Beneath Paper Cranes (a coming of age short story) by Claire Svendsen

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    I have a tumor in my brain with a fancy medical name but I just like to call him Bob. It makes the whole dying young thing easier to deal with. Bob wasn't invited, he crept in when I wasn't looking and took up residence in my brain stem. I didn't even know he was there until the blinding headaches got so bad I ended up in the emergency room. That was the first time I learned Bob was squatting in there and despite several eviction attempts, Bob remains. Little bastard.
    “I really can't believe you're not going,” Chloe says.
    “What's the point?” I say, picking at a loose strand on my shirt.
    “What's the point?” She sits up on one elbow and glares at me. “The point is that I don't want to go to graduation alone, that's the point. Besides, don't you think your parents will want your diploma? You know, to frame or something?”
    “Exactly. How morbid is that? I already told them if they make a shrine of my room, I'm going to haunt them forever.”
    Chloe throws a pillow and it hits me square in the face. I grab the one I'm leaning on and toss it in her direction. It knocks a china unicorn off the shelf behind her that shatters as soon as it hits the floor. For a moment she looks mortified, then we both start to laugh. I'm throwing anything I can get my hands on, including a particularly ugly bowl I made out of clay when I was four. I completely miss her on purpose and it thuds against the wall, cracking in two.
    “What's going on up there girls?” Mom's voice carries over the sound of our laughing.
    “Nothing,” I call back.
    “She's going to be so mad that you're breaking all this shit,” Chloe laughs.
    “She can't be mad at me, I'm dying.”
    I pick up the picture of Chloe and me when we were ten. It was Halloween and for some stupid reason we decided to go trick or treating as cupcakes. I think it had something to do with the other kids calling us fat. Sort of an ‘up yours’ to the bullies.
    “Wait,” Chloe screams. “Not that.”
    She lunges forward and grabs the photo, clutching it close to her chest with tears in her eyes.
    “Don't you start that shit,” I tell her. “Not now.”
    “I'm sorry,” she wipes her eyes. “But I need something to remember you by.”
    “Fine. Take the picture.”
    “Why don't you come down and help me make dinner.” It’s Mom, trying again to lure us down, this time from the bottom of the stairs.
    “Come on,” I whisper to Chloe. “Let's get out of here.”
    Since I got sick, Mom's had lots of crazy ideas. I don't blame her. When conventional medicine fails, you tend to look for alternatives. It's just the alternatives kind of suck. Like now, I'm only allowed to eat green organic food. Something about chlorophyll and antioxidants. I'm pretty sure lettuce and spinach aren't going to get rid of Bob but that's not what she wants to hear. So I force down her food with a smile on my face and a queasy stomach but a girl can only take so much.
    “Where are we going?” Chloe asks.
    I slide up the window and step out onto the ledge.
    “To get a damn burger and fries.”
    “But what about your Mom?”
    “She'll live.”
    We run silently along the roof of the back porch and slide down the drain pipe. Chloe falls and splits her knee open. I slap my hand over her mouth to stop her from crying out, then pull her up. Mom is still in the kitchen, standing at the sink washing bugs out of the organic lettuce. If she turns her head the wrong way, she'll see us. So I slink along the fence dragging Chloe behind me and when we finally make it through the gate, we run like hell.
    “My knee hurts,” Chloe cries.
    “Suck it up,” I say. “It's not like you have a brain tumor.”
    “I know,” she says breathlessly.
    The sun bursts from beneath the clouds as we run down the hill into town, making everything bright and alive. I know people say that you appreciate life a lot more when you're going to die but I don't think that's exactly