“Because we are being proactive,” my mom says.

“Judy, is this your husband and your daughter?” yet another Donna asks. “So nice to meet you both. Cham, I hear you’re about to graduate from high school. Where are you going next year?”

“No idea,” I say, wishing I could wrap this T-shirt around my head and shrink to a size that requires a microscope to find. “I might take a year off or something.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of this,” my mom says with an eyebrow raised.

Donna laughs and slaps Mom on the shoulder. “I think that’s a great idea. More and more kids are doing it. Gap years are fantastic. They have so many programs out there now. You have your whooooooole life ahead of you.” The way she extends the word, it sounds less like an opportunity and more like a life sentence.

“Come on, Cham, Scott,” my mom says. “It’s time to do a lap. When Aunt Bridget gets here, I want her to see us involved.”

Right, because this is a performance. The important thing is that people see us as involved. My mom pushes my dad over the turf of the football field, and I follow. We shuffle along into the music and the bright colors and the smell of hot dogs. There’s a table with raffle tickets and people playing Frisbee and tents scattered all over the turf. I guess this sort of thing makes people feel happy. Some people, I mean.

Dear Universe,

Pump the brakes on your enthusiasm. I want to be tolerant and stuff, but I can’t stand people rallying behind the cure for a disease as if the disease is a dragon and we are mighty princesses, deserving of everything in the mighty freaking kingdom. Fight Alzheimer’s! Fight Parkinson’s! Yeah, let me go sharpen my knife. Everything is just something surviving because something else is dying. It’s not like our side is “right.” We’re not the freaking royalty or the chosen ones. We’re just people, and we’re here because a bunch of horny DNA succeeded in getting it on. My dad isn’t “brave,” and we aren’t “good people” (but maybe you knew that already). He’s stuck in his bodily situation like we all are, except his is worse, more confining, inevitable. I know I need to do something, but this is not it. If I must wear this color orange, at least let me stand in traffic.

“That girl looks like you,” my dad says. He waves at some girl who does not look like me, and she smiles and waves back. I think she feels bad about his wheelchair, which makes me hate her, and then myself for assuming that.

“Isn’t that your friend?” my dad says suddenly, looking toward the entrance to the track. “What’s his name? Victor?”

“I don’t have a friend named Victor,” I say, but then I look around and realize who my dad’s talking about. My heart involuntarily flings itself against my chest. Brendan is pitching a tent with Gill School colors and setting up lawn chairs under it. He looks up and waves at me uncertainly.