Miss Quetzel smiled. “That would be nice, Pansy,” she said as she handed me a manila envelope with the cards inside.
***
I took the envelope up to my room when I got home. The cards were colorful and full of sunshine, like Miss Quetzel said they should be. I noticed there wasn’t one from Zach, which suited me fine. Anna didn’t need a card from him.
A little while later, I made my way downstairs. I’d been off the crutches for the last few days. Maybe it was time for a walk. It was definitely time to visit Andy. I’d give him the cards and the homework assignments, and it could be like a peace treaty between us.
“Mom? Our class made some cards for Anna today. Can I take them over to Andy’s?”
My mother stepped out from the kitchen, a towel in her hand. “Honey, Andy’s not home.”
I stopped with my hand on the front door. “Oh. I guess they’re at the hospital again.” I sighed. The longer I waited, the bigger the gap seemed to grow between Andy and me. I wanted to fix things between us before it was too late. “I could leave it on the front porch. His homework, too.”
Mom shook her head. “Andy’s staying with his grandmother this week. I just spoke with his mom a few minutes ago.”
I dropped the books and envelope on a chair. “Why? And when’s he coming back to school?”
“Andy’s mom said things are too hectic right now. She’s been spending the night in the hospital with Anna, so she thought it would be better if he stayed with his grandma. But they’re planning on sending Anna home this weekend, so he’ll be back at school on Monday.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. I wanted to feel happy that Anna was strong enough to leave the hospital. Instead, I felt that dull ache inside of me again, that ache that just wouldn’t go away.
“Your foot must feel better if you were planning to walk to Andy’s.”
I nodded. “I think it’s mostly healed.”
“Let’s go for a walk, then,” Mom suggested. “It’s a beautiful day, and it’ll be good to get some exercise. Let me just change—”
“No, that’s all right,” I said as I headed toward the door. “I think I’ll go for a walk by myself.”
“Are you sure? It will just take me a minute to get my tennis shoes on.”
“That’s okay, Mom,” I said, even though I could see in her eyes how much she wanted to go with me. “I’d rather go by myself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
December 9
A new set of Independent Reader scores was posted in the morning. I was now twenty points behind Daniel, who’d finished another thick fantasy book the night before. I hadn’t taken a single test since Anna’s surgery.
“Did you see the list?” Hannah asked me as we lined up to go to the library. “Don’t feel bad, Pansy. You’re doing great. It’s impossible keeping up with Daniel—he’s a genius.”
“I’m not trying to keep up with anyone,” I told her.
“That’s because you never could,” Zach Turansky butted in. “Daniel was cutting you some slack for a while. Watch him take off now. He’ll leave you in the dust! Buuuurrrrrrrrr!”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if I’m not in first place,” I said. Anna didn’t care, so why should I? Zach was too busy buuuurrrring to listen. Some of the other kids laughed. Facing Zach was the last thing I felt like doing. I looked around for Miss Quetzel, but she’d stepped out to the hall to talk to the other fifth-grade teacher.
“Hey, Pansy, maybe you should get some brain surgery,” Zach said. “You could get a brain transplant. That’s the only way you’d be smart enough to beat Daniel Walker.”
I spun around and stared straight at him. “Brain surgery? Are you joking about brain surgery?”
“Yeah,” he continued in his smart-alecky tone. “I was thinking an operation might help you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do you know what it’s like when your best friend becomes brain-damaged? Or your twin?”
Zach held his hands out in front of him. “Whoa . . . I didn’t say anything about brain damage. I didn’t say anything about Anna—”
“Not this time. But you have before.” I lowered my voice. “Anna is not retarded. She got sick, and the sickness damaged her brain. It could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to you—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Zach said, backing away from me.
“No, you don’t get it at all!” I said, and this time no one interrupted me. Not even Zach. “There’s no cure for brain damage. It’s like starting over, except you’re stuck in this place where you can’t get any better. It doesn’t matter how smart you used to be, how good you were at everything, there’s nothing anyone can do. And then you get seizures, so they have to do brain surgery. Do you know what happens during brain surgery? First, they shave off all your hair. Then they cut open your head and operate on you for hours. You lose a lot of blood. You can get infections. Your family sits in the waiting room and prays for you.” I stopped and took a deep breath.
A group of kids had gathered around us, silent, listening.
“You can die from brain surgery,” I whispered. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even you, Zach Turansky.”
For the first time ever, Zach looked like he didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. When he spoke, some of the meanness in his voice had disappeared. Not a lot. Some people might not even notice. But I did.
“I was just kidding,” Zach finally said. “No big deal, okay?”
My fists shook.
“Who cares what Zach thinks?” Madison whispered in my ear. She put her arm around my shoulder and led me to the back of the line. “It doesn’t matter about Independent Reader anyway. I’m in tenth place!”
I’d completely forgotten that the whole thing started because of Independent Reader. My heart was pounding. I’d stood up to Zach Turansky. I’d stood up for Anna and said what I should have said months ago.
Daniel slipped in line behind me. I felt a light punch on my shoulder. “Way to go,” he said quietly.
I took another deep breath and pulled back my shoulders.
Anna would be proud of me for trying so hard in the reading contest. But she’d be even more proud if she could have heard what I finally said to Zach.
***
I stopped at Miss Quetzel’s desk before we went outside for recess.
“I need to tell you something,” I said, “about Independent Reader.”
Miss Quetzel stopped stacking papers and looked up at me.
I took a deep breath and met her gaze. “You know how I was on the top of the list for a while?”
Miss Quetzel nodded. “You’ve been working really hard on your reading. I’m proud of you, Pansy. It doesn’t matter if Daniel has moved ahead in the scores.”
I shook my head, “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I-I—the reason I was ahead for a while, is because, um,” I cleared my throat, “because I sort of cheated a little.” Miss Quetzel’s eyes widened. Then she looked toward the front of the room where everyone waited to go outside. “Class, you may leave and stop in front of Mr. Shannon’s class. Please follow his class outside.”
We waited for everyone to exit the room, then Miss Quetzel looked back over at me. “Now. You were saying . . .”
“That I cheated. At the beginning of the year, I took a test on a three-point book that I finished right before school started even though we were only supposed to take tests on books we’d read this school year. And then I read a bunch of easy books quickly so I could rack up points. I knew Daniel Walker would be impossible to beat. And . . . and I really wanted to win the trophy this year, that’s all.”
I dropped my head, unable to look at Miss Quetzel. I knew I’d disappointed her, and I’d disappointed myself, too.
There was silence for a moment. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay, Pansy,” Miss Quetzel said softly. “I know what it feels like to want to win.�
��
I looked up at her, swallowing back tears. “You do?”
“Sure. When I was in school, I was hopelessly average in everything. I was okay in sports, okay in music, okay in art . . . and I had to work extra hard in all my subjects. I was never first place in anything! So, when I became a teacher, I wanted to make sure to celebrate all the little victories. That’s why I wanted to give out Reading Bucks to everyone, instead of rewarding only the top readers. When I was in fifth grade, only the A/B honor roll students earned a special field trip, and I made a C in math.”
“You did?” I couldn’t believe it. My amazing teacher had struggled with math when she was a kid, just like me!
“That’s right. And I’ll never forget what it felt like to miss out on the trip to the roller rink. So, I decided when I became a teacher, I’d have a party that everyone could earn. Even those who struggled with times tables,” she said with a wink. “Listen, how about we just keep that first reading test a secret between you and me? You did read the book, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s the best book I read all summer.”
“Well,” Miss Quetzel said, picking up her jacket and walking with me out the door, “why don’t you keep reading books you enjoy and stop worrying about the points? You think you can do that?”
I nodded.
“And by the way, reading picture books is not cheating. So you’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”
I nodded again. “Thanks, Miss Quetzel.” I ran off to join my friends at recess, feeling like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Miss Quetzel didn’t know the reason why I needed to win that reading trophy. But she had touched on something else I didn’t want to admit: that winning for the first time in my life had made me feel good.
“So, what do you think?” Madison asked when I made it over to the playground. She did a little tap dance, and we stared down at her tie-dyed tennis shoes.
“Cool!” Emma said. “Did you do it yourself?”
“Yup. I bought a tie-dye kit at the craft store, and I used an old pair of shoes so Mom couldn’t complain.”
“Wow,” I said. “They look really great.”
“Well, I wanted you to know that I meant it when I said I liked your shoes. Even if you did yours by accident . . . hey!” Madison looked down at my feet. “Why are you wearing matching shoes?”
The girls looked down at my old white tennis shoes, the ones I’d found buried in the back of my closet. Dull and ordinary, just like me.
Madison giggled.
“You’re certainly good at not following the crowd,” Emma said. “What happened to your shoes?”
I shrugged. “I changed my mind, I guess.”
“I don’t blame you,” Madison said. “I get tired of doing the same thing all the time, too.”
I tugged on a strand of hair. It was way more complicated than that.
But Madison was smiling at me, and I realized that the shoes didn’t matter after all.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing my arm as we walked toward the playground, the December wind feeling a little warmer than it had minutes before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
December 15
Mrs. Liddell called our house the night before the Good Citizens party to say that Andy was going to stay at home. It was the perfect excuse I was looking for. “Since Andy’s not going to the Good Citizens party tomorrow,” I told my parents at supper, “I’m staying home, too.”
Mom looked up from her tuna casserole. “But you’ve been looking forward to the party for months!”
“It’s certainly understandable if Andy wants to stay home,” Dad said, “but you shouldn’t let that stop you from going.”
“I can’t go to the party,” I said, wishing I hadn’t brought up Andy. “I’m still too sore to wear ice skates.”
Mom put her fork down. “Is your ankle still hurting you? Because if it is, we need to take you back to Doctor Viera so he can take another look.”
“It’s not still hurting me. But you need to have very strong ankles for ice skates. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’m not going so you don’t need to wake me up in the morning.”
I nibbled at my casserole, but I could see my parents asking each other questions with their eyes. They were very good at silent communication because next thing I knew, Mom said, “Your dad and I think it would be good for you to go to your class party, even if you don’t skate.”
“Who goes to a skating party and sits on a bench the whole time? No,” I shook my head, “I told you I’m not going. It’s not like I’ll be missing any schoolwork or anything.”
Of course, my parents tried to convince me. They talked about all the fun I’d have watching my classmates skate and that I’d still get to have hot chocolate and popcorn, and that whenever people came off the ice to rest, I could talk to them. They said it was important to be a part of the group. And, finally, they said that they really wanted me to go.
“It’s just a dumb skating party,” I said as I helped clear the dishes. “And there’s nothing you can to do to make me change my mind.”
After I’d finished cleaning up, I went to my room and closed the door. I knew my parents were talking about me in their hushed, worried voices. They wanted Extraordinary Pansy back, but she was gone for good.
I climbed into bed with a non–Independent Reader book that Andy loaned me at the beginning of the year. I was going to stay up late reading and sleep until noon the next day. But something kept tugging at the edge of my mind, and before I could turn the first page, I knew what I had to do.
A box of photos—my Anna box—sat in my dresser drawer. I grabbed my gardening spade, gloves, and a flashlight. After pulling out the box, I threw on a jacket and tiptoed down the stairs. I paused at the bottom and took a look around. Mom and Dad were watching TV in the den, so they wouldn’t hear me when I quietly opened the back door.
I closed it slowly behind me and stepped out into the yard. It was a clear night, the stars brightening the dark sky. I circled the yard with my flashlight, stopping when the light landed on the magnolia tree.
Our magnolia tree.
Anna and I had spent hours up in the thick branches, sheltered by a heavy blanket of leaves. It was the best tree for spying. Talking. Giggling. Reading. Observing. It was our own private place, just for the two of us.
It was the perfect place to bury the box.
Keeping the flashlight low on the ground, I followed the familiar path to the tree. I sat down underneath, feeling the cold dirt in my hands as I began to dig. I made a nice round hole, deep enough for the box’s final resting place.
I flashed the light on the box cover one last time as I placed it gently inside the hole. The glittery letters danced in front of my eyes. ANNA.
Don’t stop to look, I told myself. You’ve waited long enough. If you want to move forward, it’s time to stop looking back.
But I had to look, just one last time. Slipping my finger under the lid, I lifted it off.
Just one photo, and that’s it. Close your eyes and pick.
And I did. I turned my flashlight onto a summer picture. The two of us sat on a picnic bench, Anna in a sundress with a matching hat, me in a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt. We held up big slices of watermelon, and we both had big grins on our faces.
Drop the photo. Stop thinking about it!
I tried to fight it, but my eyelids closed, and I was pulled into the photo. It was no longer a cold winter night, and I was not in the middle of the yard burying a box of photos.
A warm breeze blew back my hair, and the sun beat down on my shoulders. Anna and I were in the middle of a watermelon seed–spitting contest.
“Your turn,” I said with a giggle. Anna held up a big slab of watermelon, took a bite, closed her eyes, and spit. The seed landed about a caterpillar’s length away. Sticky juice dribbled down her chin and dripped onto her white sundress. She opened her eyes and burst out laughing.
“I’m up!” I said. “Let me show you how it’s done.” I puffed out my chest and wiggled my eyebrows. Then I took a bite, sucked off the fruit, pulled in my lips like I was about to whistle . . . and that seed flew across the yard.
“Woo hoo!” Anna yelled. She jumped up and down, pumping her arms in the air. “You did it! That was the best one yet!” And then she ran over and threw her arms around me.
I froze that moment, just standing there, feeling her hug and listening to her excited voice next to me, cheering me on.
Anna was always really good at that.
When I learned to swim, Anna clapped and hooted. It didn’t matter that she could already swim laps around the pool. And when I learned how to ride a bike without training wheels, she ran along beside me, even though she learned how to ride two years before. Even better, whenever we played together, she was always telling me that I had terrific ideas. “How do you come up with this stuff?” she’d say. “It’ll be awesome!”
I opened my eyes, suddenly aware of the photo in my hands. I stared at it a minute longer, then placed it carefully back inside the box.
The watermelon seed–spitting Anna wasn’t with me anymore, but I had this photo to prove she existed. And I had memories in my head that I could call up and replay any time I wanted. And as I thought about Anna and the watermelon seeds, I remembered something important about her. She had taught me all about giving it your best shot. Her seeds landed only a few inches away, but that never stopped her from trying.
And even her sickness never stopped her from trying.
Anna’s brain didn’t work the way it used to, and she was lying in bed trying to recover from surgery, but every day she showed me what it meant to be tough. A fighter. She learned to walk and even run when doctors said she’d never be able to again. She got in that swimming pool, stuck her head under the water, and kicked with everything she had . . . even if she had to wear a life vest to keep from sinking. She fought infection after infection and made it through surgery that could have killed her.
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