The Word: Malignancy

Monsieur Péronnet’s voice droned on in French II as I half-heartedly copied verb conjugations, the spaghetti straps of my teal mini dress slipping slightly on my shoulders, my mind already on the consultation in Aurora.

Suddenly, the intercom crackled. “Sloane Deshazo, please report to the main office. Sloane Deshazo.”

Monsieur Péronnet looked up, raising his eyebrows. “Mademoiselle Deshazo,” he said, sounding a bit annoyed, “I guess your reading of

Le Petit Prince will have to wait.”

Stetson, who had been grumbling about not skipping school, barely looked up from his worksheet. “It’s not fair,” he muttered, sighing. “Why won’t Dad and Pops let me come with you?”

“It’s just a consultation, Stet,” I said with a small, reassuring smile as I packed my things. The smocked fabric of my high-waisted dress shifted as I reached for my bag. But inside, I felt a knot of anxiety tighten.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, the strap familiar under my fingers, and headed for the door. The woven texture of my cream-colored espadrilles made soft sounds against the linoleum floor. Stetson stayed quiet, focused on his worksheet, pen hovering over the next irregular verb.

Dad and Pops stood by the receptionist’s desk. Dad was signing the release form while Pops gently rested a hand on his back.

Dad looked up as I came closer, his bright blue eyes showing both concern and calm. “Need to grab anything from your locker, sweetie?” he asked, putting the pen away. The delicate silver disc pendant at my neck caught the light as I moved.

I paused, briefly thinking about my forgotten French textbook, then shook my head. “No, I’ll just text Stetson and ask him to grab whatever I might need.”

Pops smiled warmly. “Smart thinking, sunshine.”

We walked toward the front doors, with the bright afternoon sun shining through the glass, momentarily blinding me. The ruffle tiered trim of my teal dress swayed gently with each step.

Dad’s cherry red Suburban was parked by the entrance, shining like a polished apple in the sunlight. He unlocked it with a familiar click. I opened the back door and got in, feeling the cool leather seats against my legs, my cream espadrilles resting on the floor mat, as Pops slid into the passenger seat.

Dad adjusted the rearview mirror, briefly meeting my eyes before starting the engine.

As Dad drove out of the parking lot, I rested my head against the cool window, watching students scatter across the lawn. Some laughed, their voices carried by the breeze, while others hurried to their next class with heads down.

Pops looked back at me with a gentle expression. “You okay, sunshine?”

I nodded, though inside I felt unsure. “Yeah,” I said quietly.

Dad hummed softly as he turned onto the main road. “We’ll get through this, kiddo.”

I let out a slow breath, staring at the road ahead, the landscape blurring past.

At the reception desk, Pops told the receptionist about my appointment with Dr. Giacherio. She pointed to the elevators and said, “Seventh floor, Center for Cancer and Blood Disorders.”

When the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor, we saw a calm, softly lit area. After checking in, a nurse led us down a quiet hallway to Dr. Giacherio’s office. Sunlight shone through a large window, lighting up a neat, dark wood desk. Diplomas and certificates hung on the pale grey wall behind it. To one side was a cozy seating area with two armchairs and a small round table. A bookshelf full of medical books lined another wall, softened by a few plants.

Dr. Giacherio stood and smiled warmly as we entered. “Hello,” he said calmly. He motioned to the chairs across from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

As I sat down, feeling the cool leather, the hem of my teal mini dress settled around my thighs, he opened a leather-bound notebook, pen ready. “Let’s start with the basics,” he said. “I want to understand your lifestyle first. I see you’re on the volleyball team - how often do you practice?”

I leaned forward. “Monday's and Wednesday's. I also stay active outside of practice, doing conditioning.”

He nodded, his hazel eyes focused as he took notes. “Good. Now, let’s review your medical history.” He looked at my file and read aloud, “No major illnesses or injuries, no hospital stays, no serious allergies.” Then he asked, “Have you had any chronic conditions or anything unusual, even minor?”

I shook my head. “Nothing much. Just some sports sprains and a sore shoulder now and then.” The silver disc pendant felt cool against my skin as I moved.

“That’s common for athletes. Now, about family history.” He flipped the page and asked, “No cancer on both your dads’ sides?”

Pops answered steadily, “No known cases.”

Dr. Giacherio’s expression softened as he asked, “What about your birth mother’s side?”

I hesitated and looked at Dad. He took a breath and said, “We don’t know her medical history. My husband and I used a surrogate. At the time of the surrogacy, her health was thoroughly screened for any conditions that could affect the pregnancy, of course, but we don’t have any information beyond that initial screening.”

Dr. Giacherio steepled his hands on the polished dark wood desk, his expression tightening with a slight furrow between his brows. “After reviewing Sloane’s CBC results and thigh X-ray,” he said with grave concern, “I have serious worries.”

A cold fear crept up my spine. My breath caught, and the air felt thick and hard to breathe. Under my teal mini dress, my hands clenched into fists, bracing for bad news.

He looked at me, his hazel eyes serious. “There’s a chance it’s a blood disorder, given the anomalies. But honestly, all signs strongly point to malignancy.”

The word hung heavy - malignancy. Cancer. A wave of icy dread flooded me. What kind? The question screamed inside my mind.

Next to me, Dad sharply inhaled. Pops’ hand tightened slightly on Dad’s back, a silent show of support. They exchanged a brief, tender look full of worry and unspoken love.

Dr. Giacherio leaned forward. “The next step is a biopsy. After that, we’ll schedule an LDH test, MRI, PET scan, and CT scan. These will give us a clearer picture.”

The rest of the appointment blurred into a fog of medical terms and quiet questions. The biopsy was set for Tuesday - a date now etched in my mind as the start of a tough fight.

Dad cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. Sitting up straighter, his usual authority sharpened. His fingers tapped once on the leather armrest. “What do we do until then?” His voice was steady but firm.

“For now,” Dr. Giacherio said, softening his gaze, “Sloane needs to rest. No strenuous activity - no volleyball or conditioning until we know more.”

A lump formed in my throat, the disappointment biting. Volleyball was my escape. I nodded, the words stuck in my throat.

“Understood,” Dad said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Dr. Giacherio made some notes in his worn leather notebook. Then he stood, signaling the end of the visit. “I’ll see you Tuesday.” His smile was meant to be reassuring but didn’t reach his worried eyes.

Pops stood first, offering a steady hand to Dad. Dad took it without hesitation, gripping firmly. I watched as he squeezed Pops’ hand briefly before letting go, his broad shoulders squared as he headed for the door - a silent promise of strength.

As we left the sterile office into the dim hallway light, Dad stopped and placed his hand on my shoulder. His touch, usually comforting, now felt heavy with the weight of what lay ahead - a quiet acknowledgment of the difficult road to come.

The familiar rumble of Dad’s Suburban pulling into the driveway was quickly followed by the rougher sound of Chandler’s Jeep Wrangler. Six days. Just six days since those two kisses at Java Junction, but it felt like forever. That memory was sharp yet blurry, shadowed by the harsh reality of Urgent Care and Dr. Giacherio’s serious words.

I opened the Suburban’s back door, the smell of leather and Dad’s faint aftershave offering a brief comfort. I reached for my bookbag. The loud slam of the Jeep’s door caught my attention. Chandler was already walking up the driveway, holding my French II textbook.

“Stetson asked me to drop this off,” Chandler said, trying to sound casual. But when his clear blue eyes met mine, they showed a flicker of uncertainty, reflecting my own confusion about us.

The textbook felt heavy in my hands, its spine cracked. I shoved it into my bag, feeling the cool polyester against my knuckles.

Across the driveway, Dad and Pops exchanged a silent, tense look. The unspoken tension between Chandler and me was almost tangible. Without a word, Pops smiled gently and reached out his hand. I handed over my bookbag. Dad gave a quick nod, his bright blue eyes full of hidden concern, then both men turned and walked into the comfort of our home.

Chandler shifted on his feet, his sneakers softly scraping the asphalt. He rubbed his thumb nervously on his palm - a habit I hadn’t noticed before. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice softer than usual. “Would you… want to ride with me? Java Junction has this new honey lavender cold brew. Thought it might be worth trying.”

I gave a small nod in reply. “Sure,” I said, feeling my response was too weak. “I’d like that.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across Chandler’s face, easing the tension in his eyes. He moved lightly to the passenger side of his Jeep and opened the door, silently inviting me in.

The green Jeep Wrangler idled at Java Junction’s drive-thru speaker. Chandler tapped his fingers on the worn steering wheel. A crackling voice came through, tinny and unclear. “Two small honey lavender cold brews,” Chandler said casually. He glanced at me. “Just in case one of us wants to try… an experience.”

The rich smell of roasted coffee drifted into the Jeep as a barista handed Chandler our drinks through the window. He passed me one of the pale purple cups, cold with condensation. We parked near the curb, and Chandler turned off the engine, quieting the low rumble. Outside, traffic noises and distant conversations floated in through the open windows.

I lifted the cup to my lips. The pastel color was oddly inviting. My first sip was smooth - the honey’s sweetness gave way to the strong, slightly bitter cold brew. Then a soft floral taste appeared, lavender lingering gently on my tongue.

Chandler held up his cup, studying the unusual color in the afternoon light. He took a cautious sip, his eyebrows rising slightly. A soft hum escaped him, like he was thinking it over.

He swirled the cold brew in his mouth, a thoughtful look crossing his face before he swallowed. Leaning back, he tapped the cup with his thumb. “It’s… different,” he said slowly, curiosity in his voice.

I let out a small laugh and looked at him over my cup’s rim. “Different good or different bad?” I asked, amused.

Chandler tilted his head, frowning slightly. “Not sure yet,” he said, taking another slow sip. “Lavender… it’s just not what I expect from coffee.”

I stared at my drink, swirling the melting ice softly. “Maybe,” I whispered, barely louder than the background noise, “that’s the point. Something unexpected.”

Chandler shifted in his seat and turned to me, fingers tightening around his cup. “We need to talk,” he said quietly, his voice steady but heavy.

I stopped stirring my cold brew, gripping the cup tightly. A familiar knot tightened in my stomach. I knew exactly where this was going. My heart started beating faster, like a frantic drum.

Our friendship had always felt fragile, on the edge of something deeper. The easy jokes, the lingering looks, the unspoken understanding between us - they all hinted at more. But an invisible line kept us from crossing over.

I swallowed, the honey lavender tasting dull. A dry laugh escaped me. “It was bound to happen eventually, right?” I said, my words feeling weak inside the Jeep.

A faint smile tugged at Chandler’s lips but didn’t fully form. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, eyes intense. “Is it bad,” he asked softly, “that I want to kiss you again?”

I gasped quietly and looked away, staring at the pale purple drink as the ice melted.

“No,” I whispered, barely audible over the passing cars. I shook my head slowly, but the white walls of Urgent Care and Dr. Giacherio’s serious face flashed in my mind. It felt reckless to rush into something new without knowing what dangers might come.

Chandler studied me, his blue eyes searching mine. Then he nodded slowly, understanding in them. “I don’t want to mess things up,” he said simply.

I met his gaze. “Nor do I,” I replied, feeling the weight of unspoken fears.

Silence stretched between us, calm and natural. Chandler shifted slightly, the worn denim of his jeans creasing. I set my coffee down and my fingers brushed his wrist, a touch that lasted just a moment longer - a silent connection.

“You’re right,” I whispered. “We shouldn’t mess this up.”

His breath slowed, steady beneath my hand. He didn’t pull away or lean closer. We held a quiet balance.

I tilted my head, looking at his familiar face and freckles. A soft laugh escaped me.

“But maybe,” I said gently, a small smile appearing, “we don’t have to figure everything out right now.”

A slow smile spread on Chandler’s face, easing the tension in his eyes. “Maybe,” he agreed, his voice lighter.

And just like that, the pressure lifted. The future was uncertain, but in that moment, our quiet understanding was enough.