My best friend had stood beside me through what I believed was the worst year of my life.
At least, that was what I believed.
Chloe had been there when I was diagnosed with leukemia. She had hugged me when I was terrified. She had promised I would never go through it alone. She had even taken responsibility for managing the community medical fund that people created to help my mother pay for my treatment.
For years, I thought she was one of the people I could trust without question.
Then, on the night of our senior prom, Chloe walked up to me in front of almost our entire graduating class, grabbed my wig and ripped it from my head.
Her words hurt almost as much as what she had done.
“You are just seeking attention!”
The music stopped.
Everyone stared.
And as I stood there exposed and humiliated, trying to cover my bare head with trembling hands, I thought the worst part of the night would be what Chloe had done to me.
I was wrong.
Before the night was over, the truth about Chloe came out.
And it turned out that the girl I had called my best friend had been betraying me in a way I never could have imagined.
Chloe and I had been best friends since third grade.
Back then, friendship was simple.
It meant sharing juice at lunch, trading stickers, saving seats for each other and writing our names beside one another in secret notebooks.
By middle school, we had filled three notebooks with plans for our futures.
We chose colleges we had never visited.
We imagined apartments we could never afford.
We talked about what kind of jobs we would have, where we would travel and what our lives would look like when we were adults.
And, of course, we had planned our senior prom years before either of us even knew who we would take.
I never believed anything could come between us.
Then, when I was 16, everything changed.
I was diagnosed with leukemia.
The day the doctor told us, my mother gripped my hand so tightly that her fingernails pressed half-moon shapes into my skin.
I barely heard the rest of his explanation.
Words like treatment, chemotherapy, blood counts and survival rates floated around the room, but none of them felt real.
I was sixteen years old.
I was supposed to be worrying about school.
Friends.
College applications.
Prom.
Instead, I was sitting in a doctor’s office trying to understand why my own body had suddenly become something I was afraid of.
Chloe was the first person I called.
She arrived at our house less than an hour later.
She sat beside me on the couch, wrapped both arms around me and held me tightly.
“We are going to beat this,” she said firmly. “You are not doing any of it alone.”
At the time, I believed her completely.
My mother was already working extra shifts at the bakery, but the hospital bills began arriving faster than she could open them.
The treatment was expensive.
The appointments were constant.
And even though my mother tried desperately not to let me see how worried she was, I knew she was frightened.
When people in our community learned what had happened, they wanted to help.
Teachers organized a bake sale.
Parents from school donated gift cards.
Neighbors contributed money.
Friends organized a weekend fundraiser at the community center.
It seemed as though everyone wanted to do something to help me survive.
Chloe volunteered to manage my community medical fund.
“You and your mom have enough to worry about,” she told me. “I can keep track of the donations and the online account.”
My mother hesitated.
But our families had known each other for years.
Chloe had always been organized.
She spoke with confidence.
She made it sound like she was doing us a favor.
So we agreed.
For a while, she seemed like my biggest supporter.
She posted updates about my treatment.
She delivered cards from classmates.
She brought flowers.
She sat beside me during some of my early hospital visits.
And when I was too exhausted to talk, she would simply sit there.
Then chemotherapy began taking pieces of me.
First, it took my appetite.
Food tasted like metal.
Sometimes even the smell of soup made my stomach twist.
Then it took my strength.
Walking from my bedroom to the bathroom could leave me shaking.
And finally, it took my hair.
I knew it would happen.
Everyone had told me.
But knowing something is coming does not make it easier when it actually happens.
One morning, I ran my fingers through my hair and pulled away a thick handful.
I stared at it.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
Then I sat down on the bathroom floor.
My mother found me there.
She knelt in front of me and cried while trying desperately not to let me see that she was crying.
