Isabelle charges after me. “Wait up! You didn’t say go.”
She still beats me there. I must be part tortoise.
The race helps us forget our squabble and get excited again about our idea to perform a gymnastics show and sell tickets to kids in the neighborhood. For an hour, we glue ourselves to the television, recording commercials with lively songs onto her tape recorder. We take our music outside and make up routines.
I just wish the show could be somewhere else, somewhere hidden from Randi. The problem: my front lawn is the best area with the most flat space. Isabelle’s lawn would be out of sight, but has a slope to it. It’s good for sledding but not tumbling. A humungous rock sits at the slope’s end. If one of us flipped into it, our show would end in an ambulance. Of course, performing on my front yard will give Randi a balcony view.
I should tell Randi about the show. I know it, but don’t think I can. After we clear my yard of sticks and pebbles, we blast the tape of fuzzy-sounding soda songs: “I drink Dr. Pepper, don’t ya know…” and attempt to choreograph some routines.
“You could do a front handspring running this way, and I’ll do the same thing from over there—like a crisscross.” Isabelle tries out her idea.
“I like that. How ’bout we turn at the same time and do two front walkovers next to each other?”
We take turns demonstrating what we imagine to see if it works. When it does, we hurry to write it down to remember the routine. The sun beats down, cooking us, as we continue this pattern all afternoon—her suggestions and mine, back and forth, trial and error—until we are hot and sunburned and know all the commercials by heart.
The words repeat in my mind. Just one calorie. Isabelle and I hop around like rabbits in our own creative world. Tumbling, singing, and laughing, we collapse from heat and exhaustion in the shade. Since we’re already in our bathing suits, it seems a perfect time to dive into Isabelle’s pool.
Mrs. Picconi gets out of her car just as Isabelle and I run down the street in our bare feet and bathing suits. She says hi. We say hi back, and I’m not so happy anymore. Why can’t I ignore the Picconis and erase this ever-present, stomach-twisting guilt?
Heading home from Isabelle’s pool, I push my wet hair back and notice a pea-size bump on my head, behind my left ear. What the heck is that? On the slight chance I might grow a second head and transform into some kind of alien, I decide to show Mom.
Showing Mom was a mistake. Her face turns pale as if she did see an alien. She rummages through the cabinets and comes at me with a match. “You have a tick!”
“How would I get a tick?”
“Probably from doing headstands on the grass.”
“What’s the match for?”
“I’m going to burn it out.”
“No way! You’re gonna light my hair on fire.”
“Okay, forget it. Come on…let’s go.” She rushes me into the car, acting as if I am about to die. At the same time, Dad arrives home from work.
Dad leans out the car window. “Where are you going, Fran?”
“I’m taking Francie to the hospital. She has a tick on her head.” Mom drives off in a hurry before Dad can say a word. He looks bewildered as I wave to him out the back window.
Across from me in the emergency room waiting area, a man with two black eyes holds an icepack on his nose. He explains to me—though I didn’t ask—that his wife broke his nose during a golfing lesson. “I was surprised all right, when she swung that club and let go. I’ve never seen so many stars in the daylight.”
Then his wife blurts out: “Honey, you shouldn’t stand so close when I’m swinging a club.”
“You’re right, dear. I should’ve waited on the next hill.”
On the other side of the room, a grey-haired lady sits with her bare foot raised on a chair. The whole foot is swollen and purple. I hope this doesn’t happen to me when I reach old age. I could never put toenail polish on a foot that looked like that!
Nothing looks wrong with me other than the worried expression plastered on my face. I keep telling myself I’m fine, healthy as can be, as long as I don’t touch the bump, the swollen insect sucking my blood. Yuck! If I think about it, I might throw up.
I hear my name. A nurse calls us to the front desk to fill out some papers. She asks me why I’m there. I whisper, “I think I have a tick behind my ear.”
“What?” she screams. This nurse must be deaf or stupid.
I glance around to see if the other patients are listening, and answer in a louder whisper. “I have a tick.” Some eavesdroppers giggle from across the room. When the questions are finished, I sit down again and slouch behind an outdated Health magazine.
Ten minutes later the nurse calls me over again. “Francie McLean, go in the first room on the right. The doctor will be there in a minute to remove the tick.”
Whoa! She said that super loud! Everyone on the first floor could hear that. I’ll bet the other patients sitting in the lobby, who have been waiting for three hours, are wondering why I went first over a broken nose and elephant feet. Only Mom would think a tick is more urgent. I rush to the first room on the right to hide my red face.
“Hello, I’m here for the emergency operation.” The doctor bends down to avoid bumping his head in the doorway and shakes my hand. His wild, curly black hair frames his oval face. He reminds me of those pencils with goofy-eyes and hair that you can shake. “You must be the young patient suffering from insectivitis. This is extremely serious. We must operate now.”
Does this doctor honestly think humiliating me is going to make me laugh? It’s a good thing he’s a doctor and not a comedian! Just get it over with already is what I’d like to yell at him. But I go along with his stupid joke and smile.
“Imagine you’re sitting on an iceberg in Alaska. Your ear will feel cold for a few seconds, and voila, the beastie will be out.” Doctor Goofy’s explanation takes longer than the actual procedure. “Here’s the little critter you were hosting.” He shows me the swollen tick, which I did not want to see. Thanks, Doc. I’m sure he’ll enjoy laughing about the major surgery he performed when his wife asks how his day went.
At least the tick is out, and Mom is calm again—unlike Dad who is anything but calm when we get home. He had ticks on him every summer day as a kid playing in tall reeds along the beach in Montauk. How could he possibly understand the panic Mom felt? I guess she has a fear of bugs or hates seeing anything bad happen to me.
“I can’t believe you took her to the hospital for a tick! You know how much this will cost since you didn’t call her primary doctor first?” Dad rants for a while, so I leave the room. I can’t blame him. I wish we didn’t go to the hospital. I hate going there, especially for such a stupid reason. My stupid bug-bump removal seems ridiculous compared to the difficult removal of Randi’s tumor.
At least now I can say I’ve been to the hospital for something. Then again…maybe I’ll pretend this never happened.
The next day is an ordinary summer Saturday. Dad waters the flowers. Laurie roller-skates on the driveway. I practice handstands alone since Isabelle is at her cousin’s birthday party. Randi’s napping, and Nina is at her father’s house for the weekend. Mom strolls down the driveway to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Picconi as they stop their bikes by our house. The Picconis usually go for a walk or bike ride around the block each evening before the sun sets. It’s when Mom asks how Randi is doing and how they are coping. This time I can’t tell if Mrs. Picconi is laughing or crying.
Laurie and I hide by the car and try to listen in. “We thought she was improving, but today we found out…” Mrs. Picconi’s voice fades into the air. “Randi has another tumor growing in a different part of her brain.” She covers her mouth and doubles over in bursts of sobs.
“Oh, Rita, that’s awful!” I hear Mom say. I peak around the bumper to witness the horrific scene. Mom leans over the bike and hugs Mrs. Picconi, more like supports her from fainting. Mr. Picconi wipes his eyes and whimpers. D
ad shakes his head, looking distraught at the news. I hurry back to the house so no one hears me crying.
I can’t believe they have to relive the nightmare. Will Randi have to repeat everything she went through: more surgery, more radiation, more hospital, and more grief? I can’t believe this is happening. My faith in doctors, in God, and in life is at an all-time low.
When will this end?
Chapter 15
“The night-blooming cereus is one of the strangest flowers God created. This white star-like flower has an extravagant fragrance, but can hardly be enjoyed. Rarely seen, this desert flower in the cactus family blooms on one midsummer’s night for a few hours—then shrivels and dies, never to be seen again.” The botanist on channel 13 points to the amazing flower as I turn the TV off in disgust. Everything reminds me of Randi. I can’t understand why God would destroy Randi’s perfect life. Why would God bother creating a beautiful girl if he knew he was just going to take back her beauty? What’s the point?
I sink into the couch and stare at the black, empty screen on the television. I’m not thinking about anything, not feeling anything. The air around me is holding me down, paralyzing me.
Is this real? No one told me that cancer could return. After all the effort it took to get rid of the first tumor, it’s hopeless if the cancer can just start growing in a new spot, like weeds that take over a flower garden. I wish Dr. Googly eyes could freeze it away like he did the tick.
All those stupid feelings are rising again like a heated thermometer. I worry for Randi. I worry for myself. Will my life ever be normal?
Dad sits down next to me. “I guess you overheard our conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Picconi.”
I nod and swipe away a tear.
“It’s horrible. We all thought she was recovering.”
We both stare into the blank television screen. Emotions hang in the air—thick, like smoke—without words. He rests his arm on my shoulders. The silence is painful. Dad must feel it too because he turns on the TV.
After watching an episode of Little House on the Prairie and feeling sad about the difficult problems Laura Ingalls and her family had to overcome, I decide to go to bed. Too many struggles for one night.
My dad kisses my forehead. “It would be nice if you could go see Randi sometime tomorrow and cheer her up.”
Pressure. More pressure to do the right thing. Why didn’t he suggest I go see a movie with Isabelle, have fun, relax. Do I have to be perfect? I just can’t bear another miserable Randi day.
Instead of pleasing Dad, I’m going to do what I want. I want to see Isabelle and prepare for our show. What could I say to Randi anyway? Isabelle and I have to make the posters and hang them, or no one will come to the show we’ve been rehearsing for. We can’t wait another day.
Almost every Isabelle day, we have practiced until the fireflies twinkled. The show has to be this Friday, since school starts next week. At night, I can hardly sleep; the songs play in my head and I imagine the gymnastics routine, again and again.
Even though Dad wanted me to visit Randi today, I’m determined to walk down the street with my eyes focused straight ahead. I won’t even look at Randi’s house. I’m definitely not going there today.
Just before I pass Randi’s driveway, Mrs. Picconi happens to be coming out the door. My plan is not working. Now I definitely am going to end up in Randi’s house.
“Hi, Francie. Go on in. Randi’s awake,” calls Mrs. Picconi. Obviously, she is expecting me. She smiles and holds the door for me. “She’ll be happy to see you.”
Just great.
I change my direction and head inside. I thank Mrs. Picconi but think how she just ruined my day. Isabelle will be mad that I didn’t show up. Maybe I can think of an excuse—not a lie—to leave early and sneak over to Isabelle’s without telling Randi where I’m going.
Randi is sitting at the kitchen table and threading bead necklaces, something I would enjoy doing if I weren’t set on rehearsing for the show. “Hi, Randi. I can’t stay too long,” I pick up a green bead and gaze through it. “My mom wants me to clean my room.”
She always wants me to clean it, so it’s not a full lie.
“That’s okay. You can make at least one necklace before you go.” Randi hands me the bowl swirling with colorful beads.
It would be easier to leave if she were grumpy, if she took her anger out on me. I mean, she must be upset about the news, but she isn’t showing it. Instead, she seems glad I’m here. I force myself to sit still for an hour and thread beads, which is hard to do while staring at the strawberry shaped clock on the wall.
The beads slip out of my hands, one after the other. They clink on the ceramic tiles. Randi is concentrating on her necklace. I am concentrating on finding a reason to leave. I can hear her breathing slow and steady. I wish Randi would say something.
Another half hour passes. I’m itching to be outside. “I better go now or my mom will be mad.”
“Maybe you can come over when you’re done cleaning.”
“Maybe, if she doesn’t have any other chores for me to do.” I tie the necklace around my neck.
“Ooh, I love it! Now you look too fancy to clean!”
“Thanks. Too bad my mom won’t care how fancy I look. She’ll just hand me the broom.”
After saying good-bye, I race over to Isabelle’s to explain what took me so long, praying Randi won’t find out that I didn’t go home to clean. I should feel guilty, but I’m too excited, and I have my own list of chores:
Monday: make and hang the posters.
Tuesday: practice with Isabelle; gather costumes together.
Wednesday: practice with Isabelle.
Thursday: practice with Isabelle; get refreshments ready.
Saturday: perform our star-studded debut!
After a lot of arguing, Isabelle and I decide that The Shining Stars would be the best title for our show. We trace star stencils and pour glitter all over bright posters advertising the best performance ever on Hartwell Drive. I'm careful to hang them away from Randi and Michael’s house. Isabelle hung some of her posters too close to the Picconi’s. I move them.
We’ve practiced and practiced and practiced. We’ve advertised. All that’s left is to count the hours until Saturday.
Chapter 16
Isabelle tiptoes out of her private dressing room—the bathroom. “Do I look all right?”
“You look great. How do I look?” I glance down at my legs and wish they were as tan as Isabelle’s.
“You look great too. Are you nervous?”
“Not too much. But what if no one came other than our moms?”
“We’ll find out now—it’s show time.”
Isabelle and I are ready to perform in our matching black and red sequined costumes—the same ones we wore at the spring gymnastics recital. We’re ready until we peek through the curtain.
“Look who’s out there!” I point to two boys, arm wrestling on the bench. My left eye begins to twitch. Todd, the cutest, most popular boy going into sixth grade, is actually wrestling on my bench—on my property! I find it hard not to stare at his wavy blonde hair and blue eyes. I can’t believe he’s here to watch our show. I’ll die if he laughs at us and tells everyone at school next week about our stupid show.
I’m wearing sequins and about to perform in front of Todd. It gets worse. He is sitting next to the infamous Jake the jerk who lives around the corner. Now my stomach is doing somersaults. Isabelle is a pale shade of green, a discouraging color.
“The Shining Stars—more like dull stars. This is going to stink.” The boys stomp their feet and chant, “We want a show. We want a show.”
This is not what we expected. Like our title, we expected stardom. While making the posters, we fantasized that a talent scout would drive by in a limousine and stop to gaze at our fabulous poster. He would be curious, hoping to find undiscovered talent. As soon as he saw us perform our first routine, he would be awestruck and anxious to manage us before
another scout came along.
Unless one of those mothers sitting out there is a famous scout in disguise, I don’t think we will be discovered today. Jake won’t be awestruck either.
We cartwheel onto the driveway stage and try to forget about the boys. We worked too hard to chicken out now. With shaking hands, Isabelle and I lunge into a handstand and recite our introduction poem upside down:
“We are so glad you came today.
Take some time to rest from play.
While we dance and flip around,
Pray we don’t fall on the ground.
Hope you like your candy bars,
And love the show
We’re the Shining Stars!”
After the last verse, Isabelle and I land in a split. Thank God, some guests cheer and applaud. My pounding heart slows down a few beats. Of course the cheerers are mostly moms and their kids who still watch Sesame Street. Jake and Todd are too cool to clap. They mimic us and toss ripped up flyers into the air instead, confetti style. I wink at Laurie to trigger her memory, hoping she can read my lips mouthing hurry up. Her job is to hand out the candy bars to calm the crowd.
We wait, and wait, and wait. Everyone sounds impatient; even the animals are noisy. The robins sing. Becky’s beagle howls. Crickets chirp. We forgot to rewind the tape after practicing yesterday. To stop the kids from fidgeting, Isabelle tells some jokes, “What is black and white and red all over?”
“A newspaper!” one of the boys shouts. “I hope she’s better at gymnastics than she is at comedy.”
I swear that tape rewinds in slow motion. Even our moms are chatting.
Click. Yes! The sound I’ve been waiting for kicks my body into motion. The audience stops wiggling for now.
We dance our first routine together, careful to hear our cue in the song and tumble across the lawn at the right beat. Now we’re flowing like synchronized swimmers on land. Just as we turn round-offs into the last difficult trick at the end of the song, a slight timing error occurs. I taste the most unexpected flavor of Isabelle’s foot landing on my mouth, squishing my head into the grass. Instead of doing a handspring over me, following my back walkover, she sprang right on top of me! I’m horrified, but the boys clap for more. Of course they’re laughing like goofy idiots.
Randi's Steps Page 6
