Then Anna turned her head. Her eyes flickered as she stared at the package of cookies. She lifted her hand and dropped it on top of the package. There was silence, except for the sound of crackling plastic as Anna’s hand landed on the package.
The sound filled the room and roared in my ears. I blinked a few times to make sure I was seeing things clearly. Anna was supposed to eat those cookies, not hit them!
“I can’t believe it!” Mrs. Liddell said. “Look, Andy! She’s using her right hand!”
Andy jumped up from his chair. “Do it again, Anna,” he said. “You can do it.”
When Anna hit the package again, Mrs. Liddell clapped and cheered. “We were worried that the surgery had affected the right side of her body,” she explained. “This is the first time she’s moved her right hand since last Friday!”
“It was Pansy’s idea to bring the Oreos,” Dad said. “Seems like it was a good one.”
I heard my name, but I couldn’t speak. The conversation in the background melted into sounds in slow-motion, muffled background noise. People were talking and laughing and smiling, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying.
All I saw was Anna. Lifting her arm with determination, dropping it back down on the package of cookies. In a flash, I rewound to last April, the first time I’d seen Anna since she left for camp. Mom had warned me that the brain damage had changed her, but I didn’t believe her until I saw her lying in that hospital bed.
“Hi, Anna,” I had said, handing her the stuffed puppy I’d picked out for her. It had light blonde fur and big brown eyes, like her golden retriever who had died a few months before, and it had a blue ribbon around its neck, since blue was her favorite color.
Anna had looked up at me, but her expression didn’t change. Like she had no idea who I was. Her eyes, which used to sparkle with energy, had stared back at me blankly.
“It’s Pansy,” I had said in a voice that shook. “Remember me?”
“Of course she remembers you,” Mrs. Liddell had said softly. “She’ll always remember her best friend.”
The room shifted back into focus.
“This is just wonderful!” Mrs. Liddell said. “If Anna’s moving her hand, then she may move her leg again soon!”
My legs felt like strands of spaghetti. I put my hand on a chair to hold myself steady.
I stared at Anna, who was still concentrating on the Oreos. She was pale—paler than she’d been when I visited her before the surgery. She was hooked up to monitors and IVs, and her shaved head was wrapped in bandages.
I glanced over at Andy. He was staring at Anna, too. For a moment, he looked over at me, and our eyes met before he quickly looked away. But I’d seen it—the emptiness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
It took all of my concentration to stand perfectly still and breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. I’d imagined it all—Anna understanding my words when I told her about my goals, Anna looking at my badge and getting that I’d earned it for her. Now I knew that Anna hadn’t understood that I was doing any of those things for her.
All my dreams about Anna’s recovery instantly evaporated into the air. They were just dreams. That’s all they ever were.
The girl lying on the bed next to me was just the outside shell of what she used to be, kind of like those empty shells you find on the beach after the creature on the inside has already moved on.
I wanted to run out of Anna’s room, down the eleven flights of steps, and out the front doors. Just run, run, run, far enough away that I could stop seeing my best friend lying in a hospital bed—my best friend Anna, who could look right at me and not see me at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
December 7
I was quiet all the way home from the hospital. Mom and Dad filled the silence. They babbled away about how great Anna was doing, how the surgery was going to help with her seizures, how her body was strong, and how she’d be walking again before we knew it.
I just sat in the backseat with an ache in my chest that hurt every time I inhaled.
When we got home, I went straight up to my room and shut the door. First thing I did was open my closet and pull my mismatched purple-splotched shoes from their hiding place. I tossed them as hard as I could against the wall, and they bounced off and clunked to the floor. Next, I picked up the Independent Reader book on my desk and hurled it across the room. It flipped over once and landed facedown with the pages open. I picked up the other book from my desk, a hardcover I’d chosen because of the points it would give me. I threw it, the book hitting my dresser and landing with a thud.
There was a knock on my door. “Pansy? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mom!” I called back through the closed door.
My Girl Scout vest hung on the back of my chair. I picked that up and threw it, too. Finally, I spotted my Rollerblades in a corner by my desk. With all my strength, I hurled them as far as I could. One hit the wall, denting it; the other hit the bed. Ka-thunk.
There was a knock on the door again. “Pansy! What is going on in there?”
“Nothing, Mom,” I said, but my voice came out all garbled and wobbly.
“Open the door, Pansy. I need to talk to you.”
So I opened the door. Mom’s eyebrows curved down in a worried expression. “Are you okay?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“I’m fine.” I dropped down on my bed, trying to cover up a sniffle with a fake cough.
Mom sat next to me. “Well, you don’t seem fine to me.”
I kicked my foot against the bed. Which hurt, since my foot was still sore. So I kicked the bed again, this time with the other foot.
Mom lowered her voice. She ran her hand across my hair. “Honey, I know it was hard seeing Anna in the hospital tonight.”
I stared down at my rainbow-colored rug.
“Anna’s been through a lot, and she’s proven how strong she is,” Mom continued. “She just needs some time to recover.”
“Recover? She’s never going to be Anna again!” I burst out.
Mom paused. “Oh, sweetheart. I know how tough all of this has been for you.”
I didn’t say anything. Mom sighed, like she didn’t know the right thing to say either. But when she didn’t move from her spot, I knew we were playing a waiting game, and I was going to lose. Mom would sit there all night until I started talking.
“I’m giving up,” I finally said, meeting her gaze. “I was trying to be an extraordinary person for Anna, but I failed. Not that it matters to her anyway. So I’m done. From now on, I’m just going to be ordinary old Pansy again.”
Mom gave me a hard look, then said, “I’d certainly never call you ordinary. Is that what all this was about? The roller-blading? Joining Girl Scouts? The reading contest? You were trying to be extraordinary for Anna’s sake?”
I nodded. I’d worked so hard—for nothing. I finally saw the complete and total truth: Anna would never recover. She’d never know that I’d done anything for her—that I was trying to make up for all the stupid ways I’d let her down before.
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to improve yourself,” Mom said. “I’m proud of you for trying to make straight A’s and for trying to win the reading contest.”
“I could read day and night, and Daniel Walker would still earn more points than me.”
“You shouldn’t worry about Daniel Walker. You should be proud of your own accomplishments, of all the points you’ve earned.”
“Who cares if I earn a bunch of points if I’m not the best at it?”
“No one said you have to be the best. It’s hard being number one at anything.”
I rolled my eyes. The only reason I’d even come close to first place was because of that summer reading book I’d taken a test on, and all the easy books I had read in addition to the novels. That made me a cheater, didn’t it? I didn’t even bother to bring that up.
“What about your ice-skating lessons? You’ve been
doing so well. Your ankle will heal, and you’ll pick right up where you left off.”
“I was only doing it because of the Good Citizens party in a couple of weeks,” I said. Which I’m not going to. Why would I go to a stupid ice-skating party if Anna isn’t going to be there with me?
“But you made great progress. You worked so hard!” Mom picked up my Girl Scout vest. “I hope you’re not quitting Girl Scouts, too.”
“Who cares about Girl Scouts?” I said. I’d given my badge to Anna, and she had no idea what it was! “I’m not going on any scary camping trips. I’m not any braver than I used to be.”
“But you’re trying.” Mom stood up and hung the vest over the back of my desk chair. “That’s the main thing. You’re out there, and you’re making new friends—”
“I don’t need any new friends.”
My mom sat back on the bed next to me. For a moment she didn’t say anything. When she spoke, her voice was quieter than it had been before. “You know what, Pansy? You do need new friends. It’s okay to have more than one best friend, you know.”
I picked up my teddy bear and held it close. I wasn’t ready to think about new friends. All I wanted to do was curl up under the covers and make the pain I felt go away. Instead, I could sense the ache inside me from losing Anna growing bigger and bigger until I thought it might swallow me whole.
Mom put her arms around me and gave me a hug. “Anna would want you to have friends.”
Something burst inside of me when I heard those words. I wiggled out of my mom’s arms. The teddy bear fell to the floor. “I don’t want new friends, Mom! I want Anna!”
“Oh, honey . . .” Mom’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry. Maybe someday there will be a way for a doctor to cure someone who has severe brain damage. But for now, this is the best anyone can hope for.”
“How can you say that, Mom?” My voice rang out in my ears, as if it were coming from somewhere else. “You saw Anna today. She couldn’t even look me in the eyes. She couldn’t smile. She can’t get out of bed, and she can’t walk or make sounds like she used to, and the only thing she could do was hit the Oreos with her hand. Are you saying that’s all Andy and his parents were hoping for?”
“Anna moved her right hand for the first time in almost a week. I told you, it takes a while to recover from a surgery like this—”
I took a deep breath and glanced around the room. I wished I had more than a Girl Scout vest or a book or a pair of skates to throw. What I needed was a big glass vase or pitcher, something that would go CRASH! and splinter into a million pieces when it hit the wall. But there was nothing breakable in my room. So I kicked my unhurt foot against the bed again, as hard as I could. “So, if Anna recovers, then in a few weeks, or a few months, she’ll be back to the way she was before the surgery? You think the Liddells should be happy about that?”
“The Liddells are happy—” Mom started to say, but I didn’t give her a chance to finish.
The words burst from me like a gushing fountain, words I’d kept inside for almost eight months: “The old Anna used to laugh and play sports and tell funny stories, she made straight A’s and helped anyone out who needed it and was nice to everyone, and now . . . she’s gone. The new Anna—the one who made it through the surgery—can’t talk to you or understand what you’re saying, she can’t read or write or do much of anything except spin her dumb toys around and around and make funny noises. She doesn’t even know when someone is working hard to do things just for her! She used to take care of everyone else, and now she can’t even take care of herself! And you’re saying the Liddells are happy now?”
Mom nodded, then reached for my hand. “The surgery was a success. Anna hasn’t had any seizures, and even more importantly”—she squeezed my hand—“Anna’s alive. I told you about the risks of the surgery, and she came through just fine. The Liddells have had time to get used to the changes, and I think they’ve accepted the Anna she’s become—”
“Well, I don’t accept her!” I yanked my hand away from my mom’s, reaching for my Best Friends necklace. I pulled. Hard. The chain stung my skin as it snapped apart and fell in my lap. I picked it up and threw it across the room with all my strength. It clanked against my dresser and slid to the floor.
“Pansy, I’m so sorry,” my mom said again. She put her arm around me, and this time I didn’t pull away.
I wished I were a little girl, back when my mother could make everything all right. I would lean my head on her shoulder, and she’d wrap her arms around me and brush my tears away. She could fix anything with a hug and her soft words—a skinned knee, a fight with a friend, a terrible day at school.
But there was nothing Mom could do to bring Anna back. There was nothing anyone could do. Anna never did anything bad to anyone, and something horrible had happened to her. That’s not the way it was supposed to work! If you’re a good person, good things should happen to you. I always believed that my Anna was still in there somewhere, and I just needed to find a way to reach her.
Now I knew the truth. Anna was gone, and the girl left in her place didn’t understand a thing. There wasn’t a magical connection between us. And there was no such thing as miracles.
Something broke inside as I felt my mom’s arms embrace me. Hot, angry tears burned from my eyes, and I could hardly catch my breath. I shut my eyes and collapsed against her, my sobs filling the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
December 8
Before we get started this morning,” Miss Quetzel announced after the bell rang, “I have some news to share. Some of you may have noticed that Andy has been absent for the last few days, and he’s not here today, either. That’s because his twin sister, Anna, had brain surgery last Friday.”
A hush fell over the classroom. I gulped in some air and let it out slowly, waiting for Miss Quetzel to continue.
“I spoke with Andy’s mother last night, and Anna is doing fine. I thought it would be nice for the class to make some cards for Anna.” Miss Quetzel smiled. “When Andy returns in a few days, it will make him feel better to know how much we all care about him, and about Anna, too.”
The classroom filled with the sounds of people pulling out markers and crayons and talking about Anna and Andy. Madison tapped my shoulder. When I turned around, she whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about the surgery? Didn’t Andy want anyone to know?”
I shrugged and turned back around in my seat quickly, my cheeks feeling hot. I got busy lining up markers on my desk, ignoring Madison even though she kept asking me questions. I forced myself to fill the paper with happy pictures, pretending I didn’t know that Anna wouldn’t understand it was a get-well card and that I had made it myself. I drew balloons and flowers with smiley faces and lots of butterflies.
Butterflies. Back in second grade, Anna had to draw a butterfly on her insect poster. She was good at almost everything, but she sure couldn’t draw a butterfly.
“I’ll draw one for you,” I had offered.
Anna had shook her head and began to go over her outline with a black marker. “Thanks, Pansy. But I can do it myself. It doesn’t have to be perfect, you know.”
When she was finished, we both had sat there, studying her drawing. It was definitely not perfect—unless you called it perfectly awful. Lopsided wings stuck to a crooked body covered with funny-looking spots.
“You should have let me draw it,” I had said.
“It’s not that bad,” Anna had said back. “It’ll look a lot better once I color it.”
“I’d start over, if I were you.”
“Well, you’re not me. And I think it looks just fine.”
I’d snorted, but Anna had ignored me, coloring happily with her markers. I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t she embarrassed to turn in a poster that looked like it had been drawn by a preschooler?
“I wish I were a good artist like you,” Anna had said later, when Mrs. Cunningham hung her butterfly next to my caterpillar poster.
�
�I’m not a good artist,” I had told her. “Caterpillars and butterflies are easy to draw, that’s all.”
“Not easy for everyone,” Anna had said with a laugh. “Just look at my butterfly!”
I stared down at the butterfly I’d drawn on the get-well card, a colorful blend of blue, lavender, pink, and yellow. Anna would not look at the butterfly and remember the one she’d drawn back in second grade and the conversation we’d had. She wouldn’t look at the smiley face and think about the matching T-shirts we’d bought at the beach the summer after third grade, blue with big yellow smiley faces in the middle. She wouldn’t look at the flowers and think about the flower decals we’d stuck all over the walls of her room.
Anna wouldn’t know or care that the card was from me, Pansy Smith, who used to be her very best friend in the world.
***
“So, what happened?” Madison asked me as we sat down for lunch. “My mom said there isn’t a cure for brain damage—”
“There’s not,” Hannah said.
“But Anna just had brain surgery!” Madison said. “Did the doctors fix Anna’s brain?”
“Yeah,” Emma said. “I’ve been waiting all morning to find out. Is Anna going to be okay? Is she coming back to our school? I bet Andy’s so excited.”
“No,” I finally said. I looked down at my purple-splotched shoes. “I mean, Anna’s going to be okay. But there’s nothing they can do about her brain damage. They were just trying to stop her seizures.”
“Oh,” Madison said, and silence fell across our end of the table. Even Hannah kept her mouth shut.
After a while, Madison put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pansy,” she said quietly.
I nodded, unable to think of anything to say. Soon the girls started talking about other things, but I didn’t join in the conversation. I sat there in silence, eating my lunch, even though I didn’t taste a bite.
At the end of the day, I walked up to Miss Quetzel’s desk to get Andy’s homework as his mom had asked me to do. “Can I take the cards, too?” I asked her. “Since I’m bringing his work anyway?”
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