'Cause the Hardest Part of This is Leaving You.

" Where are we going? "

Mom takes one hand off the steering wheel to pat me on the knee. " All in good time. "

" Is it going to be embarrassing? "

" I hope not."

" Are we going to meet someone famous? "

She looks alarmed for a moment. "Is that what you meant? "

" Not really."

We drive past the housing estates and onto a long road, and my guesses get completely random. I like making her laugh. She doesn’t do it
much.

" Moon landing? "

" No. "

" Talent competition? "

" With your singing voice? "

I phone Lindsey and see if she wants to have a guess, but she’s still freaking out about the operation. " I have to take a responsible adult with me. Who the hell am I going to ask? "

" I’ll come. "

" They mean a proper adult. You know, like a parent."

" They can’t make you tell your parents. "

" I hate this, " she says. " I thought they’d give me a pill and it would just fall out. Why do I need an operation? It’s only the size of a dot. "
But she’s wrong about that. Last night I got out Mom's Reader’s Digest Book and looked up pregnancy. I wanted to know how big babies are in sixteen weeks. I discovered they’re the length of a dandelion. I couldn’t stop reading.

" You still there? " She says.

" Yeah. "

" Well, I’m going now. Acid is coming up my throat and into my mouth.’
It’s indigestion. She needs to massage her colon and drink some milk. It will pass. Whatever she decides to do about the baby, all Lindsey's symptoms will pass. I don’t tell her this though. Instead, I press the red button on my phone and concentrate on the road ahead.

" She’s a very silly girl," Mom says. ‘The longer she leaves it, the worse it will be. Terminating a pregnancy isn’t like taking out the garbage.’

‘She knows that, Mom. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with you– she’s not your daughter.’

" No, " she agrees. " She’s not. "

I write Frank a text: WHERE THE HELL ARE U? Then I delete it.

Six nights ago his mum stood on the doorstep and cried. She said the fireworks were terrifying. She asked why he’d left her when the world was ending.

" Give me your mobile number," He told me. " I’ll call you. "
We swapped numbers. It was erotic. I thought it was a promise

" Fame, " Mom says. " Now, what do we mean by fame, eh? "

I mean Shakespeare. That silhouette of him with his perky beard, quill in hand, was on the front of all the copies of his plays at school.
Queen Elizabeth I was on the throne when he was writing. She was famous too, not just for being Henry VIII’s daughter, but for potatoes and tobacco and for being so clever.
Then there’s Marilyn. Elvis. Even modern icons like Madonna will be remembered.
I’d like the whole world to stop what it’s doing and personally come and say goodbye to me when I die. What else is there?

" What do you mean by fame, Mom? "

After a minute’s thought she says, " Leaving something of yourself behind, I guess. "
I think of Lindsey's and her baby. Growing. Growing.
‘OK,’ Dad says. ‘Here we are.’

I’m not sure where ‘here’ is. It looks like a library, one of those square, functional buildings with lots of windows and its own car parking with allocated spaces for the 'director'. We pull into a disabled bay.

The woman who answers the intercom wants to know who we’ve come to see. Mom tries to whisper, but she can’t hear, so she has to say it again, louder. "Dakota King,’ she says while giving me a sideways glance.

" Dakota King?"

He nods, pleased with himself. " I used to work with one of his friends. "

" And that’s relevant because . . . ? "

" He wants to interview you. "

I stall on the step. " An interview? On the radio? But everyone’ll hear me! "

" Isn’t that the idea? "

" What am I supposed to be interviewed about? "

And that’s when she blushes. That’s when maybe she realizes that this is the worst idea she’s ever had, because the only thing that makes me extraordinary is my sickness. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be in school. Maybe I’d be at Lindsey's. Or in Frank's arms.

The receptionist pretends everything’s all right. She asks for our names and gives us both a sticker. We obediently attach these to our coats as she tells us that the producer will be with us soon.

" Have a seat, " she says, gesturing to a row of armchairs on the other side of the room.

" You don’t have to speak, " Mom says as we sit down. " I’ll go in by myself if you want, and you can stay out here. "

‘And what would you talk about?’

She shrugs. " Paucity of teen cancer units, lack of funding for alternative medicine. I could talk for bloody hours. It’s my specialist subject. "

" Fundraising? I don’t want to be famous for raising a bit of money! I want to be famous for being amazing. I want the kind of fame that doesn’t need a surname. Iconic fame. Ever heard of that? "

She turns to me, his eyes glistening. " And how precisely were we going to manage that?’

The water machine bubbles and drips beside us. I feel sick. I think of Lindsey. I think of her baby with all its nails already in place – tiny, tiny dandelion nails.

" Shall I tell the receptionist to cancel? " Mom asks. " I don’t want you to say I forced you. "

I feel ever so slightly sorry for her as she scuffs her shoes on the floor under her chair like a schoolboy.

" No, Mom, you don’t have to cancel. "

" So you’ll go in? "

" I’ll go in. "

She squeezes my hand. " That’s great, Gee. "
A woman comes up the stairs and into the lobby. She strides up to us and shakes Mom’s hand warmly.
‘We spoke on the phone,’ she says.

" Yes. "

" And this must be Gerard. "

" That’s me! "
She puts her hand out for me to shake, but I ignore it, pretend I can’t move my arms. Maybe she’ll think it’s part of my illness. Her eyes travel in sorrow to my coat, scarf and hat. Perhaps she knows it isn’t that cold outside today.

" There isn’t a lift, " she says. " Will you manage the stairs? "

" We’ll be fine, " Mom says.

She looks relieved. " Dakota's really looking forward to meeting you.’

I get a nervous vibe from Mom. It makes them want to save her. From me. From all this suffering.

" The interview will be live, " she tells us. She lowers her voice as we get to the studio door. " See that red light? It means Dakota’s on air and we can’t go in. In a minute he’ll play a trail and the light will turn green.’ She says this as if we’re bound to be impressed.

" What’s Dakota’s angle? " I ask. " Is it the whole dying girl thing, or does he have something original planned? "

" Sorry? " Her smile slips; there’s a flicker of concern as she looks at Mom for reassurance. Is she only just able to smell something hostile in the air?

" Teen cancer units are rare in hospitals," Mom says quickly. " If we could even think about raising awareness, that would be great. "

The red light outside the studio flips to green. " That’s you! " The producer says, and she opens the door for us. " Gerard Way and his Mother," she announces.
We sound like dinner party guests, like we came to a ball. But Dakota King is no prince. He half squats above his chair and puts out a fat hand for us to shake in turn. His hand is sweaty, like it needs squeezing out.