Seventy Percent (REVISED)

The plastic chair crinkled under me, the noise echoing in the sterile stillness of Dr. Giacherio's office. My heart raced, pounding like a drum against the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above. Stetson's old blue hoodie, which he lent me ages ago and never asked back, felt like it was closing in on me. I pulled at the soft fabric, its comfort clashing with the icy fear rising in my throat.

Dad was next to me, sitting stiffly with his jaw set tight. I silently wished for everything to be fine as I stole a glance at him. His bright blue eyes, usually full of laughter, were now shadowed with concern. Pops, on the other hand, was restless in his chair, his usual cheerful grin fading. He kept reaching out for Dad's hand, offering a quiet sense of comfort.

Dr. Giacherio cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. He held a folder, and my PET scan images glowed ominously on the lightbox behind him. My breath caught in my throat. This is it, I thought, feeling my stomach twist into a tight knot. This is the moment that changes everything.

The plastic chair crinkled under my weight as I sat there, feeling the tension in the air. I pulled at the frayed fabric of Stetson's hoodie, its soft cotton feeling warm against the cold fear that was creeping up my throat. My charcoal leggings brushed against the chair, a slight discomfort that barely registered against the overwhelming anxiety building inside me. I shifted in my seat, the soles of my purple running shoes squeaking softly on the linoleum floor, a tiny sound that felt insignificant compared to the heavy news that loomed over us.

Dad was next to me, sitting rigidly with his jaw clenched so tight that a muscle twitched in his cheek. I silently wished for it to be nothing serious, stealing glances at his profile. His bright blue eyes, usually filled with laughter, were now clouded with a worry I had never seen before. Pops, on the other hand, was restless, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a nervous energy. He kept reaching for Dad's hand, his grip a quiet request for support as we faced the uncertainty ahead.

Dr. Giacherio cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence with a sound that felt out of place. He held a folder, its bright white color stark against the muted tones of the office. My PET scan images glowed ominously on the lightbox behind him, casting a shadow over the room. My breath caught in my throat. This is it, I thought, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. This is the moment that changes everything.

Dr. Giacherio started, his tone serious and heavy, "Sloane, the results from your biopsy and PET scan show that the mass in your thigh is cancerous. It's a form of bone cancer known as Ewing sarcoma."

The impact of his words hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless. Cancerous. Ewing sarcoma. Those words echoed in my head, sharp and frightening, like shards of glass cutting through my thoughts. My vision started to fade, and the room felt like it was spinning. I clutched the chair's arms tightly, my knuckles turning white against the light plastic.

Dad's expression turned steely, his blue eyes filled with a mix of fear and anger. "What stage is it?" he asked, his voice low and tense.

"Stage 2," Dr. Giacherio answered, holding Dad's gaze with a serious look. "The cancer is localized, but it’s aggressive."

Pops let out a choked sob, quickly covering his mouth as if trying to hold back the sound of his shattered heart. The usual brightness in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a raw, unfiltered fear that echoed the dread churning inside me. He reached out for Dad, their fingers locking together in a tight grip, a desperate connection amidst the chaos.

Stetson was the first to break the heavy silence. "So, what do we do now?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm, like a steady light in the storm. "What’s the plan for treatment?"

Dr. Giacherio nodded, his face softening a bit. "The good news is that Ewing sarcoma often responds well to treatment. We’ll begin with chemotherapy to reduce the tumor, followed by surgery and possibly radiation."

My thoughts spun in confusion. Chemotherapy. Surgery. Radiation. Those words felt like poison, a list of nightmares I couldn’t fully grasp. I felt a tear roll down my cheek, burning against my skin, followed by another and then more. I couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t stop the wave of emotions that threatened to drown me.

Dad's voice was thick with emotion, his usual sternness cracking under the weight of his fear. "What are her chances?"

Dr. Giacherio paused for a moment, his eyes darting to mine before returning to Dad. "The five-year survival rate for Stage 2 Ewing sarcoma is about 70%. With prompt treatment and a strong approach, Sloane has a solid chance of overcoming this."

Seventy percent. It felt like a glimmer of hope, but my mind was stuck on the 30% who didn’t survive. I imagined myself slipping away, disappearing from my family, friends, and everything I loved. That thought wrapped around me like a heavy blanket, making it hard to breathe.

Pops held Dad's hand tightly, worry etched on his face in a way I had never seen before, his voice thick with emotion. "We’ll do whatever it takes," he murmured, his words filled with raw feeling. "We’ll fight this together."

Dad nodded, his eyes steady and determined, a fierce light shining in his blue gaze. "You’re not facing this alone, Sloane," he said, his voice strong, like a solid rock against the storm of my fears. "We’re all here for you, every step of the way."

Stetson leaned in, his eyes blazing with determination that matched Dad's. "You’re a fighter, Sloane," he said, his voice steady and comforting, wrapping around me like a warm blanket against the chill of fear. "We’re going to get through this. Together." He reached out, his hand finding mine in a reassuring grip.

Their words and unwavering support felt like a lifeline in the chaotic sea of fear and doubt. I held onto their love, their strength, and their belief in me. In that moment, a flicker of hope sparked inside me, a small flame glowing in the darkness. Maybe, just maybe, with them by my side, I could conquer this.

The truck vibrated beneath us, creating a steady hum that matched the chaos in my mind. Pops was humming along to a classic rock song blaring from the radio, his usual upbeat vibe dampened by a hint of sadness. Dad was staring out the window, his jaw tight, as the scenery blurred into a mix of greens and browns under the gray sky. Stetson was trying to get my attention with a game of "I Spy," his overly cheerful tone only adding to my already frayed nerves.

"Dad," I started, my voice barely audible, my throat tight with emotion, "Pops... can I have a sleepover tonight?"

Both of them turned to look at me, their faces reflecting the storm inside me. Dad's brow furrowed, his eyes filled with unspoken questions, his worry evident. Pops, noticing the quiver in my voice, met my gaze in the rearview mirror, his usual playful sparkle replaced by genuine concern. "A sleepover? Tonight? Why do you want that, sweetheart?" he asked gently.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the conversation I was dreading. "I need to tell my friends... about the cancer," I admitted, the words almost choking me. "And... I really need them here. Tonight."

The atmosphere in the cab grew heavy, the impact of my words settling around us. Dad's expression hardened, his protective instincts kicking in. "Sloane," he started, his voice strained, "maybe this isn't the best -"

But Pops, keeping his eyes on the road, caught Dad's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. "It's okay, love," Pops said, his tone calm and reassuring. "Let her have her friends."

"Okay, Sloane," Dad said, his voice rough yet filled with the warmth I really needed. "We'll take you and Stetson home as soon as we return. Pops and I will grab any snacks and drinks you want for your sleepover."

A huge wave of relief hit me, so strong it nearly made me cry. "Thanks," I said softly, a real smile breaking through.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," Dad replied, his tone warm and comforting. "Your friends care about you. They'll want to support you."

I nodded, holding onto his words like they were a lifeline. Maybe he was right. Perhaps my friends could help me through the tough times ahead. But when I looked back at my phone, seeing Evan's name pop up repeatedly, a tight knot of guilt formed in my stomach. How could I face everyone, knowing my life was about to change so drastically, and that I might lose everything, even the chance for a normal teenage relationship?

A nervous flutter twisted in my stomach as I sat cross-legged on my bed, the coral comforter providing a cozy warmth against my back. My friends formed a semi-circle around me, their faces showing concern. Chandler leaned against my desk chair, his bright blue eyes locked onto me with an intensity that sent chills down my spine. Noelle, sitting on the navy beanbag, nervously played with a strand of her golden hair, her usual bubbly vibe noticeably dimmed. Maekynzie perched on the edge of my desk, her honey-brown eyes wide with anticipation. Emory attempted to lighten the mood with a silly joke, but his laughter fell flat in the heavy silence that filled the room. Tinsley, sitting on the edge of my vanity bench, bit her lip, her green eyes mirroring the worry that surrounded us. Stetson sat beside me, his presence a steady comfort amidst the storm brewing inside me.

Empty pizza boxes and crumpled chip bags were scattered across the floor, leftovers from our typical carefree hangouts. The Cards Against Humanity game lay untouched on my desk, its dark humor clashing with the serious atmosphere that had settled over us. A half-eaten bowl of popcorn rested on my nightstand, the buttery aroma doing little to ease the knot in my stomach.

"So," Chandler finally broke the silence, his voice low and filled with concern, "are you going to tell us what's going on, Sloane?"

His words lingered in the air, the unasked question hanging between us. I took a deep breath, my eyes darting from one face to another, each one reflecting my own fear and uncertainty.

"I... I don't even know where to begin," I stuttered, my voice trembling.

Noelle reached out and squeezed my hand, her touch warm and reassuring. "Just tell us, Sloane," she said gently. "We're here for you, no matter what."

I nodded, feeling a tightness in my throat as emotions swirled inside me. "Okay," I managed to whisper, my voice barely rising above the soft buzz of the air conditioning. My eyes were drawn to the frayed fabric of Stetson's hoodie, the one I had basically taken from him, and I felt an overwhelming need for comfort wash over me. "I went to the doctor today... and they found a tumor. In my leg."

A sharp intake of breath echoed around the room, the silence broken only by the steady ticking of the clock on my nightstand. Chandler straightened up, his blue eyes filled with concern as he pushed away from my desk chair. Maekynzie gasped, her honey-brown eyes wide with shock. Emory's usual cheerful demeanor faded, replaced by a stunned expression that made his freckles stand out against his pale skin. Even Tinsley seemed momentarily at a loss for words, her green eyes reflecting the fear that filled the air.

"A tumor?" Noelle finally repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

I swallowed hard, feeling the lump in my throat grow heavier. "It's... it's cancer," I admitted, the word feeling like a heavy stone in my stomach.

Maekynzie gasped dramatically, tears welling up in her eyes. "Oh my god, Sloane! That's awful!"

Emory tried to lighten the mood. "Well, at least you'll have a cool scar to show off," he joked, but his attempt at humor fell flat, the laughter dying before it could escape.

Chandler crossed the room and knelt in front of me, taking my hand in his. "What kind of cancer?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"Ewing sarcoma," I said, the medical term sounding strange and terrifying even to me.

"Is it... is it serious?" Tinsley asked cautiously, her usual tough exterior crumbling.

I nodded, unable to look her in the eye. "It's Stage 2. They said it's aggressive." My voice broke, and a tear slipped down my cheek, leaving a warm trail behind.

A wave of hopelessness crashed over me, almost pulling me under with its force. But Chandler's grip on my hand tightened, his touch providing a solid support in the chaos. "Hey," he said softly, his thumb brushing against my skin, "don’t stress. You’re going to get through this. We’re all right here for you, every step of the way."

His words and constant encouragement felt like a lifeline. I locked eyes with him, finding strength in his presence. In that moment, a rush of warmth enveloped me, reminding me of the complicated feelings I had for him. Yet, those feelings were overshadowed by a deep sense of gratitude and friendship. I wasn’t alone. I had my friends, my twin, my family. Together, we would tackle this challenge, one step at a time.

The rest of the night blurred into a mix of shared tears, hugs, and quiet reassurances. We talked, laughed, and even squeezed in a few rounds of Cards Against Humanity, the dark humor providing a much-needed escape from the reality I faced. As the night progressed, the initial shock and fear transformed into a feeling of unity, a bond strengthened by our struggles. And as I fell asleep, surrounded by my friends, a text from Evan lighting up my phone, I felt a flicker of hope in the darkness. Maybe, just maybe, with their love and support, I could overcome this.