Hours of TV would help if I wasn’t memorizing reruns. I like drawing, but not when I can hear kids playing outside. Every so often, I peek out the window to see who’s walking by. How is Becky surviving her punishment?
I am going stir-crazy to the point of digging out my dusty diary, removing the cobwebs, and actually writing about my life behind flowered bars. Words circle inside my head that won’t come out of my mouth, but flow through my pen.
Dear Diary sounds too corny, so I just vent my random thoughts
The ceiling is spinning. If I stare at one of the dots, the rest move and I get dizzy. This is what I do to pass the time. I know it’s my own fault. I stole a pair of sunglasses and got caught by the security guard. The tap on my shoulder was the worst. I felt scared and foolish and slimy following the guard. Stealing was a dumb idea. Not cool.
Why did I listen to Becky? I knew stealing was wrong even if I didn’t get caught. Why did I want to be someone else? And who was I trying to be? I thought if I changed the outside, gave myself a new name, I’d be transformed. But it wasn’t that simple.
Danielle is not adventurous, or cool, or brave. She’s stupid for following. I’m stupid for following, and I’m not Danielle. I’m still Francie whether I like it or not. Not.
Mom says God still loves me and will forgive me when I confess what I did wrong, but I’m afraid he’s going to punish me too. What could be worse than spending half my summer staring at the ceiling? If God is going to discipline me, I hope it happens outside—because one more beautiful day stuck in my room, and I’ll scream. Is this what it’s like for Randi? Confined to a prison at home? Except she doesn’t deserve her prison walls.
I ruined my summer. I ruined my summer. I ruined my summer. But I won’t ruin my life. My shoplifting days are over. Can my punishment be over too—for good behavior?
While being cooped up, I have one fear: what if Becky’s punishment is over and she is back to hanging out with Isabelle? The time I am away, they could be together. They might be having so much fun that they don’t even miss me. I don’t want Becky to take my place as best friend to Isabelle. Then all I’d have to hang out with is my cat. Nina is great, but she’s too far away to see every day. Oreo would have to be my best friend. I had better keep my two-legged friends so I don’t turn into a crazy lady who talks to animals and starts resembling them.
On Saturday, my first day out since that horrible day at the mall, I slip into my bathing suit and dash over to Isabelle’s without even bothering to call. The scent of freshly cut grass never smelled so wonderful.
Isabelle opens the door, dressed in her pajamas.
“Hey, you’re free! I’ll go get in my bathing suit.”
Becky comes down the stairs, also dressed in pajamas.
Just great.
“Hi Francie. So you’re not punished anymore?”
“No. The wardens finally let me go. If I had one more day, I think I would have died of boredom. My parents totally overreacted.”
“My parents let me out after two weeks.”
“Two weeks? You’re lucky.” What’s wrong with my parents?
“I definitely learned a lesson. I’ll never steal in department stores with cameras. Next time I’ll check first.”
I hope Becky’s kidding. She can’t be that stupid.
For the rest of the summer, our friendship becomes more of a tug-of-war. Becky, Isabelle, and I each try to pull the other to her own side. I’m a step away from losing a friend, again.
Friendship with Randi was never a struggle. Like two years ago when I got to sleep on Randi’s boat. This was one of my best summers. We fished, swam, played cards, and ate fried flounder. The harbor at Cedar Beach was so peaceful. Sleeping to the gentle rocking of the boat soothed me like a lullaby. I wonder if Randi still goes out on their boat. I haven’t noticed it lately on the side of their house, so it could be at the harbor…or maybe they had to sell the boat too. Actually, I can hardly picture their house at all—as if now it’s invisible on Hartwell Drive. I’m too busy struggling to keep my new friends to notice much of anything.
I hope Isabelle and Becky stop pulling against me. I’m tired.
Chapter 27
August passed like a summer storm. I get angry all over again when I think about what I did to lose the month of July. Now it’s September already. How depressing.
At the bus stop, Becky, Isabelle, and I work on a plan to deal with the seat problem we are going to face as soon as the bus pulls up.
Isabelle asks, “Who should sit next to who on the bus?”
Becky has the best idea. “Why don’t we switch off?” She points to me. “You can ride with Isabelle today, morning and afternoon. Tomorrow Isabelle rides with me, and I’ll ride with you the next day. We’ll repeat the pattern every day.
Seems like my absence didn’t ruin my chances at all. “Sounds good to me.”
“Sounds good to me too.” Isabelle puts her hand out for us to pile our hands on. Our pact reminds me of a stack of pancakes. I must be hungry.
I’m glad I’m not sitting alone on the bus for my first day of seventh grade. I’m already worrying about everything that could possibly go wrong. I could trip as I walk into the classroom and knock a tooth out. I could split my pants and expose my flowered underwear. I could get lost in the building and miss every class. I could turn strawberry red as I repeat my name three times for the teacher to hear it correctly.
“You want to know how I woke up this morning?” asks Isabelle.
I nod.
“In the middle of a dream about racing you and Becky to school, I heard this scratching sound. I was sure a thief was opening the door until Penny meowed.”
Isabelle chats about her new Siamese kitten as she bites her nails down to the skin. I try my hardest to listen to her tale of Penny’s adventures, but school jitters clutter my mind.
Isabelle lifts her sleeve and shows me the bloody stripes.
Showing me her scratches brings me back to the moment until my thoughts drift again. New grade, new school, even a new, unfinished building. The teachers’ voices are going to have to compete with power drills and hammers. I bet everyone in school will fail the hearing test.
Walking down the crowded halls to find my first class makes me claustrophobic. All the voices mesh together like a swarm of bees—until the power drills start and cover all sounds.
Are all junior high teachers as strange as the ones I have? My math teacher resembles a frightened sparrow with her pointy nose and high-pitched voice, fluttering about the classroom nervously. I can handle the pre-algebra problems, but I can’t handle the voice—a rusty door hinge swinging back and forth in my ears. She contributes to the noise pollution.
My history teacher wears her long, frizzy-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, and doesn’t look that much older than the ninth graders. She dresses as if she is ready for a safari hike in her camouflage pants and boots.
“I hope you all love history! I’m Ms. Sullivan, and I promise to do my best to convince you history can be fun.” She crosses her heart and ducks behind her desk. Up she pops wearing a President Nixon mask. Her odd personality reminds me of Mr. Picconi.
She points to a chart of the three branches of government and asks in a Nixon-imitation voice, “Who knows the Republican presidential candidate running against Jimmy Carter?”
Silence.
“I guess it’s been a long summer. It may take a while to get your brains functioning again. Knock, knock, knock.” She pretends to knock on Todd’s head, just the place I happen to be staring. “I think I heard a squirrel whisper the answer. Yes, Mr. Squirrel is right. Ronald Reagan.” She switches to a President Carter mask. “You can expect to do a lot of research in my class before the election.” She takes off her mask. ”Voting is one of the greatest privileges we have in this country.”
A few groans. Not many future politicians in this group, I guess.
Taking notes in her class is a challenge. She is a fast-t
alker, hard to keep up with, and overly enthusiastic about maps. Who gets excited over maps? I’m afraid she’s going to call on me. I think my eyes are getting worse. I can hardly tell if she is pointing to South America or Africa.
My book bag hides my glasses. I thought the blue, marble-looking frames were nice when I picked them out. Now I’m not so sure. Since Todd’s in my history class, I squint a lot. If the teacher writes in yellow chalk or my seat is too far back, I’m forced to find my glasses. Not to put them on, though. I hold them up, glance through them, and put them down. It takes longer to copy the notes that way.
The first two days of school were bearable, except for the homework. Does every teacher have to assign work the same day? By the third day, it is obvious that seventh grade is going to be hard. Ms. Sullivan, the strange safari teacher has won another title—Queen of the Quiz. Imagine giving a pop quiz the first week! Pop quizzes might even be worse than dividing into groups.
The one good thing about taking a quiz in history was Todd talking to me. “Whoa! That was unexpected,” he said. “Wonder what made her do that to us the first week of school?”
I smiled back, trying to look comfortable talking with the cutest guy in school. No big deal. I always get clammy hands and tongue-tied. Why couldn’t I come up with something funny to say like Nina would have?
I follow Isabelle’s steps onto the bus, so close that her hair swings into my face. She follows Becky. As I wander down the aisle of seats, my book bag bangs into every seat, causing my ruler to poke me in the ribs. I wish Isabelle would pick one of the first seats so I could sit down with her and stop the painful jabs. She takes her time, passing every seat, and sits in the last row, but next to Becky. Wait a minute. Wasn’t today my turn to sit with Isabelle again?
“Pick a seat or move over!” creepy Jake shouts from behind me.
I take a seat in front of from them and look out the window, listening to them talk and laugh. Maybe they forgot about the order. I don’t want to make a scene and sound babyish in front of the other kids, arguing over a seat, so I don’t say anything. This is not a pleasant end to my day.
The next day begins the way the previous one ended. This must be a joke, and my friends are getting ready to say, “We fooled you!” Becky is sitting next to Isabelle again. Do I smell? Do I have stinky breath? They open their notebooks as I pass by them. Maybe they just need to study for a test together since they are in the same class.
No, the ride home makes it definite. They’re not going to sit with me anymore. This is for sure not a joke!
“Here, Becky, sit next to me,” says Isabelle in a louder than usual voice. “Isn’t it interesting that Kimmy asked us why we didn’t go to day camp with Francie and Nina?”
“I know, especially since Francie had to baby-sit all day long and couldn’t go to our camp. Maybe she should change her name again to Francesca. She’ll be talking in Spanish soon.”
Isabelle and Becky laugh and act as if I’m invisible. Are they mad at me for being friends with Nina and telling them a harmless little lie? I got bumped to lower than three in our crowd. Now what?
Before the bus even comes to a stop at my street, I grab my book bag and make my way to the front of the bus, trying to keep my balance, trying not to cry. I don’t look back.
Chapter 28
“How was your day?” Mom sniffles and forces a smile from behind a tissue.
“I’m too tired to talk about it.” I try to smile back.
I wish Mom would stop watching soap operas. They make her cry every time, which she forever denies, claiming her allergies are bothering her again.
“Francie, I need to talk to you and Laurie about something important after Laurie comes in and gets settled. Her bus should be here any minute now.”
“I’ll go do my homework in my room.” Today I don’t mind staying in all afternoon doing homework. I have nowhere else to go and no friends to see.
My room is a mess—the mess I left in my rush to get to school this morning. Many mistrial outfits lay tossed on my unmade bed, attempting to reach the ceiling. Socks adorn my desk searching for their proper match. Earrings dance in a random design across my dresser, and shoes lay scattered across the floor for anyone entering to play hopscotch over. No welcome sign here. The reek of dirty socks, a similar smell to popcorn, keeps everyone out. Cleaning is a foreign word in my room, but I might as well get a head start. Mom’s important talk is probably to complain about my pigsty and assign some new chores like she does every fall. Where do I begin? From the bottom up or top down?
I make my bed first so I can lie on it without climbing the clothes mountain. Now it looks inviting. Maybe if I lie down and rest for a while, I’ll have more energy to finish cleaning. I close my eyes and snuggle under my cool satin blanket, wrapped around me like a caterpillar in its chrysalis.
Someone knocks at the camper door. I wish they’d go away. It could be a woodpecker. I open my eyes, expecting to see flowering trees, but orange and yellow flowers decorate the wall, not a forest. More knocking.
“Francie, are you awake? Laurie’s home. Can you come here for a minute?”
“I’m coming.” I drag myself out of bed, wishing I could go back to dream-camping instead of hearing a speech about pitching in more around the house.
Laurie is sitting on the couch chewing what is left of her fingernails. She looks cute in her pigtails. Mom isn’t even there. “Where’s Mom? I thought she wanted me.”
“I don’t know. She said she’d be right back. This is boring.”
I hope Mom hurries back before Laurie starts chewing her toenails. Did she call us out here to practice her disappearing act? “Hey, Mom! We’re waiting!” I call after five minutes pass.
“I’m right here,” Mom answers, instantly appearing from around the brick wall. She needs to work on that part of her act.
Mom sits down on the loveseat across from us and blows her nose again, making us wait another minute. I focus on her long eyelashes, wondering if it’s painful for her to curl them.
She takes a deep breath and leans forward. I suddenly suspect this isn’t about chores.
“The reason I wanted to talk to you is that Mrs. Picconi told me some bad news today about Randi.” Mom’s eyes start filling up as she struggles to get the words out. “She has been getting worse. The cancer spread ... and her doctor estimates ... she…she might have about six months to live at the most.”
Laurie whimpers and starts to cry. I’m not able to make a sound. My throat is tied in a knot. Six months? Less than a year? At eleven years old? Randi was supposed to get better. She was supposed to ride her bike again. She was supposed to be able to do gymnastics again. I was supposed to be her best friend again, wasn’t I?
Mom gets up and comes to the couch, hugging Laurie and me at the same time. She locks her arms around me, squeezing me hard, until the sobs break past the knot in my throat.
Mom won’t loosen her arms, so I can’t run away and be alone. We cry together. Hearing my mother cry makes it harder to stop. We stay that way until my neck aches from the strained position and there are no more tears left.
Drifting down the hall in my numb body, I pass by the portrait my father did of Randi when she was nine, before her life—and my life—changed. I stare at the pencil strokes, imagining how Dad followed each curve of her face and put it to paper. The image captures a moment of her life—she was fidgety, posing for those ten minutes. I remember how anxious we were for Dad to finish the drawing so we could run in the sprinklers. She didn’t know she had only a few years left to live. Neither did I.
On my clean bed, I collapse. My body feels like cement. I’m unable to lift my head or arms or even a finger. Guilt is my blanket. An ache pierces through me, more painful than anything I can remember, as I realize how I abandoned Randi. I tried so hard not to think about her this year, to have fun and forget about what I did. The excuse that I didn’t know this would happen seems so lame. I knew she was s
uffering and didn’t have any other friends, yet I left her anyway.
Will I ever be able to see her again—to tell her how sorry I am, how I have missed her, how special she is, and how I wish we could go back in time and change everything that has happened? As if Randi’s angels are whispering in my ear, calling me over, I feel drawn to Randi’s house. I have to go see her and become her friend again, before it’s too late.
Chapter 29
My heart pounds harder than ever as I lift my finger toward the doorbell and hold it an inch away, frozen. I close my eyes and press it. The chimes ring inside the house, and ring inside me too. I hate being an unwelcome surprise. That’s what I dread the most—seeing the shocked look on the face of whoever opens the door.
Somehow, I got up the courage to walk over here. It’s too late to turn around—now that I hear footsteps coming to answer the door.
“Oh ... hi, Francie,” says Mrs. Picconi, looking shocked, as I expected.
“Hi. Um ... could I come in and see Randi?”
Mrs. Picconi steps outside letting the door shut behind her. I’m sure I forgot how to speak.
“I think she’d like to see you. However, before I say yes, I need to explain some things to you. Did your parents tell you how sick she is?”
I look down and nod. The lump is back.
“Francie.” Mrs. Picconi waits until I look at her. As always, she is open and honest. “We decided not to tell Randi. Knowing would do her more harm than good.” She pauses, and I wonder how much longer she’ll keep me outside. “Since she may not have that much longer, you can’t come in and out of her life again. I just can’t watch her get hurt a second time. Please decide now if you’re going to be her friend or not.”
Somehow I keep my eyes on her sad face. “I am,” I choke out.
“I’m glad. She needs a friend more than medicine. Wait here for a minute while I talk to Randi.”
Another minute to shiver and sweat while I listen to the drum of my heartbeat speeding up. My fears add clanging cymbals to the rhythm.
Mrs. Picconi comes back and holds the door open to my second chance. The house smells of matzo ball soup, a welcoming aroma that gives me hope—hope that Randi will also welcome me.
Randi's Steps Page 11
