Tuesday: A PET scan.
Wednesday: A CAT scan.
Thursday: Two biopsies.
Friday: Cancer treatment plan meeting with Dr. Semmel.
By Saturday Percy was feeling quite dismal. It was a clear day again, summery. He needed to feel better. If he had to read one more sentence of his chemo guide (starting next Friday) he thought he would puke. So he decided to take a swim.
Not keen on the idea of parading his bandaged arm through camp, he picked the time when he had no classes to teach and when no cabin had swim. He walked out of his cabin wearing black trunks and a towel on his right shoulder, mostly covering the bandages, just in case.
The moment he stepped into the lake he felt better. The perpetual dull ache in his upper arm disappeared, mostly. He hadn't swum in ages. He smiled.
He decided to swim like a normal person. No breathing underwater this time. He started off with a backstroke, enjoying the clockwork motion of his arms: left arm out of the water as the right arm entered, right arm out of the water as the left arm entered, feet kicking exactly the way they were supposed to. Not to use a sports cliché or whatever, but he was in the zone.
He moved on to the breaststroke. This must be how fish feel, he decided, hands slicing through the water and scooping it back. Feet moving in tiny motions, but fast, a flurry of water coming up, silent except for the timed breaths Percy took. After this cancer thing, maybe he'd be a lifeguard in the summer. Gods know if he'd be able to swordfight with his right arm after this.
Now fully feeling the rhythm of the water, silky and sweet but powerful, he started the butterfly. His favorite stroke, he could do it for ages without getting tired. His arms sliced through the water, splashing, his legs doing the same, he raced across the lake. He reached the opposite shore and was back in a matter of minutes.
He didn't notice the small, curly-haired figure watching him from afar.
Leo took a break from the forges to go swim. He hadn't swum since his mother died. He dressed himself in a tee and swim shorts, and he walked straight into the lake.
Ages ago, his mother had taught him to swim. He tried to do a slow front crawl. Nope. Dios mio, he didn't remember anything. He silently resolved to relearn.
He rolled over onto his side and tried a sidestroke. Yeah, that he remembered, but it kind of struck him as a sissy stroke. So he began inventing his own: windmilling his arms, kicking his feet, head above the water, always, always.
When he got tired he dragged himself ashore, remembering how hard it was to catch your breath after swimming. He set himself aflame to evaporate the water, to dry himself off. Then he noticed Percy walking in. Remembering how much everyone went on and on about how wonderful Percy was at swimming, he decided to ask for some pointers. As he started walking over, though, Percy started swimming. So Leo stayed put and watched.
Holy [insert swear word of your choice here], the guy could swim. Even though Leo had seen Percy favoring his right arm outside of the water, there was total bisymmetry here. His right arm was just as strong as his left, but…
As Percy swam, Leo could see the bandages shifting on his right arm. It looked horrible. And way painful. A big circle, maybe two inches in diameter, was marked across Percy's upper arm with a scab. Purple and swollen, Leo could see why Percy had had to favor his arm. Dark lines stretched out from the circle, marking the places of other biopsies, blood tests, and whatever else the doctors had done to Percy's poor arm.
When Percy switched to the butterfly, Leo could see clearly that Percy was absolutely an amazing swimmer. Regardless of what he might have felt in his arms, he sliced through the water, powerful in the way a shark is powerful, the way a dolphin is powerful. The muscles in his upper back clenched and unclenched, tightened and loosened, and when Percy took his head out of the water, you could see he was smiling. This was where he felt at home, at ease, away from everything.
Leo turned away, feeling like an intruder.
The harpies were showing Hazel the kitchen. It happened to be a gorgeous kitchen, all chrome and stainless steel, not exactly what you'd expect a camp kitchen to be. But it was amazing, decked out with all of the amazing new gadgets that Hazel hadn't heard of – yet.
She watched in amazement as the harpy at the counter sliced potatoes with an amazing efficiency. Then, she watched in even more amazement as the harpy dumped it into a big, beeping machine and, approximately thirty seconds later, drew out crisp, golden french fries. She had never seen something like that. She peeked into the machine and found a vat of boiling oil. Instantly, she was taken back in time to Mardi Gras, New Orleans, lying on a lawn with her mother, eating beignets and watching tourists in their masks and beads. She used to watch the beignets puff up and turn golden from tiny littly strips of dough. They hadn't used this thing, though, they used a big pot.
Well, big might have been an understatement.
The harpy grinned at her. "Do you like it?"
"It's amazing," she said, and drew closer to watch. She had encountered many opinions about the harpies, and had discovered that they were not as stupid as the campers thought they were.
"We have a reputation to keep up," they'd say, when asked. "If they think we're stupid, they don't come running in here to ask for food. And they think we're dangerous, so they don't steal food."
Hazel was beginning to like these creatures.
She had always been fascinated by food, and how things changed when subjected to heat, and so when the harpy saw how interested she was, she offered to teach Hazel.
"I'd love to," Hazel gasped, and every single harpy offered to teach her something different. She felt accepted here, something she hadn't felt anywhere else. In the '40s, she'd been the witch; here, she was the old-fashioned chick from Mars. She chose the french fries, first.
The harpy introduced herself as Jocelyn, and immediately started showing Hazel how to peel, julienne, and fry the potatoes. As soon as she finished one potato, she stepped back to let Hazel try.
Hazel's peels were wobbly, and it took her much longer than Jocelyn to peel them. The julienned potatoes were thick and a bit curvy, and she undercooked them a bit. However, when Jocelyn tasted one, she declared it "the best first try she had seen- ever." The rest of the harpies grinned at her and tasted them and wowed over them, and Hazel beamed.
After much practice, her fries were looking exactly like Jocelyn's. Feeling proud of her first cooking venture, she brought a small carton outside to see if she could find someone else to taste them.
Percy was perched on a banister outside, his hair wet. Hazel sat next to him. "I thought you didn't get wet unless you wanted to."
He shrugged. "I wanted to."
They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, until Hazel remembered why she was there. She gave Percy a friendly nudge with her shoulder. "Look what I made!"
Percy winced, and sucked air in through his teeth. He grabbed onto the banister with both hands. Hazel realized immediately what she had done. Inwardly, she slapped herself. Stupid.
"I am so sorry," she said, wincing at how inadequate it sounded. "I mean - I just – I forgot," she finished lamely.
Percy's face was white, but he said, "It's totally fine, Hazel. Forget it. What did you make?"
She looked down at her fries. "Um. French fries?"
"Is this the first time you've cooked?"
She smiled at him, embarrassed. "Yes."
Using his left arm, he carefully reached across his lap and into the carton, coming up with two fries. He ate one.
"Good job! Wow, Haze – that's really nice!"
"Haze?"
"I don't know, like a nickname. If you don't like it I'll go back to Hazel."
"No, it's okay." She tilted her head to the side. "I think I like my nickname."
This would be the first of many times Percy would turn the subject away from him. But it worked.
I hope you enjoyed.
Do you guys like songfics? Because I've been listening to a bunch of songs from my dad's day, and a couple of them fit the story. Well, they will, later on. I'd put links at the top so you could hear the song, because in all likeliness you haven't heard Terry Jacks or Elton John. Just sayin'.
Guest Reviews:
Sabrina Alejo: Tengo 13 años, y me encanta, también. Creo que mi favorito es también el número 3.
AnonymousHunter: Dun dun dun…