Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling

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Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling Page 11

by Lucy Frank


  It’s setting off my evil juice!”

  “I’m setting off my

  evil juice. Sorry.”

  “And what’d I tell you

  about apologizing!”

  “How ’bout

  ‘We don’t take stress,

  we give stress’?”

  “Yeah, well,

  don’t give your stress to me!

  “Yeah. Hey. It’s Shannon,”

  she calls into the intercom.

  “Could somebody please

  come in here and unhook me?”

  “Where you going?”

  “For a walk.

  “I’m supposed to be walking.

  So I’m taking a walk.”

  “What if Mom comes

  and you’re not here?

  No. Never mind.

  No worries. Go ahead.

  We’ll find you.”

  “For what?”

  “So you and I can …

  you know …”

  “Are you not hearing me?

  For what? A month from now

  we could pass each other

  on the street and never know.

  “And don’t gimme some shit about

  how sorry you are to be leaving.

  Cuz if it was me?

  And I was leaving you here?

  I’d be like, ‘Bye!’ ”

  “Yes. And I’d get it.

  Because we’re friends, you and me.

  And you’re not just my friend, okay?

  What Joyce, the nurse, said yesterday?

  About don’t be a hero?

  I don’t mean this to sound cheesy,

  but you really are my—”

  “YO! NURSE! KELLIANNE!

  ARE WE WALKING, OR WHAT?”

  I can’t remember

  feeling this glad

  to see my mom

  since the first week

  of preschool.

  “Excuse me.”

  We’re just gathering up my bags

  when Kellianne walks through the door.

  “Shannon said don’t wait.

  She said something might be … you know …”

  Comes closer,

  drops to a half whisper:

  “About to happen. Gas-wise.

  “She thought it might not be that cool

  for you if she stuck around.

  “Oh, wait! That’s her,

  buzzing me now!”

  “Do not hug me.

  I don’t do huggy.”

  “Too bad.” I hold on

  till Shannon’s arms

  tighten around me.

  When she lets go,

  in purple pen I scribble

  my contact info on her hand,

  Dragon-eye her right back

  as I pass the pen to her.

  “Now I need yours.”

  As Mom rolls

  my unnecessary mandatory wheelchair

  toward the elevator,

  I hear:

  “Do I need that brave little ‘you’re my hero’ shit?

  A, I may be short, but I am not little.

  B, no brave about it. You do what you do

  and you get through.

  Which I will do.

  “Now Job One’s done,

  it’s time to get myself cute again,

  get my driver’s license,

  get my daughter home with me …

  “And how’s she expect me to call her

  when she can’t even write the numbers

  so you can read ’em?

  “Hey, Kellianne,

  Is that a four or a nine?”

  AFTER

  In starry dark a girl

  sings while a boy

  strums his guitar.

  Her new running shoes flash

  as they jog through

  coppery October light.

  In a booth

  close to the bathroom

  in an old Chinese restaurant

  Two girls share

  pistachio ice cream

  with a little girl here for the holidays.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book has been a long journey. I have many people to thank:

  Theresa Nelson, Susan Patron, and Virginia Walters, for believing in The Girls from the beginning, for patiently reading and rereading, cheering me on, and putting up with what must have seemed like endless whining.

  Deborah Heiligman, Patricia Lakin Koenigsberg, Elizabeth Levy, Roxane Orgill, and Erika Tamar, for their sustaining friendship, brilliant suggestions, and fine editing skills these many years.

  Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, for creating the PEN/Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship, and for her warmth and enthusiasm when The Girls received the award.

  My editor, Anne Schwartz, for believing that the early pages she saw could be a book, and then, with tenacity and great good humor, urging it into being and making it more than I’d dreamed. Stephanie Pitts, for her enormous care with the manuscript from beginning to end.

  I must also thank Richard Jackson, from whom I’ve learned so much, so happily.

  Chess and Shannon’s story is entirely fiction, but I’ve tried my best to get the medical details right and to accurately present what is known about Crohn’s disease at this time. For that, and so much else, I thank Dr. Scott Weber.

  There are no words for my gratitude to my husband, Peter Frank, for his incomparable editor’s eye and for encouraging, inspiring, and sticking with me. Through everything.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lucy Frank won a PEN/Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship for her work on Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling. The author of eight novels for young adults and middle graders, she divides her time between New York City and upstate New York. Learn more at lucyfrank.com.

 

 

 


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