Before Friday was over, I was going to tell Chandler he was really pretty. Twice. In front of my brother.
In my defense, I’d been unconscious for most of the afternoon.
At 6:45 that morning, though, the only thing on my mind was the MRI. Dad knelt beside my hospital bed in yesterday’s wrinkled button-down and double-knotted my sneakers. No speech about asking for help. He just tied them.
I’d spent the night at Children’s. Pops had brought soft black joggers from home because denim felt like punishment, and I’d kept Stetson’s gray hoodie over my tank top. It still smelled like hospital soap, but I wasn’t ready to give it back. I should’ve washed my hair, too. Instead, I’d twisted it into a claw clip. Now the nurse was bringing a wheelchair beside the bed, and I was waiting for someone to tell me where I was going next.
Yesterday, I’d met Dr. Mehta from orthopedic oncology. She’d tucked a loose strand of dark hair into the knot at the nape of her neck, settled onto the stool across from me, and waited out every silence until I started wondering if I’d forgotten something. She’d studied the X-rays, asked about every fall, and explained that the abnormal section of my femur might not be as strong as the rest of the bone. Dad had written most of it down. I remembered the part about the bone being weak, even when I tried to think about something else.
“Until we know more, keep all weight off that leg,” she’d said. “Call for help when you need to get up.”
Dad and Pops had taken turns sitting with me overnight. My fever had come down, but the doctors still wanted to investigate what was happening with my leg. They hadn’t been able to fit the MRI on Thursday, so I had the first available slot this morning. More blood work came first, and Dr. Mehta’s team hoped to do the biopsy later today if the scans and anesthesia assessment allowed it. A nurse had told me not to eat or drink after midnight while they worked out the procedure schedule.
The phlebotomist wheeled her cart into my room before they took me to imaging. A taco, a cactus, and a cartoon kidney hung from her lanyard. She asked how I’d slept while she checked my wristband.
“Little pinch,” she said, and I looked away. I’d had more needles in the last few days than in the previous sixteen years, and I still wasn’t interested in watching.
She filled four tubes while Dad stood beside me, talking about absolutely nothing. Something about Uncle Jake’s fantasy football team, which was in crisis. When she finished, the phlebotomist pressed gauze over my arm and covered it with purple tape decorated with tiny white stars.
“Cute,” I told her.
“The tape?”
“Yeah. Better than the plain stuff.”
She pressed down one loose corner before putting the supplies away. Dad helped me into the wheelchair, and I kept my eyes on the purple stars until we were out of the room.
My phone buzzed as an orderly wheeled me toward imaging. Chandler had sent a video, eleven seconds long, showing the Happy Paws training room, rubber mats, and the scuffed mirror. Dashiell stood near his mat with his ears up, watching whoever was holding the phone.
Miss Davison’s voice came from behind the camera. “Sit.”
Dashiell sat, and the clicker sounded before Miss Davison rewarded him. Then Chandler’s sneaker appeared at the edge of the frame. Dashiell leaned forward to sniff it, then moved back toward his mat.
I watched it twice before opening our messages.
Me: you’re at happy paws? don’t you have school?
Chandler: Went by before first period. Miss Davison wanted to show me something.
Me: did you teach him to sit without me
Chandler: Pretty sure you taught him that part.
Me: good answer
The typing dots appeared, disappeared, then came back.
Chandler: How’s today going?
Me: got fancy tape for my arm. very exciting morning
Chandler: Proud of you.
I stared at that longer than I stared at the video. Dad leaned over to see whether I was ready to put my phone away, and I locked the screen before he could catch me smiling.
The MRI suite was hospital cold, the kind of cold that came from machines instead of weather. A technician explained the noise, the headphones, and the little squeeze ball I could use if I needed them to stop. He arranged foam supports around my left leg so I wouldn’t have to hold it still by myself.
“If you need a break, tell me,” he said. “We’ll work with you.”
I tested the squeeze ball once before he moved the table.
They slid me into the scanner. The ceiling got closer, the air felt warmer, and then the banging started. It sounded like somebody had trapped a construction crew inside a washing machine. A series of sharp knocks, then a lower thud, then a high mechanical whine. I counted the sounds until I lost count and started over.
I tried thinking about volleyball. Bad choice. I pictured the gym, the polished floor, the squeak of shoes, and the exact moment I’d have to tell Coach Mathieson I wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
I tried thinking about Dashiell instead. He’d sniffed Chandler’s shoe and stayed in the room while Miss Davison filmed him. That was good. I knew it was good. I still wished I’d been there.
My eyes burned, and I blinked hard, but the tears slipped into my hair anyway. The technician checked on me between sequences. I told him I could keep going and tightened my hand around the squeeze ball. Then the machine started again, and I went back to counting.
By the time they brought me out, my temples were damp and my jaw ached from keeping it clenched.
“You did great,” the technician said as he helped me sit up.
“Is that all of it?”
“All done.” He steadied the wheelchair while I moved into it, and I let my head rest against the back.
Dad was waiting beyond the changing area with my bag. He took one look at my face and passed me a tissue without asking why my eyes were red. He stayed beside the wheelchair while I wiped my face, one hand resting on the back of it.
The rest of the morning blurred into hallways, a chest CT that took almost no time at all, and more waiting than should’ve been legal in a building full of sick kids. Dr. Giacherio had explained that the chest images were part of understanding what they might be dealing with. I hadn’t asked him to repeat the explanation. I knew enough to be scared of it.
By early afternoon, Dr. Mehta came back with the MRI findings. Dad and Pops sat on either side of me, and I held the edge of Stetson’s hoodie in my fist.
“The MRI confirms there’s an abnormal area in the middle of your femur,” she said. “It extends partway down toward your knee, but it doesn’t involve the knee joint. It also shows changes in the nearby tissue. We need a sample to tell us exactly what it is.”
“So you’re doing the biopsy?” I asked.
“Yes. My team has reviewed the scans and planned where the sample should be taken. We can do it this afternoon, as long as anesthesia signs off.”
I looked toward Pops. He’d been asking about my fever since breakfast, and I knew what his next question would be.
Dr. Mehta answered it before he could ask. “We’ve been watching her temperature. It’s come down since last night. We’ll also send part of the sample to check for infection, so the biopsy helps answer that question, too.”
“Will I feel it?” I asked.
“You’ll be asleep for the procedure. You may be sore afterward, and we’ll help you manage that.”
I looked at Dad, who had his pen ready again.
She explained the procedure and the anesthesia in plain language, then gave us time to ask questions. Pops wanted to know how much pain I’d have afterward. Dad asked when we’d hear something. I asked whether the biopsy meant they already knew it was cancer.
Dr. Mehta looked directly at me. “No. The biopsy is how we find out.”
I nodded. Her answer helped enough that I could listen when she explained the next steps, even if I still wished someone would give me a different answer entirely.
A nurse went over the safety checks and the instructions I’d need afterward. I wasn’t going home to practice or work or do anything involving my left leg beyond letting other people help me get from one place to another. Dr. Mehta made sure Dad and Pops understood the restrictions, and Dad wrote down the number to call if we had questions.
The pre-op bay was cold. The anesthesiologist introduced herself, asked me to confirm my name and birthday, and explained that I’d be asleep while the team collected the sample. Behind me, Pops was talking to a nurse, and Dad was answering a question about my medications.
I wanted to tell them I wasn’t scared. Instead, I looked at the anesthesiologist and asked, “You’ll tell them when I’m awake?”
“As soon as you’re settled in recovery,” she said.
Dad came close enough to squeeze my hand. “We’ll be right there, Fiorellina.”
“I know.” I held on to his fingers until the nurse asked him to step back, then tucked my hand beneath the blanket.
When I woke up, a warm blanket was tucked around me, and somebody had put a fresh pair of grip socks on my feet. My mouth was dry, my thoughts were moving through syrup, and my left leg had a new bandage.
Pops sat beside the bed. He helped me take a sip of water once the nurse said I could. By the time they brought me back to my room, Stetson was waiting in a chair beside Dad, still wearing his school clothes.
“Hey, Sunshine,” Pops said, leaning forward. “How’re you feeling?”
“Tired. My mouth feels gross.”
My voice sounded strange even to me, but Pops smiled and adjusted the blanket around my shoulders. Stetson leaned forward, his eyes moving from my face to the bandage.
“They said everything went okay,” he told me.
“Where’s my phone?”
“Right here.” Stetson lifted it off the bedside table. “Who are you texting? You can barely keep your eyes open.”
I smiled, then noticed Chandler in the doorway. He wore his soccer warm-up jacket, and his hair was still damp from a shower. At least his shoes matched now.
“You came,” I said.
“Yeah.” He glanced at the nurse checking my monitor.
She reminded everyone to give me a little space while I woke up. Chandler stayed by the door until she finished, then moved closer when I waved him over.
“You’re really pretty,” I told him.
I’d meant to say something else. I couldn’t remember what.
Chandler stopped beside the bed. His cheeks turned pink, then red, all the way to his ears. Stetson made a noise that sounded like he’d swallowed his own tongue before covering his mouth with both hands.
“Did you hear that?” my brother asked Pops.
“Shut up,” I told him, except the words came out more like shuh hup.
Chandler glanced at Pops, who had suddenly developed an intense interest in the water pitcher. When he looked back at me, the tips of his ears were still red.
“You should probably get some sleep,” he said.
“Still pretty.”
Stetson bent forward in his chair, laughing into his knees. I closed my eyes before anybody could embarrass me further, which, considering the circumstances, was probably impossible.
Later, when I was awake enough to understand more than half of what anyone said, Dr. Mehta came by to explain that the biopsy had gone as planned. The samples were being sent to pathology, and it would take time to identify exactly what they showed. Some results could come back sooner than others, but she didn’t want to promise us a date.
The team also reviewed my temperature, pain, and recovery before deciding whether I could go home. By the time they cleared me for discharge, it was late afternoon, and I was so tired that I barely managed to stay awake while Dad collected the instructions.
The nurse showed Pops how to help me transfer without putting weight on my left leg. Dad asked enough questions that she eventually handed him a pen and let him write notes directly on the paperwork.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the porch lights were on, and through the glass in the front door, Uncle Jake crossed the foyer with a lamp in his arms, followed by Bernard, who kept getting in his way.
I’d known Dad and Pops were talking about moving my bedroom downstairs. I hadn’t realized they’d already recruited a moving crew.
The guest room beside Dad’s office had been taken over while we were at Children’s. Somebody had made up the bed with my coral comforter and the pillows I actually liked, and the little lamp from my nightstand sat on the bedside table. Bernard’s rug was tucked beside the bed, and my clothes had been folded into the guest-room dresser. On the wall across from the bed hung Noelle’s poster from the Castle Ridge match, Sloane’s Arm Is a Felony in pink glitter, inside a cheap black frame. I’d told her she wasn’t hanging it in my room. Apparently, she’d decided this room didn’t count.
My room upstairs still had the photographs taped around my mirror. I could picture every inch of it. From the doorway of my new room, I could also see the bottom of the staircase I wasn’t supposed to climb.
Stetson carried my overnight bag inside while Pops helped me settle. He put it beside the dresser, then moved it when Dad said I’d need that space for the wheelchair.
“Where do you want it, then?”
“In my office. By the desk.”
Stetson picked it up again. “You need anything out of it first?”
“My charger.”
He dug it out and plugged it into the outlet beside my bed before taking the bag away.
Dad adjusted the pillows beneath my left leg until I told him they were fine. The discharge instructions said to rest, watch the biopsy site, and call if certain symptoms developed. They also said not to put weight on my left leg. Dad read that part aloud twice.
“I’m not planning to run a marathon,” I told him.
“You were asking whether you could go to the soccer game before we left the hospital.”
“I was going to sit down the whole time.”
He raised an eyebrow, checked that my phone and water were within reach, and made me promise to call if I needed to get up. Pops brought Bernard in and helped him settle beside the bed, where he immediately rested his fluffy head against my good hip.
The boys left to get ready for their game against Legacy while Pops found the live stream for me. I watched on Stetson’s tablet, propped against a stack of pillows. Pops sat at the foot of the bed for the first half, cheering loudly enough that Dad called from the kitchen to remind him the neighbors could hear.
“The neighbors can watch, too,” Pops shouted back.
By halftime, I was exhausted. The scoreboard said we were tied, and I kept losing track of who had the ball. Stetson kept pushing up against the last defender, waiting for a chance to get behind him. Chandler worked just behind the forwards, checking over his shoulder before the ball reached him and moving it on before anyone could close him down.
With eleven minutes left, Chandler stole the ball near midfield, cut inside, and sent a pass between two defenders straight to Stetson’s feet.
Stetson scored, and Pops shouted so loudly Bernard lifted his head and barked at the tablet. On-screen, Stetson slid on his knees while the team swarmed him. Chandler hung back a second, breathing hard, before Stetson turned and pointed at him.
Then my brother ran over and grabbed him around the shoulders. They nearly knocked each other over before the rest of the team caught up. I played the replay twice, trying to pick out what Stetson was yelling, but Pops was cheering too loudly beside me.
A message came through a few minutes after the final whistle.
Chandler: Did you see that?
Me: unfortunately yes. stetson will be unbearable for weeks
Chandler: He already is.
Me: nice pass though
Chandler: Thanks.
A moment later, another message appeared.
Chandler: How are you?
I looked at the bandage beneath the blanket, the crutches beside the bed, and the hospital paperwork Dad had left on the dresser.
Me: tired. home. watching you two pretend you’re professionals
Chandler: Get some sleep.
Me: bossy
Chandler: Yep.
I put the tablet down and plugged my phone into the charger Stetson had set up. Bernard had fallen asleep against the bed, and I left the game replay running quietly while I closed my eyes.