Nina rules her house from the time she gets off the bus until her mom gets home from work. I would be scared to be alone that much, but Nina tells me she doesn’t mind. She controls the snack drawer, the television, and most important, the phone.
We gobble Twinkies in her den and watch soap operas. No one tells us not to. It’s great.
“Let’s go get everyone for a soccer game,” says Nina.
“Okay, but I stink. I don’t play much soccer.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll teach you what my papa taught me. He coaches soccer at the high school.”
“So that’s why you’re so good!”
“He’s had me doing drills since I was two. When I see him on the weekends, we play soccer. Rain or snow, we play soccer. It’s crazy fun.”
The ball charges at me in defense, closer and closer until it’s right in front of me. I’m ready, but the ball disappears before I’m able to stop myself. I kick nothing but air as hard as I can, causing me to trip and fall on my knee while a fourth grade boy dribbles the ball the other way. Now I’m determined to do better. I don’t want to make a fool of myself again. I brush the gravel out of my scraped knee.
Why is Nina yelling at me?
“Watch—!”
I turn my head for an instant. “What?”
Whack! The muddy ball pounds my head, leaving an imprint. I drop to the ground. “Ow! That hurt.” I try not to cry, but I’m practically seeing stars.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry. Didn’t you hear me yell watch out?” Nina is trying not to laugh. “Let’s go get some ice.”
At the table, while freezing my head off and on, Nina drops an ice cube on her toe and hollers, “Oh shneer!” The two of us burst into giggles at her silly word. “My mom sends me to my room for an hour if I curse. She doesn’t want me to sound like the kids next door.”
We play a game of inventing words. “Peezy-sneezy: when a person tries to hold back a sneeze and it comes out like a whistle anyway. Fernhop: when parents embarrass their child and the child wishes to turn back time and erase what they said. Poo-doo-da: dog poo on bottom of sneakers.”
“Can you teach me some Spanish words?”
“Sí. Say hola for hello.”
Nina’s mom walks through the door. She looks more like a sister than a mother with her wavy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s barely taller than Nina and wears a braided headband that seems familiar—like the one Nina wore last week.
“Hola, mi hija!” Mrs. Sanchez chatters in Spanish. When she notices me, her words slow down and change to difficult-to-understand English. “What a long day! I am so glad to be home. So who is thees preetty girl?”
“This is my friend, Francie. She’s in my class.”
“Ooh, nice to meet you.” Mrs. Sanchez wraps her arms around me and kisses my cheek. She smells like laundry detergent and burgers. I love the way she rolls her r’s when she repeats my name. “Nina’s talked about you. She told me you have a very sick friend. I put her on the prayer list at my church.”
“Mmm ... I smell burgers.” Nina reaches for the greasy white bag, grabs some french fries, and puts a couple in my mouth that hang out like cigarettes.
“Thanks.”
“Mama, can Francie eat with us?”
“Sí, yes. I wish I had cooked something special, but it’s takeout night.”
Nina hands out paper plates, and we take our burgers to metal TV trays in the den. “Let’s eat here. There’s too much mail on the kitchen table.”
We chomp down fries while watching Phil Donahue. Today’s guests are talking about their addictions.
Nina slurps her soda. “You gotta be crazy to go on this show and tell the world your problems.”
I love Nina’s house. My life would be much easier if my parents would let me ride my bike this far. I could hang out here and escape my friend juggling on Hartwell Drive.
I don’t have many friends, so why am I caught in this triangle? An eleven-year-old shouldn’t have such a complicated life. What am I going to do this summer when I have to choose between friends every day?
Chapter 12
“Five, four, three, two, one, watch out!” shouts Isabelle, landing a cannonball off the diving board. This leads to a splashing battle. Water in my eyes, down my throat, drenching my face as I shovel it back in their faces. Everyone’s wet. As I hop on one foot and try to shake water out of my right ear, someone shrieks.
“What are you doing? I told you Randi can’t get her head wet!” Mrs. Picconi yells at Isabelle.
Everyone freezes in place and stares at Mrs. Picconi. Randi looks at the ground.
Mrs. Picconi did make a speech before we jumped into the pool, letting us know Randi needs to keep her head protected from the sun. We all did promise not to splash, but didn’t know that Mrs. Picconi would flip out if we broke our promise and had some fun.
She had said, “No, definitely not,” when Randi gave her Mrs. Torelli’s invitation to a “beginning of summer” pool party. After Randi and I pleaded, and Randi promised to wear the scarf in the water to keep her head dry and apply tons of sun block, Mrs. Picconi consented. She probably wanted to give Randi the chance to be included—to have some normal fun. But, how do you have fun in a pool without getting wet?
Mrs. Picconi waves a firm hand to call us out. “Randi, Michael, Francie…please get out of the pool right now.” We file out, leaving a trail of wet footprints. “It’s time to leave. Randi, you need to change into dry clothes. Francie, see you for dinner in thirty minutes.” Mrs. Picconi wraps Randi tightly in a blue and white striped towel and rushes her toward the backyard gate. She leaves her glass of lemonade, half empty, on the table.
Pleading with my eyes, I stare at Mom, hoping she will say something to correct Mrs. Picconi before she leaves. Can’t she tell her that I’m allowed to stay in the pool—that I can stay in until my lips turn blue? Why can’t I do what I want? I wish I hadn’t agreed to eat over there tonight. They eat dinner so early. I practically just had lunch.
Mom gives me a look that says it all. I should understand how hard it is for Randi. She must hate watching kids play and do things without her. I should go with them. It’s the right thing to do so I push all the grumbling down to my toes.
I grab my towel and shake my head to Isabelle with a quick “sorry-I-can’t-help-it” look. Isabelle turns away. She must be mad that Randi came to the pool party and ruined it. Isabelle’s sweet face disappears just as an angry cloud hides the sun. Seeing her frowning face makes me think. We blame Randi for ending our fun, but it’s not her fault. It’s not her mom’s fault either for wanting to protect Randi.
In the fading sunlight, I shiver.
On my way over to Randi’s, my stomach growls; swimming got me hungry again. Carnival music sings in the street as the ice-cream truck turns the corner onto Hartwell Drive. As I knock on Randi’s door, Isabelle charges across her lawn to go to the ice-cream man before the truck disappears. I wave to her, but maybe she didn’t see me. I wish I had fifty cents in my pocket.
I thought I heard someone shout to come in so I do. Mrs. Picconi is shouting, but not to me.
“You have to get upstairs—now! The kids are about to have dinner, and you’re lying here in your pajamas, a mess.”
I shrink back to the door, unsure of what to do next.
Mr. Picconi trips in front of me. He heads upstairs and says, “Sorry. Go on in.”
He does look a mess—like he just rolled out of bed after a night of bad dreams.
From the hallway, I hear the sound of bottles clinking together. Mrs. Picconi storms past me holding a black trash bag.
“Hi, Francie. Randi’s in the kitchen,” she says through tight lips.
The next sound I hear is glass smashing in the metal garbage can outside and muffled sobs.
Randi is setting the table. “We’re having burgers, macaroni, and salad for dinner.” She doesn’t mention the scene that just happened. She folds a napkin, careful to
match the corners. A tear drops and ruins it, so she crumples the napkin into a ball, wipes her eyes and starts over. Is this a typical night at the Picconi’s now?
I reach for some napkins to help. “It smells good. I’m starved after swimming.” That was stupid. Why did I have to bring up the pool?
“I’m sorry you had to get out of the pool so soon. I didn’t want to ruin the party.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. I wanted to get out anyway.” Well, if this was true, I wouldn’t feel like I just won the worst friend award.
It feels strange to eat dinner here, not because it’s Randi’s house, but because I’m used to my usual chair and not worrying about manners. Did I talk with my mouth full? Did anyone notice that I dropped a piece of lettuce on the floor? Should I pick it up or pretend I didn’t notice it drop?
Mr. Picconi’s seat is still empty as I bite a small corner of the burger. Something feels wrong as we eat without him here joking.
“This burger is delicious with lettuce and tomato on it.” That’s all I can think of saying.
“I’m glad you like it.” Mrs. Picconi passes me some more salad. “Tomatoes are good for you. When you kids are finished, you can have some pudding for dessert.”
Pudding is okay, but not as good as Twinkies at Nina’s or milkshakes at Isabelle’s. I think pudding must remind Randi of hospital food. She doesn’t look too excited about dessert either.
We take turns describing our favorite dishes. I imagine filling Mr. Picconi’s empty seat with stacks of casseroles and pies. After speaking a few times, and realizing no one is angry at me for my friendship with Isabelle, I start to feel one-inch better. Maybe they’re not watching every move I make and judging me.
Pleased with myself for passing the table manners test, I step out of the Picconi’s house. Freedom at last! I can catch fireflies, cartwheel all the way home, and tumble at gymnastics class with Isabelle tomorrow. And no homework for two months! The crickets’ chirping sounds like party horns to me. I bend down to pick up a dandelion and blow my wish into the warm air. I wish for more of this freedom.
Chapter 13
I wish Isabelle’s mom didn’t blast her horn like a fire engine and draw attention to their Cadillac. As I run to the car, I notice Michael playing ball, watching us drive away. If he squeals to Randi, I’ll have to tell her about where I went. Nothing is simple. Gymnastics has always been Randi’s favorite sport. After four years of gymnastics classes, her arms and legs could bend like rubber-bands, and she was fearless on the beam. Mr. Picconi even set up a practice beam in their back yard. She loved gymnastics until her head hurt too much to turn upside down.
I try to forget about Randi missing gymnastics and enjoy the ride on the slippery leather seats in Isabelle’s fancy car.
The tiny room where we practice stinks of dirty socks and powder. The teacher, Mrs. Korn, is tiny too—not the size of someone who can spot me for a back-handspring and keep my head off the ground. Her daughter, the best student in the class, looks like a younger clone of her mom with longer hair. She does backbends like she’s made of rubber.
I’m too much like cardboard. I can bend, but kind of awkward and stiff, not exactly the look of a gymnast. Most of the girls are younger than eleven and have trained for a few years already. My body doesn’t like these unnatural positions. Mrs. Korn keeps telling me to straighten my leg when I cartwheel, but it bends every time, afraid of leaving solid ground.
I need to find a place where Isabelle and I can practice without Randi seeing us. If we get too close to her yard, she could see us from her window. I don’t want to exclude Randi, but who knows how long it’ll be before she can do gymnastics again? When will she do what she used to, anyway? Wasn’t that operation supposed to make her better?
“Francie. Yes or no? Did you hear me?” whispers Isabelle.
We’re in line to practice front walkovers. I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry, uh, did you ask me to go see your poodle?” From the look on Isabelle’s face, that’s way off. Sometimes I’d swear I live in a bubble.
Isabelle wags her head back and forth. “I asked you if you want to go in my pool when we get home. I don’t have a poodle! You know my mom would never let a “smelly animal” into our house. She thinks a gerbil is too hairy.”
Oops! Zoned out again. “I’d love to go in the pool. Forget I said poodle.”
“Girls, be quiet and pay attention. You’re distracting the others who want to learn.”
Now I’ve got the giggles. Isabelle catches my disease. Angry at our disrespect, Mrs. Korn tells us to sit down against the mirror until we are ready to join the class properly.
I want another turn before the class ends, so I stop laughing and put on my sorry and humble face. With no one to laugh at, Isabelle is quiet too. We apologize and tiptoe to the back of the line.
In Isabelle’s pool, later that afternoon, we become Olympic gymnasts doing front flips, back flips, handstand contests, somersaults under water, and backward dives off the diving board. I never even once worry if we’re being too loud or if Randi can hear us two houses away. Not until I run home on bare toes and drip past Randi’s house do I think of her. At the same time, I hear a nursery rhyme in my head, one Dad always read to me:
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead;
And when she was good,
She was very, very good.
But when she was bad, she was horrid!
Did Dad read that rhyme with the hope that I would be the girl without the curl, who always shared her toys, and always listened to her parents, and always cared about others more than herself? I’m not that girl. Sometimes I have the curl. I tire of doing the right thing. I hear the sounds of splashing and want to dive into the pool. My curl springs back to my forehead, and I think stop caring. Get me out of here!
***
“Do you want to play air hockey?” Randi looks out the window. “I know it’s not as much fun as gymnastics, but at least it’s something.”
It’s a Randi day. “Sure. It’s been a while since I played.” Did she see me doing gymnastics on the lawn with Isabelle? Unless she asks, I won’t tell. “Bet you five cents that I’ll win. I’d bet more if there was more in my pocket.”
“Okay, five cents to the winner.” Randi whacks at the puck. Her eyes say, “I can win.”
I play just as hard, forgetting that I want her to win. The orange circle hypnotizes me, bouncing back and forth, back and forth. Each time it collides with plastic, the vibration tickles my hand. Randi wins by one point.
“I won! Where’s my nickel?” Randi asks, holding back a proud smirk.
She must be getting better. Before her operation, this game would have been way too noisy, like a hammer hitting her brain. But now she doesn’t complain about the noise at all. Maybe she just needs to have a goal for beating cancer. Will she try as hard as she did in air hockey to beat her disease?
I bow to Randi and place the reward in her hands. “Here’s your nickel. That was a close game. Want to play again?”
“Nah, I want to sit outside and have some iced tea in the shade.”
I like that idea. Finally, some sun.
After we have our drink and play some guessing games, Randi dozes off on the lounge chair. Her scarf is crooked. I’m left sitting in silence, wondering what I should do, until a voice startles me.
“She’s wiped out from the radiation yesterday.” Mrs. Picconi takes a deep breath and straightens Randi’s scarf without waking her. “She was trying her hardest to stay awake and be more entertaining so you’d want to come here more often.”
“I’d like to come here more,” I lie, trying to explain and apologize at the same time. “I’m sorry…but sometimes Isabelle asks me to go over to her house.”
“I know. It’s just that you were Randi’s best friend. Now, you’re her only friend. And she feels excluded. She spends so much time alone, crying. I hate seeing her th
is way.” Mrs. Picconi gathers the empty glasses with one hand and wipes the sweat off Randi’s forehead with a napkin. “You’re a nice girl, Francie. I know you don’t mean to hurt Randi. That’s why I wanted to have this talk. Well, you should probably go home now. She won’t be waking up for a while.”
“Okay. Tell Randi I said good-bye…and I’ll see her tomorrow.” Once again, a lump swells in my throat. There is no way I can play with Isabelle for a few days. I run home to hide my tears and my guilt.
I take the short cut, dashing between the bushes and leaping over the jagged root protruding out of the ground, but not high enough. I trip and land in the flowerbed. Blood drips from my scraped up knees and tears pour out in sobs for the pain I felt before I fell. Now I have an excuse to cry.
I am an eleven-year-old with a hard job—being Randi’s friend, responsible for her happiness. Isn’t that God’s job? Didn’t He let her get this disease? Why does it all fall on me? Even if I try my hardest, I’ll never be able to please everyone. Randi needs me, but sometimes I just want to give up trying, and do what I want. Could I close the picture album of our fun memories and never look at it again? Never think about Randi. Never think about hurting her. Never think about her sad eyes watching me from her window.
Could I do that?
Chapter 14
I wish someone had invented a way to be in two places at once. Then Isabelle wouldn’t be pouting and standing with her hands on her hips.
“We were supposed to work on our show yesterday,” she complains.
“I know, but Mrs. Picconi made me feel guilty for not seeing Randi enough.”
“You don’t see me enough either. We had plans to work on the show and go swimming.”
“But I’m her only friend. I have to see her sometimes, even if I’d rather be here with you.” Although right now, I’m not so sure I want to be with Isabelle.
“Whatever…let’s just practice. We don’t have much time left.”
“Okay.” Giving Isabelle a challenging look, I shout, “Race you to my house,” and dash down her hill at my top speed.
Randi's Steps Page 5
