If I have to look at Mrs. Picconi one more second, I’ll burst into tears. I practically fly up the stairs to get away from her. I am not sure who is hardest to face—Mrs. Picconi, Randi, or my own guilt.
The green-carpeted stairs, the cream walls, the black-and-white drawing of an old-fashioned train framed in black, and the wooden sign reading Randi’s Room flood my mind with memories. Making crafts, playing board games, watching Randi’s mom braid her hair and fix it with ribbons, searching for Randi’s first missing tooth she dropped, having our first sleep-over in sleeping bags in her living room, playing in Michael’s room with his matchbox car collection. How many times did I follow Randi’s steps to her room upstairs, talking and laughing all the way? I used to be so comfortable being here—the exact opposite of how I feel now.
I knock on her door, unsure of what to expect. It’s been over a year.
“Come in.” Randi’s voice sounds slightly deeper than I remember.
A drowsy, different-looking Randi raises herself in bed onto her elbow. Her Barbie doll face is now white as blank paper and swollen from the weight she gained. Her eyes and nose seem lost in her puffy round cheeks. Most of her hair is growing back, but it’s not the silky golden brown hair from before. It’s short enough for the army, dark, and coarse. What’s happened to her? Everything lovely about Randi has been stolen by this horrible disease, the cancer thief. It even took her shine.
“Why are you here?”
“I ... I don’t know. It’s just that ... I’ve been thinking about you. I want to be friends again.”
“Don’t you have other friends?”
“Mm hm.” I nod. “But that doesn’t matter.”
Randi moves her mouth into that Mona Lisa smile. Or is it a frown? Is she still angry? I can’t read her face. My one advantage is knowing how much she needs a friend.
“I’m surprised. I don’t know—”
“Can I stay and play a game or something? Please?”
“I guess so. For a little while. I’ve nothing better to do. I’ve had nothing to do for over a year.”
Ouch! I’m a lousy friend.
Pretending I’m not astonished at her face and hair is hard, even with all my practice at fibbing. What should I say? I show up out of nowhere for no good reason. I see that she looks completely different, but I don’t say anything about it. God, I need your help. Please give me the right words.
I swear I hear him answer “Say sorry,” so I go for it.
While Randi hands out the cards, I stumble over the first words that come to mind. “I know it might not seem like it, but I’ve missed you. I’d really like to be friends again. Sorry I was such a jerk.”
Randi is silent for too many seconds. I count and hold my breath as if I’m underwater. “You hurt me over a year ago, so it’ll be hard to call you a true friend. I mean—I don’t know if I can trust you after you lied and kept secrets behind my back. You can come over if you want, but I’m not promising…” Her voice fades into a quiet sniffle.
I nod.
“I still don’t feel good enough to go over your house. I get tired lately—probably from the medicine I’m on—so if you do want to be my friend you’ll have to come to my house.”
I can’t look at her yet. How could I have abandoned such a truly nice person?
“I’ll try to come over three or four days a week, as often as I can. I’m getting a ton of homework now.”
“Well, you’ll have to promise me you’re gonna act like a friend. I don’t want to get hurt again.”
Now I remember how much Randi is like her mom, straightforward, honest, and sincere. Unlike me. I wouldn’t blame her for hating me and telling me to go away. I have to be a true friend to her for whatever time she has left. Maybe God will give her more time if I pray for her every night before I go to bed.
I look straight at her. “I promise.”
This is a promise I intend to keep.
“Another thing about my medicine …” Randi hesitates for a moment. “Is that it makes me fat. I can’t wait until I can stop taking it. I hate looking like this, but I can’t help it. Please don’t tell anyone how fat I am.”
“I wouldn’t talk about you. I’ll never hurt your feelings again.” That pain is back in my throat again, holding back the tears. I don’t like knowing what she doesn’t know. Another secret.
We play card games for a while until Michael peaks his head in. “Hi. Do you want to play cars with me?” He looks a bit surprised to see me in Randi’s room, but smiles anyway. I wonder if he knows how sick Randi is. God, please don’t take his sister away. I hope the doctors are wrong and she surprises them by living to the age of eighty.
Randi shakes her head. “Maybe later. I’m getting tired. Sorry.” She looks to me. “Francie, do you think you can come over tomorrow after you get home from school?”
“I’m sure I can. Tomorrow is Friday so my homework can wait.”
“Good. See you tomorrow.” As I turn to walk away, Randi adds, “I am glad you came over.”
“I am too.” I run down the stairs and yell, “Goodbye, Mrs. Picconi. Thanks,” to be polite. But I shut the door before she can say anything else.
Outside, the cool evening air slaps against my bare arms. When I came over it was warm enough to wear a sleeveless top. But even in the coolness, I sweat as I race home. So many emotions run through me. I’m happy and relieved that I can be her friend again, but now I can’t hide from the hurt I caused her. What did I gain by ignoring her this last year? If I knew earlier how little time Randi might have, maybe I would have valued her friendship more, been kinder, more understanding. Maybe I would have cared a bit less about me.
Facing death changes how I see everything.
Chapter 30
I find myself alone on the bus again, staring out the steamy window, and thinking about Randi. I have done a 360-degree turn in my relationships. Randi is my friend again, and I’m not talking to Isabelle or Becky. The tradeoff happened the same day.
Even my view of the kids on the bus has changed. Each pair of eyes hides a story I’ll never know, just as they’ll never know the story I’m hiding. And they probably don’t care.
Behind my blank face is an alarm clock, set for six months from now. A month has passed, but my clock hands stand still. I want to stop time. I watch the numbers and wonder if the date has already been set by God. Six months of school can drag on endlessly, but six months to live? It becomes a fraction of a second that slips through my hands like melted butter. I wish I didn’t have to waste some of those hours at school. I feel robbed of my time—time left with Randi.
Week after week, I’ve been going through the motions of junior high life, but I can’t focus on the lessons. Especially grammar. What did Mrs. Block say the difference was between direct objects and predicate nouns? I’m focused on my own topic: what should I talk about with Randi today? She might not like hearing about school since she can’t go. But what do we have in common now?
During the break between classes, Nina nudges me in the hallway. “Hey, girl. Haven’t seen you in a while. Where you been hiding? I have news to tell you.”
I’ve been avoiding Nina since I found out about Randi. I just couldn’t get the words out. “I hope your news is better than mine.”
Nina gives me a weird look but goes on. “Guess who was talking about you today?”
“Who?” I’m curious but still feel numb inside. Nothing could be more important than Randi dying.
“Todd! I overheard him talking to Mike. They were naming the good-looking girls in school. So of course, I was interested in what names came up. Todd said, ‘Francie in my history class is real cute, kinda quiet, but cute.’ I swear he said that!”
“No way!” I feel one-step higher than numb.
“Well, it’s true. So what was your news?”
I can’t look at Nina, so I look at my fingernails. “You know Randi, my friend next door. She has only—only—about six months left to live.�
�
Nina looks spooked like she saw a ghost. “That’s horrible. I can’t…” Kids rush between us as the bell rings, and I rush to my next class, leaving Nina in mid-sentence. I couldn’t admit that she might have only five months left now.
Ms. Sullivan paces around the room asking questions about last night’s debate between Carter and Reagan. She tries to light a spark in us, but everyone looks like they took sleeping pills. I hope she doesn’t call on me. Dad made me watch the debate, but all I saw was Reagan’s wrinkles as I tried to imagine what he looked like as a young actor.
I throw my books on the couch, hug Mom, and dash back out. I don’t want to waste any time answering Mom’s questions about my day. Randi needs me. And I need her.
A plump woman with speckled gray hair answers the door to Randi’s house. “Hi, are you Randi’s friend?”
“Yes, I’m Francie.” Not Danielle. “May I come in to see Randi?” As I am asking, she is already holding the door open and escorting me in. I follow this strange woman who is close to my height.
“I’m Miss Barbara, Randi’s nurse. She’s told me a lot about you. She was hoping you’d come over today.”
Although she hasn’t said more than a few sentences, I can tell she is a sweet person. Rosy apple cheeks form when she smiles. Like Mrs. Claus! No wonder I feel so welcomed by her. I’m curious to hear her laugh. Does she sound like Santa’s wife in the Rudolph cartoon?
Miss Barbara brings me into the den where Randi lounges on the couch and watches TV. “Look who’s here!” she announces.
“Hey, you came.” Randi shuts off the commercial for Crest toothpaste.
“Said I would ... so what were you watching?”
“Josie and the Pussycats—but I’m tired of watching. School would be more fun.”
“Hey! You mean to tell me I’m not the most entertaining nurse around?” Miss Barbara winks.
“You know what I mean. These stupid cartoons have been on for three hours,” Randi snaps.
“Randi, Randi, I’m just joking.” Miss Barbara wraps her arm around Randi’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry. You are the best nurse. I just want to do more than sit around and feel tired.”
I’m surprised at how Randi reacted to Miss Barbara. She’s not so easygoing anymore. I guess losing two years of her childhood could be the reason.
Randi sits on the same black leather couch in a room that hasn’t changed at all. The television sits in the same corner. The white brick fireplace is still there but unused, not giving any warmth to the room that smells of fake pine and disinfectant spray. The caricature drawing of the family, done on their trip to Disneyland, hangs on the wall in memory of a happy time when Randi was healthy. That drawing is of the other Randi, the one I used to know.
Randi and I work on a puzzle of two Golden Retriever puppies resting in the grass. We are both quiet at first, until we watch the after-school special movie about a poor twelve-year-old orphan girl who moves in with her stuffy, rich relatives and disrupts their lifestyle—a Cinderella story that has us laughing. I love to hear Randi laugh.
Miss Barbara serves us some hot cocoa along with Randi’s afternoon dose of medicine. As Randi takes the pills, I wonder how they help her. Gaining six months of life isn’t enough help. And what’s the point if she has to spend those months tired and puffed-up? I wish I could stop these thoughts, but every time I look at Randi, thoughts of death invade my headspace and I can’t blow them away like the meteors in the Asteroids game.
The movie is back on and I’m laughing again at the pranks the orphan pulls on her prim and proper relatives. I’m laughing, but Randi is sound asleep with her head on the arm of the couch.
Miss Barbara tiptoes into the room. “Randi gets tired when she takes her medicine. It also makes her a little snippy, so don’t be offended. You made her day by coming over again.” Miss Barbara wipes the tear from her eye, and grins. “But you might as well go home now. She’ll probably sleep for a while.”
“Okay. Please tell Randi I said good-bye and I’ll come over tomorrow.”
“She has to go into the city tomorrow to see her doctor. Maybe the next day would be better.”
“You can tell her I’ll come by either Sunday or Monday. I just want her to know I am definitely coming back.”
I want to say something to Randi, even though she is sleeping. I’m afraid if I don’t, I may never get another chance. I wait until Miss Barbara goes upstairs.
“Good-bye, Randi.”
Chapter 31
It’s that bothersome time of year, as Eeyore the depressed donkey would say. The last of the leaves waves good-bye to the trees and joins the colorful carpet on the ground. I have to gobble my breakfast because Dad will storm through the door, peeved that Laurie and I aren’t out there raking. Even Mom finds extra chores to do around the house to avoid raking day. What I hate the most about this outdoor job is picking up the wet leaves with bugs hiding on them. What I hate second is how much time it takes. Our lawn is huge—four sections framed with giant oaks that scatter their dead leaves everywhere, as if on purpose, to laugh at me on raking day. Only the willow waves like he’s sorry.
As I drag the bent metal rake through the leaves, it scratches the slate path, creating the sound of nails dragging on a chalkboard. How could Randi have enjoyed doing this? I look toward the Picconi’s house and notice that no one has raked their leaves yet. The Picconis are usually the first to rise on Hartwell Drive—rising with the sun to gather the golden piles. Randi and Michael usually dive into leaf mountains before most kids roll out of bed. Now a thick blanket of leaves spreads across their lawn. I imagine the trees cried and knit the blanket with their colorful tears.
Dad also stops raking for a moment to stare. Is he angry because their leaves are going to blow over to our lawn? Please tell me he’s not going to knock on the Picconi’s door to scold them for their neglect.
He walks toward their house, but not to their door. Instead, he begins to rake the layers of leaves into piles. A wave of love and admiration for my father rushes through me. I decide to help him, hoping they won’t look out the window and see us on their lawn. I’d rather it be a mystery ... a surprise. We work quietly and contentedly. I don’t mind the cold breeze whipping at my neck anymore or my toes going numb.
While busy on Randi’s lawn, I reminisce with my father about fun times I had with Randi. “Before we bagged the leaves, we used to have races, jumping into the piles at the end. The first one covered in leaves won.”
“Randi would knock on the door, before you were even awake. You had no problem running out when she asked you to help.” Dad squints at me with a smirk on his face, forming a comical dimple on his left cheek.
“Well, Randi made it into a game, and at least I was with her. It was never my favorite thing to do.”
“No kidding?” Dad exaggerates a surprised look. I love his silly faces.
“Another thing Randi and Michael would do was have a contest to see who could find the biggest worm. That was definitely not my favorite game!”
“Laurie would’ve liked that one. Remember when she brought a bucket of inchworms home? Your mom nearly fainted!” Dad stops raking for a moment and chuckles. “You never liked bugs—even the spider from ‘Little Miss Muffet’ scared you.”
“Ha ha, Dad.” I’ve heard that joke before.
“It looks like we’re almost finished here.”
“Can I go see Randi when we’re done?”
“Sure, after you clean yourself up. And thanks for helping.” He kisses my forehead.
I look around at the job we did. Without the colorful leaves, the trees look scary, and Hartwell Drive looks gloomy. I can’t wait for the colors of spring, or even some snow to add a little sparkle.
Raking doesn’t seem to be such a rotten job now that I’m finished and sipping a steaming cup of hot cocoa. I wipe my lips, throw my coat on, and head over to Randi’s. On the way, I stop and gather a Ziploc bag of leaves we misse
d. Randi will love these. I know she’ll have an idea for this sack of colored jewels. Maybe we’ll decorate the castle walls or knit a magic carpet and fly over the rooftops.
Chapter 32
Mrs. Picconi opens the door for me and I hurry into their warm home. My shoes are wet, so I step out of them just inside the door and run for the den.
But running on a newly waxed floor is not a good idea. “Whoa!” I shout as I slip and land flat on my bottom. I quickly stand up and gather the leaves that spilled.
Randi bursts out laughing at my unexpected greeting. “Are you okay? Your tush must be sore.”
Her mom rushes in too. “Are you okay?” she echoes.
I nod, brush myself off, and hand Randi the leaves. “Here, I brought these.”
“Neat, we can make leaf prints on cards. Just don’t slip again.”
The smile on my face travels down to my toes as I watch Randi laugh. Randi’s face lights up at the thought of creating a project, like I knew it would. It spurs me on to think of ideas. Everything seems possible. We could even design a time machine for Randi to reverse her steps and stop whatever got her sick.
We empty the crisp leaves on her kitchen table and form a mosaic of color. The earthy smell fills the air as if we were covering ourselves in the fallen leaves under the open sky.
Randi’s mom brings out some paper, crayons, glitter and glue, the missing ingredients to our artwork recipe. We concentrate on our work and don’t say much to each other, other than to ask for a different color or to comment on each other’s work. An hour later our clothes smell like leaves and twinkle from glitter.
When we finish, Mrs. Picconi displays our artwork on the refrigerator using apple magnets. “Very nice,” she says.
We both smile. Maybe I’ll frame the collage and hang it on my wall.
Randi cleans up the mess without being told. Of course, I help. But at home, I would have left it there until someone complained, or Mom bribed me with dessert. Sometimes Randi is the same Randi. How does she do it? Would I be the same going through all this?
Randi's Steps Page 12