16

AT THE END of November all the pieces fall into place for Echo to have surgery to remove the tumor. It’s shrunk considerably from the weeks of chemotherapy. Her blood numbers are good. The doctor who will make the obturator to replace her teeth and the part of the roof of her mouth that will be cut out has been granted privileges for Midtown Children’s Hospital. The oncologist has given her blessing for it to happen. Mom and Dad have paid enough money to make it work. I hear Mom tell Dad all this after Mom gets a call at three p.m. telling her to not give any food or drink to Echo after midnight. Check-in at the hospital is at five thirty in the morning.

Mom packs for a three-night stay—books for Echo and work for herself, and everything she wished she thought of on the first stay in the hospital, when Echo was first diagnosed.

Dad makes my lunch before we have dinner, even though I’ve been making it myself for weeks. I think he wants to do better than he did last time around. It’s sweet to watch. He also sets the second Harry Potter book aside, as he and Echo have finished the first. Then he takes to Facebook and asks everyone to send their well-wishes.

Echo takes a bath and brushes her teeth—some of them for the last time—then is off to an early bed.

I’m too nervous to go right to sleep when I finally go to bed. I stare at the stars on the ceiling. Then I close my eyes, count to ten, and open them. I concentrate on the first fake star I see, the first I lay eyes on.

Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have this wish I wish tonight.

I must be superstitious, because I don’t even tell myself what I wished for.

The alarm goes off at four forty-five, and everything is ready to go. Dad set the coffeemaker to brew at 4:40, so the coffee is ready to be poured into a thermos for Mom. The bags are ready by the door. Echo slips from her jammies into a cozy winter suit, and Mom dresses warmly for the last day of November.

The taxi has been arranged for 5:10, and he buzzes the door right on time. Dad and I rush down the stairs with Echo and Mom, and when we step out into the dark, cold morning, we are met by a wondrous sight.

The landing and the front steps are lined by candles in tall jars, glowing in the dark of winter’s predawn. Dozens of them stand shoulder to shoulder—many with paper notes attached—down to the sidewalk below. This conspiracy of love must be a response to Dad’s asking for well-wishing on Facebook.

“It looks like you are very popular,” the cabbie says. He opens the door for Echo, but she takes a long look up and down the steps, grinning at the candles, before getting in the taxi. Mom wipes away a tear, then kisses Dad and me.

“Good luck!” Dad says. “I’ll be there after I get El to school!”

“Good luck!” I say. “I love you, Echo!”

Then the taxi rolls away down the block.

Dad lets me bring my phone to school, just this once. He promises to text me with any news about Echo’s surgery. But it feels like it just makes time pass more slowly.

I have a terrible difficulty concentrating during Mr. D’s class, secretly checking my phone every time his back is turned. Sydney seems almost as interested in hearing news as I am. She keeps on looking over at me with a questioning look, and I keep on looking back at her and shrugging.

The wait drags on in math and history. During Mr. Grimm’s class I finally can’t take it anymore, so I ask to use the bathroom so I can text a series of question marks to Dad. As I sit on the toilet not peeing, Dad’s response comes.

Still in surgery. No news yet.

At lunch I sit with Octavius and Sydney, my phone faceup on the table. We make empty small talk between bites of food and glances at my phone. I’m reaching for another carrot stick when finally it buzzes, lighting up the screen. I grab it and spin on the bench seat, turning away from my friends.

I hold it close to my face, keeping it private in my cupped hands.

It melts my eyes. The text message from Dad gives me everything I asked of the first star I saw on the ceiling above my bed last night.

Surgery went beautifully. They think they got all the cancer. Only four teeth removed. Echo is doing fine!

I spin back to Sydney and Octavius. I can’t communicate the words. Instead I set the phone down between them so they can see the news. Within seconds we’re hugging and blabbering, making happy noises. Then it becomes clear the whole school knew Echo’s surgery was today—since pretty much everyone here is Team Echo now—because the whole cafeteria stands and applauds, taking their cue from the three of us that it went well. Practically everyone leaves their seats to take turns hugging me.

Thank you, I say to my classmates. Thank you.

Across the cafeteria, Miss Numero Uno appears in the doorway. She sees the display of happiness and smiles a smile I’m almost certain isn’t drawn on. She raises her hand to give a thumbs-up and pins the back of her arm against her forehead in a pose of relief. Then she turns and exits in typical dramatic Miss Numero Uno fashion.

It’s like the windows in the cafeteria have gotten bigger, the sky outside brighter. And when the hugging is done and I’ve texted Dad back, the carrots are more orange, the hemp milk is sweeter, the peanut butter tastes like it did in kindergarten.

Then I go back to the bathroom and sit in the stall and cry. Thank you. I say it over and over, to the merciful universe and anyone else who may be listening. Thank you.