Randi's Steps



  Copyright Frances Judge 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, Web distribution or information storage retrieval systems without the written permission of Frances Judge. For permission to use material from this product, submit your request mail to:[email protected]. Only the two main characters and plot are based on real life. All other characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

  For my husband who I love, who makes me smile, makes me laugh, makes me a better person.

  For my parents who have always encouraged me.

  Chapter 1

  I waste ten minutes of my life and ruin my plans today just by being me.

  If my bathing suit had been easy to find, neatly folded in my drawer, Randi and I would have been running and jumping through the sprinklers by now. Instead, I have to empty my dresser, tossing butterfly underwear and mismatched socks across my rug for these crucial minutes. I find my bikini under the bed, the neon green straps wrapped around a naked doll and a lonely boot.

  While I scramble into my suit and struggle with the knot, I hear Dad ask Randi the worst question ever. “How would you like to pose for a portrait?”

  Poor Randi is trapped. I know she won’t say no. So I hurry to warn her, “Dad makes it sound simple, but sitting still for fifteen minutes in that stuffy attic studio is worse than eating fried eel.”

  Randi smiles. “When did you eat fried eel? Maybe it’s good.”

  “You’re weird. But I’ve been posing since I learned to say Da-da. Just wait till a fly lands on your head, and he won’t let you move to swat it.”

  As Dad sketches my best friend, she turns twitchy. Randi’s eyes beg for help. She needs my expert advice so we can get out of there. I want to race through the sprinklers before the heat melts my flip-flops.

  Dad groans. “Try not to move. I’m working on your nose.”

  “You can try, but your nose is going to itch like the chicken pox. Don’t scratch it!”

  “Look straight ahead, eyes still,” Dad instructs.

  “Now you’ll want to blink. But don’t. Just be happy he lets you breathe.”

  Randi shakes with bottled up laughter. “Hww mooch loongrrr?” she mutters through stiff lips.

  “Not too much longer. I’m sketching your Mona Lisa smile.”

  “Dad, that’s not a compliment. Who wants to look like a plain old woman from the 1500s?” His eyes squint with concentration, like he doesn’t hear me.

  Dad’s drawing comes to life as his quick strokes form Randi’s heart-shaped mouth on the cream-colored paper. Lighter, feathery scratches become the curly wisps that frame her forehead. His charcoal drags along the edge of the paper, creating her long, wavy brown hair, the tones of the paper transforming into golden highlights.

  He leaves one part out—the sweat dripping down Randi’s cheeks.

  “Okay. I’m just about. Done. There. Come take a look.” Dad takes a few steps back and tilts his head. He squiggles his name and the date on the bottom right-hand corner. Terry McLean, 1978.

  Randi wipes her face with her t-shirt, slides off the stool, and steps over to where I stand next to the easel. “Wow! It looks exactly like me.”

  “Yep, it does. Now can we go?” I glance back at the drawing again and think, Yeah, spooky real.

  “Yeah, let’s go. I’m hot.” Randi wipes her face again. “Being a statue’s no fun.”

  “Told you.”

  We race to the sprinkler raining a slippery path across Randi’s lawn and leap through the rainbow droplets like ballet dancers trying to land on a slab of butter. We jump again and again until we are drenched.

  Suddenly Randi stops and lies down in the damp grass. “I have to rest for a minute.”

  “Okay.” I plop down next to her and stare at the sky upside down. “Do you see the unicorn?”

  She scans the clouds with her eyes, squinting in the sunlight. “Where? Oh, I see. Looks like it’s about to head-butt a turtle with its horn.” Randi yanks off her hair ribbon.

  I point to another cumulus cloud rolling across the sunny sky. “There’s a girl holding a flower.”

  Randi says nothing. Her eyes are closed. Is she sleeping?

  Then she sits up and massages the sides of her forehead. “I gotta go. My head hurts again. But I’ll come over later.”

  “Well, make it quick, okay?” Summer’s almost over. How many times can she use the same excuse?

  Chapter 2

  The silence in Randi’s house is loud. On a normal day, the stereo blasts her dad’s favorites Billy Joel songs; everyone sings as Randi’s younger brother, Michael, hums car noises and screeches his Hot Wheels race car around my feet.

  Today, I step into the den across an exclamation point of light shining through the closed curtains. I try to be quiet, but I have to sneeze. An uncontrollable, whistling sneeze. Mr. and Mrs. Picconi look at me. Michael looks at me with his mouth open wide. This must be a stranger’s house, not my best friend’s.

  Did I do something wrong? What happened to “Oh hi, Francie, come on in. You’re the next contestant on the Price is Right.” Or, “Do you want to get an ice cream cone at Rocket Ship Park?” or “Let’s ride in Dad’s Corvette and pretend we’re movie stars.” Why are the Picconis acting stranger than usual, not funny strange—that would be normal—but creepy strange? Did all the towns on Long Island turn weird, or just ours?

  Randi appears at the top of the stairs, holding an ice-pack on her head. “I can’t play today. My head’s about to explode.”

  “Oh. That stinks.” I wait a minute, hoping she’s joking. “Well, guess I’ll see you at the bus stop tomorrow.” I re-zip my coat for the short trek from her front door on Hartwell Drive to mine.

  “No, remember? I have to go to the doctor for some tests,” Randi reminds me. “Sorry.” She turns around, shuffles back into her bedroom, and closes the door. She doesn’t say good-bye.

  The bright sun is a big fat liar today because the winter air numbs my toes.

  This must be her hundredth headache, I’ve lost count. Shivering from the cold, I step inside.

  “You’re back already?” Mom says as she takes my coat.

  “She can’t play because of her stupid headache. Why does she have to go to the doctor for that? She always says she has a headache. Can’t she just take some aspirin?”

  Dad looks up from his newspaper. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but nine-year-olds shouldn’t have recurring headaches. She might need glasses. Poor eyesight sometimes causes headaches.” He goes back to reading Newsday. A photo of President Carter’s serious face replaces Dad’s. I peek over the newspaper to see what his eyebrows tell me. He doesn’t look concerned, so I’m not concerned.

  But mom’s green eyes are wide and glossy. “Don’t worry about Randi. God is watching over her.” She puts down her Good Housekeeping magazine and wraps her arms around me, squeezing so hard it hurts. “It’s better to see a doctor and find out what is wrong.” Mom’s voice quivers. And I wonder, “Why?”

  ***

  Randi was supposed to be back by now. I hate riding the bus without her. She’s been gone over a week for those stupid tests. I miss her Tinker Bell laugh with the occasional snort. The rows behind me bounce with laughter. Spit wads and paper balls land next to me. Missed shots? Should I pretend to read the writing on the seatback in front of me or watch trees go by? I’d love to jump out the window and disappear in the snow.

  As soon as the bus rolls down the first hill past the school, bullies and their followers rise like vampires at midnight. A quiet girl like me is high on their list of possib
le targets, along with the boy wearing coke-bottle glasses, and the chubby Mickey Mouse Fan Club member who carries a metal Mickey lunch box.

  Twenty minutes later, the bus inches toward my corner. Way too long.

  Mrs. Picconi’s station wagon is in their driveway. Yes! They’re back from the doctor. I leap out of my seat, trip on Joey Torelli’s football helmet, and grab my sister who is at the front of the bus laughing with Justin and her second-grade friends.

  “Come on, Laurie.”

  “I’m coming,” she groans. I run home as fast as I can run through snow and slush with a pile of schoolbooks weighing me down and Laurie screaming, “Wait up!”

  “Hi, Mom. Can I go to Randi’s? She’s back. I saw her car in…”

  “Francie, first come here and sit down for a minute. I have to tell you something.”

  Mom reaches for my hand as a tear rolls down her cheek.

  Chapter 3

  Randi doesn’t need glasses. Randi has cancer. She has a brain tumor that needs to be removed as soon as possible. It’s something growing where it shouldn’t, like a weed that could spread. I’ve never known anyone with cancer. I wish I still didn’t. What worries me is that she needs an operation on her brain. That definitely sounds serious. How could I think nothing was wrong? Why didn’t I believe her? The lump in my throat is growing. Is that how cancer feels?

  “What should I say to her?”

  Mom wipes her eyes and wraps her arms around me like a warm blanket. Her silky dark brown hair tickles my shoulders. “Just try to act like you do every day and say you hope she gets better soon.”

  I drink some milk to wash down the peanut butter cookies Mom made for me, grab my coat, and inch my way over to Randi’s, rehearsing the words in my mind. I ring the doorbell and wait, shivering.

  Mrs. Picconi opens the door. “Hi, sweetie. Come on in and warm up.”

  I try to smile as I take my coat off.

  “She’s on the couch in the den.”

  Randi looks up at me as I walk in. I forget what I was rehearsing. “Hi” is all that dribbles out.

  “Let’s go up to my room. I’m sick of this couch.”

  Randi gathers her pink flowered pillow, a box of tissues, her Paddington Bear, and shuffles down the hall. She looks like she has the flu, not cancer. What does having cancer look like, anyway?

  I follow her up the carpeted stairs, planting my feet in the indentations of Randi’s footsteps. What would it feel like to be Randi? Her hair swings as she climbs and a cinnamon scent trails behind. A part of me envies her and the attention she gets. There is nothing ordinary about Randi—from her beauty to her illness.

  “You heard I’ve got cancer. And I have to go to the hospital next week, after Valentine’s Day.”

  “Mm hmm. Do you know how long you’ll be there?”

  “My doctor says I’ll have to stay there for at least a month. I have to have something called radi … radiation treatments every day at first. I can go home when I’m down to three times a week. He also said that my hair is going to fall out.” Randi studies herself in the mirror as she pulls her hair back tight enough to raise her eyebrows. “My mom is going to buy me some scarves to wear until it grows back.”

  What can I say to that? I am in shock. One month seems so long to be in the hospital. Her hair will fall out? Why, God?

  Randi punches her bed. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go!” She grabs her bear and throws it across the room, knocking over her jewelry box. We both stare at her handmade jewelry scattered on the rug. “I’m so scared. I just want these headaches to stop. Why won’t they stop? Why is this happening?”

  I don’t have an answer, so I bend down and pick up her beaded bracelets. “Maybe I can visit you in the hospital.” Why did I say that? I don’t want to go there.

  Hearing a knock at the door, we both flick away our tears. Mrs. Picconi peeks into the room.

  “Dinner’s ready, Princess. Hurry up before your chicken flies away.” Mrs. Picconi flaps her arms a few times and heads back downstairs.

  Randi shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Sometimes she’s as weird as my dad.”

  Mrs. Picconi sounds cheerful, but her eyes have dark circles around them and her shoulders are slumped. I’m usually disappointed when Randi’s dinnertime interrupts our games, but not this time. I’m ready to go home.

  Twisting back and forth on my cracked plastic swing, my hands freeze on the rusty chain. I keep swinging, numb to the cold, and remember.

  We met two years ago when I was eight and she was seven. My family moved next door to her family on Hartwell Drive in a hilly town on Long Island’s north shore, a neighborhood overflowing with kids, bikes, and dogs. It was 1976, and it was hot.

  I sat hunched over an unpacked box, watching a parade on TV, and sucking a wooden spoon coated with lemon Italian ice from Mario’s. Some comedian named Bob Hope told jokes I didn’t get as baton twirlers marched behind bands playing “God Bless America.” I had to strain my eyes to see anything on the fuzzy black and white screen. Only channel seven came in clear.

  The smell of grilled hot dogs and burgers drifted into the den. Everyone celebrated America’s 200th birthday. Everyone, but me. Outside, kids I didn’t know yet were playing games at the block party while I sat alone—well, almost alone. Laurie lay on the grey speckled rug, scribbling in a Bugs Bunny coloring book and singing a mixed-up version of the ABC song. I wanted to trade places with her. She could be the oldest and handle the friend-making in a new neighborhood while I stayed home and colored.

  For three days, I sulked around the house, determined to stay inside for six months until Christmas. On the fourth day of staring at undecorated walls and cardboard boxes, Randi and her mom came over to welcome us.

  The first thing Randi said to me was, “I like your name. It rhymes with fancy, and fancy is pretty.” From that moment, I liked her. She invited me to her house to play. We became friends on that muggy summer afternoon.

  As we filled in pegs on her Lite Brite box, our mothers got to know each other. Mrs. Picconi talked about her job as a typing teacher at Earl L. Vandermeulen High School and how she met her husband in college. My mom described her part-time job leading a senior citizen club and how she met my dad while vacationing in Puerto Rico when he was in the navy. At lunchtime, Randi and I joined them in the kitchen, and I had my first taste of matzo ball soup. I thought it was good but strange. We never ate soup in summertime. When we returned to our glowing picture of a rainbow, our moms cackled on like two noisy parrots.

  I left Randi’s house smiling like I just got the best birthday present ever. Mom carried a tattered cardboard box held together with twine. “Mrs. Picconi said she was clearing out her attic and found some Christmas ornaments her husband had before they were married. They don’t need them anymore since they celebrate Chanukah instead.”

  “They don’t celebrate Christmas at all?”

  “No, they’re Jewish, but Chanukah is around the same time of year. They get gifts too.”

  “Huh?” I shrugged my shoulders. Why would someone not want to celebrate Christmas? It was strange to me but didn’t matter. What mattered was Hartwell Drive was home now, and a friend lived right next door.

  ***

  I swing higher and think about how Randi’s bouncy ponytail forms a long spiral. She always looks cute. My straight brown hair resembles a pilgrim boy’s. She has baby-smooth skin the color of rich cream. Freckles splash across my nose, like splattered paint. I’ve tried erasing them, but they’re stuck. White-out almost worked, until Mom made me wash the “white blobs” off my face.

  I tilt my head back and close my eyes. A sports car zooms by, revving and blasting music. It sounds like Mr. Picconi’s Corvette convertible, a car he named “Jenny” and keeps hidden in the garage.

  I stop swinging and daydream. On sunny days, Randi’s father would open the garage, remove his treasure, and take us for a ride with the top down. I imagined we w
ere on the Thunderbolt Rollercoaster as he sped down the hill at the end of our street. We giggled as our stomachs felt butterfly tickles. I loved riding in the sparkly turquoise Corvette, a hundred times nicer than our squash colored station wagon. All of the boys on our block stared as we drove around in a car cooler than any of their Hot Wheels. Randi and I pretended we were the queens of Hartwell Drive.

  “Hello, hello people,” we called out as we waved royal-looking waves. “We’re taking a drive through our kingdom. See you later at the castle.” I could taste the air, like a mouthful of unsweetened cotton candy melting on my tongue.

  The sweet tasting air suddenly turns to wet snowflakes. I leap off and trudge toward warmth, fighting the bitter wind and snow that press against me. The flakes melt on my face, blending with my tears.

  I turn the front door knob like a thief trying not to trip the alarm. I want to sneak down the hall and crawl under my covers without being seen or heard. It works until my bed creaks.

  “Are you okay, Francie?”

  I don’t answer. I try to muffle my crying in the pillow, but those muffled cries are the alarm to Mom. A gentle knock, Mom’s knock, and the door creaks open.

  Mom sits down next to me. “You can talk to me when you need to. I’m proud of you for being such a good friend.” Mom’s voice is soft and she rubs my back.

  I sit up and wipe my eyes. “She’s gonna be gone a whole month in the hospital.” I picture counting the days on a calendar. A month is so long. All I want to do is sleep, wake up tomorrow, and drive away, even on the stupid school bus. Anything to get away from this mess.

  Chapter 4

  Another Monday morning of chronic bus-ride-blues. As the wheels turn, so does my stomach. From somewhere behind me, two kids chatter. “Randi missed the bus again…wonder what her excuse is this time. Bet she stubbed her toe.”

  “Or got a paper cut. ‘Mommy, look at this. I can’t go to school with a booboo.’”

  I strain my neck to see who said it and shout, “Shut up, you jerk!”

  Jake and his gang mimic me. My face is burning and my heart races as I clench one fist so tight, nails dig into skin. But I don’t have the guts to do what I feel like doing. Instead, I just wish their nightmares would come true. They could show up to school in their underwear or get beat up by bigger eighth grade bullies, or be sucked away by an alien spaceship.