Randi's Steps

by Frances Judge

  This is not a typical birthday party. The birthday girl is upstairs throwing up, and more adults are here than kids. Mrs. Picconi is dashing around like a caterer at a wedding, trying to make everything perfect.

  Laurie and I stand next to Randi’s younger cousins, Samantha and Tommy, waiting for the guest of honor. Will we play games today? In past years, Randi had amazing parties with lots of kids. Once she had a make-your-own-jewelry party. That was fun, but her best party was the Olympics party. We ran relays, had potato sack races, and got messy in a whipped-cream pie-eating contest. This party isn’t exciting.

  I feel like an idiot just standing around, not knowing what to say. I smile at Samantha and Tommy, hoping someone will talk, because I can’t think of anything worth saying. The silence lingers. Thankfully, Laurie has something to say.

  “Last night Francie snored so loud, I could hear her right through the wall!”

  They both laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

  Thank you, Laurie, for broadcasting this fascinating news—loud enough for every guest to hear. I want to hide my red face behind the present I’m still holding and escape all the eyes looking at me. Instead, I remember a story to tell.

  “Did you hear about the time Laurie found a new use for raisins?”

  Tommy shakes his head.

  “Once when Laurie was potty training, Mom gave her a box of raisins to keep her on the seat. Then the phone rang. By the time Mom finished her phone call, Laurie had stuffed every raisin up her nose. She had to blow them out!”

  Tommy and Samantha are laughing at Laurie now.

  Laurie bulges her eyes and sticks her tongue out at me. I just smile, and enjoy her reaction. Before we can continue our humiliation battle, Randi comes down the stairs. She’s wearing a red top under a cute denim jumper that hangs straight against her bony arms. Her head is covered with a matching white and red flowered scarf. Her face is pale. Her body looks thin and fragile, like the photos of concentration camp prisoners I have in my history textbook.

  I almost forget to blow the party horn and cheer. Laurie nudges me and I shout “Happy birthday” with the rest of the kids. “You l-look nice,” I say to Randi. “Here’s your present. I hope you like it.” With my eyes fixed on the ribbon instead of her scarf, I hand her the gift.

  “Thanks, Francie. Sorry it took me so long to come down. I got sick again. I didn’t want to come down looking like this. In the hospital, I didn’t have a mirror to see how awful I look.”

  Smash! We turn to see a burlap bag spill clattering coins at the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly, Mr. Picconi slides down the railing and lands with a thud. He’s wearing a patch over his eye, a bandana on his head, and one hand has a hook at the end. “Argh! Who here wants to have a treasure hunt?”

  “Me! Me!” All the kids cheer except Randi. We search the house, trying to find the hidden, plastic gold coins, hoping to find the most and get a prize. After combing all the hiding spots, and with some helpful hinting from the grownups, Laurie finds the most. She wins a new doll. I’m not jealous since I don’t play with dolls. My one doll, a costume doll from Germany and gift from Aunt Claire, looks like she was blown out the back of an airplane. She’s just barely surviving in the bottom of my sister’s toy box.

  Randi sits alone, not participating, not eating, just watching everyone run around. I plop down next to her and swallow the last bite of a tuna sandwich.

  “It must be nice to be home and sleep in your own bed again. I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Michael told me he saw you playing with Isabelle a lot. Is she your best friend now?” Randi looks directly into my eyes, waiting for my answer.

  “No. Of course not. I played with her because I had nothing else to do. You’re my best friend—always. I promise I won’t play with Isabelle unless you can’t. Cross my heart.”

  “You’re my only friend now, Francie. I don’t want to play with anyone else, and no one else wants to play with me. I think my friends at school are afraid to see me. None of them came to visit me in the hospital and—”

  Singing in the next room interrupts our conversation and we scurry over to the table.

  “Happy birthday to you…” the guests attempt to sing in key. As Randi leans over to blow out the candles and make a wish, I wonder if everyone is like me, wishing her wish will come true. She must be wishing to be healthy again. As the flame disappears, I imagine her blowing all the cancer away. Please God, let her wish come true.

  The party ends after we eat Randi’s favorite white cake with raspberry filling and chocolate icing. Randi couldn’t enjoy it. This wasn’t her best party, but she seemed relieved to know she still has a best friend. I can’t abandon her now.

  Mom and Dad’s voices shrink into whispers behind their bedroom door.

  “Did you notice it too?” I hear Mom ask.

  Don’t they know that at the sound of hushed voices I put on my elephant ears?

  “Poor Sal. I thought he had quit before they had kids. This is the second time we’ve seen him intoxicated.”

  Dad’s voice is a smidge louder. “I feel sorry for Rita. She looked embarrassed every time he opened his mouth to speak. I’m surprised he’d —”

  By accident I push the door with my head. It creaks.

  “Francie, is that you?”

  “Yah. I just wanted to tell you The Love Boat is on.” That was a close one.

  “Okay. We’ll be out in a minute.”

  In that minute, I search for a dictionary. I-n-t-o-x…

  Chapter 10

 

  One week later, Mrs. Picconi is at our front door. “Randi would like Francie to come to the city with us tomorrow morning for her radiation treatment. Could she be ready at nine o’clock?”

  Mom doesn’t answer right away. I hope she’s thinking of a way to say no. “Sure. I’ll have her ready and give her some money for lunch.”

  What? Is she kidding? No way. I gave up hospitals after the last visit.

  “Great! Randi will feel less miserable if Francie is with her.”

  I guess I don’t have a say in this. Going to the hospital once was enough for me. This time will be worse. I have no idea what radiation is, but it reminds me of Frankenstein getting zapped to life.

  All night I toss and turn, in and out of nightmares, waiting for morning. But when the sun rises, I’m tired. I need some time to catch my breath and wake up. When their car honks, I almost choke on a Rice Krispy that goes down the wrong pipe. I leave the half-eaten bowl of cereal on the table and race out the door.

  Randi wiggles over on the back seat, and I slide in next to her. “I’m so glad you’re coming with us. I hate going there. I have to lie completely still. When it’s over, I throw up. I feel weak—even the next day. It’s horrible.” Randi leans her head back and closes her eyes. I do the same and imagine it was my appointment. It would be worse to go through this without a friend.

  I can’t look at Randi without seeing the C word. How can I have fun with my best friend when I don’t understand what’s happening to her? And do I really want to understand? I’d rather play kickball with her like we used to before radiation appointments. God, can you heal her tumor so she’s not sick anymore, and I can have my life back?

  In the car, we try to come up with enough games to occupy ourselves for the two-hour trip. I give the first clue. “I’m thinking of an animal that lives in water and also walks on land.”

  Randi guesses. “Is it a frog?”

  “No. Too small.”

  “Is it a whale?”

  “Whales can’t walk on land. Imagine a killer whale with legs.”

  Mrs. Picconi joins in. “I’d never go to the beach again.” We all laugh.

  Before she can guess alligator, we arrive at the hospital. I follow Randi’s steps down the corridor to the elevator. She leads the way and points to a framed poster of Claude Monet’s White Water Lilies. “We turn right at the pond painting.” Randi pinches her nose. “
You better hold yours too. Smells like fish sandwiches today … for the ones who can eat.”

  “We go up to the ninth floor.” The elevator doors open to a sparkling clean lobby, and I follow Randi again into a world I’ve never seen. We pass by a child crying in her mother’s arms. I can’t believe this is Randi’s world.

  The waiting area is decorated in bright yellow, orange, and purple. The happy colors clash. I think of children soldiers who fight enemies inside their own bodies. Why do kids have to fight this battle? I see relief ripple across faces when the nurse calls someone else’s name to the front line. Will the radiation weapons work?

  I sit down next to a little boy, about five years old, with thinning hair. He colors a picture of Superman and carefully outlines the cape. I wonder if he imagines flying away to save people.

  A teenage girl in a Gap t-shirt holds a baseball cap and stares at another girl who is the color of a corpse. Will she need that cap when she leaves? Will she be a survivor or one of the casualties of war? Seeing so many sick kids bothers me more than I thought it would.

  Randi slumps in her chair and traces the flowers on her sleeve. I wonder which group she belongs to.

  A young nurse with curly black hair and a gentle smile handles the roll call, checking each name off a clipboard. “Randi Picconi, you’re next. Come with me.”

  Randi ducks behind her mom and whispers, “I don’t want to go. Don’t make me do this anymore. Please?”

  Mrs. Picconi leans over, adjusts Randi’s scarf and looks into her eyes. “I know, but you have to do this. I want my little girl to get better. Come on, I’ll be right next to you. We’ll close our eyes and pretend we’re birds soaring over beautiful meadows with wildflowers swaying and waterfalls splashing us.”

  Randi doesn’t smile. “I wish I could fly out of here.”

  Mrs. Picconi turns around just before they pass through the door. “Francie, we’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”

  I nod, and she escorts Randi into the battle zone.

  I read the out-of-date Seventeen magazine for longer than twenty minutes and try not to stare at the other children in the waiting room. I read every single page and learn the latest hairstyles, how to apply make-up with a natural glow, and how to flirt with boys. I even try a few subtle exercises “sure to tighten your buttocks,” the author claims. But when I lift my head out of the magazine and look into the faces of these sick kids, I see that none of this stuff matters. No one cares about flirting when she is throwing up. People don’t care about hairstyles when they don’t have hair. No one cares about having tight muscles when he is just skin and bones. I’d like to crumple the magazine and stop caring about the dumb stuff.

  By the time Mrs. Picconi and Randi return, I’m half-asleep with the magazine on my feet. “Sorry, you waited so long. Randi was throwing up.” Mrs. Picconi speaks for Randi who looks like she lost this battle. Her scarf is off, and Mrs. Picconi is holding a throw-up bag in front of her, just in case.

  “Francie, please put Randi’s scarf back on for me. My hands are full.” Mrs. Picconi takes a deep breath and sighs.

  I place the scarf on Randi’s bare head. Up close, her skin looks smooth and transparent like a baby’s. She seems so helpless. It’s not a fair fight.

  For the drive home, Randi sleeps in the back seat. I sit in the front seat. Mrs. Picconi tries to keep the conversation light, talking about school, but my eyelids droop as the warm sunlight flickers in between buildings. My head clunks against the window.

  “Here. Use this as a pillow.” Mrs. Picconi hands me her thick, pale blue sweater, and I snuggle into it. It’s much better than hard glass against my head.

  When we arrive home, Mrs. Picconi carries Randi’s limp body into the house to put her to bed. I wave good-bye, but neither one sees me. As I walk home, I think about what excuse I can give the next time she asks me to go with her. I never want to see that place again.

  Chapter 11

  This week my alternating game began. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Randi goes to the hospital for radiation. On those days, I can play with Isabelle. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I knock at Randi’s door to find out if she is feeling well enough to play. More often than not, Randi’s days get changed to Isabelle days. Saturdays are split. In the morning, I hang out with Isabelle at the ceramic shop, and in the afternoon, I see Randi. Sundays are always for Randi. I wonder how long I can stick with this friend schedule before someone gets mad or I go crazy.

  I’m sure Mrs. Picconi wants me glued to Randi’s side. She just called Mom and told her, “Francie needs to be ready in five minutes to come with us to the hardware store.” I understand why—Randi needs a best friend—but I’m getting tired of being dragged to do what I don’t want to do. So today I’ll spend this sunny spring day staring at tools.

  After hanging up the phone, Mom rushes me out the door, sympathizing with Mrs. Picconi. Everyone—Randi’s parents, my parents, her relatives, my relatives, and even her little brother who I catch spying on me every so often—wants me to be the loyal friend.

  “Is your dad coming?” I know somehow he’d turn this errand into a game. Randi says when her father shops in a hardware store, he’s like a toddler in a lollipop factory.

  Randi looks down at her bracelet and spins it a few times. “No. He fell asleep on the couch again.” Even though no one else is in the car, she whispers. “Mom’s real mad cuz Dad said he’d go buy a new screen for the back door to replace the one he stuck his foot through. She said she’s pressed for time and has to catch up on grading papers for her class. Mom doesn’t like it when Dad sleeps all day. He never used to—”

  Mrs. Picconi gets in and slams the car door. “Okay, we’re off.” She looks between Randi and me as she reverses. We don’t talk. Elton John is singing, and Mrs. Picconi is mumbling to herself.

  Soon after we enter the store, I realize why Mrs. Picconi wanted me to come. In public, people of all ages stare at Randi. Some try to look like they’re not, but they are. Some quickly look away, and some offer an awkward smile, but whisper when she passes by. Randi ignores the stares, as if they don’t bother her, but she is quieter than usual. “Can we leave now?” she asks her mom after ten minutes in the store. No one hears me arguing.

  Now that summer is almost here, I hate to stay indoors with Randi even more. She has to stay away from the bright sun, but I feel trapped in a cage. I want to unlock the bars and fly out.

  I can’t concentrate in school either. A warm breeze blows through the open classroom window and tickles my neck. Sparrows play tag and dart through the blossoming cherry trees. The sun is calling me out, but I have to stay late for the dress rehearsal after school. Tonight is the play.

  ***

  I race out to the car in my black pants and green shirt, the outfit worn under my tree costume. Dad is already waiting in the car, ready to get me to the play before anyone else arrives. “Okay little tree. Here we go. Are you nervous?”

  “No, well, maybe. Just wish the butterflies would go away, and I could stop my legs from shaking.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be the best actress in the play. You’re growing branches off your shoulders from rehearsing so much.”

  I keep telling myself four simple lines about snow isn’t much—no way I can mess that up. Why do I keep hearing that other voice, the one that tells me: You can’t speak in front of hundreds of people? You’re too shy. Nothing will come out of your mouth when you open it.

  Standing next to my tree parents on stage, I see everything through two round holes: the dim lights, full auditorium, flashing cameras, staring people, and the silence. I wait for my turn to speak, thankful I can hide behind the cardboard. Will the words come out when I open my mouth? I need to take a deep breath and speak loudly, aiming toward the back row. They need to hear me—even if I’m just a baby tree. Nothing in my life matters now except doing this right.

  The snowflakes dance across the stage. That’s my cue!

 
; “I love snow. I just love it.”

  Papa tree speaks: “I hate it, just hate it. I am too many rings old to enjoy cold, heavy, clumps of snow sitting on my branches.”

  I open my mouth again: “Well, I’m still a kid, one hundred forty-four and a half years old. I think it tickles.”

  Mama tree turns her cardboard toward me, bumping father tree in the process. “I think you’d better close your eyes and get some sleep, little one, if you want to grow tall like your father. In the morning, you can watch the rabbits hop through the snow.”

  I take a deep breath and shout my last lines: “Look, Mama! There’s a bunny hopping right now.” At her cue, Nina hops by in her bunny suit. I have to stifle my laugh when she wiggles her tail. My tree probably looks like it’s dancing.

  Yes! I did it. I was loud, remembered my lines, and even enjoyed being on stage. I’m not sure it was worth twisting my stomach into knots, but it may be worth the celebration afterward at Friendly’s for ice cream sundaes. Before that, I need to remove my branches, wipe off the green face-paint, and change back into the real me.

  But I’m not sure who the real me is. I’m not the same with Randi as I am with Isabelle or Nina. And I don’t know who I want to be. Sometimes I think invisible is the best choice.

  Today, on the last day of the school year, I get to be silly at Nina’s house. I can joke and laugh while riding on her bus. No one picks on Nina. She’s the best soccer player in fifth grade, so no one bothers me, her friend. At Nina’s I don’t worry about who I should hang out with, Randi or Isabelle. I’m in another part of town, away from my troubles on Hartwell Drive. I wish my parents would let me escape here more often, but they don’t like this area. It makes no sense to me. Last week I turned eleven—“too old for a birthday party”—but I’m still too young to ride my bike ten minutes away from my house. Do my parents own a book called One Hundred Parenting Rules to Confuse Your Child?