All the Answers (16 page)

That would have been enough for Ava, but this girl couldn't stop staring at the shoes and longing for them, and one day she put them back on and it was even worse. She danced faster and longer than ever, until she was exhausted and crying, but she couldn't stop, and finally, she went to the town executioner and begged him to cut the straps of the shoes to get them off her feet. He tried that, but it didn't work. And finally—this part made Ava shiver—she begged him to cut off her feet. He did, and the shoes just kept on dancing with her awful bleeding feet inside.

“That's one of the original fairy tales,” Gram had said, pulling Ava close to her on the couch. “Before they cleaned them all up in the interest of not scarring children for life.”

At the time, Ava had loved hearing the secret, scary fairy tale. But her worries were bigger now. Sometimes, it felt like the “what-ifs” in her head might dance her over a cliff one day, too.

Ava looked down at the pencil.

She picked it up.

She couldn't
not
pick it up.

Do I have cancer?

“No,” the pencil answered right away.

Does Dad have cancer?

“No.”

Does Mom have cancer?

Ava was already poised to scribble the next question when the pencil answered, just as quick and calm as always.

“Yes.”

“You know, your jeans would last longer if you didn't throw them in the wash every other day.”

Ava jumped about a mile, but Mom didn't even notice. She'd walked right back through Ava's open door and was piling folded laundry onto the closet shelves. When Mom turned around, Ava couldn't stop staring.

Where was it? Where was the cancer? In her brain? In her lungs like their neighbor Mrs. Groves who died last year? But Mrs. Groves was a smoker. Mom didn't do that. Could she still have lung cancer?

Mom dropped a pile of socks on Ava's dresser, then held out a piece of paper. “Here's your permission slip for the field trip on Monday.”

At first, Ava just stared at that, too. Her mom shook the paper. Ava took it and looked down at the cheerful signature sending
her to her doom. “Where'd you get this?” She'd been so careful not to leave it around.

“Mr. Avery emailed it to me. He thought you might have misplaced yours.” Mom gave her a pointed look. “You know how we feel about these things, Ava. All you need to do is try. I know you're nervous, so I told Mr. Avery I'd come along to chaperone. I think it sounds like fun anyway. If it's awful, you can sit out the more difficult courses and read, okay? I promise.”

Ava stared at her mom again. Mom couldn't go on that field trip. She couldn't be climbing around in the trees. She was sick. Only she didn't even know it. Ava's eyes drifted from the top of her mother's head down her tall, lean body. She looked so healthy.

Maybe the pencil was wrong. It was wrong about Jason liking Sophie.
Oh, please, please, please let it be wrong about this
, Ava thought.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sorry … I was just thinking. I must have zoned out.” Ava shrugged. She tried to look at her mom's face, tried to keep from scanning her body as if she could make the cancer light up and show itself.

“Do you feel okay?” Ava blurted.

“Yes.” Mom frowned. “Why? What's wrong? Are you really this worked up over a field trip?”

Ava shook her head. She needed to know if Mom felt anything unusual. But she couldn't ask that. “I asked how you feel because you look tired.”

“I'd be less tired if you and Marcus would wear your clothes more than ten minutes before you put them in the wash.”

“Sorry,” Ava said. “Thanks for the permission slip.”

“Yeah … I know you really mean that.” Mom laughed and squatted down next to her at the desk. “Remember … you are not only really smart and super-kind, and … fast? Something like that. Anyway, you're a pretty brave bunny, too.”

Ava felt a lump in her throat. That quote—or something like it—was from an Easter book she and Mom used to read,
The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes
. Easter was five months away. Would Mom even be here then? The lump in Ava's throat swelled up, and tears spilled out of her eyes.

“Oh, honey …” Mom wrapped her in a hug. “I can tell you're having a tough day. But everything's going to be fine.”

No, it wasn't. But Mom didn't know why. And Ava couldn't tell her. All she could do was cry.

Finally, Ava got her sobs under control, and Mom gave her one more squeeze before she stood up. “You are going to be fine. And I mean it … I'll be there for you on the field trip. Okay?”

Ava nodded. She knew she'd start crying again if she tried to talk.

Mom started to leave. Ava held onto the armrests of her chair. She wanted to jump up and tackle Mom and have Dad rush her to the hospital. But what would she say?
My pencil says you're sick?

Mom pulled the door closed behind her, and Ava turned
back to the pencil. She needed to think. She needed more information.

Ava took a deep breath. Her hand trembled as she wrote,
What kind of cancer does my mom have?

“Breast cancer,” the voice said.

Ava wanted to throw up. She had to tell Mom about the pencil so she'd go to the hospital and get help. But what if Mom didn't believe it? What if she wouldn't even try the pencil for herself? Ava looked down at the thing; it didn't look even a little bit believable. It was a weird too-bright blue color and now it was getting stubby from all that sharpening, too.

What Ava needed was for Mom to go to the doctor and find out on her own. That was how people were supposed to find out they were sick. There must be some test they could do for breast cancer. Ava didn't have to tell Mom about the pencil or the cancer; she just had to get her to see a doctor. Mom believed doctors. She'd do what they said and then she could get better without the pencil getting involved at all. If it was the kind of cancer that they could treat. On
Boston Med
, most of it wasn't and people lost their hair with all that treatment and then died anyway and everybody cried.

Ava's eyes burned with tears.
No. No. No
. She swiped them with her sleeve and grabbed the pencil.

Is my mom's cancer the kind that kills people really fast no matter what?

The pencil didn't answer. How could it ignore her questions
at a time like this? It would probably tell her that stupid cancer has free will, too.

Ava stood up and swallowed hard. The lump in her throat didn't go away, but she took a deep breath and went down to the kitchen.

“Mom?”

“What's up?” Mom was scrubbing a brownie pan in the sink as if everything was just fine. As if she didn't have cancer somewhere eating away at her.

“Have you been to the doctor lately?”

“Not in a while.” Mom put the brownie pan upside down on the counter and tossed Ava a dish towel. “How come?” She started loading silverware into the dishwasher.

Ava picked up the pan and started drying. “Just wondering. We were talking in health class about how when you get older, you should go for checkups more often.” There was a fleck of burned brownie stuck in one corner of the pan. Ava scraped at it with her fingernail and tried to make her voice sound casual, but her heart was pounding in her chest. “Like to get screened for cancer and stuff. Do you do that?”

“Well, sure.”

“How often?”

“Once a year.”

“Is this year's coming up soon?” Ava blurted.

“Actually, I think it's next week.” Mom started to look up at the calendar over the sink, but then she turned and looked at

Ava. “Why are you asking me this? Have you been watching
Boston Med
again?”

“No. I told you, we were talking about it in school.” Ava turned, grateful to have the brownie pan to put away so she could hide her watery eyes. “And they told us to remind our parents. It's homework.” There. That ought to do it.

“Well, far be it from me to blow off your homework.” Mom squinted at the calendar, then frowned. “Huh. I actually have my annual mammogram scheduled for Monday. I'll need to switch that. It's the same day as your field trip.”

“Don't do that. You should go to your appointment. I'm sure they have plenty of other—”

“Ava.” Mom folded her arms. “You are not getting out of the field trip.”

“I'll go on the field trip by myself!” Ava blurted. She thought fast. “I'm just … tired today. I
was
nervous, but I did the balance beams in gym for practice and I think it's going to be fun. But I want to do it on my own.” She did her best to look brave and independent. “I want to prove to myself I can do it, and if you're there chaperoning …” Ava shrugged.

“Really?” Mom looked at her.

Ava made a decision. If risking her life swinging around the trees on a bunch of flimsy cables was the only way to get her mom to the doctor, that was that. She'd go on the stupid trip so Mom would go to the doctor. “Really.” Ava nodded. “I'm sure they have enough chaperones anyway. They always sign up extras.”

Mom smiled at Ava. “All right, then. You go off to the adventure course, and I'll go to my appointment and you can tell your health teacher we all did our homework.”

“Oh, thank you!” Ava forgot to sound casual. “I mean, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. I think they're hoping the parents who don't take care of that stuff will get reminded when kids ask.”

Mom nodded. “Not a bad idea, actually.” She closed the dishwasher and tipped her head to look at Ava again. “You know, I'm really proud of you, working through your anxiety like this.”

Ava nodded. “I was kind of stressed earlier. But I'm fine now,” she said. Then she added in her head,
I will be, anyway. As soon as I know you're all right
.

All weekend, Ava tried not to use the pencil. She spent Saturday helping Dad clear out the vegetable garden, now that it was below freezing at night and nothing was growing anymore.

Dad tugged on a fat stalk of overgrown broccoli. “How about world-famous oatmeal cookies?”

“What would make them world famous?” Marcus asked, kicking at a pile of weeds.

“Well, they could be truly excellent cookies.” The broccoli let go, and Dad flew back a few steps but caught his balance. “Or we could include some off-the-wall ingredient. The G and R Tavern has a world-famous fried bologna sandwich with cheese, pickles, and onions.”

“Eww. Where's that?” Emma-My-Name-Is-Toyota squealed.

“Waldo, Ohio.”

“Where's Waldo?” Marcus said, and he and Ava both cracked up.

Dad was so focused on the world-famous bologna he didn't even get the joke. “Ohio. I told you that. So maybe we could do a twist on the ingredients. Oatmeal and …” He pulled out a withered pepper plant and sniffed it. “Jalapeños!”

“Dad, maybe cooking isn't your thing,” Marcus said. “What if you tried to have … I don't know … a world-famous
event
? When you had me looking for ideas, I found a wiener dog race in Texas. And this place in Belize has chicken poop bingo, where—”

Emma burst out laughing. “Chicken poop bingo! Hahaha!” Then she started singing, “I had a chicken, yes I did, played bingo with her poop, oh, B … I … N-G-O, B … I … N-G-O …”

Marcus threw a clod of roots and dirt at her. “It's a real thing,” he said. “They make the chicken coop into this grid, and then people buy squares for ten dollars each. Wherever the bird poops, the person with that square wins the money.”

“Hmm. We don't have chickens, but some kind of event might be good,” Dad said. “Maybe we could have a wheelbarrow race.” He started running across the lawn with the wheelbarrow while weeds spilled over the sides.

Emma giggled and chased after him. “World-famous wheel-barrow!”