Final Breath

Six

'Hey, Tyler!'
I look back behind me as I walk to my first period class to see the entire school football team running after me. A lot of them are red-faced and sweaty, and it's only eight o'clock in the morning now.
'Yes?' I answer with slight irritation as I adjust the strap of my backpack on my shoulder. I'm not a morning person, and I'm also really hungry. Hopefully, I have enough money in my PayPal account to Postmates me something to eat.
'We won't be long,' the football captain whose name I can never remember assures me, 'but we all have something for you.'
I'm a bit confused, since they've never talked to me before now, even though( not to sound like a broken record) this isn't my first rodeo with my brain tumor. I guess since the whole school now knows I'm dying, everybody's trying to act like I've been their favorite person from the jump.
'I'm listening,' I allow the football team to shower me with everything, from jewelry to money, even a small magazine page that has Mariah Carey on it. Is this what I have to look forward to until I'm dead?

The gifts only continue throughout the school day. Teachers even pull me from class to give me more clothes and shoes than I know what to do with. It's only been less than a week since the news first broke.
Thanksgiving is during the weekend, and all my teachers are fully aware that I will still be in Atlanta in the following week. It's not like I'm doing anything productive in any of my classes anyway, if we're not counting playing games on my phone to make money for the upcoming funeral expenses Dad's going to be faced with soon.
When lunchtime comes I sit outside of the cafeteria and order my Postmates food. Those that pass by give me sad and worried looks, but they say nothing and keep walking to their destinations. I'm going to miss them too.

'I made you something in class today!'
I raise my eyebrows at Tyson's words as I cash out my new payment from the word scrabble game I'm playing. It's only four o'clock in the afternoon, and Dad's just about to leave for work. Both Tyson and I's chores are done, and it's beginning to get too cold for any outside entertainment.
I walk over to where Tyson stands at the doorway to my room with a piece of paper. I've never known Tyson to be an artist of any kind, but I'm well aware of his computer-print handwriting. The words to the best older brother in the world are at the top of the paper.
Tyson has drawn a scarily realistic drawing of me, specifying the twinkle in my eyes and the fullness of my cheekbones. He's even nailed the small green ear piercing in my left ear that I got last year for my sixteenth birthday.
I don't realize I'm crying until I see the water droplets hit it. I don't hear whatever Tyson asks me, as it suddenly hits me, the severity of the situation.