Fast Flight (2 page)

‘You look like custard,' one boy teased. ‘Custard Face!'

‘Or mustard,' said the other boy with a snigger.

‘Mustard custard!' said the first boy.

The two looked at each other, then shouted in unison, ‘Mustard custard!' They fell about laughing.

School was over for the day. He shouldn't have to put up with this anymore. Dillon tried to walk away, but they followed, pointing and taunting. He sped up.

Dillon could feel eyes upon him as he raced through the schoolyard. He was often looked upon with ridicule or with pity. Both were equally bad. Some kids made fun of him. Others felt sorry for him. Some didn't care. But everyone knew that he was different.

Dillon felt the sting of tears in his own eyes. He sprinted out of the grounds and down the street.

He ran and ran. He didn't really think about where he was going. But it wasn't home. He just wanted to escape – to exhaust his frustration and get it out of his system. His feet pounded on the footpath, his breath
heaved in and out and his mind whirled with a confusion of emotions.

He had become pretty good at ignoring what people said about him – to him. But it still hurt, even when he didn't show it. It was hard to conceal what he felt; sometimes he couldn't help reacting. Things had been building up for a few weeks, ever since those two new boys had shown up.

And now he let it all out. Dillon shouted as he ran – a loud, mournful wail.

An elderly man, pruning his roses, glared at Dillon. A lady pushing a pram on the other side of the street stared as he ran past.

Dillon ran off the footpath and across the expanse of green before collapsing under a tree. He leaned against the trunk, gasping for air, and cried.

He wasn't sure how long he was there for, but his eyes were sore and his throat raspy by the time the tears dried up. He pulled a crusty old tissue out of his pocket and wiped his nose.

Finally looking around, Dillon discovered that he was in a park. The leafy trees and the grass beneath made him feel calmer.

I wish I was like everyone else
, he thought.

Dillon liked stories. He enjoyed books and films with fantastical plots and impossible things. But he was pretty good at keeping grounded. He knew the difference between fantasy and reality. He knew what his situation was and he knew his disorder wouldn't just go away.

But, right now, he closed his eyes and wished anyway. It was a desperate, heartfelt, aching wish, whispered on a breath.

I wish to be normal.

Of course, it did not come true.

He opened his amber eyes and stared at his jaundiced skin, contrasted against the dark blue of his school uniform. He was very yellow.

Dillon's heart skipped a beat.

He was
too
yellow.

When he was younger, his parents had used a handheld device called a bilirubinometer to measure the amount of toxin in his system. Based on the readings, they knew how much time he had to spend under the lights. But, over the years, they had become pretty good at judging things by the colour of his skin. Looking at his skin now, Dillon knew that he needed more light.

He stared up at the dark, brooding sky. It had been overcast since morning. Without any sun during the day, he would normally go under the lights as soon as he came home after school.

Dillon realised he had no idea what time it was. How long had he been out here? How much time under the lights had he already missed? With storm clouds covering the sky, there was no sun to give him a hint as to how long he'd been in the park. He looked around and realised he didn't even know where he was. He rarely went out on his own. The five-minute walk between home and school was usually it.

I better find my way home
, he thought.

He jumped to his feet. His head felt light and he stumbled, sitting down again, hard.
He felt tired and a little unwell. He had not had enough UV light today and the excess bilirubin was beginning to have an effect on him.

He got up slowly and glanced around. He had to get home. Fast! But which way?

A drop of rain hit him on the nose.

Dillon looked up.

Larger drops splattered onto his face and thunder rumbled in the distance. As Dillon headed for the houses beyond the trees, the rain fell in earnest. It was a downpour. It only took seconds for him to be soaked to the skin.

Stumbling from the greenery onto the street, Dillon squinted. He didn't recognise the name on the street sign. The houses were unfamiliar.

Dillon's heart raced as panic set in.

What if I can't find my way home? What if I don't get to the light? I'll get sick. I could die.

Dillon sobbed, unable to decide which way to go. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he realised how tired he was. His legs felt weak and his arms hung limp at his sides.

Is this how it starts?
he wondered.

He had never missed a session under the lights before. He wasn't sure what would happen. But he knew it was bad.

Dillon remained standing in the middle of the road, rooted to the spot, shivering.

What am I going to do?

Lights approached, cutting through the dank remains of the day. They were blurry and indistinct, but they moved towards him.

Headlights!

A car pulled up.

There were voices.

And then there were arms around him. Hugging him. Lifting him and bringing him into the car.

It took Dillon a few moments to realise that his parents had located him. Somehow they had found him.

And then he was clinging on to them, as if he might lose them if his grip were too weak.

‘I'm sorry,' he sobbed.

The memory still gave Dillon chills.

His parents had rushed him home, dried him off and put him in the light box.

The next day there was a visit to the doctor and a hearing check. Excess bilirubin could collect around the brainstem. The first effect would be on hearing. So regular six-monthly hearing checks were a part of Dillon's life. After finding him at the park, so much more yellow than usual, an extra hearing check seemed like a good idea. Thankfully, everything had been okay.

Dillon swallowed. Hard. He shifted uncomfortably on the plastic stool in his light box.

What would have happened if his hearing had been affected? If the build-up of bilirubin had continued? Deafness would have been the next stage. And then his intellectual development would have been affected. And then …

Dillon took a deep breath and shuddered. He didn't want to think about it.

Dillon knew he wasn't like everyone else. He knew there was no point in wishing to be normal.

He tried to focus instead on what made him feel good – his home.

Dillon lived in a street called Faith, which was in a suburb called Hope Valley. The suburb belonged to the City of Adelaide, in the state of South Australia, in the country of Australia, which was in the Asia–Pacific region of the planet Earth. That planet was in a relatively small solar system within the Milky Way galaxy, which was but a small
part of the greater Universe. Of course, beyond that was the theoretical multiverse with all its parallel realities.

That's how Dillon liked to think of where he lived. It made him feel part of something infinitely larger than him. It allowed him to imagine that maybe his situation, his problems, his genetic disorder, were actually not as big and all-consuming as they often felt.

His location made him feel alive.

Hope Valley was a leafy area with trees and parks, and although the grass often browned and dried in the hot summer months, it would always return. And Dillon was only a few streets away from a reservoir. If you looked it up on Google Earth, which he often did, you would see the splash of
blue encased in greenery. Blue and green. Water and vegetation. The colours of life.

Dillon had done a lot of exploring, both online and in real life, after his running away incident. He'd decided he needed to know the area in which he lived like the back of his hand so that he'd never get lost again. He liked that phrase, ‘like the back of his hand'. It often appeared in stories, and this was something from a story that he could apply to real life.

He liked his street name, Faith. And he appreciated the name of his suburb, Hope Valley. Faith and Hope. It seemed to sum up how he felt about things. Despite his fears, Dillon was hopeful about the future – that things would get better for him and that he'd be able to live a normal life.

And in order to have hope in the future, he needed to have faith in the doctors. He needed to believe that they would come through. That they would get him what he needed …

Dillon shielded his eyes from the light. It didn't usually bother him, but right now he wished he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. He closed his eyes instead, shifting uncomfortably on his plastic stool.

Eventually the light would not be enough. Eventually the bilirubin would build up to toxic levels. Eventually he would die.

Unless …

He got what he needed …

And what he needed was a new liver. One that worked.

But getting a new liver scared him almost as much as not getting one. Although he had faith and hope, fear and doubt often fought with them. It was a constant battle.

The idea of doctors cutting him open, ripping out one of his organs and stuffing in a new one filled him with dread. He had talked to his best friend, Jay, about it …

Jayden, or Jay as he preferred, was bigger than Dillon. While Dillon was slim and fair,
Jay was broad and dark. A recent growth spurt also put him a head taller.

‘Operations aren't that scary,' Jay insisted. ‘Lots of people have 'em. I've had one and I'm okay.'

‘You had appendicitis,' said Dillon. ‘That's a bit ordinary. This is a transplant. It's terrifying!'

‘Dude,' said Jay. ‘My appendix exploded! There was pus floating around in my insides. They yanked what was left of my burst appendix out of me. Then they had to vacuum up all that gloop. I could've died, you know!'

‘Yeah, all right,' conceded Dillon. ‘It sounds pretty gross.' He hesitated. ‘But still. Mine's a transplant.'

‘Dude!' There was that word again. Jay liked it way too much and said it in a poor
imitation of a surfer. ‘You've gotta chill! Either you get the transplant, or you spend your life getting a tan.'

Dillon laughed. Jay always called the light box a tanning salon. But then his expression became grave. ‘It's more than that,' he said, voice quavering slightly. ‘If I don't get a new liver, things will get worse.'

‘Worse?' asked Jay. ‘How?'

‘The UV light doesn't work as well when you get older,' explained Dillon. ‘At some point it'll stop working and I'll …' He swallowed. ‘I'll get sick … and … and then I'll die.'

‘How long?' asked Jay, his voice now a serious whisper.

‘Not sure,' said Dillon. ‘I heard my mum and dad talking about it a couple of months
ago. They reckon that problems start after puberty. Something about my skin getting tougher and the light not being as effective.'

‘Dude!' Jay let that word hang there for a while. ‘Dude.' He shook his head. ‘If it's life or death, you gotta go the transplant.'

‘Yeah,' agreed Dillon. ‘I know. But it's a scary thought.'

It was scary indeed. And it had become even more scary since.

Six weeks ago, Dillon had gone to the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne for a transplant operation. Everything had been set to go – he was in a room, dressed in a hospital gown, his mum waiting nervously
with him. And then came the blood test to check for the suitability of the transplant. Unfortunately the donor liver had not been compatible and Dillon returned to Adelaide with his old, faulty organ still inside of him.

It had been devastating. His parents spent days in a gloom, barely speaking to each other. It was as if not talking about it meant that it hadn't happened. And it was better to wipe the whole incident rather than have to admit it might happen again.

The possibility had never occurred to Dillon before then. He'd always believed that when a liver was available, it would just be a matter of putting it in. But apparently it wasn't. It had to be compatible. And even then, there was a chance of his body rejecting it.

What would happen then?
he reflected.
If my old liver is gone and my body won't accept the new one … can I live without a liver? Or will I die?

A space battle on the computer screen brought him out of his thoughts and back into the reality of his light box. He realised that his hands were sweating. He felt a quivering in his stomach and a pounding in his chest. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down.

He tried to think of all the good things in his life.

He had fair skin. It might seem like an odd thing to be happy about, but Dillon's paleness allowed the UV light to work more effectively. It meant less time in the light. And his blond hair meant that the yellowness
of his skin wasn't as noticeable as it might otherwise be. It would be far more obvious if contrasted to dark hair.

Dillon started to feel a little better.

Good things
, he told himself.
Concentrate on good things.

He had a best friend. He had parents who he loved dearly.

And cricket! He enjoyed playing cricket. And today had been a good day for it. He tried to fill his mind with the events of the day …