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anything was wrong, and my mask of normality held up. Austin continued to treat me like a porcelain doll, no matter how many times I told him I wasn’t going to break. His kisses had become soft and brief in place of his usual demanding, passionate kisses. I hated it, and I wanted to scream and throw something at him. But we were usually at school when these things took place, and losing it in the hallway was not a good way to pretend everything was normal.
    Liz talked about boys and upcoming parties, trying to act like everything was normal, but her demeanor had changed. I could see behind her smiles, excessive talking, and excited voice that she was working hard to form those smiles and her voice had taken on a different octave than her usual excited tone. No one else seemed to notice. Maybe it was because I was looking for any signs of the two people who knew the truth treating me differently.
    I had heard someone ask Liz whether she’d been sick or just playing hooky on Wednesday. She had glanced at me before she’d answered.
    “It’s not playing hooky. It’s called a mental health day.” I hadn’t realized that she had skipped school the day after I told her the truth. She was trying to act like everything was okay because it was what I wanted.
    The one time she had been genuinely excited was when she had seen my hair.
    “Oh, my god. Your hair is awesome!” Liz had exclaimed as soon as she saw me. Her eyes had lit up with surprise and awe. She fingered my hair and nodded with approval. “It looks hot. Did your mom totally freak?”
    “At first, but I got through to her,” I told her. She nodded in understanding.
    “I can’t believe you just went for it. Go you,” she commended. I hadn’t told her that Kyle had been the reason I’d actually gone through with it. She would have read way too much into it.
    Now I was sitting nervously in a waiting room lined with wooden chairs with gray fabric cushions. The walls were a bright white, and disinfecting chemicals could be smelled. I fidgeted uncomfortably in the chair. Mom was sitting next to me, flipping through a Home Living magazine, but I could tell she wasn’t taking anything she saw or read in—if she was even trying to read. I swear, waiting rooms were invented to torture you or make you go crazy and end up in an insane asylum instead of being treated for what was actually wrong.
    Just when I was ready to go check myself into the nearest one, my name was called.
    “Taylor Sullivan,” a friendly female voice beckoned. 
    I glanced at my mom and stood up. The woman who had called my name had short, dirty blond hair and held a folder in her hands. I walked to her, and she introduced herself.
    “Hello, you must be Taylor,” she began, smiling at me. “I’m Doctor Arenstam, and I will be taking over your case.”
    That surprised me. Usually doctors didn’t come out and call for you. That was usually the nurse’s responsibility. She extended her hand, and I shook it. She had a kind face that held deep smile lines. She shook my mom’s hand as well before she guided us to her office. When we entered her office, she motioned for us to sit in front of her large wooden desk, and she took her seat on the other side facing us.
    “Taylor, I would like to begin by hearing any questions you have,” she stated. I swallowed hard. There were so many questions, and I wasn’t sure where to begin.
    “Is…is my cancer genetic?” I asked.
    Sympathy crossed her face before she spoke. “No, Taylor, there are not any genetic markers in your cancer that would be linked to genetic causes. Your cancer is environmental, not genetic,” she told me calmly.
    My face scrunched with confusion, I thought cancers generally ran in families and were genetic. “What does that mean?”
    “Well, most cancers are environmental, not genetic. When cancers run in a family, a lot of the time it is because they were exposed to the same environmental factors. In the environment