Randi's Steps

by Frances Judge

  “Oh, no! Are you okay?” two familiar voices cry from the audience. Our moms could make this scene more embarrassing by running at us with Band-aids. Thank goodness, they stay in their seats.

  I stand up and wipe the fresh cut grass off my hair. Isabelle gives me an apologetic and fearful look, probably because I’m ready to pounce on her.

  The boys cheer even louder. “Awesome! Maybe we’ll see some wrestling or at least some blood.”

  “Yeah…it might not be as bad as we thought!” Jake hollers and tosses more poster confetti.

  The Dr. Pepper song begins. On with the show. Isabelle rushes into her solo routine, frazzled, but performs it perfectly. I watch her perform and can’t help wondering why she has stronger muscles. We’ve both practiced the same amount for a whole summer, yet my arms look like noodles, and she looks like Nadia Comaneci, the gold medalist from Romania.

  It’s my turn to show what I can do. Two front walkovers into an almost split, three spins, getting dizzy, some dance moves to catch my breath. I turn and cartwheel into a back walkover. My head misses the ground by half an inch. Shimmy, shimmy, I circle my hips, and prepare for a running front handspring. But I have too much adrenalin running through me and land one foot in the shrubs at the end of the lawn. I turn around, leap twice, spin, and bow, ignoring the bloody scratch on my ankle. I did it! I finished my solo without totally embarrassing myself.

  The audience claps again. I hope they’re not just happy to leave.

  The show ends just as the jingling ice-cream truck turns the corner— something more interesting to a bunch of hot kids who baked in the sun for forty minutes. I could go for a lemon Italian ice or a banana-fudge pop.

  Todd walks off with Jake and says, “They should’ve wrestled.”

  Instead of hurrying across the street to get in line, Todd surprises me. “Here Francie, you look like you need something cold.” He smiles and hands me three quarters.

  My heart is pounding even harder now than during the routine. It’s the first time I ever heard him say my name. Flattered that he even knows it, all I can think to say is, “Thanks.”

  As I wait in line, sparkly and barefoot, Michael appears. I want to cover my costume and run away, not have to explain the sequins. But there’s nowhere to go.

  “Hi.” I smile.

  Michael scowls.

  “You can go ahead of me.”

  He stomps on my bare foot and orders two Bomb Pops. One must be for Randi. That reminds me I haven’t seen her since last Sunday. Michael sticks out his tongue at me and marches back to his house. My stomach knots up again.

  I slink back to my house with an unrewarding fudge pop, change into shorts and toss my costume in the closet and my pop in the trash. We practiced all summer, and it’s over in a breeze. I probably hurt Randi in the process. The show was fun, but was it worth it?

  Chapter 17

  If I had a journal, today’s page would be blank. I counted purple shirts and sketched the back of an old lady’s head at church for an hour. Then I stared at a block of cheese for thirty minutes while Mom decided how much honey ham to buy from Fred-the-butcher, a friendly man with an Irish accent who likes to give me and Laurie free bologna slices. The highlight of the day was when Mom zoomed down the steep hill on Chestnut Street at fifty miles per hour, way over the limit, and missed squashing a squirrel by an inch.

  The thrill and anticipation of our show is over. I don’t need to practice gymnastics. It’s cloudy, so I don’t want to swim. I could go to Randi’s, but what if she heard us doing the show yesterday? What if Michael squealed? How would I explain not telling her about it? I have nothing better to do, so I decide to risk it.

  Mrs. Picconi answers the door. Her face reminds me of Michael’s scowl. “Come in. Randi’s upstairs reading.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “You should be careful about hurting Randi’s feelings. She already has enough heartache in her life. Between cancer and everything else at home, the last thing she needs is a friend she can’t trust.” Her words hit me between the eyes.

  I nod. Everything else? What does she mean? This is not a good beginning. What state will Randi be in? Is she sad or angry with me? I climb the steps to Randi’s room, and wait at the top, wishing I stayed home. Maybe a magic fairy will whisk me away. However, it’s too late to turn around, and no fairy appears. I enter her room and greet the back of Randi, slumped over a torn piece of paper at her desk. Glitter dusts Randi’s cheek, and the words ing Stars sparkle on the paper. This is not good.

  I pick my favorite place, the rocking chair. It amazes me how much she sleeps since the tumors invaded her life. Her digital clock says 12:00, 12:10, 12:15. I rock back and forth, creaking a floor board and wondering if I should wake her or wait.

  I tap her shoulder and whisper, “Randi. Randi…do you want me to leave?”

  Randi slowly lifts her head off the book and looks directly into my eyes. An imprint on her cheek tells me she’s been sleeping that way for a while. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in, but I’m surprised. How did you find the time? You’re such a busy friend.

  “I’m not that busy.”

  “Were you sitting there long?”

  “No. I just got here.”

  “Why did you come here today? Don’t you have any more shows to do?” Randi looks out the window.

  “No, yesterday’s show was it. I came because I missed you this week.”

  “Yah, sure you missed me. You didn’t even tell me you were having a show. No invitation. Nothing.” She holds up the poster like evidence in a trial. “I wondered when you were gonna tell me.”

  “I was afraid it would upset you… since I ... I was having the show with Isabelle, and you couldn’t be in it.”

  Randi’s face is red. She smacks her desk with her fist. “Why couldn’t I be in it? I can still do gymnastics better than both of you. I think you’re embarrassed of me. You didn’t want me in the show. You didn’t even want me in the audience!”

  “I ... didn’t think you could do gymnastics right now. I know you’re better than me. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. “

  “Just get out! Go play with Isabelle, your new best friend. I don’t want to see you ever again!”

  I bolt out of the room and run down the steps, skipping the last two. Randi’s bedroom door slams behind me. I rush outside before Mrs. Picconi sees me leaving and tries to stop me. I sprint home. A jumble of thoughts race around my head: I’ve never seen Randi so angry. I should have told Randi about the show. But she couldn’t be in it, and what does she expect me to do, sit around and watch her sleep?

  My life just got worse. I can’t talk to Randi, or Michael, or her parents. I can’t even look at their house. No way. And I’m not going back there until she asks me over. She’s so mad, maybe she never will.

  Since it’s Sunday, I can’t hide. Both my parents are home, enjoying a peaceful moment, until I come barreling through the door, wiping my eyes and sniffling. They put down their coffee and newspapers. The inevitable questions follow. “What happened? Are you hurt? Did someone do something to you?”

  I start at the beginning, and by the time I repeat Randi’s angry “I never want to see you again,” I’m sniffling harder. Mom’s stifling hug doesn’t help. Now I have to listen to their advice.

  Mom’s sure I should go right back to Randi. “Tell her how sorry you are. I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said. She’s going through such an awful time.”

  Dad thinks I should wait until tomorrow. “You should apologize, but give her some time to cool off.”

  “I’m not going back there unless she invites me over. Not today or tomorrow or ever. I’d rather play with Isabelle anyway and forget about Randi for a while.”

  With wrinkled foreheads, my parents are about to say something—something I’m sure I don’t want to hear. I turn and run to my bedroom before they try to change my mind. I don’t care if they’re right.

  Just as I slam my do
or, a summer storm begins to rumble. Lightning flashes through the clouds and a wall of rain pours down from the sky. I slam my window shut. Does God want to correct me too? Right now He sounds angry.

  Chapter 18

  Twenty-one cars have passed the bus stop. Waiting alone for thirteen minutes feels more like thirteen hours. Are other kids as nervous about the first day of school? After the long, easy days of summer, water droplets form on my nose and hands when I think of who might be in my class. I could fill a bucket by now. With my luck, I’ll have to square dance in gym class and share my clammy hands with some obnoxious boy like Jake. He’d probably shout a loud yuck!

  My new outfit is sticking to my skin like wet plastic wrap. Why didn’t I listen to the wise weatherman who claimed it would be hot and humid today and wear short sleeves? And I’ve added extra degrees thinking about school. Last night I carefully cut the tags off and laid the clothes on my dresser. I buried my nose in the pile and inhaled the fresh from Macy’s cotton/polyester scent. I couldn’t wait to wear my yellow flower trimmed vest and matching jeans in the morning. Now I have to suffer through today’s heat wave.

  Isabelle is walking toward the bus stop with Becky. They hang out together a lot because their parents are good friends. I drop my book bag on the ground, relax my shoulders, and crack my neck a few times while waiting for them to join me. Crickets chirp in the background, unaware that the first day of school isn’t an occasion to sing. Isabelle wears a new long sleeve purple top with a ruffled collar. She must be sweating like a pig too.

  Becky waves a green piece of paper. “Me and Isabelle are in the same class. Isn’t that cool? We both have Mrs. Delaney, and I heard she’s easy.”

  “Lucky you,” I reply. “I have Mr. Fortelli.”

  Becky scrunches up her nose and shakes her head. “Oh, you poor girl. My brother had him. He’s real tough.”

  “Great.” I feel another drop of sweat forming on my upper lip.

  Chatting about boys, TV shows, hairstyles, and clothes, I forget why we are standing on the corner until I hear the rumbling of the yellow dinosaur bus.

  The dinosaur bus hisses as a lady with a white bun opens the doors like a mouth to devour us. We all hesitate, not wanting to be first. Stepping onto the bus is the end of summer.

  “Hurry it up, girls. Don’t want to be late your first day. And I’m not losing my job on account of your yapping.” Our driver is so charming.

  The bus jaws close and we’re on our way. We ride with kids from fifth-grade up to high school. The high school kids get off at the middle school to change buses. I’m glad to see them go. Even though they scare me, I’d rather face them than Michael. He’s on Laurie’s bus this year. Maybe God helped me this time.

  Randi still can’t go to school. I feel bad for her, but I’m also relieved. Going to school is hard enough without worrying about who I sit next to each day. I also don’t know what I’d say to her since our blow up.

  I scan the neat rows in my new classroom for a friend to sit next to. The longer I stand here, the redder my face flushes. No one greets me or even smiles. Some girls from last year’s class, like Julie with her flowing blond curls and tight Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, act as if they’ve never seen me before. I glance down at my flowered vest and imitation jeans and figure out why.

  My eyes focus on the last row. On Todd. My face heats up another hundred degrees. Todd is talking to a group of boys and swinging an invisible bat at the far end of the room. I won’t be sitting over there—my secret would be out the first time I looked at him and turned into a tomato. Sitting next to any boy is out of the question. I’d never be able to concentrate. Instead, I find the nearest chair, wishing someone would tell Nina there was a mistake—that she is supposed to be in this class with her friend Francie. Fat chance.

  Mr. Fortelli announces that he is going to assign seats in alphabetical order to make it easier to take attendance. The down side to ABC order is that McLean is always in the middle. I have to sit in the apple core of the classroom. I’d prefer a seat in the first or last row—as a Zimmer or an Adams—not in center where sharks can attack from all angles. Even though I’m not in the seat I would choose, at least assigned seating separates the cliques into individual islands. At least I’m not alone.

  Todd Williams sits two rows to the right and three seats back. I won’t be able to stare at him or know if he looks my way.

  Todd’s eyes are on me as I take my new seat, center stage. I can feel it. “Hey, it’s Dr. Pepper girl!”

  He grins, but I’m not sure if he’s teasing me or he likes me. Is this wishful thinking? Am I in daydream land again? If I’m not mistaken, it looks like he’s reenacting Isabelle’s shoe landing in my face. The hysterical laughter from his gang is not a good sign. Okay, time to stop caring about Todd. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. I sit down and pretend to wipe some invisible fuzzy off my sleeve just to peek over my shoulder and look at…

  Todd winks at me. I try to figure out the mixed messages when Mr. Fortelli interrupts my important thoughts.

  “Class, settle down.” Mr. Fortelli’s voice is steady. Slam! He bangs the desk with his ruler. The class is silent. “Just wanted to make sure you’re all paying attention. I expect every one of you to be quiet and alert.”

  Mr. Fortelli scares me. His angry black eyebrows and his towering height make him a cross between Goliath and the Grouch from Sesame Street, minus the green fur. His bulging eyes scan the room for rule-breakers—something easy to become since he has a million rules: no gum, no talking, no note passing, no slouching, and no daydreaming. He’d probably give a kid detention for sneezing too loud.

  How hard is sixth grade going to be? More tests, more projects, more reports. “All to prepare you for junior high,” explains Mr. Fortelli. No one here wants to think about doing junior-high work.

  It’s the third day of school and Mr. Fortelli has assigned our first project—an art contest. I break rule number five and daydream about winning the art contest, until I hear the words, “divide into groups and design a patriotic poster.” I hate the word group. Why doesn’t he just say find the clique you fit into, or don't. Non-clique types must remain alone and pretend they don’t mind.

  The clusters form around me but not with me, like blobs of oil repelled in a dish of water. I pretend to be busy searching for something in a folder, like I don’t care and don’t have tears to hold back...but I wonder, what’s wrong with me? My chair is the only one occupied until Ann, a lanky girl with braces, approaches me and asks if I want to be in her group. I spring out of my chair, bumping my knee on the desk, and join her friends—the cluster of other misfits. Even though I don’t fit into any group, I’m much more at ease with these girls who still wear bell-bottoms jeans than with the group of snobbish, Gloria Vanderbilt Jeans girls.

  Ann has a great idea: we are going to paint the colors of the flag behind a black silhouette of a famous memorial, the statue of soldiers mounting the flag on Iwo Jima. Ann said she’d bring in the photo for us to copy. I offer to bring in the poster board, some glitter, and glue. Now I’m excited to work on this project. I made some friends and we have a plan for the assignment. I can show off my artistic ability, and maybe we’ll win the contest.

  Chapter 19

  I hum the song “Celebration” as I run home. It’s Friday. Isabelle and I have planned our weekend together, swimming, swimming, and more swimming. We’ll enjoy the last hot days of an Indian summer.

  “Mom, can I go in Isabelle’s pool?”

  “Honey, I know you had a fight with Randi and said you don’t want to see her again, but…maybe you should since she’s having surgery tomorrow. You’ll feel better if you make up.” Mom lays the invisible weight back onto my shoulders.

  Couldn’t Mom have given me a simple yes or no? “Okay fine. But I’m not changing out of my bathing suit. I’ll just throw an outfit over this.” I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping the cross will cover my lie.

  I grab a t
owel and scoot out the door before Mom can see me run the opposite way. Instead of heading straight down the street to Isabelle’s, I go the long way, around the block, to avoid passing Randi’s house, to avoid her window and her eyes that may be looking out from behind the pink curtain. She told me to go away and never come back. She gave me permission to have Isabelle for my best friend. So why am I hiding?

  Seeing Mrs. Picconi would be the worst. I don’t want her to invite me in or chastise me again, and I don’t want to apologize and be trapped in another game of tug-of-war between friends. It’s much easier to have one friend and do what I want than to feel pulled in two directions until my heart has emotional blisters from the constant tugging.

  I hug the curb along Chestnut Street, where cars race along like the Indy 500, and use it as a balance beam. As I turn the corner, the horrific sound of barking dogs gets louder. Only two cute Chihuahuas. But why are they charging at me? I believe they are harmless until they nip at my bare legs and bite my ankles. I scream, whip my towel at them and run away as some old hag in curlers calls them inside, a little too late.

  By the time I reach Isabelle’s house, I’m a mess. I rub the bloody scratches with my towel and wipe my eyes. I catch my breath at the curb for a minute. I hate dogs, and I hate being afraid to walk down my own street. I hate hiding from Randi.

  Isabelle’s Siamese kitten brushes against my sore leg. I like cats. Not too many are vicious, and their purr doesn’t scare pedestrians to death.

  “Hey, what happened to your legs?” asks Isabelle, opening the door for me.

  “Those Chihuahuas around the block don’t like me.”

  “Why did you go that way?”

  “I felt like running, that’s all, but now I don’t want to swim with my legs cut up. It will sting too much.”

  We play Wiffle ball in the street instead. I run barefoot across the hot pavement and imagine a boundary line on Hartwell Drive that I shouldn’t cross—in view of the Picconi’s house—unless I’m forced to chase a ball.