Because of Anya

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Five days before Anya was supposed to go back to school, she heard Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen again.

  “I know, but what other choice does she have?” Dad said.

  Mom came out of the kitchen. She leaned down low beside the couch, where Anya was sprawled reading about Camelot again. Anya hated Camelot now. She hated King Arthur and Lancelot and, most of all, Queen Guinevere. They all had hair. Queen Guinevere had a lot of it.

  “Anya?” Mom said. “Let’s go buy you a wig.”

  Seven

  Keely woke up early on the second day of school after Christmas break. The one advantage of being the only girl in the family was that she didn’t have to share a room with anyone else, so she could do whatever she wanted in the morning. She hated it at sleepovers when she had to lie there, without moving, and wait until Stef and Tory and Nicole woke up too.

  This morning she slipped out of bed and crept over to her desk, where she pulled out her box of crayons and a sheet of clean white paper. She folded the paper in half, like a card, and wrote on the front in her cheeriest purple, GET WELL SOON. Beneath those words she drew a girl in a light blue shirt and darker jeans. The girl even sort of looked like Anya, with brown hair and brown eyes and a shy smile. Keely drew in the bangs carefully, arching them ever so slightly. There were plenty of things Keely couldn’t do very well, but even Stef and Tory and Nicole admitted that Keely was the best artist in the class.

  Keely finished drawing the girl and flipped the card open. She drew roses and daisies on the inside left page. Now, what should she write on the inside right? She’d already used “Get well soon.” Though maybe that wasn’t right, because what if Anya wasn’t going to get well? What Keely wanted to say was, “I hope you don’t die,” but that didn’t sound like something you should write in a card. It didn’t sound like something you should even say. Maybe Anya didn’t know that she might die. Keely sure didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

  After a minute she just wrote, “FROM KEELY.”

  Keely shut the card and looked at the front again, admiring her drawing of the girl. That was probably the best job Keely had ever done drawing hair.

  Oh. Oh, no.

  What if it bothered Anya that the picture Keely drew of her had so much hair, when Anya herself had to wear a wig?

  What if it bothered Anya that Keely even knew she was sick?

  Keely stared at the card for a moment longer. She didn’t want to throw it away, because she’d done such a good job on it. And she did want Anya to see it. She did want Anya to know that she, Keely, didn’t want Anya to die.

  Keely could hear the soft whirring sound coming from Mom and Dad’s bedroom, which meant that Mom was awake and already exercising on her treadmill. In a few minutes Mom would burst into the room, tossing off commands: “Get dressed! Go pack your lunch! Go get the Rice Krispies down for Jacob, will you?” And then it’d be breakfast time, and Dad would be passing out good-bye hugs before he rushed off to work, and Kevin and Brian would be joking around, saying, “Hey, Keely! Jacob spit in your juice. Can we watch you drink it?” And Keely wouldn’t know if they were telling the truth or not. She’d be so busy guarding her breakfast from her brothers’ pranks that she wouldn’t have a single moment to think about helping Anya.

  Keely slid the card into her backpack to take to school. She could decide what to do with it when she got there.

  Maybe Stef would have a good idea.

  Eight

  It rained, and they had indoor recess on the second day that Anya had to wear her wig to school.

  Usually during indoor recess Anya played on the classroom computers with Jennifer and Tyler and Mike, or she played one of the board games with Leah and Kruti, or she drew pictures on the chalkboard with Yolanda and Fumi. But kids were supposed to use headphones with the computers, and Tyler had a bad habit of snatching headphones from other people’s heads, without warning, just to be funny. Anya could picture in her mind what would happen if she did the computer: Tyler would grab the top of the headphones, get a handful of Anya’s hair caught in his fingers, pull straight up, and suddenly have her whole wig dangling from his hand.

  She couldn’t play on the computer. The army, navy, air force, and marines combined couldn’t get her to touch one of those headphones again until her hair grew back.

  But board games were no better. Leah and Kruti always set up their Scrabble or Boggle on the floor, and they bent their heads in together, spelling words. How could Anya be sure Leah or Kruti wouldn’t lean too close, get a good look at Anya, and call out in horror, “Is that a wig?”

  Or—Kruti wore earrings. Anya could even imagine one of Kruti’s earrings getting caught in Anya’s wig, pulling it sideways. Kruti would scream. Everyone would hear.

  No board games.

  But drawing on the chalkboard wasn’t a great idea either. Fumi and Yolanda liked to lean way back and draw their pictures up to the very top of the board. If Anya leaned way back, she might not still have a wig on when she straightened up.

  Anya couldn’t do anything.

  When first recess came, Anya sat frozen at her desk, watching the other kids scatter around the room. But then she really stuck out, the only one still left in her seat. Any minute Mrs. Hobson might look up from the papers she was grading and say, “Anya? Didn’t you hear? It’s recess. Are you all right, dear?”

  Anya slipped a book out of her desk and went to a corner away from everyone else. She hunched over in as small a space as possible and started reading.

  It was the Camelot book again.

  Anya could have chosen any one of a dozen other books to read. Mrs. Hobson was big on encouraging kids to read; two whole shelves full of paperbacks lined the wall under the windows. Mrs. Hobson would probably have even let Anya go down to the school library to get a new book, if she had asked.

  But Anya had been reading the Camelot book when she found out about her first bald spot. She’d been reading the Camelot book when Mom told her she was getting a wig. It didn’t seem like she’d be able to move on to anything else until her hair grew back.

  She knew what the books on Mrs. Hobson’s shelves were about. Half of them told about kids who had really stupid problems, like they wanted a dog and their parents wouldn’t let them have one. And they thought that was the greatest tragedy in the world. Anya just couldn’t care anymore about kids like that.

  The other half of the books were about kids who had really, really awful things happen to them, like their best friend died, or they were in a car wreck and lost their legs, or they had bad parents who beat them up all the time. That kind of book would make Anya even sadder than she already was.

  So she was stuck with Camelot. Morgan le Fay was just about to betray Arthur.

  Anya read in the corner for the whole recess. Nobody came over and said, “Oh, Anya, we were waiting for you. Come on, play with us.” When Mrs. Hobson called everyone back to their desks, no one leaned across the aisle to say—fast, before Mrs. Hobson started in on science—“Hey, Anya, I know you did something else this recess, but will you play with us next recess?”

  It had never mattered before that Anya played with some kids some of the time, other kids other times. Anya had always liked that, before. Some days she felt like listening to Tyler’s goofy jokes and Jennifer’s rowdy riddles; some days she liked the peaceful swoop of the chalk on the board beside easygoing Fumi and quiet Yolanda.

  But going back and forth between friends meant that no one missed her, no one wondered where she was. Nobody knew how awful she felt—how, even now, even as Mrs. Hobson talked about photosynthesis in her calm, patient voice, Anya’s stomach was churning and she kept having to squinch her eyes together to make sure there weren’t any tears forming and falling. Nobody knew how scared she was that her wig might be even the teeniest bit crooked. Nobody saw how she kept having to lift her hand toward the wig, to feel the tips of the fake hair, to make sure nothing was wrong.

  But she didn’t want anyo
ne to see. She didn’t want anyone to know.

  Did she?

  Nine

  All recess Keely and her friends whispered together. Keely missed their tree outside. At the tree everyone talked out loud, and Keely could hear well. Inside, no matter how close Keely tried to sit, she always missed something.

  They were talking about Anya.

  “Well, I think we should tell her we know,” Tory said.

  “Shh,” Stef said. “I’m thinking.”

  Keely turned and looked over her shoulder. Anya was in the opposite corner, bent over a book. She was the only kid in the whole room sitting alone. Keely couldn’t see her face. Between the book and the hair falling forward to hide her eyes, Anya might as well have been behind a curtain.

  “I made a card for Anya,” Keely said. “I’m going to give it to her.”

  “No!” Stef said. “I mean, let’s take this slow, make sure we’re doing the right thing.”

  This wasn’t like Stef. Stef usually charged ahead, no matter what. She was always sure she was doing the right thing.

  Was Stef scared? Stef?

  “All right, class, back to your seats. Recess is over,” Mrs. Hobson said.

  Keely sat through science, barely listening to Mrs. Hobson talking about how plants got food and survived. Too much else was whirling around in her brain. She stared at the glossy hair on the back of Anya’s head.

  Back in kindergarten Keely and Anya had been friends. Kind of. Almost. Keely could remember those first few weeks of school. During free choice she and Anya were the only two girls who wanted to play with the blocks. It seemed like all the other girls rushed straight to house-keeping—the toy kitchen and the three-legged table with the plastic fruits and vegetables. But Anya and Keely had built towers together. Keely thought she had even asked Mom once if Anya could come over to play at her house, but Mom had said no. Jacob was born when Keely was in kindergarten. Mom said no a lot that year.

  And then in the second month of kindergarten Stef had moved into the class. She’d latched on to Keely right away. (Why hadn’t she latched on to Anya?) Stef told Keely that blocks were boring. She liked to play at the art table. And Keely did too. Stef told her what to draw, and then Stef would glue Keely’s pictures onto mobiles and collages, or cards that Stef took home and gave to her own parents.

  Keely couldn’t remember anything else about Anya from kindergarten. Once Stef arrived, it was like she was the star of the show, and Keely’s memory didn’t have room for any of the bit players. Stef invited Keely over to her house plenty of times. Stef nagged and nagged Keely, so Keely finally talked Mom into letting her have Stef over.

  Now Keely could picture Anya, five years old, in pink overalls, standing beside a block tower waiting for Keely. And Keely never came, because she was off playing with Stef.

  But that was silly. Keely could play with anyone Keely wanted to. Anya could play with anyone Anya wanted to. All that had been four and a half years ago. It didn’t matter now. It didn’t have anything to do with Anya wearing a wig, and maybe having cancer, and maybe dying.

  Did it?

  At the next recess Stef gathered her friends together, leaned forward, and announced dramatically, “I have a plan.”

  Ten

  Anya was hunched over her Camelot book again at second recess. It was a good thing this was the fourth time she’d read this book, because she wasn’t absorbing any of it. She’d read a sentence, get to the period at the end, and realize she couldn’t remember a single word.

  “Hi, Anya,” someone said.

  Anya jerked her head up. Automatically she reached her hand up to feel the wig, to make sure she hadn’t knocked it crooked.

  Keely Michaels was crouching beside her.

  “Hi,” Anya said. Her voice came out almost like a croak. It seemed like days since she’d used her voice. Never mind that she’d answered a math question for Mrs. Hobson just ten minutes earlier. Anya felt like she was some hermit who’d been living in a cave for decades, and she didn’t know what to do when someone showed up to talk to her.

  Instinctively Anya scooted away from Keely so that she couldn’t get a close look at the wig.

  “I just came over to tell you,” Keely said, “um, your hair looks really good today. Did you just get it cut?”

  “Uh, yeah. Over the holidays.” Anya’s voice came out in a terrified whisper. The thing was, she wasn’t lying. The wig shop had cut and shaped the wig to fit her head before she took it home.

  “Where?” Keely persisted.

  “What?” Anya said.

  “Where did you get your hair cut?”

  Anya shrugged. “Just some hair place. I don’t remember the name.”

  Now, that was a lie. Anya would never forget Josephine’s Wig Shop. Even if she lived to be a million years old, even if her hair grew back tomorrow and never fell out again (oh, please, God, let her hair grow back tomorrow and never fall out again), she’d still have nightmares about Josephine’s Wig Shop. Everybody had been nice to her, but that only made it worse. At the end, when the wig was all cut and shaped and stuck tight on Anya’s head, three workers had clustered around her, exclaiming, “Oh, don’t you look nice,” and, “No one would ever know,” and, to Mom, “You have such a beautiful little girl.”

  None of the workers were wearing wigs.

  But a practically bald old woman sat in the try-on chair beside Anya’s. She had hollow cheeks and sunken eyes; she looked barely alive. The dark wig the workers were placing on her bare head only made the woman’s face look more cavernous. Anya was sure the woman was really, really sick. And she was the only one in the store not telling Anya how pretty she looked. She didn’t say anything. But the old woman’s eyes met Anya’s in the mirror, and that exchanged glance was the only thing that gave Anya the courage to stand up and walk out of the store.

  The old woman understood. She understood that Anya didn’t feel pretty or nice. She understood that what Anya wanted to do was yank the wig off her head and throw it on the ground and scream, “Quit lying to me! Leave me alone! Take that horrid thing away! I hate it! I hate you all!”

  Because the old woman wanted to do the same thing.

  “Um, are you feeling okay?” Keely asked now.

  “Yeah,” Anya said. “Why?”

  “I just wondered,” Keely said. “You, um, look a little pale. You’re not getting sick, are you?”

  “No,” Anya said. “I’m fine. Never felt better.”

  She could practically see the lies piling up, like they were something tangible. Bricks being laid on mortar, maybe. Tell enough lies and she wouldn’t need the wig anymore, she’d have a whole wall built around her.

  “Oh,” Keely said. “Great. I’m glad.”

  Anya didn’t say anything.

  “Well, I’ve got to go,” Keely said, like she had an important appointment she couldn’t miss. “It’s been nice talking to you. See you later.”

  Anya watched over the top of her book as Keely scurried across the room, back to Stef Englewood and the rest of her little clique.

  What had that whole conversation been about?

  Anya realized she was sweating; her heart was beating so hard it felt like it was trying to escape. Cautiously she rubbed her hand across her sweaty forehead. Sweat didn’t look very natural on synthetic hair.

  Across the room she could see Keely talking animatedly with her friends. Keely was shaking her head. Her voice rose, loud enough that Anya could catch three short words: “No, I couldn’t . . .”

  And Anya told another lie, just to herself: They’re not talking about me.

  Eleven

  “Maybe you should just tell,” Dad said.

  “Huh?” Anya and Mom said together.

  They were eating dinner, enchiladas, which were usually one of Anya’s favorite meals. But the food seemed strangely tasteless tonight. Something had made Anya open her mouth and start telling Mom and Dad about Keely coming over and complimenting her hair. Anya ha
d wanted to make the story something good—she’d wanted to finish with the words, “So, see? Nobody notices a thing! They think I just got a haircut and it looks great.” Anya had wanted to erase the worry she saw in her parents’ eyes.

  But the story had come out all wrong. Anya had even found herself saying, “I was just so scared the whole time I was talking to Keely. What if she found out?”

  When Anya was done talking, Mom and Dad looked even more worried. They exchanged glances, and then Dad burst out with his, “Maybe you should just tell.”

  “What good would that do?” Mom said after she and Anya got over their shock. “That would just make sure that the thing she’s scared of would happen. Pretty soon everybody would know.”

  “Exactly,” Dad said. “She shouldn’t tell just this Keely kid. She should tell everybody. What if she stood up in front of her class and said, ‘Listen up, everyone. Something weird happened to me over Christmas break. My hair fell out, and now I’m wearing a wig. But it’s no big deal. What I have isn’t contagious and it doesn’t hurt and I’m perfectly healthy otherwise’? Then everybody would know, and she wouldn’t have to be scared anymore.”

  “People would ask questions,” Mom said.

  “So what?” Dad said. “Anya could answer them.”

  Tears stung in Anya’s eyes. Dad thought she was brave enough to tell, but she wasn’t. There was no way she could do what Dad was suggesting. She didn’t even want to think about it.

  Dad put his fork down.

  “As much as I hate to think it, this alopecia is probably something we’re going to have to deal with for a long time. Maybe we even have to acknowledge that Anya may never get her hair back.”

  No, Anya thought. No.

  Dad wasn’t done talking.

  “And I think the only way we can survive it is to be honest about it. I’m willing to go first.” He turned and looked directly at Anya. “Anya, ever since you lost that first patch of hair, I’ve been beating myself up, thinking it’s my fault somehow. What if it’s connected to some germ I brought home from the hospital? What if it’s because of some genetic defect that you inherited from me? I’ve been working in some field of medicine since I was eighteen years old—why can’t I just do a little research and pull some obscure cure off the Internet and make it all better for you?”