your air head?”

“What I need is sleep. You kept me up all night yelling through the wall on the phone.”

Exaggeration. Evan and I had been talking excitedly, not yelling, and Rachel hadn't gotten home until after midnight, long after school-night curfew.

“For your information, I was finding Beep a clinical trial.”

“Because you're so damned perfect.”

I don't know where that came from, especially from perfect Rachel. I was still annoyed that she'd left everything to me. “At least I was doing something. Not abandoning everyone.”

“You're awful.” She barged past me. “No wonder you have no friends.”

Okay, ouch.

She slammed the bathroom door in my face, so I yelled through it. “Except you were doing something. With Brian. Moaning the theme song of the Berkeley back seat petting zoo.”

While she was trying to assemble a response, I added, “Which you've moaned to so many boyfriends, guys at your school probably hum it when you walk by.”

“Bitch” was the nicest word I could make out, muffled through the door.

• • •

I was still in a bad mood when I was picked up by carpool. Mad at Rachel and mad at myself for getting in a fight with her, again.

Evan was smiling, but when he saw my grumpy expression, it faded. “Thought you'd be in a better mood.”

“I was, but Rachel started hating on me.” And reminding me I'm a total loser. I slid into the back seat next to him. “Sorry. Just the usual.” I've complained about Rachel before.

“Well,” he said a minute later, when we pulled up to Tyler's house to pick him up, “at least you know Beep's relapse isn't disrupting things at home.”

I rewarded that effort with a weak smile, which was the best I could manage. Actually, until Beep got cancer the first time, Rachel and I got along.

• • •

“Hey, Crazy Kat.” Tracie Walsh, my soccer teammate and least favorite person, blocked my path in the hall that morning between second and third period.

I was not in the mood to deal with Tracie, but her hanger-on friend Ashley had me blocked too, so I stopped.

“This year, don't be a flunktard.” Tracie looked down at me from under her blonde hair and over her California surfer-girl freckles. She's the head of a little in-crowd of self-congratulating girls everyone had called “the Tracies” since grade school.