Randi's Steps

by Frances Judge

  “I’ll stick with peanut butter. So did you write Kristin on your work this morning?”

  “Uh … not exactly. How ’bout you?”

  “I wrote Danielle on every paper I had—a math quiz, a map, a drawing, and an essay about the Olympics being boycotted.”

  Just as the peanut butter begins to slide down my throat…RING! I jump out of my skin. They need to lower the volume on the bell. It’s a miracle I haven’t choked to death.

  Isabelle seems to be in a hurry. “Maybe I’ll write Kristin on my homework tonight—at least on the scrap paper. See ya.”

  Lunch break always ends before I’m done eating. I swallow the last of my chocolate milk in one gulp and wipe the mustache off. “See ya.”

  Just as I stand up to throw my garbage away, I feel a familiar tap on my shoulder, like a porcupine poking me. It’s smiling, overly peppy Kimmy.

  “Hi, Francie. I wanted to ask you a question.”

  This would be a perfect time to say I’m not Francie, I’m Danielle, and walk away. But I don’t. “Sure. What is it?”

  “Have you seen Randi lately?”

  “No, why?”

  “I heard from my sister’s friend who was hanging out with someone from your block that she saw Randi. She said Randi got huge, went from super-thin to super-fat in like a week…blew up like a blimp. Is it true?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t seen her. I’ve been busy.” I can’t help scrunching my nose and rolling my eyes, even flaring my nostrils a bit. Kimmy must be able to see the disgust on my face. She gets defensive.

  “Hey, I didn’t say it. I’m just repeating what my sister’s friend said. I hoped it wasn’t true.”

  “She must be exaggerating or just mean. What an awful thing to say!”

  I walk away from Kimmy. That girl is worse than a porcupine. Whatever she says stabs all the way through me. Now I can’t get the blimp image out of my head.

  Back in class, every student has a graded math quiz lying on the desk, every student except me. Mr. Fortelli leans against the first desk in the middle row, my row. He is holding a piece of paper above his head. His face wears a scowl, a serious scowl.

  “I was perplexed this afternoon as I graded your papers. It seems we have a new student with us. Does anyone here know a Danielle?”

  Everyone wags their heads no, including me. I shrug my shoulders, wishing I was a bird that could fly far away.

  “Let me explain how easy it is to become a detective around here. By the process of elimination, I have figured out who this mysterious person is.” Mr. Fortelli steps toward me and places my test on my desk in slow motion. “Miss Danielle, in class you will use the name on the roster. If everyone changes his or her name, we will have disorder in the classroom. Do you understand? Does everyone understand?” asks Mr. Fortelli, increasing his volume from three to eight.

  I nod with quivering lips. The class nods along with me. More laughter comes from the back of the room. Who is laughing? Whoever it is, I wish they’d get in trouble for it—but Mr. Fortelli doesn’t say anything to them. I’m today’s lucky target for his arrows.

  It doesn’t matter that I got a 92 on the test or that he wrote, “Great job—whoever you are.” I’d love to stand on my desk and shout “My teacher’s a jerk!”

  The rest of the day drags. The hands of the clock are stuck on two-ten.

  The last thirty minutes crawl on until the bell clangs, finally. I sling my backpack over my shoulder, almost whacking Julie in the face.

  “Watch it, Danielle! Danielle…how stupid,” Julie whispers just loud enough for me to hear. As I make my way to the bus, my new name echoes through the hall. Am I imagining it or is everyone from my class retelling the story to someone else?

  I slump into the seat next to Isabelle. “Don’t even ask!” Isabelle offers me some pretzels, but I can’t eat—my stomach hurts too much.

  My experiment flopped. I wish changing me was as easy as writing a new name.

  The bus turns the corner onto Hartwell Drive at the same time Mrs. Picconi pulls into her driveway. It’s inevitable that we see each other since we live next door. Nothing but a row of bushes separates our houses, not acres of farmland or forest.

  I stare at the bushes. When I stare, I remember how I picked blackberries that grow wild on their side of those bushes. Randi and I raced to pick the most until our hands were purple and covered with scratches. At my kitchen table, we poured the berries into bowls and sloshed them in milk to eat like cereal. We looked a mess, in stained shirts, but the taste was worth it. I miss those days.

  Mrs. Picconi opens the car door and helps Randi out. At least I assume it is Randi because of the scarf on her head. My heart thuds like a dull drum. She isn’t the skinny, active girl I was friends with and picture in my mind. She has gained a lot of weight and seems to be having trouble moving. I haven’t seen her for so long. The change in Randi shocks me, even with Kimmy’s gossipy warning.

  She must feel me staring at her. Randi lifts her head and looks over at me. I smile and force my hand to wave. My mouth is paralyzed, unable to form any words. Randi waves back, but not a cheerful, happy-to-see-you wave, more of a sad wave—a wish-you-hadn’t-ruined-my-life wave. She doesn’t have anything to say to me either. I run into the house, passing Mom as she goes outside to talk with Mrs. Picconi—not a place I want to be. They haven’t been talking as much since Randi and I drifted apart. I guess it must be awkward for them too.

  I wait for Mom to come back inside and almost fall asleep with my head on the kitchen table.

  “What did you talk about with Mrs. Picconi?” I ask, afraid to hear, but too curious not to ask.

  “Well, she explained that Randi has gained a lot of weight, a side effect of the medicine she is on combined with depression. She still feels dizzy spells, headaches, and fatigue. They just came back from having more tests in Manhattan to determine what further treatment she needs. Mrs. Picconi seems so discouraged. This cycle has been going on for a long time. Maybe you should go see Randi tomorrow.”

  Oh no. Here she goes again with the pressure and the guilt trip.

  “I can’t,” I snap. “I already have plans to go roller-skating with Isabelle and Becky tomorrow.” Mom’s face sags and says it all.

  “Okay, but the longer you wait, the harder it will be to go over there. I won’t push you. I just don’t want you to regret your decision someday. Summer is almost here. Do you realize it’s been almost a year since you last talked with Randi—or fought with her—or whatever happened to ruin your friendship?

  This conversation needed to end. “I promise I’ll see her another day this week.”

  Another day this week doesn’t happen and another year of school will be over in less than two months. I think my friendship with Randi is permanently over too. My parents have stopped nudging me to visit her. My stubbornness is stronger than their hopes. It would be way too strange to show up at her door after a year of ignoring her. I doubt if she’d welcome me in. Some days I even forget to hide from her pink curtain.

  Chapter 25

  I miss having one best friend and doing everything together. Now I have to compete to make Isabelle and Becky like me more than they do each other. I hate being the one left out, and I am already. Isabelle and Becky are going to the same expensive teen travel camp this summer. I can’t admit to them that I’m going to the cheap day camp at the elementary school with Nina. I’ll have to pretend I’m babysitting Laurie a lot.

  After waiting until 11:00 a.m., the time my parents consider a reasonable time to ring a friend’s house on a Saturday morning, I call Becky. Her mom says she’s not there—that she slept over at Isabelle’s last night. Why didn’t they invite me? I don’t care. I’ll just ask Becky to come to the mall and not Isabelle. Becky can help me choose trendy summer outfits to buy with my birthday money.

  I dial Isabelle’s number, but when her mom answers the phone, I ask to speak with Becky.

  “Hold on. She
’s right here,” says Mrs. Torelli.

  I hear bacon sizzling and Isabelle and Becky giggling in the background. What’s so funny?

  Becky sounds surprised to get a phone call at Isabelle’s. “Hello?”

  “It’s Francie. I was wondering if you want to go to the mall.”

  “Yeah, I’ll come. Sounds fun.”

  I knew she couldn’t say no to a day at the mall. Becky crunches on what I’m guessing is a strip of bacon. I grin because I can hear Isabelle complaining in the background.

  “I thought you were coming with me to the beach.”

  “I need to get my dad a present,” Becky says in a muffled voice away from the receiver. ”Francie, let’s check out Woolworths like the last time. I need some things there.”

  There is a huge Woolworths in the mall. A monster compared to the one by Great Skates. I know what she’s hinting at, so I decide to bring my bigger pocketbook—just in case.

  We air out the steaming hot car while waiting for Becky. Mom hands me fifteen dollars. “After I drop you and Becky off, I have to take your sister to baton twirling lessons. You said Becky’s mom agreed to pick you up?”

  “Mm hm. She said she’ll pick us up in two hours.” I walk outside as I answer. “Here comes Becky now.”

  “Okay. I guess that’s all right. Make sure you both stay together and don’t talk to strangers.”

  “Come on, Mom. I think we’ve heard the ‘don’t talk to strangers’ speech before!”

  The line at the gas station is eight cars long. Mom grumbles about the skyrocketing price of gas. Becky and I mumble in the backseat.

  “Could it get any hotter in this car?” Becky asks.

  “Only if we were driving on the equator.”

  “Once the traffic lets up, we’ll get a breeze,” chirps Mom.

  “Becky’s mom is going to be waiting to pick us up before we even get there.”

  “I know. We should have gone twenty minutes the other way to Cedar Beach instead,” Becky groans. “Isabelle’s going down to Cedar today in her air conditioned car. We could have gone with her.”

  That’s one strike against me and one point for Isabelle.

  “I’d rather hang out in an air-conditioned mall than walk on the rocks and pointy shells to get down to the water. The Sound has no waves. It’s boring, not worth the pain.”

  “True.”

  One point for me.

  For the rest of the drive we silently endure the heat, which casts a sleepy spell over both of us, like the field of poppies in The Wizard of Oz.

  At the Smithhaven Mall we get out of the car oven and step into a frigid Macys. Becky and I say, “Ahh,” together.

  “Even goosebumps.” I hold out my arms for proof.

  Now that we’ve cooled off, we wander in and out of various stores, not buying anything, until we’re drawn to Tom McCann shoes. Becky insists I spend all my money on a pair of leather sandals since they look cool and feel comfortable. I convince her to buy the pair of thin-strapped red sandals that she sashays around the store in.

  On the way to Woolworth’s, we devise a plan, a shoplifting competition to see who can snatch the most. Most of me is a wimp who doesn’t want to take the chance of getting in trouble. Part of me thinks it’s wrong because God is watching me. All of me wants Becky to like me more than she likes Isabelle. I have to do this.

  Becky instructs me. “Go in first to the right. I’ll go through the music department. When you’re done meet me outside the other exit by JC Penney’s.”

  I forget all Becky’s previous advice about looking inconspicuous. I enter the store with guilt written all over me, heart racing, cheeks flushing, avoiding eye contact with any sales person.

  I see something I like and want: a cool pair of sunglasses with silver frames. They fit easily in my bag. I slip them in and cover them with a tissue. One thing is enough for me, so I browse the aisles, leading myself toward the exit. Who cares if Becky wins the game? At least free shopping (that sounds better to me than shoplifting) is getting easier. Maybe there is still some Danielle in me. I can’t wait to try on the sunglasses.

  I notice Becky, who nods, and we meet by the next store. My heart begins to slow down again, but I’m excited to show Becky my great new grab.

  “Can I show you what I got?”

  “In a minute. When we get… ”

  I feel a heavy tap on my shoulder. Please be a kind mother telling me to tie my shoe, or a girl scout asking if I’d like to buy some cookies, or even Kimmy tapping harder than usual.

  “Girls, come with us willingly, and we won’t have to use these.” A security guard shows us a set of handcuffs. We follow.

  My heart rate has just doubled and my chest pounds like a time bomb. Is Becky nervous? People are staring, hopefully no one I know. It would be just my luck to see Todd strut down the hall.

  I don’t know where they are taking us. Are the police going to take us away?

  As if the guard heard my thoughts he explains, “We’re taking you to the office to have a talk and call your parents. I think you know why. You were being watched on the store cameras.”

  That lump in my throat is back. Was God watching me too? Are the guards his angels in disguise? We climb a narrow staircase and enter a closet-size room without any windows. Is this a jail? The musty room is bare except for an empty metal desk, four chairs, and a Woolworth-framed picture of a sailboat on the wall. It has probably been there since the store first opened. I want to sail away on that faded boat. I’m afraid to look at the guard’s face. I’m afraid to look at Becky too. For the moment, I don’t care if she likes me.

  A police officer comes in the room and one of the security guards leaves. “Here, write down your name, address, phone number, and your parents’ names.”

  Mom said not to speak to strangers. I don’t want to say anything. I wish I could write the name Danielle, tell them this isn’t the real me, and give a phony phone number. But I’d get in more trouble, I’m sure. They’d probably send me to a nut house.

  The policeman stares down at us. His head nearly touches the ceiling. “We’re calling your parents. They’ll be coming up to this room so we can discuss what you’ve been up to. While we’re waiting, you can dump your bags on the desk.”

  My hands shake as I dump out my pocketbook. Coins rattle against the metal desk. My Perfectly Pink lipstick rolls across and drops on the floor. A circular red tag dangles from the center of the silver glasses like a drop of blood.

  Becky’s bag is even noisier. A compact mirror with blush spills open, leaving a trail of pink powder crumbs. A few lipsticks roll out. A chain necklace, two bottles of nail polish, and a watch crash onto the desk. Becky slumps back in her seat, shaking the empty sac emphatically. She doesn’t look scared, just angry that she was caught. She would have won our competition for sure.

  This has to be a nightmare. I can’t believe I’m in trouble with the police. I can’t believe there’s no air conditioning in here. I’m sweating like the boys in gym class. The room already smells like a locker room.

  I search the walls for a poster: Make the prisoners suffer; they’ll confess. If this were a dream, the poster would be there. It isn’t.

  The sunglasses look cheap under florescent lights, and I don’t want them anymore. Becky’s face is reflected but distorted within the frames. She wears a stubborn frown, and she’s not crying. My whole body hiccups with held back tears. This stinks! What a horrible way to spend a beautiful summer day! We should’ve gone to Cedar.

  Thirty minutes later the door opens, and our parents squeeze into the narrow room—all four of them, each with a wrinkled forehead. They line up against the wall with tight lips and shaking heads. Could they look any more disappointed? I wonder if this is how a prisoner feels when the first visitors come to the jail. I feel like a slimy ball of dirt. I need a shower.

  As if on cue, tears begin washing my face as I twiddle my fingers in circles. The police officer tells our parents what we ha
ve done and shows them our loot.

  Becky’s parents yell at her all the way to the mall exit. They apparently don’t care a bit if the whole world knows their daughter is a criminal. My parents give me the “just you wait” look. This should be a fun ride home. At least my dad’s not a cop. Poor Becky.

  The front seat doors slam. In the privacy of our squash car, Dad lets loose.

  “How could you do such a thing? We thought you could be trusted. We thought you were smarter than this. Are you trying to ruin your life?” They both have their heads turned toward me, waiting for my answer.

  I shake my head no between sniffles and hiccups.

  “Well, you’re grounded for a month, and no roller-skating.” Dad turns around and starts the car up. “I’m so disappointed in you.”

  His words stab me. How long will it take him to forget what I did? If I know Dad, he’ll make sure he remembers for at least the month I’m grounded. One month. Four weeks. Thirty-one days. Half my summer is wiped away for a stupid pair of sunglasses.

  Chapter 26

  How do I describe my summer vacation so far? I’d like to say same as last summer: swimming in Isabelle’s pool, practicing gymnastics, and roller-skating every Saturday. Doing nothing would be okay if I chose to do nothing, but being grounded and forced to do nothing is the worst kind of nothing. I’m going to explode with any more nothingness!

  My one escape is summer camp in the morning. Dad decided I should still be allowed to go to camp, partly because they already paid for it—no matter how cheap the camp—and partly because Mom works part time at the senior center four days a week. Dad made sure to emphasize his distrust in me.

  “We obviously can’t trust you to stay home to watch your sister until you prove yourself. So as soon as you set foot off the bus, you’ll march straight inside.”

  Every day, come 12:30, I rediscover my wallpaper. I lie on my bed, stare at the stripes of flowers on my wall until the rows that were messed up stand out. Having nothing better to do, I continue the search for other seams to see if they line up right. The perfectly aligned flowers alternate directions, dancing their way to the ceiling. The messed up row of flowers ram into one another, and fight their way to the top.