Jessi's Wish Part 6

Becca was already running across the lawn. "Oh, good! You're wearing the T-shirt!" she said to Danielle. (For some reason, Becca just loved that BALD is BEAUTIFUL shirt. She was ecstatic each time Danielle wore it.) "Hi, girls!" Mrs. Roberts called from the front door. "Danielle, slow down."

Danielle leaned conspiratorially toward Becca and Charlotte. "I had a headache earlier today," she whispered. "Mommy made me rest all afternoon. I got so bored. I'm really glad you're here."

"Do you have to rest during the cookout?" asked Charlotte.

"I hope not/' Danielle replied. "Come on inside, you guys. Hey, Jessi, you haven't met Mr. Toes yet."

"Who's Mr. Toes?" I asked.

"Our new kitten. Well, really he's Greg's new kitten, but he seems to belong to everyone in the family."

Becca and Charlotte and I followed Danielle inside - and right through her house and out the back door.

"Mr. Toes is so cute," Becca informed me on the way. "He's all gray except for his toes, which are white. That's why Greg named him Mr. Toes."

On the back patio were Mr. Roberts and Greg. Mr. Roberts was wearing an ap.r.o.n and a chef's hat. He was standing over the barbecue, flipping hamburgers and turning pieces of chicken. Greg was on his hands and knees, peering inside a grocery bag that was lying on its side.

"Mr. Toooooes, Mr. Toooooes," he was calling softly.

A gray bundle of fur darted out of the bag, then back inside.

"Well," said Danielle, "that was Mr. Toes. He moves fast."

We played with Mr. Toes until dinner was ready. Danielle's mother had set the picnic table with a red-and-white-checked cloth, paper plates, and plastic forks and knives.

"This looks fantastic," I said, as Mr. Roberts set down a bowl of potato salad.

Danielle's parents did everything they could to make the picnic special. When supper was over, we roasted marshmallows in the barbecue. Then we sang songs. Mr. Roberts even sent Becca, Charlotte, Danielle, and Greg on a treasure hunt. (The prize was a book of jokes.) While the kids followed the clues, which led them around the backyard, I sat with Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. I watched them as they watched the kids. Mostly, they smiled. The kids were clowning around. Danielle kept shouting, "X marks the spot! X marks trie spot!" and Greg rushed after her, crying, "Buried treasure!" and, "Yo ho ho! We are pirates!"

But sometimes this very thoughtful expression would come over the Robertses' faces. I thought I knew why. Four energetic children were tearing around the yard. There was Greg, with his st.u.r.dy legs and his shock of reddish- brown hair. There was Becca, who seemed to have endless energy and was always the one sent up trees or behind bushes to search for clues. There was Charlotte, her long, dark hair pulled into a fat braid, dashing after Becca. And there was Danielle, with her k.n.o.bby knees and elbows, her slightly askew scarf that showed her bald head quite plainly, and her BALD IS BEAUTIFUL shirt.

What did her parents think as they watched her? Did they remember cookouts from a year earlier, when Danielle was strong and healthy and had hair like her brother's? Did they wonder whether they would have another cook-out, just like this one, a year from then? Did they hope? Did they try not to hope? Did they try to forget?

"Danielle!" called Mrs. Roberts, standing up. "Pill time!"

"Right now?" exclaimed Greg. "Right in the middle of our treasure hunt?"

"Yes, right now," said Mrs. Roberts. "Danielle, come on, sweetie."

"Is Danielle going to get a piece of candy after she takes her pills?" asked Greg. "Because if she is, that's not fair. I mean, if she is, I want a piece of candy, too. I want - "

"Greg, you don't have to take pills," said Mr. Roberts.

"And Danielle, you do. Come here, please."

Danielle trotted across the gra.s.s to her mother.

Mrs. Roberts rested her hand on Danielle's forehead. "Feeling okay?"

Danielle nodded. "I'm fine. I want to finish the treasure hunt."

"Okay. After your pills. And when the treasure hunt is over, Becca and Jessi and Charlotte will have to go home. You need to go to bed."

"All right."

"But I'm not tired," whined Greg. "I don't want everyone to go home. I want to stay up and play. I want ..." Greg trailed off. He watched his sister follow Mrs. Roberts into the house.

Then he sighed.

I decided that having a brother or sister who's sick must be awfully difficult. Greg probably didn't understand much about leukemia - except that because of it, his sister had spent a lot of time in the hospital. So his parents had, too. And that Greg spent a lot of time with neighbors and his grandparents. And that after Danielle came home, people gave her most of the attention. I wasn't too surprised when, a little later, Greg flung himself on the ground and threw a tantrum, yelling, "I wish I was sick, too!" (Mr. and Mrs. Roberts tried to ignore him.) By the time Daddy arrived to take Becca and Charlotte and me home, Greg was quiet. And Becca had run out of steam. It was only nine o'clock, but she'd been pretty active. Charlotte was tired, too. Danielle was nearly asleep.

The girls called exhausted good-byes to each other, and then we left. That night, I couldn't stop thinking about Danielle and her family. They needed a vacation badly, I thought. I wished that Danielle's wish would come true soon.

Guess what happened the next afternoon. My friends and I decided to hold another weekend BSC meeting. But this time the meeting was held in my room! That was a first. I felt honored.

However, I decided my room did not look fit for a meeting. So I spent two hours cleaning it. I swept dustb.a.l.l.s out from under my bed. Those dustb.a.l.l.s must have been as old as I was. Well, not really. But they had probably started forming the day we moved into the house. I dusted my collection of ceramic horses. I wiped the gla.s.s covering my ballet posters. I straightened up my stuffed animals, and I organized my books.

I finished just as our doorbell rang. A few moments later, Mary Anne and Dawn ran up- stairs. Soon we were joined by Kristy, Mallory, Claud, and Stace.

"Welcome," said Kristy, "to another totally casual BSC meeting. Today's topic of conversation is ... Our Activities, An Update. I'll start."

Kristy talked about the babies. She especially liked Joy. (Maybe that was because Joy especially liked Kristy.) "Frankie is making progress," reported Mary Anne. "Just a little, but it's progress anyway. His parents chart his skills so they can actually see if he improves. It's sort of hard to tell, if you just watch Frankie. But when you look at the charts and you see that this week Frankie sat up for eight seconds straight, and last week his record was six seconds, then you know you're making a difference. Frankie might be able to crawl someday. Maybe even walk."

"I had a talk with Charmaine," Stacey announced. "I told her that I have not always been such a great diabetes patient. And I told her about the time when I gorged on candy and stuff and finally wound up in the hospital. I think I made an impression. Charmaine asked about a zillion questions."

"That's great," said Mal. "I'm having fun at the playground. All the kids are neat, but there's this one boy, Danny. He's five years old. I just love him. I know we shouldn't play favorites, and I really try not to. But Danny is so sweet. Yesterday he picked a bouquet of weeds for me,"

"I guess I sort of singled out Danielle," I said. "I've gotten to know her family, and . . . and, oh! She might get her wish! She's on the YWIMC wish list!"

"Cool," said Dawn. "I tried not to play favorites, either. But at the Inst.i.tute I always see a little girl named Kendra. She has cerebral palsy. Boy, you guys should hear about what happens at Baker. ..."

Chapter 12.

Dawn's afternoons at the Baker Inst.i.tute for physically disabled kids sounded fascinating. She rode to Stamford in a specially equipped van with four children from Stoneybrook who went to Baker for physical therapy, cla.s.ses in the arts, and a chance to make new friends. The bus driver was a woman who was going to college to learn to be a physical therapist. She drove the bus to earn some extra money, but the kids were more than just a job to her. She really enjoyed being with them.

"Candace is so funny," Dawn told me. "She jokes around with the kids, and they love her. She treats all of them the way you'd treat kids who aren't in wheelchairs or wearing braces. She'll say to them, 'Hurry up! I haven't got all day,' and the kids just giggle. Most people tiptoe around the kids like they're going to break. And never mention their braces or anything. But if a friend of yours got new clothes, you'd make a comment, right? So if a kid gets on the bus with decorations all over the back of his wheelchair, Candace will say, 'Your chair looks great today! I think you should go into business as a decorator.' "

Anyway, when the bus arrived at Baker, Dawn and Candace would help the kids inside. The kids and teachers and therapists would gather in this one huge room and talk.

Dawn usually looked around for Kendra. Or Kendra found Dawn.

"Dawn! Yo, Dawn!" -Kendra called one afternoon.

Dawn started laughing. She turned around and saw Kendra zipping toward her in her motdrized wheelchair.

"What's this 'Yo, Dawn'?" Dawn teased. "What ever happened to 'Good afternoon, Dawn. Nice to see you'?"

"My big brother says 'yo' all the time," replied Kendra. "He even answers the phone that way. He picks it up and he says, 'Yo, the Bogdanoffs'. Who's this?' "

"And what do your parents think of that?" asked Dawn.

"They don't know he does it." Kendra grinned.

Kendra is nine years old. She has cerebral palsy. Her muscles don't work the way most people's muscles do. Her legs don't support her, so she can't stand or walk. And she doesn't have much control over her arms. That's why her wheelchair is motorized. She can steer it just by moving these b.u.t.tons. She doesn't have to push the wheels along.

When Dawn told me that, I said, "If she doesn't have good muscle control, how can she do anything? You need muscles to write . . . even to see."

"Well, she has better control over some of her muscles than others," Dawn replied. "Also, she uses a computer. It's much easier for her just to hit keys than it is for her to write. Although she can write. She can see, too, but she really has to concentrate in order to read. Even so, she reads a lot, which only goes to show how much she enjoys it."

Kendra was always writing something. She really did plan to be an author one day. She was good at writing, and she was proud of her work.

"Look what I wrote last night," Kendra said to Dawn. Slowly she reached into the tote bag that hung from the side of her chair. She pulled out a piece of paper and held it toward Dawn.

Dawn reached for it. " 'Why I Hate Tomatoes/ " she read aloud. She laughed. "Was this a school a.s.signment?"

"No. My mom made me eat a tomato last night, even though I hate them."

"So you decided to write about that?"

"Yup. My favorite part of my story - well, I guess it's really more of an essay - is the time I bit into one of those little cherry tomatoes?" (Dawn nodded.) "And I squished it between my teeth and the seeds shot all the way across the table and hit my mother in the face. I thought she would say, 'Okay, Kendra.

No more tomatoes.' But she didn't. Someday I think I'll write a book about tomatoes. I'll call it My War Against Tomatoes, the Most Disgusting Food There Is. ... Hey, there's Polly. Yo, Polly! Wait for me!"

I couldn't help thinking, when Dawn told me the story, that Kendra was actually luckier than Danielle. I knew I shouldn't compare the girls. I knew there was no point in it. But I couldn't help it. I'm sure both Danielle and Kendra would have thought I was crazy. I mean, take Danielle. Her muscles work fine. She can walk and run and chase after Mr. Toes. She doesn't have to concentrate extra hard to read. If she wants to write a quick note, she just picks up a pencil and a piece of paper. If she wants to make a phone call, she picks up the phone and dials it. When the phone rings, she runs to the kitchen and answers it. All very easy for her.

But.

But when Danielle thinks of the future, she thinks of fifth grade, maybe sixth grade. She wishes to be able to graduate from Stoney-brook Elementary. When Kendra thinks of the future, she thinks of college, of being an adult, of becoming a writer. Kendra has a future. Danielle has a future, too, of course, but hers is much more uncertain.

When the last bus had arrived at Baker, one teacher took a head count of the kids who had shown up. Then the others guided their students to various areas. One small group went to an art cla.s.s for extremely disabled kids, another to an art cla.s.s for more mobile kids, another to physical therapy, etc. Dawn had decided to help in a writing cla.s.s for fairly mobile students. Kendra was a member of that cla.s.s.

Into a small room rolled Kendra and six other kids. Four of Kendra's friends rode in motorized wheelchairs. The other two pushed themselves in manual chairs, using strong arms. They positioned themselves in front of computers. Kendra was grinning.

"Today's subject," began Mr. Arno, the writing teacher, "is humor. I want you to write a humorous story, and I want you to tell your story in dialogue."

"Just dialogue?" asked a boy.

"Just dialogue," replied Mr. Arno.

"Oh, boy!" said Kendra softly. "This is going to be fun."

For the next half hour, Dawn helped the kids with their a.s.signment. Blaire, who's a year older than Kendra, had a lot of questions - and used a voice synthesizer to ask them. Like Kendra, she has cerebral palsy, except that the muscles that control her speech are affected, so she has to communicate by writing or by using her computer. Mickey, who has muscular dystrophy, wrote quickly, his fingers flying over the keys.

"Our champ," said Mr. Arno, smiling. "He took a typing cla.s.s."

Mickey had begun to develop muscular dystrophy just a couple of years earlier. So far, his legs were affected, but not his arms.

"However," Mr. Arno had told Dawn one day, "muscular dystrophy is a progressive disease."

"Progressive?" Dawn repeated, watching Mickey.

"Meaning it keeps getting worse."

"Oh." Dawn nodded her head soberly.

That was when I'd realized how silly it was for me to compare children. What was the point of wondering why Danielle had gotten leukemia instead of cerebral palsy? Or why Mickey had gotten muscular dystrophy instead of leukemia? If he'd gotten leukemia, he would still be able to use his legs. But then, he would have been so sick. . . .

Life is not fair, I had reminded myself. Everybody gets a bad break from time to time. The important thing is not what those breaks are, but how you deal with them. If I ever got as sick as Danielle, I hoped I could also be as cheerful and funny and realistic as she was.

I admired Danielle's special brand of hope.

And Dawn admired Kendra's optimism.

"Hey, Dawn," said Kendra, looking up from the computer. "How do you spell 'yo'?"

Dawn laughed. "Y-O," she replied.

"Oh. Just like it sounds. All right." Kendra tapped away at her keyboard. Five minutes later, she said, "Done!" Then she added, "Someday this story is going to be published!"

Ill

Chapter 13.

"The kids are going to be off the wall today," Mr. Katz warned me. But he didn't look terribly concerned. In fact, he was smiling.

Mr. Katz and I were getting ready for a Kids Club meeting. I had pa.s.sed my four-meeting trial and was now the permanent temporary a.s.sistant. I would be helping with the club for a few more weeks - until Ms..Simon came back. She had phoned Mr. Katz several days earlier to announce her upcoming return. I would be helping for longer than I had originally planned, but Kristy didn't care.

"Why are the kids going to be off the wall?" I asked.

"The popcorn, for one thing."

The members of the Kids Club had decided to fill goody baskets and deliver them to the elderly people who live at Stoneybrook Manor. One item in each basket would be a small bag of popcorn. This afternoon was Popcorn After- noon, when the club members would pop the corn and fill small bags with it.

"Also," continued Mr. Katz, "the kids were given vision tests this morning, and this afternoon they had an a.s.sembly."

"Oh. They will be off the wall, then," I agreed, remembering the excitement over a.s.semblies. And over eye tests, as well.