Slowly, carefully, Rosie runs her finger along the colors on the lightest side of the cards, all the way down the display.
My chest starts to ache. She’ll pick a shade of nothing, I know it—something light and wispy and barely there.
And I could stop her! Sisters look out for each other, don’t they? It’s for her own good.
But I don’t. I don’t do anything… until her finger stops on a card.
A pink one.
I grit my teeth, slip my beautiful color back into its slot, and pick up Rosie’s card. “This one?” I ask.
She crinkles her forehead. “It does look like fairy wings,” she says.
It also looks like the cupcake Aiden wouldn’t eat. It looks like canopy beds and tea parties and that stupid cleaning set grandma gave me for my birthday before she found out I would never, ever clean anything I didn’t have to.
“Would it look good in our room?” she asks.
Our room.
Rosie always calls it that.
I hand her the card. “Let’s find out.”
“But what if it’s not the right one?”
“It’s right if it’s the one you want.”
Mom rounds the corner, a big bag of grass seed in her arms. “Ready?”
Rosie bounces on her toes. “Ready!”
I pat her on the back, then turn and head into the next aisle so she won’t see my face.
I let my hands drift over the rack of hammers and pliers and wrenches, thinking of that perfect shade of starry sky that I won’t get to see every day, feeling every drop of that color leaking out my toes.
But right when I’m almost empty, I feel something else start trickling in through the top of my head, filling me back up, like a bicycle tire being pumped full of air.
I feel a little bit proud of myself. For doing nothing at all.
I might not be a superhero, but I’m Rosie’s hero.
I hope I deserve to be.
I turn back down the main aisle. Because I still have quarters in my pocket, and I know what to do with them now.
21
On Sunday afternoon, Rosie and I hang out in my workshop while Mom and Dad start painting our room. We drag blankets and pillows in here so we can have a sleepover tonight while the paint dries. I think we should do it again when Sofía comes over next Friday, because who says you can’t have a sleepover with your best friend and your sister?
For now, I try to push away the thought of all that pink going up on the walls.
I’ll be a good sport about it. I will.
But not any sooner than I have to be.
Rosie and I make a big nest of softness in the middle of the workshop floor. She sets Pink Pony on the pillow next to her, sets Raymond on the pillow next to me, then lies down on her stomach to color. She hums for a while, her feet kicked up in the air, while I smooth out my hero poster and tape it back onto the wall.
I stand back and take a look. It’s still blank inside, the rainbow spreading out from that hollow figure in the center. But maybe that doesn’t mean there’s nobody there.
Maybe it means it could be anybody. Even an everyday kid like me.
I’m starting to smell the paint now, but I try not to think about it while I rummage around in my bins. It only takes a minute to find what I’m looking for and put the whole thing together. “Hey, Rosie,” I say when I’m finished.
“Hmm?”
“Do you know what this is?”
She looks up at the Ring, dangling from a rainbow shoelace.
“Your good-luck charm,” she says.
“Nope.” I plop down in front of her, pull down my T-shirt, and show her the Rainbow Ring that’s hanging around my neck again.
Rosie looks from one to the other. “Why do you have two of them?”
“Because one of them is yours.”
She sits all the way up. “Mine?” The ring I bought at the hardware store is so shiny and new that it catches the light and flashes in midair as it spins. “What is it?” Rosie asks.
For a second, I want to say it’s a talisman—a magical charm that activates your powers and makes you better than you were before.
But it doesn’t. It doesn’t have to.
So I say, “It’s a washer.”
Rosie squints at me. “What does it wash?”
“It doesn’t wash anything,” I reply. “It helps hold things together. Not by itself, though. It works with other pieces. If they stick together, they’re even stronger. Like you and me. You know why?”
Her eyes light up. “Why?”
“Because we’re sisters.”
“Friends, too?” she asks quietly.
I smile. “Friends, too.” The Rainbow Ring shines and twirls between us. I open up the shoelace and lean toward her. Rosie bows her head, and I put it on her like a medal. She lifts it off her chest and gazes down at it.
Mom pokes her head in the door. “We finished the first wall,” she says. “Want to come take a look?”
Rosie jumps up. “Yes!” She goes flying past Mom and thumps down the hall. In a few seconds, I hear her squeal.
I sigh and get to my feet.
Mom ruffles my hair. “Thanks for being such a good sport about this.”
I nod and square my shoulders.
The plasticky smell of the paint gets stronger with each step. I can almost feel myself breathing in the pink air, filling up on it, whether I want to or not. I keep my head down, waiting until the very last second to look.
At least it’s not gray anymore, I tell myself. At least it’s not beige or white.
I take a deep breath and step into the room.
Holy hot dog!
“Do you like it?” Rosie asks.
I stand there blinking. This isn’t the color she showed me in the store. It isn’t the color I wanted, either. It’s a gauzy glow of bluish purple. It’s my color but softer, like the sun is shining through it.
“It isn’t pink,” I say.
“Nuh-uh,” Rosie says.
“Why isn’t it pink?”
“It’s not just my room,” she says. “It’s ours.”
“But—” I’m stuttering now. “You wanted pink,” I manage finally. “You love pink.”
“I love you more.” She squeezes my hand. “And sisters look out for each other.”
I almost sob. I had to practically force myself to do the nice thing, the generous thing. Why is it so easy for her?
“But it was your pick,” I say, blinking back tears. “Do you even like it?”
“I love it!” She jumps up and down, clapping. “It looks like fairy wings!”
I breathe a sigh of relief, hook my arm around her neck, and kiss the top her head.
She loves it. She couldn’t fake it if she didn’t. Because when Rosie loves something, she loves it with her whole heart. Pink Pony. Fairy wing purple. Me.
It’s like her superpower.
I hope someday I have one like it.
* * *
Mom and Dad let us help finish painting. Mom uses a brush to outline the edges, nice and neat. Dad shows us how to use big rollers to color inside the lines, then follows behind us to clean up splatters and smooth out places where the paint is uneven.
Which is kind of a lot, because I keep making zigzags with my roller instead of filling up the wall.
When we’re finished, we stand back and look at the whole room.
It’s a good color. I’m not gonna lie: It doesn’t make me feel like I’ve been dunked in purple. But I do feel like I’ve been sprinkled with it, like cinnamon sugar on toast, or that powdery snow that blows off the trees and makes the ground look brand-new.
I bet when I wake up in the morning, it will make me think of Rosie—how she’s her own person, and not just my sidekick. How sometimes she gets her way, sometimes I get mine, and sometimes we both do. Maybe I’ll remember how lucky I am to have a sister like her.
Well, probably not every morning.
“How about we get s
ome ice cream while the paint dries?” Mom says when we put down our rollers. “We can stop for Eli on the way.”
“Yes!” Rosie and I both shout and jump up and down.
“The bikes are ready,” Dad says.
But I have a better idea.
When we get outside, I drag my office chair from around back, park it at the top of the driveway, and ride the short slope down to the sidewalk.
Dad laughs.
“Where on earth did that thing come from?” Mom asks.
I spin myself around. “Isn’t it great? We can ride it to the scoop shop!”
Rosie sighs. “You want me to push you all the way there?”
“Nope.” I stand up. “It’s your turn.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “Really?”
I grin and wave toward the seat. Rosie hops on, and I spin her around until she giggles and squeals and begs me to stop. Then I start rolling her down the sidewalk. Mom and Dad follow behind, hand in hand in their paint-splattered clothes.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“Ready!” She grabs the bottom of the seat.
I put my head down, bracing my arms against the back of the chair.
Then we take off flying.
Acknowledgments
It was such a joy to write about Meena again! Thank you to Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers for giving me the opportunity. The whole team there is fabulous, but I was fortunate to work closely with senior editor Krista Vitola and associate editor Catherine Laudone. Thank you both for the love and labor you poured into this story. I’m also grateful to my agent, Emily Mitchell, who pulled Meena out of the slush pile and who has acted as my sounding board and advocate ever since. I’m so glad to have you in my corner!
Thank you to Tom Daly for creating a book design that is as fun and exuberant as Meena, and to the amazing Mina Price for stepping in as illustrator. As soon as I saw samples of your work, I knew I was in good hands.
I credit my friends and allies in the Wisconsin chapter of SCBWI for showing me that writing children’s books is possible, important, and a whole lot of fun. I’m particularly grateful to the authors who answered impertinent questions during my debut year: Jane Kelley, Sandy Brehl, Liza M. Weimer, and Valerie Biel. My critique group also came through for me, as always. This book is better for the keen eyes and honesty of Moy Ahmad, Jeff Schill, J. Mercer, Nancy McConnell, Vicki Hubert Menuge, and Jenn Van Haaften. I owe a debt of gratitude to my sensitivity readers as well: Laura Pérez-Hametta and Julio Andrade.
To the friends and family who have never stopped rooting for me, thank you. I’m grateful to my parents, Jerome and Carolyn Manternach, and to everyone who hit the streets to sing my praises, especially Jeremy and Anna Johnson Manternach, Brian and Erika Edberg Manternach, and Kathy and Sean Culbertson. Thank you most of all to my husband, Brian Zanin. I can’t imagine a career path more unpredictable than publishing, but with you at my side, I always feel like I’m on solid ground. Thanks also to my children, Mara and Amelia, for letting me borrow from your lives yet again. You are my Inspiration!
Finally, I’d like to thank the parents, teachers, librarians, and bookstore staff who have welcomed me into your worlds and onto your shelves. Above all, thank you to my readers. The best part of this journey has been connecting with you!
More from this Series
Meena Meets Her Match
About the Author
At Meena’s age, KARLA MANTERNACH was a smudgy kid in tube socks. She once stopped an entire parade by running in front of a fire truck for candy. Karla liked every subject in school but always loved writing best of all. Today, she is a freelance writer who creates books for young readers. Karla lives with her family in small-town Wisconsin. Her favorite color is orange.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Karla-Manternach
Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Simon & Schuster New York
Also by Karla Manternach
Meena Meets Her Match
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Karla Manternach
Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Mina Price
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Book design by Tom Daly
The illustrations for this book were rendered digitally.
Jacket design by Tom Daly
Jacket illustrations copyright © 2020 by Mina Price
Author photo by Jazzy Photo
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Manternach, Karla, author.
Title: Never fear, Meena’s here! / Karla Manternach.
Other titles: Never fear, Meena is here!
Description: First edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, [2020] Sequel to: Meena meets her match. | Summary: When third-grader Meena starts to believe she has superpowers and is protected from epileptic seizures, she jeopardizes her relationships with her friends and younger sister.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019006133| ISBN 9781534428201 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN 9781534428225 (eBook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Superheroes—Fiction. | Sisters—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. Epilepsy—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M368 Ne 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019006133
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