Even though the bus ride was horrible, and I miss Randi, school still beats home today. Nina makes me laugh by making silly faces and imitating Mrs. Grayson. I love the slight Spanish accent to her hysterical random comments. “Whoa! You smell that? Who packed the rotten-egg salad for lunch? It’s stinkin’ up the whole classroom. It’s worse than a thousand farts that won’t go away!” Uncontrollable giggles give me a stomachache.
Peter who sits next to us doesn’t appreciate our humor. He asks to be moved to another table. Julie and her friends are pointing at us from their “cool” table. I wish I could say to them, “I need to laugh. My best friend has cancer on her brain…is going to the hospital… and I won’t see her for a month…and my thoughts are so mixed up.” But I don’t say anything.
Nina turns to me and whispers in my ear. “Guess we scared him away. Hope he remembered to take his egg-farts sandwich with him.”
Once again, I cover my mouth to hold in a giggle. Why doesn’t Nina care who stares at us?
When I take the bus home alone again, I don’t feel like giggling anymore. And I don’t want to think about Randi’s operation. I look up at Randi’s window and begin planning my excuses. I’ll say I have too much homework. I’ll go over to her house tomorrow—or the next day.
I greet Mom with a wave and flip on the TV.
“Hi, honey. Do you want something to hold you over ‘til dinner?” Mom kisses my forehead. If I ask her to bake me a seven-layer cake, I think she would. Mom enjoys applying bandages to scraped knees and serving chicken soup to sore throats. She loves leading the senior citizen club. Her hobby is helping others. I’m not like her.
“Any Ritz Crackers left?” I try to sound as normal as possible. Nothing’s bothering me. I’m totally fine.
“Here you go.” She hands me a glass of strawberry milk and a plate of Ritz crackers smeared with peanut butter.
“Thanks.”
On the couch, I snuggle next to my cat, Oreo, and stroke her shiny black and white fur. I turn the knob to channel 10 to watch one of my favorite episodes of The Brady Bunch. Jan keeps bumping into everything and finds out she needs glasses. I can relate to plain Jan. My eyes are terrible, but I’d rather squint than wear glasses. Mrs. Grayson scolded me once for talking during a quiz. She didn’t know that I couldn’t read the questions on the board and was asking Nina for help. I never told her about my bad eyes. Then I’d have to wear glasses, and kids might call me a dork or four-eyes. How will Randi feel wearing scarves and wigs?
Now Happy Days is on, and I’m still not doing homework. I ate all the crackers. Will this show make me happy?
Dad calls me to dinner. It smells good. Tuna casserole covered in buttery breadcrumbs. While I serve myself, Laurie gets impatient and starts tapping her fork against her empty plate. Each clink bothers me more and more.
“Stop it!”
“You’re taking too long. Give me the spoon.” Laurie taps even louder.
“Here, you brat!” I throw the spoon at her, sending noodles across the table, onto her shirt, and the floor.
Dad loses it. “Francie, go to your room!”
I stomp away, fuming, crying, hungry, and mumbling under my breath. They always blame me. Just cause I’m the oldest. She started it, and they don’t say anything to her. I stand around the corner, listening to Laurie’s loud voice ramble on.
“We had a spelling contest…boys against girls. If you spelled it right you got to put an X or an O on the tic-tac-toe board. I had to spell elephant. Isn’t that a hard word? And I got it right! E-l-e-p-h-a-n-t. So I put an O in the middle. Isn’t that the best spot?”
“Yes, that’s great, honey.” Mom’s voice is like a whisper compared to Laurie’s.
After ten minutes, Dad calls to me, “Francie, you can come out now if you apologize.”
I hate to say sorry to Laurie, but I do since I’m starving.
Laurie keeps talking even with her mouth full. “Justin jumped rope with me today. He said I was the best jump-roper he’d ever seen.”
Nothing will shut her up. I eat, staring at my plate, not saying a word.
I can’t believe Laurie isn’t bothered by the news about Randi. Even if she’s only in second grade, how can she babble on about a spelling contest and jumping rope?
People say Laurie and I look and sound alike, but we’re as opposite as the north and south poles. She’s a talker and has lots of friends at school. Nothing ever bothers her.
After dinner, I try to do my homework. I don’t care about spelling words right now, and definitely don’t feel like doing math. Unless these word problems have the answer to Randi’s problem, they’re just wasting my time. Who cares how long it takes the Smith family to travel from Utah to Tennessee at a rate of thirty miles per hour?
Randi needs to get home to keep up with her schoolwork. She likes getting straight A’s. I like having my friend next door. Hurry back, Randi.
Chapter 5
Randi’s bad news has spread around our block. Friends and acquaintances keep calling to ask if it is true. “Does she really have a brain tumor? When does she have to go to the hospital?” My family is sick of answering questions. If it bothers us, Randi’s family must want to smash their phone on the floor or bury it in the snow so Frosty can answer it for a while.
Kids are cheering and shouting, so I peek my head out to see. Cold air rushes over my face as I watch their kickball game. I want to join them, be a happy, normal kid again, without worries. How should I act when my best friend has cancer? Do I wait and do nothing until she’s better?
Playing outside Randi’s house, where she could see me from her window would be wrong, wouldn’t it? She might think I’d rather play with other kids who are healthy. I guess I won’t play outside until Randi is better. But how long is that?
Maybe she can play indoors. Maybe her head isn’t hurting too much, and we can play hide-and-seek and laugh like we did not too long ago. I decide to find out.
Mrs. Picconi opens the door.
“Can Randi play today?” I cross my fingers behind my back.
“Yes, for forty-five minutes. Her head is hurting, but I’m sure she wants to play with you.” Randi’s mom returns my smile. “Go on upstairs. I’ll let you know when time’s up.”
I rub my fingers along the wooden plaque, tracing the rainbow-colored letters that read Randi’s Room and knock. This will be the last time I go in her room for a whole month. Or more. I don’t want to even think about what I’ll do without her.
“Who is it?” Randi’s voice sounds muffled.
“It’s me.”
“Come in …”
When Randi sees me, she sits up in her bed and wipes her nose with a pink tissue.
“Happy Valentine’s Day. How’s it going?” Was that the right thing to say? Why can’t I talk to my best friend?
“I’ve been lying around, doing nothing. Here, want my chocolate? It’ll get stale while I’m … I’m sick of chocolate anyway.”
I take one with caramel oozing out the side, even though I don’t feel like eating. “Thanks. I’ve been bored too.”
“I haven’t even watched Tom and Jerry.” Randi smiles, and we both start to laugh…I have no idea what we’re laughing at, but it feels good.
I could never understand why she and Michael love that show so much. Jerry, the mouse, always wins the battle, flattening Tom, the cat, into an accordion shape, or burning his tail off, making a fool out of Tom. I can’t see the humor in that, but I laugh when they laugh, like an echo.
We don’t talk about the operation, or cancer, or anything sad. I don’t even ask her why her pink suitcase is out of the closet. I know the answer already. Tomorrow she leaves for the hospital.
We play Chinese checkers and braid lanyard key chains from her craft box. My braid is more of a tangled mess of string this time. I compare mine to Randi’s, expecting hers to be perfectly done, but hers is also a twisted mess. We tear them apart and toss the loose strings on our heads. “
How do I look with purple hair?” I ask.
“Just divine. How do you like my turquoise hair?” Randi poses for my invisible camera.
“Is that banging sound coming from Michael’s room?”
“Yeah, he’s been playing Nerf basketball on his door since he woke up. He refuses to come out of his room today.”
Most days, Michael tags along with us or drags us outside to play baseball. He’s like a puppy that hates fences. Sometimes he’s a clown. Before I leave and put my shoes back on, I always check them for a plastic bug. He waits to jump out and shout “Got ya!”
He’s a lot like his dad. On hot days, Michael and Mr. Picconi shoot me with water guns when I walk into their house. Sometimes I think all the Picconis are bizarre, like every spring when they hold yard-work games …
Last April, before headaches happened, Randi knocked on my door at the crack of dawn. “Guess what? My mom said we could pick up branches around the yard for fifty cents. You wanna?”
If I were honest, my answer would have been “No. Are you crazy? It’s Saturday morning, a perfect day to sleep late, have pancakes, and play baseball.” Since I couldn’t tell the truth, and she was so excited about this chore, I said, “Sounds like fun. I’ll be right out.” At least I’d have some money for the ice cream man.
When I got outside, Randi, Michael, and their parents were busy shoving sticks in huge leaf bags. They were all smiles, enjoying the “who could pick up the most” contest. What was fun about that? But I played along.
Mr. Picconi judged the size of the bags to decide the winner. I wasn’t surprised that Michael won. He zoomed around like a roadrunner, stuffing his bag until it was ready to burst. As for me, I couldn’t care less how many twigs I collected. I just wanted to finish and go play. The Picconis all looked disappointed that the game was over. Especially Michael.
“Let’s do it again, Dad.”
“Sorry, all finished. You crazy kids didn’t miss a stick.”
“Aww … then can you do your Steve Martin imitation for us, pleeeze.” Michael begged his dad with his huge puppy eyes.
“Okay, I’m a wild and crazy guy!” sang Mr. Picconi, shaking his hips and swinging a garbage bag that had branches poking out the bottom.
“Come on in, Wacky. I’ll give you crazy guys some lemonade.” Mrs. Picconi laughed and rustled their hair.
Wacky was the name the Picconis called each other instead of honey or sweetie. I liked it. Wacky fit them better.
***
But there is no wackiness in the Picconi’s house now, no silliness at all. They have nothing to laugh about. What is going to happen to Randi? Will she be all right?
Out the window, the charcoal gray sky casts a shadow on Hartwell Drive and hints for me to go home. I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave Randi’s bright pink bedroom. The next time I see her will be in an ugly hospital. Aren’t they always pea-green?
We finish braiding our key chains and decide to braid a second one, anything to avoid the good-bye time. But it is too close to ignore. Randi and I are both quiet, waiting to hear her mother’s soft steps climbing the stairs to send me home.
Now that the sun has set, the busy noises of daytime trickle away. In the twilight hush, we hear Randi’s mom reach the top of the stairs. I look at the clock. Exactly forty-five minutes have passed. “Randi, Michael—dinner’s ready. You have to say good-bye to Francie.” This time Mrs. Picconi doesn’t open the bedroom door or joke about flying chicken.
I had been hoping I could leave without saying that word, good-bye. What can I say instead? See you later, or have a good night? I have to say it.
“Bye, I’ll miss you.”
Randi rubs her sleeve across her eyes. “Bye. I hope you can visit me soon.”
We hug, and I leave Randi’s room. I’m about to wave to Michael through his cracked-open door, but he is crying on his bed, sobs muffled under his Batman blanket.
Later, in my bed, I have a talk with God …
“Why is this happening to Randi? Isn’t she a good person? Is she being punished for the time we embarrassed that girl on the bus—putting scraps of paper on her head and calling them lice? Shouldn’t cancer happen to bullies who steal lunch money and tease kids till they cry?
“How did she get this tumor anyhow? Is it from something she ate? Did she sleep on one side too much? Was she born with it? Can you make her well the way you healed the sick people in the Bible? Weren’t those people Jewish too? Don’t you love her?”
Maybe God isn’t listening to me now because of bad things I did. I’m sure he saw me cut the hair off Laurie’s doll and heard me lie about it. He must hear me groan on the way to church and know I daydream during the service. Maybe I should pray more than the one time a day when I recite the “Our Father” as fast as I can.
Am I too bad for God to answer me?
And if he did answer, how would I even know? Does he speak from the clouds? Send a lightning bolt? I just want to know that Randi will be okay. I need my friend back.
Chapter 6
The bus rumbles louder and louder down Hartwell Drive. I dash out the front door in my usual panic with Laurie trailing behind me. After finding a seat in the middle, away from Laurie and her chatterbox friends in the front, and away from the wild boys in back, I look out the window to see if Randi left already. Her driveway is empty. My mind rattles with noise from wondering. The trees pass by the window, like dancing silhouettes. I count them to stop thinking so much.
In class, I try to pay attention to Mrs. Grayson, but I can’t. All I can think about is Randi’s new room—the hospital room. A hospital is a foreign land to me. I’ve never even sprained a pinky toe. I imagine the room is painfully dull, not pink and flowery like Randi’s room on Hartwell Drive. What color flowers could I bring to cheer up…
“Francie? Francie, are you with us? I asked you to go to the board to solve problem three. And please put your shoes back on. You’re not at Cedar Beach.” Mrs. Grayson’s face looks the size of a balloon when it’s one foot away from mine.
I bend down to slip my shoes back on, but stalling doesn’t work. My cheeks glow the colors of my imagined flowers. Ignoring the chuckles, I go to the board and answer the problem correctly. The chuckles continue as I slither back and slump into my chair. That lump in my throat is back.
Toward the end of the school day, Mrs. Grayson calls me to her desk. “Is something wrong? You weren’t acting like yourself today. I haven’t heard you giggling with Nina, and you didn’t finish your writing assignment.”
This time my words tumble out and tears well up behind my nose. “I’m worried about my friend. She’s ... having her brain tumor removed today.”
My teacher’s deep brown eyes look right through me. Her forehead wrinkles, and she looks surprised with my answer.
“I’m so sorry for your friend. She must be all you can think about today.” Mrs. Grayson adjusts the pile of papers she’s holding, dropping a few on the floor. “It’s all right if you need another day to finish your homework.”
I return to my seat and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. A part of me enjoys getting some special attention, even for such a horrible reason. That part of me also doesn’t mind getting an extra day to get my homework done. How could I think like this? I’m such a jerk.
At home, Mom stands holding the door open to greet me with a wide smile. “I have good news. Mrs. Picconi called and said that Randi’s surgery went better than they expected. They’re hoping every bit of the tumor was removed.”
It’s the best news since the worst news. I hug Mom, not wanting to let go. It’s done. Now I can stop worrying and focus on other things.
I am supposed to be rehearsing my four lines for the spring play, Hansel and Gretel. Even though I won’t be the star, I don’t want to mess it up and be laughed at by the entire elementary school.
“Stand tall on stage. Speak loud enough for your voice to reach everyone,” Mrs. Block reminds me again.
Sure
, easy for her to say. My voice cracks when I shout or if I’m nervous. I could teach my cat Oreo to speak before I could change my own voice.
When Nina heard about the play last September, she begged me to try out with her. After her bazillionth time asking, I gave in ...
***
Nina and I squeezed our way through the crowd of kids hovering over the cast list. She reached the list first and jumped up and down, announcing that both of our names were there. She was going to be a rabbit, an appropriate part since she was already hopping around. I scrambled to the front and saw my name. “I’m playing … Baby Free?” I was confused, but thrilled at the same time. “I don’t remember a baby in Hansel and Gretel. Do you?”
“Maybe in this play, Gretel has a little sister. No problemo! It will be fun,” Nina squealed.
During the week before rehearsals began, I paraded around the house feeling like the queen of showbiz imagining what future roles I might play on TV. I decided I must be good at acting since they chose me for one of the main parts. And someone thought I was cute enough to play a baby.
When our music teacher handed out the scripts at the first rehearsal, I couldn’t find Baby Free anywhere. What happened to my starring role? Oh, there it was on page ten. The words Baby Tree were joined to my name like a huge pimple on the tip of my nose. Everyone could see I wasn’t going to play a cute toddler in a frilly dress. I was going to be a cardboard tree.
Nina burst out laughing at this revelation. “No way! You’re a tree wearing diapers! I hope you don’t need to be changed in the middle of your scene.”
When it was my turn to speak, I ignored Nina’s giggles and read my lines like a serious actress. She was getting on my nerves.
“I love snow. I just love it,” I rehearsed in my best tree voice, my ego flat as matzo.
***
I may not be the star of the show next month, but practicing has been fun and sometimes I even forget about Randi’s troubles.