March 2005

Mischa Lewis had skin cancer.  The Year Thirteen form tutors had broken it to them this morning.

To Natalie, it felt as of she’d been slapped.  She tried to remember the last time she’d seen or spoken to Mischa.  Last Tuesday, probably, when they’d all been talking about dystopian fiction in English.  She’d seemed fine.  She’d probably seem fine if you saw her right now.  You’d never know that, underneath, there was something poisonous eating away at her, something that didn’t want to stop until it had completely finished her off.

She didn’t know Mischa that well, but she’d always been there.  Around.  Today it was as if there was a cold, empty spot in the whole fabric of the school.

In the common room at break, though, it turned out that Johnny had a different opinion.  “It’s so disgusting,” he sniffed, “She gets sick, and suddenly we’re all supposed to act like we’re her best friends.”

Abbie made a little agreeing noise, and carried on eating her sandwich.

“I mean, God, it’ll be treated easily!” said Amelia, “She just needs to go to the hospital and get the mole removed!  She could even get a boob job while she’s at it!”  She looked around at the others, waiting for a laugh.

She got one from Daisy.  “I’m sorry she’s ill and everything, but most of the things she says just make me want to smack her.”  She smacked the table to demonstrate.  “When she said, Oh, we’re seventeen, we can act as stupid as we like now and leave being intelligent for when we’re older…”

“God…”  Amelia rolled her eyes.

“To me, that’s like saying she’ll do porn for now as a means to a serious acting career later!”  Daisy said this with a flourish, breaking into a laugh on the last word.  La-ha-hater!

“Well, she’s supposed to be quite good at hockey…  I mean, if we’re going to comment on her ball control…”

Natalie was still thinking over that conversation after school, when she looked up Mischa Lewis’ address in the phone book.  She was still thinking about it when she went into town for a Get Well card, and she was still thinking about it when she knocked on the door and Mischa’s dad opened it.

Mischa’s dad was tall and thin, and looked down at her through thick glasses.  Natalie almost lost her nerve.  What could she have to say to him or Mischa that wasn’t completely inadequate?  She had no idea what they were going through right now.  How could she do anything other than interfere and make everything worse?

Don’t be an idiot.  She swallowed and said, “Hi, Mr Lewis?  I’m Natalie Clements- I’m in Mischa’s class at school.”

Mischa’s dad nodded.  “Oh yes, Natalie…” he said thoughtfully, “I’m sure Mischa’s mentioned you…”

“She might not have,” said Natalie quickly.  She could see him starting to worry that she’d been round their house three or four times, and he’d just forgotten about her.  “We don’t really hang out much.  But, um, we’re all worried about her, and I’ve got a…”  She looked down at the card in her hand, and imagined Mr Lewis saying, Oh, you’ve got a card for her!  Well, that makes it all better, then, doesn’t it?  “Well, I thought she’d want to know we were rooting for her.”

That sounded pathetic.  In fact, everything she’d said so far had sounded pathetic.  But every time she wished she hadn’t come, she remembered what Amelia had said.  She can even get a boob job while she’s at it.

“Um, I remembered…”  She looked back up at Mr Lewis.  “Sorry, nothing I’m saying sounds like what I actually mean.  Is Mischa around?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding as relieved as she was, “I’ll try and track her down.”

Five minutes later, Natalie was in Mischa’s room, marvelling at how tidy it was.  There was nothing on the floor and barely anything on the surfaces- a tissue box and a couple of gossip magazines on her bedside table, but that was it.  Everything else was neatly packed away into drawers and cupboards.  The walls had a pink-and-white rose pattern around the edges, and there was a faint smell of perfume in the air.  The whole room looked a bit like a display in a furniture shop.

“The doctors say it’s probably not too bad,” said Mischa.  She was sitting opposite Natalie in her desk chair, ankles crossed as if she was posing for a photograph.  “I’m getting it removed next week, and then they’ll see if it’s spread. But they reckon they can usually cure it… Treat it, I mean.”  Her expression wavered, and Natalie thought about the massive gulf between the words “treat” and “cure.”  One was definitely good news; the other could mean just about anything.

“That’s good,” Natalie replied.  She couldn’t help looking at Mischa’s hair.  It was dark and shoulder-length, with the fringe cut straight across like Charlotte Church.  Natalie tried not to wonder how long she’d keep it.

“It’s just the waiting, you know?”  Mischa shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.  “All this time in between one bit and the next, and all I can do is think too much and panic.”

Natalie forced a smile.  “Well, if you want me to bring you your English homework tomorrow…”

“See, you’re joking, but that would actually be really great!”  Mischa let out a nervous laugh.  “It’d give me something to think about that isn’t… you know, terror.”

Natalie tapped her fingers on the bedside table.  “Alright then- I will.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  Your house is on my way home- I’ll drop it in.”  Natalie thought for a moment, feeling a little bit of weight ease off her shoulders.  “What other subjects do you do?”

“Um…  French and RE…”

“I’ll see if I can get someone to pick up homework for them, too.”  She glanced back at Mischa, worried that she’d taken things too far.  “Wait, unless you think that’d be too overwhelming?”

Mischa put up her hands.  “No, no, that’s be great!  I mean, I don’t know how much energy I’ll have once the treatment starts, but right now, I just need something to do.”

Natalie smiled.  “I understand.  Completely.”

(To Be Continued)