I figure I’m off the hook. But that night, Lana calls our house. Mom answers, and when she yells up, “Tretch! Phone’s for you!” I’m overjoyed.

I’m overjoyed because I’m convinced that, finally, it’s Matt. But when I look at her and mouth, Matt? as she hands over the phone, she shakes her head.

“Hello?” I ask into the receiver.

“Tretch?”

“Oh, uh—”

“Hi! It’s Lana Kramer.”

“Oh, uh, hey, Lana.”

“Hey. So I didn’t get to finish talking to you today, but”—I shut my eyes and grit my teeth—“you know how we were talking about Amy Sinks’s dance party?”

“Yeah.” I sigh, aiming away from the mouthpiece.

“Okay, well, do you want to go with me? I mean, I didn’t even realize it was going to be a date thing, you know, but apparently people are—”

“Okay,” I say. Because I can’t figure out a way not to.

“Apparently people are asking, which I thought was weird, and you know I don’t really do the whole—”

“Okay.”

“Huh? What’d you say, Tretch?”

I press the phone against my temple. “I said okay, Lana. I’ll be your date.”

“Blech! Isn’t date just the weirdest word?”

I want to beat my head against the wall. “Yes, it is kind of weird.”

“But, alas, what other word is there for it?”

“Beats me.”

“Ahhh! Tretch, I am so excited!”

“Me, too, Lana,” I say, and then something happens: a click.

Did she just hang up?

“Tretch? Are you there?”

“Yeah!” I say. Then I tone it down. “Yeah, I’m here. I thought you’d hung up, Lana.”

“Yeah. I thought you had, too—” Then she interrupts herself. “Oh, God.” I’m pretty sure I hear her facepalm. “I think that was my mom.”

I snort. “What?”

“Ugghh. My mom, Tretch. She’s been psycho about this whole thing—”

“What whole thing?”

“This whole date business. My God.”

“Why’s she being psycho?”

“She just, ugh. Never mind. I won’t go into it.” Now it’s Lana’s turn to sigh. “She just wants me to—”

I’m quiet. I don’t know if she wants me to ask, or what.

“—never mind.”

“Okay, Lana.” I let it drop.

“Well, I really am looking so forward to the dance! Thank you so much!”

There’s something sad about this. The fact that she feels like she has to thank me. “Oh, uh, thank you, Lana,” I say.

“Well, I’ll see you, Tretch.”

“Oh, okay. Bye.”

Her end clicks; then there’s the dial tone. I’m going to need time to process everything that just happened. I hook the phone back to the receiver and walk into the living room, where Mom and Dad are seated on the couch.

The TV isn’t on, nothing. It’s a setup, and I know it.

“Who was that, Tretch-o?” Mom asks. I can tell by her smile that she has an idea.

“Oh,” I say, stopping at the base of the stairs, “it was just Lana.”

Dad scratches his chin. “Is that the girl you can’t stand who works at the bookshop?”

With that, Mom smacks Dad on the thigh with her palm. “No, silly!” she says. “I mean, yes, that’s who you’re thinking of. But this is the girl Tretch went on a date with the other night.”

“A double date,” I correct, lest Mom’s excitement run away with her. I slip my hands into my pockets. “But, yeah, I mean, she’s pretty cool.” I find a piece of lint and pinch. “She, uh, she just asked me to Amy Sinks’s New Year’s dance—”

Mom jolts up. “Oh, Tretch, that’s wonderful.” She knocks the remote control onto the floor. “That’s, uh—” She bends down to pick it up. “That’s exciting, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” I say, doing my best to sound excited. “It is, uh, very exciting.” Somehow it falls flat. I don’t want them to be excited about this, because it makes me even more worried about the truth, which is the opposite of this.

Dad gives me a thumbs-up fist pump, a classic sign of approval. “Way to go, Tretch,” he says.

“Yeah, well—”

He grins. “Getting to be a regular old ladies’ man, aren’t you?”

No, I think. Stop. You don’t know what you’re doing.

“Oh, uh—” I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I turn away from them and start up the stairs.

“Just let us know the details when you find out!” Mom calls. “I’d be happy to drive y’all!”

I holler back, “Thanks, Mom!”

I shut the door to my room and throw myself down on my bed. Don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it, I think, and then, finally, Parents are so weird.

I pull a pillow over the top of my head and breathe.

The next morning, Joe returns, and Mom and Dad kick into full-on Christmas Eve Frenzy mode.

“Tretch, I need you to carry Grandma and Granddad’s presents to the car—will you do that for me?” Mom is wearing a blue sweatshirt with a snowman on it and present-shaped earrings. “Oh, and if you could get those two casseroles from the fridge, I’d really appreciate it.”

Dad wears his hunting jacket but keeps the collar cinched tight around his neck to hide the rash. “Tretch, are you not dressed yet, son? What’s the holdup?”

Joe sits at the table, all droopy-eyed from his early flight, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee.

“Hey, Joe,” I say.

“Hey, Tretch.”

“You tired?”

“Yeah.”

“How was Dallas?”

“Dallas was okay,” he says, his head nodding sleepily. “You got a present. Here. Since it’s not under the tree, I think you’re allowed to open it now.”

It’s a small rectangular present, wrapped in bright red paper and sprinkled with a couple dead tree needles. Nana and Papa always give the coolest gifts, usually stuff they picked up while traveling abroad.

I rip the paper, tossing it ferociously to the side.

What? Why the—?

It’s a copy of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

“Real thoughtful,” I mumble. “Yet inarguably disappointing.”

“What is it?” Joe asks, his face in his hand. He looks so sleepy I think he might tip out of his chair.

“A Chitty Chitty Bang Bang DVD?”

“Aw, you used to love that movie.”

“Are you kidding? It used to scare me. That freakin’ childnapper? And how old do they think I am, anyway?”

Dad walks in and pulls the casseroles from the fridge—which Mom asked me to do. He looks annoyed, and he’s starting to sound it. “Better get movin’, Tretch-o. We gotta go.” He crosses the kitchen to the open front door.

“Be ready in two seconds,” I say.

I turn and rush back up the stairs to brush my teeth and change into some jeans. To be honest, it ends up taking me more like fifty seconds before I’m ready. Still, that’s pretty fast, I think.

In the driveway, I pile into the back of the Accord next to Joe. And then I remember, “Oh, my CD player!”

“Come on,” Dad says. “You don’t need—”

But I’m already up and out of the seat, scurrying back to the house.

“Tretch, the door is locked,” Mom calls out the window. I spin around and stare at her. I need my CD player. Dad turns off the car and pulls the key out. Mom tosses them to me through the passenger window.

I’m on a roll this morning. I know I’m on their nerves. But it’s okay. They know I’ll go crazy if I have to ride out to Farm Farm with no music.

The CD player is on the kitchen counter where I set it the night before. I snag it, run, and lock the door in record time.

“All right,” I say, reseating myself next to Joe. He’s already nodding off against the window. His head pops up when Dad cranks the ignition, then droops back down again. I put my headphones on and hit play.

“Eeh, eeh, eeh, eeh-eeh, eeh …”

I lose track of how many times I play the song over the course of the ride. Once, I press pause to ask Mom a question:

“If I want to send Matt a Christmas card, how long would it take to get to New York?”

Mom is in the middle of saying something to Dad, but she stops and turns to answer me. “It’s already Christmas Eve, Tretch. It’s much too late for that.”

I nod. But I don’t really care all that much if it actually gets to Matt by Christmas. I kind of just care that it gets to him at all. So he’ll know I’m thinking about him—without him knowing I’m thinking about him too much.

I have just hit play again on the CD player when Mom says something else. I pause it again.

“Huh?” I say. But then I realize she isn’t speaking to me.

“Richard, it might not even be that bad. We’ll just have to see.”

Dad nods. “So why keep it a secret, then?”

I gulp. What are they talking about? I glance at Joe. Surely Joe hasn’t told them about—

“I left another message on their machine,” Dad says. “But they’re not calling back.”

I feel a little tension release from my chest. It can’t be me, then, that they’re talking about. But then who is it?

I start to daydream about Mom and Dad being a part of some secret group of spies—a kind of underground special agency. Or like X-Men, mutants. And Joe and I are mutants, too.

We just haven’t discovered our powers yet.

We park under the old pine tree next to the driveway, and I don’t skip a beat. I fly from the car, through the garage where Granddad’s old Ford is parked, and through the front door. The smell of coffee hits me, and I stomp my feet on the holiday welcome mat, the same old holiday welcome mat that Grandma puts out every year: ’TIS THE SEASON.

I take off my tennis shoes and fling them into the pantry beside the entrance. Then, in my socks, I skid into the kitchen.

Grandma is at the kitchen table, shuffling a deck of cards. A steaming cup of coffee sits to the right of her quick hands, and her wig sits sort of lopsided on top of her head.

“Well, hellooo,” I say, crossing from carpet to tile into the kitchen. I speak everything like it comes with a drum roll: a symptom of my excitement. “Grandmaaa, whatcha doiiing?”

Her head snaps up, and the wig slides back a little farther from her forehead. Her eyes are wide, like I’ve startled her.

“Well, look who it is!” she exclaims.

“Merry Christmas!” I say, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, whiffing the old-closet smell of the bright red sweatshirt she wears and, beneath it, the smell of the Irish Spring bath soap she and Granddad always use. She hugs me in a Farm Farm bear hug, her cheek pressed against mine, feeling wrinkled and soft.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“Going good.” She nods, her wig sliding forward ever so slightly. “Same old, pretty much.” She squeezes both of my hands, our customary greeting.

Mom, Dad, and Joe filter into the kitchen, lugging casseroles and presents. I figure Dad’ll probably say something right about now, about me not helping (“Way to lend a hand, Tretch” or something—kind of joking but also kind of not), but he doesn’t. He sets the package he’s carrying down, crosses directly over to Grandma, and pulls her close. “Hey, Mom,” he says.

“Well, hello, hello, Richard,” she replies.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s out back, tending to the fire.”

Mom places a hand on my arm. “Hey, babe, will you run out to the car and get the last two casseroles? Joe, I guess you had better go take a nap—”

Joe yawns. “Hey, Grandma. What’s up?”

“Get over here and give me a hug.” Grandma gives Joe a stern once-over. “You take an early flight, young man?” She reaches out her hands, and Joe places his on top.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Well, you better get rested up, then. We got too much food to eat to not have you around.”

Joe smiles at that. “I’ll get rested up,” he promises. He reaches for Grandma’s coffee mug, and I notice a Post-it note stuck to the table beside it. It springs up off the wood like a cartoon in 3-D. I recognize Grandma’s handwriting on it, two words scrawled. I crane my neck to read it—

“Tretch, run and grab those casserole dishes now, please.”

I look up. Mom’s eyebrows arch. “Okay,” I say. I turn to leave, not able to shake the feeling that something’s a little off. Why is Dad hugging Grandma like that? Why is Granddad hiding out back? Why do I feel like they’re all keeping something from me?

Outside, the remaining two dishes are stacked on top of the Accord. I pull them down, balance them, and carry them back into the kitchen. Everyone has disappeared. Grandma’s coffee cup is still there, steam rising; her cards are there, haphazardly stacked; and the Post-it note—it’s there, too. I pick it up this time and read.

Multiple myeloma.

“Now what on earth”—I look around, making sure I’m still alone—“is this?” I stick the Post-it back against the tabletop and go to the kitchen window. Outside, Grandma, Mom, and Dad all stand on one side of the fire pit Granddad built. Granddad’s standing on the other side. In the middle of them all burns a dull flame, trembling scraps of newspaper and colorful coupon pages beneath it.

Mom sometimes says Granddad has an “artistic temperament,” but I’m not sure what that means. To me, right now, he just looks angry—or maybe not angry, but definitely annoyed. He swipes his hand in front of him as if to say Enough with all this and turns his back on everyone. Then, hands in his pockets, face pointed at the ground, he ambles off toward his shop in the back corner of the yard.

Mom holds on to Grandma’s elbow and Dad shakes his head. What’s wrong? I wonder. I see Dad’s shoulders rise and fall, like he’s breathing heavy. He turns away from my mom and Grandma and looks out toward the woods.

I don’t know what to think—except that all of this behavior has to have something to do with what was written on that Post-it. Multiple whatever. I’ll have to get Joe to look it up on his iPhone when he wakes up.

I step away from the window and sit down at the table, memorizing the words on the Post-it. Multiple myeloma, multiple myeloma, multiple myeloma. I repeat them over and over, until I know I won’t forget. Then I take off through the back door, out across the back porch, past Mom and Dad and Grandma.

“Where you going, Tretch?” Mom asks.

I start jogging. “Oh, just to say hey to Granddad!” I call over my shoulder.

The dry grass crunches beneath my feet. There’s a light on inside the shop. I can see it through the window, making a shadow of the old tractor parked inside. Granddad has finally retired it, after summer after summer spent making repairs.

I walk through the door of the shop. Granddad is crouched over his workbench in his blue coveralls. He’s wiping the surface with a greasy handkerchief.

“Hey, Granddad!” I say.

He jumps, his shoulders and neck snapping back. He turns around. “Well, heeey, Junior Junior,” he says.

“Sorry to scare you, Granddad.”

“It’s all right.” He nods. “What you doin’?”

“Oh, nothing, Granddad. Just thought I’d run out here and see you.”

“Grandma tell you the news?”

I gulp. Here it comes.

“N-n-no,” I stutter. M-m-multiple—

“Mary’s gonna have a baby.”

I feel like a balloon has come untied inside me and is slowly letting out air. “Ooohhh,” I say. Mary the cow is the sweetest, gentlest member of the Farm Farm herd, and her having a calf is news, even if it’s not the news.

“Should be any day now.” Granddad grunts. “You should go have a look at her. Take the truck and go see her if you want—” He turns and gives the workbench another wipe-down.

I clear my throat. “You ready for Christmas, Granddad?”

“Sure am,” he answers without turning around. “What about you?”

“Yeah. I think we’re about to have the Spaghetti Casserole Feast.”

“Mm, that’s good.” He reaches under the bench and pulls out a large sheet of metal. Then he sets it atop the flat surface of the workbench. The metal plays with the dimness in the shop and casts a tiny burst of light. It reflects off Granddad’s chin, his shoulders.

“What you working on, Granddad?” I ask.

“ ’Bout to do some metal work, Junior,” he says, reaching for his welder’s mask. “Gon’ get loud. How ’bout you go check on Mary for me? Grab Joe and both of you”—he slides the mask down over his face—“go. Go see ’er.”

“Okay, Granddad,” I say. “Sounds good.”

Mary stands chewing her cud. She chews in rhythm, like she’s keeping time, pacing herself like an Olympic cud-chewer. Her belly doesn’t look noticeably bigger to me—being a cow, she’s already pretty naturally round. But her udders are obviously full, and that’s a definite sign of pregnancy.

She burps, throwing off her perfect chewing rhythm.

“Well, Tretch, I sure am glad you woke me up for this,” Joe sasses. I know he’s mostly kidding, but I can tell he’s still exhausted. He even nodded off a couple times on the ride through the woods to the pasture. I sit on the driver’s side with the door open and my foot hanging out. Joe’s door is open, too. The truck reminds us with a constant dinging.

Ding.

Multiple—

Ding. Ding.

Multiple doors on vehicle—

Ding.

Multiple doors on vehicle open.

Ding.

Multiple—

I shut my door and pull the jacket tight around me. Then I press the brake and turn the key. The truck chokes a little (normal) before it finally revs. I ease it out of park and tap the gas ever so slightly.

“Well, Mary looks fine to me,” I say. Joe shuts his door and tips his head against the seat rest, his eyelids fluttering closed. I clear my throat. “Uh, you got your phone on you, Joe?”

“Why?”

“Because I need you to look something up.”

“What?” He opens one eye.

“I need you to search ‘multiple myeloma’ and tell me what it is.”

“Mm.” He fishes the iPhone in its blue case out of his pocket. “What do you need to know that for?” He presses the screen a couple times.

“I saw it written on that Post-it note in Grandma’s kitchen.”

Joe presses the screen a few more times. “Uh,” he says. “Tretch …” Then he looks up, and I know, and I realize that I have known. You’re not stupid, I remind myself. Hoping against your better instincts isn’t stupid.

A pulse in my head keeps time on its own.

Joe reads aloud what’s popped up on his screen.

But the only word I really hear is cancer.