Michael Stewart - The Momentous Expiration of Tremmy Sinclair

Praise for Heart Sister

A tale that is alternately heartbreaking and mischievous, sometimes creepy, and ultimately triumphant.Quill & Quire

For Ray Vs the Meaning of Life

Booby-trapped with guns, grizzly bears, and homemade fireworks, the cartoonish park setting skillfully gives wheels to a larger, more intriguing philosophical question.... A tale spins its answer to an age-old question into an inclusive, hilarious, and thought-provoking yarn.Kirkus Reviews

For Counting Wolves

Stewart lets the story do the talking in a world populated by fabulous supporting characters and full of surprises. Counting Wolves is an engaging read for teens and adults alike, Wesley King, author of the Silver Birch Award and Edgar Award winner OCDaniel.

For Assured Destruction

A fun, fast-paced thriller guaranteed to distract teens from Facebook ...Kirkus Reviews

By Michael F. Stewart

Copyright 2021 Michael F. Stewart

Cover Art by Martin Stiff

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form.

www.michaelfstewart.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or virtual, is entirely coincidental.

For all my girls

A dozen prefects lounge on leather couches in the oak-lined office of the headmaster. Six girls. Six boys. Dressed identically in gray pants, white shirts, and forest-green blazers, most with the bright emerald stripes that indicate our colorsour superior achievement in something or otherand collections of award pins arranged like military medals on our lapels. Collections clutter the office walls too: butterflies pinned in a lit case; trophy photos of famous former studentspoliticians, industry titans, filmmakers, starsthe greater the fame the larger the frame. Many of them were head prefects. Only two of us here will be made head prefects. Its a golden ticket into an Ivy League school and future success.

Everyone except Jenkins fidgets and laughs too loudly at each others jokes, waiting to discover who will catch the ride. Jenkins struggles to keep glassy eyes open. Last night ended with both of us heaving our guts into the bushes, but for two very different reasons. He aced one goal and sure tried for number two, but there were surprisingly few takers after he vomited the first time.

Jodie wont look me in the eye. Margot holds a sheet of paper with a quote from someone named Heidegger on the top. Shes quite the nerd. Becoming a head prefect is a mixed blessing. For one, you have to speak at assembly, which is in fifteen minutes. Its supposed to be ad lib with no preparation. But Margots ready for any eventuality. Its also a lot of work. Head prefects are the face of school, meeting prospective students and their parents, speaking at celebrations and major events. It looks amazing on your university application. But some of us have house responsibilities already. Each student is assigned a house, which becomes their surrogate family. Im a deck or floor prefect for the grade eleven borders; the assignment likely takes me out of the running for head prefect. My room is on the same floor as the juniors. If someone is homesick or sick or has ordered in strippers like someone who-shant-be-named did last year, Im supposed to deal with it, or report it to the housemaster Mr. Bell if I cant.

Beyond already having a house role, I can think of a half-dozen other reasons why I wont be named head prefect. My grades are decent but not spectacular. I was suspended last year for drinking on campus. I never volunteer for anything. I tore up the front field doing donuts with my truck. In short, Im not exactly head prefect material.

Mr. Bell is already a bit peeved at me for arriving so late this morning, but my parents wanted to talka last-ditch effort to put me on the plane.

We only want you to be happy, my dad said, tears coursing down his plump cheeks. My mom gripped my hands between hers, unwilling to let go. This is your wish, to go to school, really?

My dying wish, I say.

Lets call it a living wish, my dad says loudly.

But Im not jinxing my chances to beat cancer by saying it. Im not sure all of this has sunk in for either of them. I am scheduled for brain scans in a few weeks to see if the experimental therapy did anything. The scans are supposed to be in Tokyo. My parents are waiting on a miracle. Im not. I pull free from my mother. Cancel the flights, I say. My parents purse their lips and turn to each other for support. Mom, what did you want to be when you were seventeen?

She doesnt hesitate. An artist. Right, shes where I get my drawing ability. Give me a few minutes, and I can sketch anyone.

What about you, Dad?

He grins. I really wanted to be a firefighter.

Yeah so, Mom, you went from artist to chief financial officer and, Dad, from firefightersorry, I find that really hard to imagineto selling air conditioners.

So? His hands grip his belly, which looks like hes stuffed an air conditioner down his throat.

What I want now means nothing, I say. Its most likely wrong. Like you were wrong. Maybe I shouldnt change anything because Im dying.

But you dont even like schoolwork. Moms wearing her flight suit. Not one of those one-piece blue suits the NASA astronauts wear. This is a smart-looking silk blouse, blue jacket with white piping, and a white skirt. Its what youd wear before dining at the yacht club or at a cottage in Muskoka. A heavy gold loop, big enough to be a misplaced halo, rings her neck. Shes ready for first-class travel.

What I hate is fighting for marks and how important they are, I say.

Theyre not important now? Dad asks.

I point to my brain and lift an eyebrow.

He beats his paunch like its a war drum. You never know what can happen. I got into air-conditioning because I had a summer job in a company where the owner had a stroke. Rather than lose the job, my mom bought the company and told me to run it. Told me it was important to learn things the hard way. But without that stroke

Yeah, yeah, the family stroke of genius. I roll my eyes. My dad is always telling me I need to watch out for my strokemy chance to strike. It wont happen now.

But I wasnt making a dime until your mother came aboard. My dad grips my moms shoulder and her fingers find his. Your mom changed everything for me. Put me on the straight and narrow. Gave me a game plan. I never looked back. What I mean is, well take it day by day. No one needs to know. Im not canceling anything.

A non-decision is still a decision.

Maybe the treatment really will work, Mom adds, and I ignore her comment. The treatment was experimental, with zero human studies and only marginal success in a rat model. Im not pinning anything on rats.

Still, I thought they took the news well overall, until my dad broke down a second time and sobbed all over my mom. After, she changed her outfit, and then we packed up and drove the hour to school and dropped my gear at Mason House, just another student among a mill of future masters of the universe. Nervous grade nines, uncertain grade tens, and excited grade elevens and twelves. Chauffeurs nodded stoically to rich British wankers Cheerio! Diplomats and ambassadors in black-armored Yukons and Humvees shoed their children quickly inside under the watchful eyes of sunglasses and earbud-wearing bodyguards. Maserati-driving Hong Kong billionaires inspected their kids before ushering them into school, relieved they made it through summer without being kidnapped and ransomed, most speaking better English than I do. My parents are rich, but nothing compared to the oceans of money some of the parents of foreign students have amassed.