much.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about that. It seems too hard.”
The room was nearly black, so Marshall flipped on his side table lamp. She held a hand up to her eyes and rubbed them.
“How come you know so much about weird things?” he finally asked.
She didn’t answer right away and instead stared at the bed, then at her fingers, then at Mason’s guitar sitting on the desk.
“That’s a strange question, you know.” She still had that smile on her face, and was watching him like she knew a hundred things he didn’t know. It was getting on his nerves.
“Well, you’re looking at me funny, and then you tell me I need hydrochloric stuff, and then—” he wasn’t sure if he should mention the other thing. But he did. “When I said that my sister had a fever, you looked like you’d swallowed a chicken. You went chalky white.” He laughed out loud. “Whiter than usual.”
She smiled and then grew very serious, as if she was trying to solve world peace, fix global warming and aid the aging population within the next ten years. She sighed and put her head in her hands. Marshall thought he’d done something bad for sure.
What a stupid idiot I am, he thought. “I’m sorry Iris, I didn’t mean to say something that hurt you. You’re just so smart. I don’t know how you got that way, and I guess I …”
“No, it’s okay,” she said, cutting him off. “Listen, you have to promise not to say anything to anyone. Not even to your family, as good as they are.”
“They’re not that nice.”
“No, actually, they are. They’re normal.” Marshall didn’t want to go down that route: his family was weird, no questions there. He wanted to know what her secret was.
Marshall’s heart began beating like a set of bongos, and he was sure she could hear them.
“What is it?” he said in a lowered voice.
“It’s why I was hesitant to come over, when I heard your sister was sick. It’s why I was glad to hear of your condition,” she nodded her head at the inhaler. “Your asthma.”
He leaned in ever so slightly. He didn’t want to miss one word.
“It’s also why I’m so pale and thin and have such short hair.”
Marshall waited for more, but nothing came.
“And?” he asked. “Why? Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“I am telling you.”
“No, you’re speaking in riddles. You’re being smarter than me . I don’t know. I give up. What, are you sick too?”
“Bingo.” And suddenly, he wished he hadn’t guessed. He wished he hadn’t said it at all. He was always being so stupid.
She stared at the floor, her ringlets bobbing all over the place like a bunch of coils.
“You’re sick?” he asked again, this time in a whisper.
“In theory, but I’m not supposed to be anymore.”
“What … what does that mean?”
She cleared her throat. “I have juvenile myelomonocytic leukemia.”
Marshall didn’t say anything for a long time.
“You have cancer?” he asked, hearing the word leukemia and thinking the worst.
“I did, do, or whatever. It’s easier to call it JMML. Lots of kids get it,” she said counting the stitches in her hemmed shorts. “And I’ve had treatments you know, drugs, chemotherapy; several bone marrow transplants. I’m getting better.”
“Then, how do you feel?” he asked. “Are you in pain right now?”
“No, I’m fine. Most kids are young when they get this one,” she said. “Like under four years old. I was nine when it began.”
Marshall nodded in silent astonishment.
“Guess I’m just lucky—I get to be an even rarer case,” she smirked. Marshall wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. He said nothing and nodded again.
“Marshall, please, don’t treat me like that. I’m doing okay.” She turned her head to the side and put a hand on her face. “Bone marrow transplants are hard; it takes a lot out of one. But treatment to get better over any sickness is difficult. I’m normal; a normal kid and everyone who hears about me and
“Yeah, I’ve heard about that. It seems too hard.”
The room was nearly black, so Marshall flipped on his side table lamp. She held a hand up to her eyes and rubbed them.
“How come you know so much about weird things?” he finally asked.
She didn’t answer right away and instead stared at the bed, then at her fingers, then at Mason’s guitar sitting on the desk.
“That’s a strange question, you know.” She still had that smile on her face, and was watching him like she knew a hundred things he didn’t know. It was getting on his nerves.
“Well, you’re looking at me funny, and then you tell me I need hydrochloric stuff, and then—” he wasn’t sure if he should mention the other thing. But he did. “When I said that my sister had a fever, you looked like you’d swallowed a chicken. You went chalky white.” He laughed out loud. “Whiter than usual.”
She smiled and then grew very serious, as if she was trying to solve world peace, fix global warming and aid the aging population within the next ten years. She sighed and put her head in her hands. Marshall thought he’d done something bad for sure.
What a stupid idiot I am, he thought. “I’m sorry Iris, I didn’t mean to say something that hurt you. You’re just so smart. I don’t know how you got that way, and I guess I …”
“No, it’s okay,” she said, cutting him off. “Listen, you have to promise not to say anything to anyone. Not even to your family, as good as they are.”
“They’re not that nice.”
“No, actually, they are. They’re normal.” Marshall didn’t want to go down that route: his family was weird, no questions there. He wanted to know what her secret was.
Marshall’s heart began beating like a set of bongos, and he was sure she could hear them.
“What is it?” he said in a lowered voice.
“It’s why I was hesitant to come over, when I heard your sister was sick. It’s why I was glad to hear of your condition,” she nodded her head at the inhaler. “Your asthma.”
He leaned in ever so slightly. He didn’t want to miss one word.
“It’s also why I’m so pale and thin and have such short hair.”
Marshall waited for more, but nothing came.
“And?” he asked. “Why? Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“I am telling you.”
“No, you’re speaking in riddles. You’re being smarter than me . I don’t know. I give up. What, are you sick too?”
“Bingo.” And suddenly, he wished he hadn’t guessed. He wished he hadn’t said it at all. He was always being so stupid.
She stared at the floor, her ringlets bobbing all over the place like a bunch of coils.
“You’re sick?” he asked again, this time in a whisper.
“In theory, but I’m not supposed to be anymore.”
“What … what does that mean?”
She cleared her throat. “I have juvenile myelomonocytic leukemia.”
Marshall didn’t say anything for a long time.
“You have cancer?” he asked, hearing the word leukemia and thinking the worst.
“I did, do, or whatever. It’s easier to call it JMML. Lots of kids get it,” she said counting the stitches in her hemmed shorts. “And I’ve had treatments you know, drugs, chemotherapy; several bone marrow transplants. I’m getting better.”
“Then, how do you feel?” he asked. “Are you in pain right now?”
“No, I’m fine. Most kids are young when they get this one,” she said. “Like under four years old. I was nine when it began.”
Marshall nodded in silent astonishment.
“Guess I’m just lucky—I get to be an even rarer case,” she smirked. Marshall wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. He said nothing and nodded again.
“Marshall, please, don’t treat me like that. I’m doing okay.” She turned her head to the side and put a hand on her face. “Bone marrow transplants are hard; it takes a lot out of one. But treatment to get better over any sickness is difficult. I’m normal; a normal kid and everyone who hears about me and
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