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you breathe it long enough. In other words, when you’ve got Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia, your own body fails the smog check, and you’re eventually poisoned by the very air you breathe. I think I’d rather fall from a giant inflatable raccoon.
    There are several different ways to respond when you find out that someone you know has something weird and incurable. Your response all depends on the type of person you are. There are basically three types.
    Type One: The “I-didn’t-hear-that” people. These are the ones who just go on with life, pretending that nothing is wrong. These are the people who would be sitting in Starbucks during an alien invasion, arguing the virtues of Splenda over Equal. You know this person. We all do.
    Type Two: The “not-in-my-airspace” people. These are the ones who believe that everything is somehow contagious and would probably start taking antibiotics if their computer got a virus. These people would do everything within their power to avoid the terminally ill person, and then say, “I wish we had more time with him,” once the farm had been bought.
    Type Three: The “I-can-fix-this” people. These people, against all logic, believe they can change the course of mighty rivers with their bare hands, even thought they can’t swim, and so usually end up drowning.
    I come from a family of drowners.
    I guess I follow in the family tradition—because even though I couldn’t even pronounce the illness that Gunnar had, I was convinced that I could somehow help him live longer. By the time I went back to school on Monday, I had already decided that I wanted to do something Meaningful for him. I wasn’t sure what it would be, only that it would be Meaningful. Now keep in mind this was before I met Kjersten, so my intentions weren’t selfish yet. I was being what they call “altruistic,” which means doing good deeds for no sensible reason—and having no sensible reason for doing things is kind of where I live.
    I knew I’d be on my own in figuring this one out—or at least I wasn’t going to ask for help from my family. Talking to Dad about it was out of the question, because all of his mental wall space was covered with restaurant reservations. I couldn’t tell my mom, because the second I did, she’d get that pained expression on her face and be on my case about praying for Gunnar. Not that I wouldn’t pray for Gunnar, but I probably would be strategic about it. I wouldn’t do it until he was on his deathbed, because the way I see it, praying is like trying to win an Academy Award; you don’t want to come out praying too early, or you get forgotten when it’s time for the nominations.
    I considered telling Frankie or Christina, but Frankie would just try to top it by telling me all the people he knew who died. As for Christina, traumatizing her with this was a bit different from telling her our basement was sealed off because of the zombies. Besides, who goes to their younger sister for advice? She does have a spiritual streak, though, I’ll admit that. In fact, lately I’ve found her sitting in her room, in lotus position, trying to levitate. She read somewhere that monks in the Himalayas have special spiritual mantras they repeat over and over that will make them float in midair. I’m open to all possibilities, but I told Christina that her mantra of “Ama Gonna Levitato” sounded more Harry Potter than Himalaya.
    No, this whole thing needed to fly under my family’s radar for a while.
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Few things got by our school radar, however. It could have been Howie or Ira who overheard Gunnar at the Empire State Building—or maybe Gunnar had been selectively confiding in other kids as well. Whatever the reason, Gunnar’s life-span issue was all the whisper around school on Monday.
    That was the day we had to sign up for John Steinbeck lit circles in