Dessert First Read Online Free PDF

Which is a public service, because cancer practically pulls worried people out of passing cars.
    But the only way to prevent three time zones of mass freakout and a babbled avalanche of untested home cancer cures is to post in the language of Mom Calmese. In Mom Calmese, problems are past tense, obstacles are overcome, and there’s always a plan to deal with the current situation, which is never dire. We’re cheerful, positive, thankful, and optimistic. We never freak out.
    My mom, with an actual anxiety disorder since I was little—which Beep’s cancer hasn’t exactly made better—is useless at Mom Calmese. So I write Beep’s updates. I pretend I’m the exact opposite of my actual mom. Even in Calmese, though, I had a hard time posting about Beep’s relapse. But no one else was going to—heaven forbid we let Mom near the Internet. I sat clattering at the keyboard, messing with wording.
    A little setback this week. Beep’s blood test came back with some concerns, so he’s at UCSF for another chemo round to get back into remission. Beep is back in his temporary home away from home, surrounded by a great team.
    Mom Calmese is the perfect language for lying by telling the truth. Every word was true, but what I left out—how scared I was for Beep and how much I wished he could skip the misery of chemo again—made the whole post a hollow lie.
    I logged out of Beep’s account and logged in on my own. I still Facebook, not just because I post Beep’s updates for everyone. Lots of kids in the cancer community, like Hunter, still use Facebook, because it’s better than CaringBridge, which is similar but only for sick people, so it’s medical-information-filled, with posts about “bowel movement frequency.” Eww. I’m not exaggerating. A large part of the sick child mortality rate is probably kids dying of embarrassment when they find out what their parents posted on CaringBridge.
    Hunter, my online flirt-buddy who also has leukemia, had replied to my Facebook message about clinical trials.
Yeah. I’m on one. Borte-something-Tonsylate.
Not fun.
    Of course not. It was freaking chemo.
Thanks for the info. How are other things?
Besides possibly dying?
I added that, because Hunter almost always responded “possibly dying, but otherwise fine.” Although currently cancer bald, Hunter was a hot senior—even when he wasn’t extra warm from radiation treatments. He was some kind of basketball star back at his high school in Maryland. He played point guard, which is sort of the basketball equivalent of center midfielder in soccer, the position I play. He had even gotten some scholarship to play basketball in college, which was looking less and less likely, since—as Hunter put it—he couldn’t even pass the physical for a Mighty Mites team, whatever that was.
    There was also a status update from Evan, a selfie picture with his eyes closed.
Tired
, he posted.
Up half last night talking medical research with a cute girl.
    Evan thought I was cute? My heart flipped a little somersault. Evan is another reason I Facebook. Because he’s a musician, he uses it to get the word out about upcoming gigs and to “connect with his audience.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to the cute girl post, though. I’d sworn off flirting with Evan, except in my online secret alter ego Cipher. So I went and got the iPad, so I could also log in separately as Cipher.
    Ooh, Skinnyboy
, I commented as Cipher, picking up on the “medical topic”:
Concerned about a rash?
    Evan:
Nah
.
Was researching cancer clinical trials
.
    Evan knew Cipher as my online “good friend” from the cancer community. Cipher posted lots of comments on my cancer blog and had friended Evan on Facebook, where they flirted with appalling frequency.
Whew!
I responded as Cipher.
I should definitely get to know you better
.
Maybe even wrap my tentacles around you.
Somehow, back last year when I invented my Cipher identity to keep talking to Evan online, even though I