Chapter 2

After that, the long "treatment" began.

One "vitamin shot" every week.

One "supplement" every day.

One "therapy session" every month.

Those "treatments" made me weaker and weaker.

After each shot, my legs would go soft. I couldn't walk steady.

After drinking the supplement, I'd sleep drowsily for an entire day.

A year passed.

I didn't get better. I got worse.

I used to be able to dance a full variation. Now I could barely sit up in bed.

I used to be top of the academy. Now I couldn't even read—the words swam in front of my eyes, I couldn't focus no matter what.

I asked Jason, "Why am I getting worse with treatment?"

He said, "It's a normal reaction. Means the medicine is working. Just bear with it, you'll get better."

I asked my parents, "Mom, when will I get better?"

Mom's eyes turned red. She didn't speak.

Dad turned around, pretending to look out the window.

I dropped out.

Spent all day lying in bed, like a useless person.

Mom and Dad took turns taking care of me—feeding me, washing me, changing my clothes.

Mom's hair went half white.

Dad's back bent.

Once, when Mom was washing me, she suddenly cried.

"Ruby, Mom is sorry. Mom didn't take good care of you."

I reached out to wipe her tears. "Mom, it's not your fault. My body just isn't good."

Mom cried harder.

I held her in my arms, gently patting her back.

What I didn't know was that Mom was crying not because of my illness.

It was because she knew I wasn't sick.

I thought they felt bad for me.

Now I know—they couldn't bear to look at me.