One Tiny Lie: A Novel by K. A. Tucker

looks ready to ask another question, but his brother cuts him off.
    “Have you ever kissed a boy?”
    “Uh . . .” I stall for just a second, not expecting that question. “I don’t kiss and tell. That’s a good rule. You should remember it,” I say, and I fight against the blush.
    “Oh, I will. Dad says one day I’ll want to kiss girls, but I’m only five so it’s okay not to want to now.”
    “He’s right, you will. You both will.” I look at them both in turn with a wink.
    “Unless we die,” Eric says matter-of-factly.
    I pull my legs to my chest and hug them, the position somehow comforting against the sudden tightness inside. I’ve been around a lot of kids and I’ve heard a lot of things. I’ve even had several conversations about death and heaven. But, unlike that idle child chatter sparked by curiosity, Eric’s words send a chill through my body. Because they’re true. These two little boys in front of me may never kiss a girl, or become race car drivers, or learn that werewolves—friendly or otherwise—don’t exist. They may miss out on all that life has to offer them because for some cruel reason, children are not immortal.
    “You’re pressing your lips together tight, like Mom does,” Eric says, snapping two Lego blocks together. “She always does that when we talk about dying.”
    I’m not surprised. God, what that poor woman must face, watching not one but both of her little boys get pumped with rounds of chemicals, not knowing if it will be enough, wondering what the next few weeks, months, or years will bring!
    A painful lump to my throat swells just thinking about it. But I can’t think about it, I remind myself. I’m here to make them not think about it. “How about we make a rule,” I begin slowly, swallowing. “No talk of dying during our playtime. Only talk about what you’re going to do when your treatment is over and you go home, okay?”
    Eric frowns. “But what if—”
    “Nope!” I shake my head. “There is no ‘what if.’ Got it? How about we don’t plan on dying. We plan on living. Deal?”
    They look at each other and then Eric says, “Can I plan on not kissing a girl?”
    The heavy cloud in the room suddenly evaporates as I burst into laughter, on the verge of tears for so many reasons. “You can plan whatever you want as long as it involves you growing old and wrinkly. Shake on it.”
    Their eyes light up as they slip their little hands into my proffered one in turn, like we’re making a secret pact. One that I think I need as much as they do.
    I help the twins build a battleship, an aircraft carrier, and a torture chamber—Eric’s idea—out of LEGOs. They chatter back and forth, bickering occasionally, exactly as I would expect twin brothers to act. It’s so normal that I almost forget that both of these boys are in a hospital with cancer. Almost. But that unease in my chest lingers, and no amount of giggles seems to dissolve it.
    I’m surprised when four hours has passed so quickly and a nurse pokes her head in to tell the boys it’s time for them to tidy up and get back to their room. “Are you coming back again?” Eric asks, his eyes wide with the question.
    “Well, I was thinking about coming back next Saturday, if that’s all right with you.”
    He gives an indifferent shrug, but after a moment I catch the sidelong glance and the grin.
    “Okay then,” I stand, ruffling his hair. “See you next weekend, Eric.” Turning to Derek, who’s offering me a shy smile, I now notice the redness around his eyes and his slouched posture. Four hours in here has tired him. “See you next weekend, Derek, right?”
    “Yes, Miss Livie.”
    With a small wave to Diane, I slowly make my way out to the hallway where a woman with dirty-blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail stands.
    “Hello,” she says. “I’m Connie—their mother.” Her eyes—shadowed with darkness from lack of sleep—flicker toward the boys, who are arguing over which box