Jessi's Wish

by Ann M. Martin

  I wanted to hug my sister. I was so proud of her. But I did just what Mr. Katz was doing, which was waiting for someone to respond to her.

  “I think,” spoke up Vanessa Pike, “that we should at least answer those letters. The kids would like to get mail. We liked getting their mail.”

  “Let’s hear another letter,” said Charlotte to Mr. Katz.

  “All right.” He chose one. “ ‘Dear Kids Club, The toys are so cool! Thank you! I have been in the hospital for almost a month. This is the third time I’ve been here this year. I have cystic fibrosis. I am always in the hospital. It’s hard to make friends here. Kids come and go. Danielle says she knows you. She’s my friend, too. But she’s going home soon. She’s so lucky.’ ”

  “Lucky?” cried Wendy. “She has leukemia!”

  “I guess the hospital is a pretty lonely place,” said Becca pointedly.

  I expected Wendy to make a face at my sister. But she just stopped talking.

  Mr. Katz finished reading the letter. He placed it on the desk. “You received eleven letters all together,” he told the kids.

  “And there are sixteen of us,” said my sister, taking charge. “So six people can write letters by themselves, and the rest of us will find a partner and answer the letters in teams.”

  “Let’s look at all the letters,” said Nicky.

  “Why? Are you afraid to write to a girl?” teased Vanessa.

  “No,” said Nicky so fast that I was sure that was exactly what he’d meant.

  Mr. Katz handed the letters around, and the kids read them eagerly.

  “Hey!” cried a girl whose name I’d forgotten. “Maybe they’d like pictures of us. You know, so they can see who the letters are from.”

  “Do you still have your Polaroid camera, Mr. Katz?” asked Bruce.

  “It’s in the cabinet,” he replied.

  “Goody!” exclaimed Nicky. “We can take funny pictures, too.”

  The kids were moving around now. Some were trading letters, some had followed Mr. Katz to the cabinet, some were getting out paper and pencils.

  “We could decorate the paper and make beautiful stationery,” I heard Charlotte say to Becca, and I knew they were going to work together.

  I started toward them, but their heads were bent as they whispered together. They didn’t look as though they needed help.

  Don’t favor Becca, I told myself. And remember that the Kids Club is her club. This is her territory. Don’t interfere.

  I took my own advice.

  Anyway, other kids needed me. “Jessi?” said Wendy. “How do you spell ‘hospital’?”

  Bruce pulled at my hand as I walked by. “Can you take my picture?” he asked.

  “I’ll take your picture,” said another boy. “We’re partners.”

  “How about if I take a picture of you together?” I asked.

  “Yes!” cried Bruce. “No, wait! Take two. A silly one and a nice one.”

  “Photo limit!” said Mr. Katz then. “One per person. The film is expensive.”

  “We better be careful, then,” said Bruce. “Jessi, you can only take two. No do-overs. Okay. This will be the serious one.”

  The boys posed, as if for a school picture. Then they stuck out their tongues and crossed their eyes. But they didn’t laugh.

  “I wonder if he’ll like these pictures,” said Bruce’s friend.

  “I wonder if you can get well from cystic fibrosis,” said Bruce.

  I think Kristy had something of a shock on her first afternoon at the center. She’d visited it recently, of course, but sitting in an armchair in the director’s office is a little different from trying to entertain a bunch of cranky three-year-olds, or trying to read to a group of wiggly five-year-olds, or trying to feed eight babies at the same time.

  The day-care center is big. There’s a room full of high chairs and toys for the babies, and another room for them to sleep in. There’s a nap room for the older children, a playroom for the toddlers, another for the preschoolers, another for the five- and six-year-olds, another for the seven- and eight-year-olds, and a study room for the oldest kids, and anyone else who needs it. There’s a small gym, an arts-and-crafts room, a kitchen, a nurse’s office, and outdoors, a playground. Until about three o’clock, when the older children are in school, the center is less busy. Just after three, though, the school kids begin to come by for the afternoon program. They can work on art projects, do their homework, play with their friends or their brothers and sisters, play on the playground, or help out with the younger children.

  Wednesday was Kristy’s first day at the center. She arrived as soon after school as she could. She went straight to the director’s office.

  “Kristy. Hi. I’m so glad you’re here,” said Mrs. Hall. “We’ve got a full house today, but we’re a little understaffed. Where would you like to work?”

  “Well …” Kristy was unprepared for the question. She’d thought Mrs. Hall would assign her to an age group or to a certain room.

  “Would you like to float around today?” asked Mrs. Hall. “You could help out wherever you’re needed and also get acquainted with the children and the various programs. Maybe by the end of the day you’ll choose an area you’d like to stay in. I think every teacher could use another pair of hands.”

  “Okay,” replied Kristy.

  She stepped out of the office and into the hallway. Directly across from her was a doorway. A sign next to it read “Study Hall.” Kristy peeped inside. She saw several long tables with chairs, a bookshelf holding a set of encyclopedias, a cabinet labeled “Supplies,” and walls lined with children’s pictures and art projects. Several kids were seated sloppily at the tables, surrounded by open books, lined paper, assignment pads, jackets, sweaters, gym bags….

  Kristy entered the room.

  The kids perked up.

  “Can you help me?” a boy called out immediately.

  “Sure,” replied Kristy. “I mean — probably. What do you need help with?”

  “Spelling.”

  “Oh, okay. I’m good at that.” Kristy glanced around. A teacher was busy with a little girl who was reading aloud, sounding out each word. The teacher nodded to Kristy, and went on working.

  Kristy settled herself at a table, across from the boy.

  “My name is Oliver,” the boy whispered.

  “Hi, I’m Kristy.”

  “Okay.” Oliver smiled. “Do you know how to spell Leonardo and Donatello?”

  Kristy raised her eyebrows. Oliver couldn’t have been more than eight. “What are you working on?” asked Kristy. “A report?”

  “No, a writing paragraph.”

  “About famous artists?”

  Oliver shook his head. “I’m writing about my heroes, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” he whispered.

  Kristy succeeded in not laughing. She spelled the words for Oliver, helped another boy with his math homework, and settled a squabble between two girls over an eraser. Then the teacher stood up.

  “Snack time!” she announced. “Anyone who needs a break, go on into the kitchen.” The room emptied as the children scrambled into the hallway.

  Kristy followed them partway. She paused at the doorway to the room where the babies were napping in their cribs. She walked on. Halfway to the kitchen, she ran into Mrs. Hall.

  “The three-year-olds need some help,” Mrs. Hall announced. “Why their teacher picked today to finger paint is beyond me.”

  Kristy headed for the playroom used by the three- and four-year-olds. She opened the door and was greeted by a harried-looking young man who said to her breathlessly, “I don’t know who you are, but whoever you are, thank goodness you’re here … Stephen! The paint goes on the paper, not in your hair. Aimee! Oh, for heaven’s … Christopher!”

  “Have they ever finger painted before?” Kristy wanted to know.

  “Yes, but never on a day when they missed their naps.”

  “Their naps?”

  The man nodde
d. “Both of them. We took a field trip this morning —”

  “To the farm, to the farm, to the FARM!” sang Aimee, giggling.

  Her teacher tried to pull himself together. “Yes, to a farm. And this afternoon, the kids were still keyed up, and naptime came and went and … Oh, by the way, I’m Randy Walker.”

  “I’m Kristy Thomas. What can I do to help you?”

  “Supervise that table?” said Randy. He pointed to the table around which were standing Stephen, Aimee, Christopher, and two other children. “I’ll watch the kids at this table. We’re going to paint for about ten more minutes, then I think I’ll read to the kids and try to calm them down before their parents arrive. Grab yourself a smock.”

  Kristy noticed that Randy and the children were each wearing a smock, an oversized shirt buttoned down the back. She found an extra, hanging by the sink, and put it on. Then she approached Aimee’s table.

  “Hey, look!” exclaimed Aimee. “Red and blue and green and yellow and purple make brown.”

  Her painting was a big muddy blob. (Her hands were the same color.)

  “That’s, um, lovely,” said Kristy. “Hey, Stephen, how about making designs on your paper?”

  Stephen was marching spiritedly around the table, making squiggles on everyone else’s paintings.

  Christopher burst into tears. “You wrecked it!” he cried.

  “Did not!” (Stephen began to cry, too.)

  “Whoa, you guys,” said Kristy. She separated them (glad she was wearing the smock) and began to sing the first song that came to mind, which happened to be “Rock Around the Clock.”

  Christopher and Stephen stopped crying. Aimee wrote AIMEE in her brown painting and announced that she was finished.

  A few minutes later, the children were putting away the paints and washing their hands at the sink. Randy asked Christopher to choose a story, and he walked to a bookcase and returned with Ask Mr. Bear.

  When the children were settled sleepily on the floor, Kristy tiptoed out the door. How was she going to decide where to work? So far, she liked the older kids and the three-year-olds. She had a feeling she would like the other age groups as well. And she did. She read aloud to some five-year-olds. She helped a group of ten-year-old girls make beaded jewelry. She supervised a group of boys who were playing football on the playground.

  She was passing out crackers to the toddlers when Mrs. Hall stuck her head in the room. “Kristy?” she said. “I’m sorry to take you away from this, but Ms. Preiss needs some help with the infants.”

  “Okay,” said Kristy.

  She followed Mrs. Hall into the room where the babies were being fed. She took a quick count — eight babies, two … teachers? (What exactly did you call the adults who worked with the infants? Kristy settled on their names, Marcia and Sandy.) Five of the babies were sitting in high chairs, two were reclining in infant seats, and the eighth was being walked around the room by Sandy. He cried loudly. Sandy sang to him and patted his back.

  Meanwhile, Marcia was trying to feed the seven remaining babies. Kristy could see why another pair of hands was needed. Without being told, she found some washcloths and sponged off sticky faces and hands.

  “Ah-da-da!” cried one little girl. (She was wearing overalls, and had almost no hair, but Kristy could tell she was a girl because of the ruffly pink band that had been placed around her head.) She bounced up and down in the high chair.

  “I think Joy is finished,” said Marcia. “How are you at changing diapers, Kristy?” Marcia looked somewhat uncomfortable. “I hate to ask, but …”

  “That’s okay,” Kristy replied. She lifted Joy out of her high chair.

  “Everything you need is in the other room.” Marcia pointed to a doorway, through which Kristy could see cribs and two changing tables.

  Kristy carried Joy into the empty room. “Here you go, Miss Joy,” she said, settling the baby on one of the tables. “I’m going to clean you up and —”

  “Wahh!” wailed Joy.

  “Sorry,” called Marcia. “Joy is never thrilled about having her diaper changed.”

  Kristy sang a couple of verses of “Rock Around the Clock,” ignoring Joy’s wailing. When the diaper had been changed, she lifted Joy and danced her around the room. Joy smiled (and drooled). Then abruptly she began to whimper.

  “What’s the matter?” Kristy asked her. “I wish you could talk.” She walked and hummed, and slowly Joy’s cries subsided. Kristy sat in a rocking chair, with Joy in her lap. Back and forth they went. Joy’s eyes began to close. Kristy watched. And listened. She stopped humming. Joy’s breathing became deep and regular and even.

  She was sound asleep.

  Now what? wondered Kristy. She looked up and saw Marcia standing in the doorway, smiling. “You must have the magic touch,” she said. “Joy never falls asleep that quickly.”

  Kristy smiled, flattered. “I’m afraid to put her in a crib, though,” she said. “I don’t want to wake her up.”

  So Kristy held Joy until Joy’s mother arrived to take her home. Later, when Mrs. Hall asked Kristy where she wanted to work the next time she came to the center, Kristy didn’t even hesitate before she answered, “With the babies.”

  Back to the Kids Club. My third afternoon at Stoneybrook Elementary started off nicely. “You’re doing a great job, Jessi,” Mr. Katz told me.

  I beamed. “Well, I’m having a great time.” I was sure that at the end of the next meeting, Mr. Katz would ask me to stay on until Ms. Simon returned.

  The kids entered the room. Some ran. (Nicky ran, leaped up, and tried to touch the door frame over his head, then hurtled on inside.) Some walked. (Becca and Charlotte were among them.) Bruce managed to dance into the room.

  And then a frail little girl peered through the doorway. She was thin (I could tell that, even though she was dressed in an oversized top and oversized jeans), and a bright red scarf covered her head.

  Across the front of her T-shirt were the words BALD IS BEAUTIFUL.

  She had to be Danielle Roberts.

  “Danielle!” exclaimed Mr. Katz. “Come on in.”

  “Mr. Katz!” Danielle flung herself into Mr. Katz’s arms. He pretended to have been knocked off balance, and Danielle giggled.

  “We are so glad you decided to come back to the club,” he said warmly.

  “And I am so glad to be back in school.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Honest. I’m glad for homework and reports and even math.”

  “You hate math,” said Mr. Katz.

  “Not as much as the hospital.”

  While Danielle and Mr. Katz talked, I observed first Danielle and then the other children in the room.

  I had to admit that Danielle did not look wonderful, although she had probably been quite pretty before she got sick. Her face was small and thin, and her eyes were huge and brown, shaded by long lashes. Her eyes flashed when she spoke. And she smiled a lot.

  On the other hand, she was painfully thin. Under her eyes were dark circles. And on her hands and arms were several bruises. Also, even if she hadn’t been wearing the T-shirt, anyone would have known she was nearly bald. She couldn’t hide that with a kerchief. And I’m sorry to say this, but she looked pretty odd. No matter how prepared you think you are, you don’t expect to see an almost-bald nine-year-old girl. She looked like a little old man.

  Most of the other Kids Club members had arrived by then. The third-graders, I noticed, were clustered together not far from Danielle and Mr. Katz. They didn’t greet Danielle or try to talk with her. Well, that’s to be expected, I thought. The eight-year-olds weren’t in the Kids Club the year before. They probably didn’t know Danielle. But the fourth-and fifth-graders knew her all right. So why were they clustered in another area of the room staring at Danielle but not talking to her? Then I realized. They were afraid.

  Danielle was great, though. She must have noticed her friends’ reaction to her. It would have been hard not to. But Danielle approached the older
kids and said (flashing her smile), “Hi, you guys. It’s really me.”

  No response, although a few of the third-graders smiled.

  “You know, you don’t have to worry,” Danielle went on. “I’m not contagious. You can’t catch cancer.”

  A few of the kids seemed to relax a little, although still none of them spoke.

  “Um, you want to ask me anything?” said Danielle.

  The older kids shuffled their feet and looked out the windows, into the hall, down at the floor — anywhere but at Danielle.

  Across the room, Charlotte Johanssen raised her hand.

  “Yes?” said Danielle. Then she whispered loudly, “I’m not a teacher. You only have to raise your hand for Mr. Katz.”

  The kids laughed.

  “Well,” began Charlotte, “I was wondering. Do you — do you still have cancer? I thought you were getting well in the hospital.”

  “I was. I mean I am better,” replied Danielle. “But the doctors want to make sure the cancer is really gone. I still take a lot of medicine.”

  Danielle sat on a desk and propped her feet on a chair. The third-graders immediately sat on the floor around her. The older kids followed, but more slowly. Why, I wondered, were the fourth- and fifth-graders so standoffish and afraid — but not the third-graders? Becca and Charlotte were not noted for their bravery.

  “Danielle?” spoke up Nicky Pike in a small voice. “What’s under your scarf?” Nicky was not being fresh. He wasn’t laughing. The other kids were solemn, too.

  Danielle grinned. “What’s under my scarf?” she repeated. “Not much!”

  This got a big laugh from everybody.

  Then the room became silent and stayed that way for almost a minute. Mr. Katz had retreated to his desk and was sitting behind it, allowing the kids to work out things for themselves. So I retreated, too. I took a seat near Mr. Katz.

  At long last, Vanessa Pike said hesitantly, “Danielle, I hope you aren’t offended or anything, but … you don’t look like yourself. And it isn’t just because of your hair. I mean, you’re so thin …”

  Then I understood why the older kids seemed afraid. They were afraid for Danielle. She didn’t look the way she’d looked at the end of the last school year. The kids were comparing the Danielle who sat in front of them to their memories of a healthy Danielle. The third-graders couldn’t do that, since this was the first time they’d met her. To them, she was a curiosity and not much more. To the others, she was a friend who was obviously sick.