EXCERPT


Chapter One

Harmon, OK
September 1, 1999

Mr. Solomon Kapps
The Sol Kapps Show
NBC
30 Rockefeller Plaza
New York, N.Y. 10112

Dear Mr. Kapps:

Today I finished reading your book, "Know Jokes!." I hope you can help me. I finished the book in my doctor's office, because I needed something to take my mind off the news—good or bad.

I'm a 14-year-old boy. Dr. Wong told me I had lymphoma, cancer of the lymph glands. I didn't know I had lymph glands. They're supposed to keep me from getting sick. I didn't want to start this letter with a downer, but you need to know the real deal. Dr. Wong said I had a "good" cancer. She meant lymphoma can be cured. She said my cancer hadn't spread much, but by that time I'd already hit the off button.

I write. So I'm writing you.

I'm afraid. I thought cancer happened to old people. My best friend, Stick Dawson, says an 8th grader over at Whittier, Brad Boxleitner, has lymphoma, too. He's the only player who ever stuffed a basketball on Stick.

Dr. Wong said I might meet him. I hope so. Brad Boxleitner and Studbutt Stack are the two best jocks in Harmon. Anyway, Brad is coming in for chemo tomorrow afternoon when I start my treatments. Maybe he'll tell me what to expect. Losing my hair will be a bummer!

Last week, I worried about starting on the football team. Now I wonder if I'll be alive next season. What's going to happen to me!?!

I have cancer. Right now, I need to feel alive.

You've got to be asking, "Why's this kid writing me?" Well, I love your television show. I love the way you make Mom and me laugh, and I love your book. You want to know what's weird, Mr. Kapps? I choke when I speak in front of people, but when I write jokes and funny scripts, the kids all laugh. I wrote a comedy play last year for the 7th grade class, and they went crazy. When I make people laugh, I feel good.

Mom's freaked out about this cancer. It's just the two of us. Dad died five years ago of a heart attack. Mom said I can't play football at Kennedy Middle School this year. That killed me! I've played football (offensive guard) since the fourth grade. I dream about three things: football, you, and Jenny (more on her later). I can't imagine not playing football, but Mom and Dr. Wong said maybe next year, when I've finished chemotherapy.

Now I need to write to someone who can make me laugh. I'm scared, Mr. Kapps. Last night I had a nightmare. I saw my own funeral. Guys from the football team carried my casket. I woke up sweating.

Maybe you could write something from Chapter One, Getting Material from Your Life. My life's a train wreck: I've got cancer; I can't play football, and my head will shine like a cue ball. Then there's the Jenny thing. But Jenny deserves a whole letter.

I promise you, Mr. Kapps; I'm going to beat this cancer.

Sometimes I can be funny. Really, I can. Just cut me a little slack now. I'm crying.

Hoping to hear from you,
Rafe (Soon To Be Bald) Mackey

Chapter Two

Harmon, OK
September 2, 1999

Dear Mr. Kapps:

I hope it's okay to write again this soon. You won't believe what happened.

This afternoon, Mom drove me to the oncology unit at Harmon Memorial Hospital. That's where they give the chemotherapy treatments.

After Dr. Wong examined me, I waited in a room with two recliner chairs with metal poles beside them. She asked if I would like another boy's company while we both had chemo. Sure, I said, wondering if she meant Brad Boxleitner.

While Dr. Wong talked to Mom, I tried to read a magazine. I imagined millions of cancer cells nesting in my body like rats. How many new cells had formed overnight? I felt afraid. My hands felt clammy, and my stomach hurt. Mom had warned me not to eat that chili dog for lunch.

"Your eyeballs upside down?"

Startled, I looked toward the door. The tallest boy in the world stood there: big ears, a pale bean pole guy draped in a Whittier Middle School T-shirt, jeans with no knees, and Nikes big enough for their own zip code.

Not one hair showed on his body. Blue eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, stared at me.

"What?" I said.

"That Sports Illustrated," he said, pointing to my lap.

"It's upside down."

I felt like a jerk.

His laugh filled the room. He ambled over and high-fived me with an NBA-sized hand. He reached behind my ear with his other hand and seemed to pluck out a pink foam rubber ball. He put it on his nose. Then he reached behind my other ear. A purple rubber ball appeared like magic. "Put this on," he said. "When your hair falls out, you'll look like a clown anyway."

I stared at him, unable to say anything. I stared at the foam rubber nose, then I put it on my face. I felt stupid, but we were even.

"Welcome to Needlesville," he said, smiling. "Brad Boxleitner. You can call me BB."

"Rafe Mackey," I said, shaking hands. No wonder he could stuff a basketball on Stick Dawson, I thought. He must be six-foot-five, at least.

"Dr. Wong said you start chemo today," he said.


"Misery loves company. Want some?"

"Misery or company?"

He laughed. "Company, Dork Toad!"

I smiled. "Okay, Shorty."

When he stretched out on the other chair, his feet hung over the end.

"Looks like you've put a lot of miles on those Nikes," I said.

"I scored 24 points on you guys last basketball season in these puppies," he said, grinning. "You know Stick Dawson? Just ask him."

"I saw that game."

I watched him staring at his shoes, as if they brought back memories. "What about this season?" I asked.

"Will you be ready?"

His smile melted, and the light left his eyes. "I got this crappy disease in June," he said. "Dr. Wong says I'll take four more months of chemo, then if I test cancer-free, back to basketball."

"Bummer," I said. "Same thing with me and football."

I felt empty. I would miss slamming my shoulder pads into a linebacker, springing Studbutt Stack into the open for a touchdown. I would miss the smell of the locker room, the look in my teammates' eyes in the huddle before kickoff.

We sat in silence. Any moment a nurse would walk in with bags of medicine that would make me as bald as BB. He knew what to expect, I thought. Maybe he would clue me.

"BB, what's chemo like?"

Those blue lasers stared at me. "The next hour?

Tonight? Or down the road?"

"All three."

He sighed and crossed one Nike over the other. "The nurse, Miss Brock, will walk in with bags of Red Stuff. She'll find a vein and watch the medicine drain into us. I call her Nurse Needles."

"Why watch it?"

"Because if the needle slips out of a vein, Red Stuff eats muscle."

"If it's that strong, why doesn't it kill us?"

He rolled his eyes. "When the Seven O'Clock Follies hit, you'll think it is killing you."

"The Seven O'Clock Follies?"

BB stared out the window. I waited, conscious of the second hand on the wall clock creeping toward 3:30.

When I thought he would not speak again, he said, "Ever notice clouds?"

"Clouds? Yeah, I guess."

"I mean really study them," he said. "The curves, how they build and boil--like live mountains?"

"Uh...I'm not sure."

He kept staring at the fleecy clouds. "Well, when I beat this gig, I'm going to be an architect," he said, a dreamy look in his eyes. "I'll design buildings that look like clouds."

I stayed quiet.

"My buildings won't be boxy angles, like some geometry exercise," he said. "They'll be smooth curves, sweeping up like a dove." He moved his hands up. "I've seen buildings like that in San Francisco, where I was born, and in Dallas; but my buildings will be better."

I nodded.

"l'll design homes with that same feeling...living in the clouds." He stared out the window as the clouds changed. "I'll build only on mountains," he said.

I stared at him, wondering if we would live or die.

"Now I understand," I said. "I feel the same when I write."

"You do understand!" he said, sitting up and staring at me. "Most people look at me like I'm popping acid. But you dream, too."

And I want to live my dream, I thought. First I must survive the Cancer Rats, the Red Stuff, and the Follies, whatever that is.

As if reading my mind, BB said, "Let me tell you about the Seven O'Clock Follies. You live them every month, on the evening of chemo. About seven tonight, you'll feel like a mule kicked you in the gut." He stared at me. "There's nothing your mom can do for you. You'll puke Red Stuff. Nurse Needles says drink water. It won't stay down, but drink anyway. You'll piss Red Stuff. Red Stuff goes everywhere inside you."

"Killing Cancer Rats," I murmured.

He nodded. "Yeah, like the other chemo medicines do, and the cortisone pills that puff up your face and make you cranky."

Already, I felt sick.

He sighed and looked at the clouds again, as if he could escape. "Drink as much water as you can. If you're unlucky, and react to the medicine like me, you'll not eat for 24 hours, and you'll feel like a dishrag. Dr. Wong says I react to chemo more than most people do." He leaned back on the recliner. "The stuff they give you to fight off puking may not work. About 9 tomorrow night, you'll crash. You'll wake up about three in the morning, stagger into the kitchen, and drink a quart of orange juice. You'll eat everything in the fridge. Then you'll sleep."

A beautiful, auburn-haired babe in white peeked into the room. She stared at our clown noses and laughed.

We looked at her. She's kind of neat, I thought.

"You guys getting to know each other?" she asked. We nodded.

"Great. We'll start pretty soon." Then she was gone.

"Nurse Needles?" I asked.

"None other," he said.

I stared out at the clouds, wishing I were up there instead of here. "You've talked about the next hour and tonight," I said. "What about the coming weeks?"

He ran his hand over his bald head. "In a few days, all that black hair will fall out because of chemo."

I felt my hair. So long, I thought. Been good to grow you.

"Get ready for changes in people," BB said. "Some won't look you in the eye. They think you're going to die."

Suddenly, anger out-muscled fear inside me. "Bullshit!" I said. "I'm gonna win this game!"
"Right!" he shouted, springing from the chair and high-fiving me again. "It's all in your head, anyway. Dr. Wong says we gotta believe. I picture the Red Stuff swarming over those cancer cells and gobbling them up. Dr. Wong calls it 'positive mental imagery.'"

"Yeah!" I said. "Red Stuff Eats Cancer Rats!"

BB clapped me on the shoulder and returned to the recliner. He watched the clouds again. The clock read 3:35.

Time seemed to drag. I thought about Nurse Needles bringing the Red Stuff. I didn't want that in my vein. I wanted to say, "Adios!"

"Have you dreamed about your funeral?" BB asked.

"How did you know?!"

"I saw everybody at mine," he said, shaking his head. "Friends, enemies, teachers. My mother and little sister. Even my dad, divorced and disappeared.

"Gawd!" I swallowed, remembering how I had awakened this morning from the same dream. "How do I get past that stage?"

"Set goals." The gleam flashed in his eyes. "Me, I'm gonna finish The Lightning."

I was about to ask, What Lightning? when Nurse Needles walked in with two bags of Red Stuff.

She hung the crinkly bag on the pole beside my recliner. "Looks like strawberry soda," I said.

"Too bad it's not," BB answered.

What a day, Mr. Kapps. It's 6:30 p.m., and my stomach feels queasy. I wonder if I'll last until 7 o'clock.

Awaiting the Follies,
Rafe Mackey