CHAPTER 1

The ponytail was a nice touch. Better than nice, really—distinctive. Roguish.

Possibly even sexy, if he squinted hard enough.

“Damn,” Jimmy muttered, pausing in his packing to admire, once more, the thick brown ponytail that cascaded from the back of his Yankees cap. He had once thought that long hair on guys was something reserved only for the artistic or the terminally weird, but the look had grown on him, and his mother, for once in his life, had voiced no objection.

He looked good.

Pity it was going to waste.

He stared at the mirror and tried to imagine how he would look to Emma. Tiffany was one thing, but Emma—Emma was a senior, the president of the student council. She would introduce him during the assembly in the gym, at the goodbye ceremony later that morning. The two tenth grade classes would be there, teachers and the woman from the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Jimmy imagined that Emma might cry and give him a hug; he didn’t care much for the crying, but hoped for a hug and maybe a kiss. From Emma. The most popular girl in the school. A senior. Tiffany had kissed him goodbye many times the night before, and she even cried—but Emma, well…Emma wasn’t a swimmer, and she had huge breasts, gigantic compared to Tiffany’s. If she gave him a real hug, he imagined that he could die happy.

Pushing the brim of his hat away from his eyes, he bent back to the task at hand: fitting the mess strewn across his bed into his oversized backpack. The thing was practically a series of nesting pockets, straps revealing snaps and zippers, an inner pouch for his papers, a waterproof bag for a towel, an exterior loop for his water bottle, a carabineer for…well, he wasn’t certain exactly what he was supposed to do with the carabineer, but all proper backpacks had at least one. It was like a flag patch—decorative, yet vaguely important for unspecified reasons.

Jimmy had succeeded in making the backpack look just full enough to quash his mother’s suspicion that he hadn’t packed enough underwear—again—but kept it light enough that she wouldn’t feel obligated to repack it for him.

That was the absolute last thing he wanted.

For two weeks, she had fretted that he might need ten pairs of shorts, hiking boots, and a balaclava in the span of a one-week trip to Disneyland. She had initially insisted that he bring a suitcase, something large enough to accommodate clothing for every conceivable terrain and weather. Jimmy was adamantly opposed to the idea of lugging around such an uncool item, particularly one of the oversized suitcases with the muted floral print stored in the attic, and this time, for once, he had prevailed.

The reason why he had prevailed was lost on no one, but his parents dropped the matter after acquiescing to his plea for a camping backpack.

Jimmy riffled through his papers once more, just to be sure that the pages with the e-ticket barcode and hotel information his grandfather had given him were still there; reassured, he tucked them into an inner pocket. He slipped his passport in behind them, adding a notebook, a pen, and two blank CDs as well.

He hesitated, studying the bulges in his backpack, then pulled a neatly folded map from the back of his sock drawer and hid it away in a separate pouch.

The book, he decided, would be the last to go. It had been his grandfather’s gift for his tenth birthday, and it would be easy to explain to his mother that he planned to reread The Legend of Sheba once again on his flight to Los Angeles.

He continued to fill the bag, stuffing socks he had no intention of wearing on top—that way, they would be the first thing his mother would see if she peeked inside the backpack—rolling t-shirts and shorts into packable bundles, squeezing the bottle of sunscreen in to appease his mother. On top, nestled between his shampoo and a green windbreaker, went a thick plastic pouch full of orange bottles. He checked again before zipping the bag closed, just to make sure that the bottles were accessible, then slung the backpack onto his shoulders and shrugged, testing the weight, and winked at himself in the mirror. He looked good.

Jimmy turned to survey his bedroom, taking in the Jeter poster hanging by the closet, the framed Woodstock reprint beside his desk, and the marked-up world map Scotch taped to the wall beside his bed. He had already drawn a red dot over Anaheim in preparation, and scanned the continent that separated southern California and Long Island. A long flight, perhaps, but he needed the extra three hours in the air. Weeks before the argument of suitcase versus backpack erupted, a shorter discussion had popped up: California versus Florida. California won when Jimmy explained that the weather there was more stable than it was in Florida at this time of year, and his grandfather, knowing his daughter only too well, slipped in a by-the-way comment that the hospitals in California were far superior to Florida’s. They knew she would not check.

Reaching into one of his backpack’s dozen side pockets, Jimmy extracted an oddly shaped pocketknife and tried, for the tenth time, to figure out how to get it on the plane. It was his grandfather’s knife, and came with stories of Vietnam and of hunting upstate, and of carving his grandmother’s name on tree trunks, and once again, Jimmy marveled at the knife’s perfect balance and at its blade, still sharp after all these years. He was still mulling over the problem when his mother’s voice echoed up the stairs: “Jimmy, sweetie! It’s time! Hurry up, we’re going to be late!”

He hurriedly slid the backpack off, tucked the book inside, then considered the knife in his hand. With a practiced flick of the wrist, he opened the blade, then tossed the knife at the map. It hit with a dull thud, its black handle wiggling with the impact, and Jimmy crawled across his bed to see what he had skewered. Not that he had doubted, but he wanted to be sure.

Ethiopia. The Blue Nile.

“Bull’s eye,” he whispered.

Jimmy pulled the blade out of the wall—he was not stupid enough to leave clues—and put the knife back in his desk drawer. Instead, he picked up a small Swiss army knife, easier to slide by the TSA people at the airport, and buried it deep inside his bag. He checked his reflection once more, tugged his ponytail, and, hoisting his backpack, ran for the stairs before his mother could worry. Again.

As Jimmy skidded into the kitchen, his mother pressed a Pop Tart into one of his hands and a paper towel into the other. “Take it to go,” she said, glancing pointedly at the microwave clock’s green read-out. He noticed that her gray eyes, now grayer from worry, were somewhat puffier than they had been yesterday, but then she was always worried these days. Nothing new there. His grandfather had told him that she had definitely taken after her mother.

“We need to be there by seven-forty-five,” she said. “The flight’s at three…are you packed? Did everything fit?” she asked as Jimmy wrapped up his breakfast and dropped it on the counter beside a glass of water and his morning pills.

Four pills now, as it had been for months. The colors and shapes changed, but the number had stayed constant. The pills, at least, offered a flash of normalcy.

He slid his backpack off, nodding as he lifted the glass to his lips, then drank deeply and tossed the handful to the back of his throat.

“Jimmy, honey, don’t do it like that,” his mother sighed as she slipped a Pop Tart in the toaster for his father, “you’re going to choke one of these days.”

Jimmy slammed the glass back on the counter and grinned. “Not today, though, but…” He paused, waiting until he caught his little brother’s eye, then winked as he grabbed his throat and began to gurgle.

“But what?” his mother asked, glancing up from the toaster. “Jimmy…oh God, Michael…”

Before Jimmy could end the charade, his father slapped him on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and he doubled over, gasping in earnest, as Tima cackled on the other side of the kitchen. “Fine,” he wheezed, pulling himself upright against the counter ledge, “I’m fine…just kidding.” He had deserved that, he mused, but was surprised at how heavy his father’s slap had been.

At forty-nine, Michael Paterson was a tad shorter than his slender wife and a lot more rounded. He had wanted to be a lawyer since high school, and now specialized in small businesses. He was busy, prosperous, and content. He had even made peace with the nagging suspicion that Linda had agreed to marry him only because he was the opposite in temperament, ambition, and, he had to admit, even physique to her dashing father.

Jimmy’s condition made him angry, and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

Linda folded her arms and glared down at Jimmy. “James Aaron Paterson, that is not funny. That’s not funny at all.”

“Come on, kid,” his father said, pulling his breakfast out of the toaster, “you want to give your mother a heart attack?”

Jimmy spread his arms in mock exasperation. “Hey, it’s what I’ve got left, you know?”

“Jimmy…” his mother began, closing her eyes.

Before she could continue, his father wrapped his arm around her shoulders and murmured into her arm—he couldn’t quite reach her cheek when she was standing—“Not today, Linda, okay? He’s sorry, it’s over. Not today.”

She shook him off. “It’s just not funny.”

“I know, I know, it’s not funny,” he said, then waved the boys toward the back door while Linda regained her composure.

Jimmy grabbed his Pop Tart, stuffed half in his mouth, then pushed Tima onto the steps and into the car. Their parents followed a moment later, Michael nervously munching his pastry, Linda tight-jawed and silent. She checked the boys’ seatbelts, then took her seat without a word. Tima, who, invincible at six, seldom saw the need for restraints, sat quietly that morning, buckled up without protest, and stared out the window. As the sedan backed down the driveway, Mrs. Donovan, who, as always, had come out in her thirty-year-old peach bathrobe to retrieve her newspaper, waved goodbye with gusto.

“I wish she wouldn’t do that,” Linda mumbled.

Michael lifted his hand in reply, faking a smile for the old woman’s benefit, then turned to his wife when their neighbor disappeared into her house. “Honey, she’s just being friendly.”

Linda clenched her mouth shut; she didn’t want any argument, not today.

Their silence bothered Jimmy, however, and when his father turned from their street, he yelled, “My shots! I forgot my shots!”

His mother’s eyes flew open and she reached for the steering wheel. “The shots! We’ve got to go back, we’ve got to get those…”

Michael blocked her reach before she could grab the steering wheel and force them into a U-turn. “Are you sure you forgot them?” he asked as he pulled up to a red light, then turned around and stared at Jimmy for good measure.

Jimmy winked.

“He’s kidding,” Michael sighed, shifting again to face forward. “Kid, you’ve got to work on your timing…” he said, half-seriously.

It was Linda’s turn to flip around in her seat, cutting her husband off. “That is not funny, James. Don’t you ever…”

Michael gripped her wrist—gently, but with enough pressure to silence her—and she turned around, leaving her chastisement unfinished. She said nothing further on the drive to school, and, as if sensing that his mother’s limits had been reached, even Tima behaved, though it took every ounce of his reserve to refrain from punching his brother in the arm when two Beetles drove by. Jimmy was owed a punch—he had administered quite a few to Tima since explaining how the game was played—but their mother always yelled when Jimmy got hurt, and Tima didn’t want to risk that. Not today.

The look in their mother’s eye warned him that the best course of action was to stay invisible.

The principal met them at the door to the school gym, wearing his best meet-the-parents smile and his navy pinstripe suit, the one that seemed to appear at all functions. “Mrs. Paterson,” he beamed, helping her from her seat. “Mr. Paterson. We’re so glad you could join us this morning.”

“He wouldn’t miss it,” Linda replied with a smile that could cut glass.

The boys jumped out of the backseat, and the principal’s benevolent expression chilled fractionally. “Good morning, James.”

“Good morning, Mr. Carnagio,” he said.

The principal bent and peered down at Tima. “And this would be Timothy?”

Tima stared back mutely, and Michael patted his head. “We’re just a little shy.”

Mr. Carnagio straightened his bulk and turned his attention back to the elder brother. “Are you ready?” he asked, holding open one of the double doors, and Jimmy nodded. “Good. They’re waiting for you.” With that, he ushered them into the hallway, past the cases of trophies and yellowing team pictures, and toward the basketball court, the high school’s makeshift auditorium. At the end of the hall, he leaned toward Jimmy and whispered, “Go sit next to Mrs. Kimbell,” then pushed the door open.

Jimmy stepped onto the court, squinting at the sudden brightness of the room, and saw that the rest of the school—not just his class, but the school—had filled the bleachers. They stood and clapped as they noticed him, and he waved weakly, suddenly embarrassed to find himself the center of attention, especially with his mother standing behind him, squeezing his shoulder.

Mrs. Kimbell had taken the far left seat in the semi-circle of gray folding chairs at center court. He half-jogged across the room to meet her, waving back at her when she offered him her professional smile, and tried to look unconcerned as his family filled the seats beside his. He scanned the room for Emma, noticing the new paper banners taped to the walls: Have Fun, Jimmy! Good Luck, Jimmy! Get Well Soon, Jimmy! The pep squad’s work, he assumed—the lettering was too bubbly to be anything but a girl’s, and half the paint was glittery.

It was not difficult to locate Tiffany. She sat with the varsity swim team in the first two rows, wearing oversized sunglasses, ostensibly to cover her puffy eyes. Jimmy suspected that the glasses were more for show, and he continued to search the faces, trying in vain to locate Emma.

Behind Mrs. Kimbell stood half a dozen easels bearing oversized posters: a smiling child shaking hands with an actor, a teenager holding an autographed football, another—this one wearing a helmet—offering the camera a thumbs-up. Space Camp, Jimmy figured. And, of course, kids with Mickey Mouse at Disneyland and Disney World.

He wondered if any of the kids in the posters were still alive, then realized that Mr. Carnagio had already moved to the wooden podium and was making his opening remarks. Listening with one ear, he tried to spot Emma among the seniors in the bleachers, then heard the principal say, “And before James leaves us for sunny California, I thought he might like to say a few words. James?”

Where the heck was Emma? She was the driving force behind the bake sale and the car wash and the can collection, all the school fundraisers that had raised money to help him go to Disneyland. The whole community had taken part. Her picture had been in the local newspaper. And now, at the moment of truth, she was missing.

And now—a few words? Really?

Jimmy froze, his mind blanked but for the litany of oh crap oh crap oh crap, and he slowly pushed himself out of his chair.

He knew he had forgotten something.

He sidled up to the podium, trying to remember the speech he was supposed to have written, and cleared his throat. “Um. Hi,” he began, clutching the podium for reassurance. “So. As you probably know by now, I’m going to Disneyland this afternoon. I, uh…I wish I could take you all with me, but Mrs. Kimbell here said that wasn’t possible. So I got you out of first period instead. You’re welcome.”

His classmates laughed, and even a few teachers cracked a smile.

“I need to thank a few people,” he continued, thinking on his feet—Wasn’t that what these brief speeches were about? Thanking people?—and grinning to mask his nerves. “Mr. Carnagio here is letting me take two weeks off, and since we don’t usually get a September vacation, that’s pretty cool. My mom and dad have been really supportive”—he glanced over in time to see his mother’s eyes well up—“and my doctors have been great. They actually gave me my own pharmacy,” he added. “Of course, they make me swallow everything in that pharmacy, but I figure something has to work eventually.”

They laughed again, though a few smiles were strained.

“And I should especially thank my doctors for calling Mrs. Kimbell, here”—she bobbed her neat blonde coif as the audience applauded—“who works with the Make-A-Wish Foundation. She’s the one who made this trip possible, and without her, I wouldn’t be going to Disneyland. Well, Mrs. Kimbell, and all of you guys who’ve been so great with fundraising. I really appreciate it, and I’ll be sure to get monogrammed ears in your honor.

“Now,” he said, warming to his moment as they laughed, “some of you know that I’m going by myself. The Foundation isn’t being cheap—I told them I wanted a little time to just hang out and chill. And besides,” he added, leaning across the podium and lowering his voice, “the babe who plays Cinderella is hot.”

The boys clapped and the girls rolled their eyes.

“Hey, come on,” said Jimmy, pointing to himself, “don’t tell me I don’t have a chance with a princess. I’ve got the look,” he grinned, flipping his ponytail over his shoulder, and waited until they quieted down. “And if that doesn’t work out, I hear that some girls really go for bald guys.”

With that, he tossed his baseball cap into the air.

The ponytail went with it.

Jimmy beamed as his classmates applauded, taking a slight bow, then retrieved his hat and returned to his seat. His mother blinked hard, but managed to smile politely as Mrs. Kimbell began her remarks.

When the ceremony ended, a few of Jimmy’s friends, including most of the swim team, slipped out the back door and met him by the car. The guys slapped him on the back, yanked his faux ponytail, and passed on the little information they had accrued about scoring with older women. Tiffany and Alice stood beside them, sniffing and smiling with wet eyes, and Jimmy broke away from the mass long enough to give both of them a hug. “None of that,” he said, trying to smile. “I told you before, I’ll be back in the pool by spring. Don’t let them take my spot, okay?”

Alice, fourteen and already a member of the varsity team by virtue of her growth spurt, wiped her nose and hit him in the arm. “You’d better be.”

“Seriously,” said Jimmy, “Stop crying. You make it look like I’m dying or something.”

Alice’s eyes began to water again, and Linda hissed, “Stop talking like that.”

“It’s not you,” said Tiffany, who captained the girls’ team and could outswim most of the boys. “It’s this damn history paper. What,” she asked, peering at him over her sunglasses, “you couldn’t take someone with you?”

“Ladies,” he replied, one hand on his heart, “I know you want me, but there’s only so much to go around, and I’ve got my sights set on California.”

Oblivious to Linda’s glare, Tiffany punched Jimmy in the stomach and smiled fiercely. “I hope your head gets sunburned.”

“I hope your paper sucks.”

They stared at each other, then hugged. With a last back slap, Tiffany broke away, shooing him into the car. “Go on, get out of here. I’ve got better things to do then watch you blather on.”

“Jealous much?” he retorted, but slid into the car and slammed the door. When they began to move, he turned in his seat and looked out the back window. His friends stood in the grass by the gym, waving until the car was out of sight.

“Are you sure you have everything?”

Jimmy shrugged his shoulders, feeling the backpack move, then looked at his mother and nodded. “Got my tickets, got my meds, got my camera…”

“Raincoat?”

“Got it.”

“Band-Aids?”

“Yup.”

“Bug spray?”

“He’s fine,” Michael interjected, shifting impatiently. “And if he forgets anything, someone at the hotel will be able to help him out.”

“I know,” she said, biting her lip, then squeezed Jimmy in a lung-crushing hug before he could brace himself. “You behave, young man, and have a great time out there.”

His father stepped up and held out his hand. “Let’s see your tickets, then.” Jimmy fished them out of the inner pocket, and he flipped through the packet. “Okay, kid,” he said, pulling one of the slips of thick paper free, “this is your ticket out and back. Keep it safe, call us if it gets lost. You’ve got the phone list?” Jimmy nodded. “The debit card’s loaded, the Visa is for emergencies. Do us a favor and don’t lose those, okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jimmy protested, putting his tickets away.

“Call us if you need anything,” Michael added. “Cell phone works both ways, remember?”

Jimmy nodded wearily, and once again he was surprised by his father, whose lower lip quivered—He’s about to cry, Jimmy thought, and turned away, unable to imagine his father crying, let alone stand it. Instead, he looked down at Tima, who was sniffing and chewing his knuckle. “Come here,” he said, slowly going to his knees as his backpack shifted, and Tima hugged his neck. “Okay, look, here’s the deal,” he whispered into his brother’s hair. “You can use my Playstation while I’m gone, alright?” He pulled back enough to see Tima smile. “Just don’t break it. But you better not mess with my DVDs,” he added, giving Tima a noogie for emphasis. “You wouldn’t like them, anyway. They’re not baby shows.”

Tima kicked him in the thigh, and Jimmy grabbed him in a headlock. “Seriously, bud, stay out of my stuff.” He broke away and stood, still staring down at his brother. “Next year, you and me, we’ll go to Disney World and pick up hot chicks in Florida. What do you say?” Tima grinned, and Jimmy nodded. “Deal, then. Gimme five.”

His brother slapped his palm, and Jimmy looked back at his parents. “I’d better get to the gate,” he said, adjusting his backpack again.

“Yeah, of course,” said Linda, trying not to cry.

They walked with him to the security checkpoint, then hugged him one last time. “Be safe,” his mother whispered, then kissed his forehead and pushed him toward the line. “Go on, have fun!” she added, raising her voice. “Call us!”

His father remained silent. He didn’t trust his voice.

Jimmy waved, making a show of digging into his backpack for his tickets, but kept an eye on his family. When they disappeared, he pulled out his wallet, slipped out of the line, and headed for the airport train.

He knew that his grandfather had already cancelled the American Airlines ticket to Los Angeles, to avoid any security questions about a no-show passenger. Still, his stomach churned as he got off at Terminal Four and walked directly to the South African Airways counter.

Catching a glimpse of him, the clerk moved her huge lips into a mechanical smile, then looked behind him in search for an adult. “Going alone?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“To Addis Ababa?”

“Yep.”

“Business class?”

“Yep.”

She studied Jimmy more closely. “What are you doing in Ethiopia?”

“Archaeology camp,” he smiled, adding his passport to the papers on the desk, and removed his hat. “Make-A-Wish Foundation. I’ve got terminal cancer.”

“Oh my gosh,” she gasped, hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry…”

He shrugged it off, putting his hat back in position, and bit his tongue to keep himself from telling her that her lipstick was smeared across her front teeth. Her smile and her painted eyes affected genuine warmth. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, and started typing.

Jimmy beamed, and she scanned his passport.

“Such a brave kid,” she said as she handed him his boarding pass.

There were few bad situation, Jimmy had learned, that the baldness wouldn’t help—aside from the cancer, of course. In general, though, sympathy was powerful motivator, and nothing produced sympathy like the sight of a sick kid.

Once he was able to slip away with his backpack, Jimmy stood before the departure board and consulted the list. On time, and an hour to go before boarding. Perfect. He stopped by a bookstand and bought bags of junk food, the high-fat, high-sodium kind his mother would seldom let him eat, then made his way through the crowd and found a seat at his gate. Around him, the other passengers babbled incomprehensibly, laughing at jokes he couldn’t decipher, and he smiled to himself. When he was settled, he ripped open a packet of peanut M&Ms and pulled his book out of his backpack. The title, stamped in gold, glinted in the afternoon sunlight: The Legend of Sheba.

Before he opened the book, he pulled out his cell phone and began a new text message: Plane stuck in Ohio. Engine stuff. Flight delayed. Everything else is fine. Love you.

It was a start. Jimmy popped another candy in his mouth and flipped to a dog-eared map.