By Ellen Schwartz
Brendan has it all-captain of the basketball workforce, stable buddies, a gorgeous female friend and a loving family—until he's clinically determined with leukemia. Terrified and confident that nobody is aware what he's going via, Brendan faces chemotherapy on my own, till he meets Lark. She can be in remedy, even supposing her is way worse, and but she continues to be optimistic and hopeful. Brendan is torn among feeling sorry for himself and the affection for all times that Lark brings to even the best factor. via Lark, he discovers the power to head on, to struggle for survival and to like.
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Example text
I didn’t mean that! And then I’m bawling into my pillow, and I almost don’t hear it, but I do. The faint sound of a doorknob turning. I look over my shoulder. The door opens. A bald head peeks around. ” it says. I don’t know if it’s a he or she. “Well, actually—,” I begin. Because I do mind. I’m a seventeen-year-old guy bawling his eyes out, and I don’t feel like seeing anybody. ” I ask in spite of myself. “Harjit. ” He—she—beams me a smile. ” The person comes all the way into the room. It takes me a minute to realize it’s the girl I saw come in earlier.
To the voice. I don’t think I’ve ever listened so hard. Heard so clearly. Felt another person’s body so closely. This isn’t about sex, about scoring with a girl. It’s about listening. Dancing. Holding. Right here. Right now. It’s all I need. Chapter Twelve Red blood cells live for 120 days. The living ones don’t get killed by the chemo, but no new ones grow either. So I’m anemic again. I need more blood transfusions. See what fascinating scientific information you learn when you have leukemia? I’m lying around one day, feeling zapped, waiting for the transfusion to give me some energy back, when I hear a commotion in the hall.
She says. ” She walks over to the picture of the ballerina and points. ” I go over and look. The dancer is bent over at the waist, her tutu jutting up behind her. Both arms are curving over her head as if she’s pulling up a hood. There’s an intense look on her face. Pain? Sadness? I can’t tell. ” “A Russian ballerina. ’ It’s a famous piece, very short, only a few minutes long. The swan has been shot, by an arrow. ” Lark looks back at the picture, her eyes far away. ” One of Lark’s arms floats up, and then she makes it tremble, at first quietly, in small fluttery motions, then violently, jerking, and in that instant I know that she’s a dancer.