Should be.
Should.
That word’s doing a lot of heavy lifting.
My thumb hovers over Mom’s contact, but I don’t call. Because
Rule #9: Don’t burden others with your anxiety.
And Mom has enough to worry about without her neurotic son calling to make sure she’s still breathing.
Sixty-two percent. Those are good odds. Better than the original prognosis. Better than last year’s thirty-eight percent.
I can live with sixty-two percent.
Ihaveto live with sixty-two percent.
My phone buzzes, and my heart slams against my ribs.
But it’s not Mom. It’s Harper. She took the morning off from school to be with Mom.
HARPER: Good luck at Regionals today. You’re going to be incredible.
HARPER: Sox knocked over my coffee trying to get my attention. She says good luck too. Well, she said “meow” but I’m pretty sure that’s what she meant.
Something in my chest unclenches. Just slightly. Just enough to let oxygen back in.
She’s the only person who texts me like that—no preamble, no asking if I’m available to talk, just dropping affirmation into my day like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like sheknowsI need to hear it, even though I’d never admit it out loud.
I stare at that heart emoji longer than is probably healthy.
She sends those sometimes. Never says “I love you” back when I say it—and I’ve said it multiple times, usually whispered against her skin in the dark—but she’ll drop hearts into texts like breadcrumbs. Like she’s leaving a trail for me to follow to somewhere she can’t quite articulate yet.
I’ll take the breadcrumbs. I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give.
Winning the debate championship today is just one more milestone on the path to State. Four years of preparation for this moment. Four years of researching precedents and practicing rebuttals and learning to argue any side of any issue with equal conviction.
Win today, and Harvard isn’t just an acceptance letter—it becomes scholarships, prestige, my future, all but guaranteed. The résumé no one can argue with. The life Mom always wanted for me.
Everything’s clicking into place exactly the way I’ve scripted it.
So why does it feel like I’m watching someone else’s life unfold?
I adjust my tie in the mirror mounted inside my locker. Check the knot against my belt buckle.
Not quite right. I loosen it, retie it. Check again. Stilloff by maybe a millimeter. My hands are shaking slightly as I adjust it again. Fourth time. Four is good. Four is safe.
The knot finally sits exactly where it should—perfectly centered, bottom edge kissing the belt buckle. I touch both collar points to make sure they’re symmetrical. Left, right. Left, right. Equal pressure.
Jacket smooth across the shoulders. No stray threads. Collar crisp.
Control the controllable.
That’s the entire philosophy, really. I can’t control Mom’s white blood cell count or whether the chemo will work this time or if the cancer will come back. I can’t control whether Harvard will ultimately offer me enough financial aid or if we’ll be able to afford it even with scholarships.
But I can control this tie. This debate. This moment.
Another buzz: