My
name is Berni--short for Bernadette--which means “brave as a bear.” But I’m not
a bear. And I’m not brave. Bella is my best friend. She should have my name
because she’s the bravest person I know. She carries caterpillars in her
pockets. (I scream when I see an inchworm.)
“Don’t
you hate the creepy-crawly feeling?” I ask.
“No,
they’re soft and furry,” says Bella. “I’m waiting for them to turn into
butterflies and fly away.”
Bella
will try any food. She even eats squid.
“Would
you like some?” she asks, dangling a piece in my face.
My
stomach does a flip-flop. “No thanks. I won’t eat any food that swims.”
Once,
Bella got my lunch money back from Dirk, the meanest boy in third grade. She
yelled, “There’s a bee on your head,” then smacked the invisible bee with her
notebook, grabbed my money, and ran.
Bella
is not afraid of the dark, or ghosts in the closet. I go to bed with a
flashlight under my pillow and sneakers on my feet. Just in case. Bella pets
dogs that are as big as a horse. (Well, almost.) I freeze like a scared bunny ’til
they pass.
Once
she had a tug-of-war with a bulldog and said to me, “Don’t be afraid. He’s a sweetie.”
But
the bulldog growled, and I said, “No thanks. I’m good over here.”
Bella
played Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz at school and remembered all of her lines. I
played a tree and stuttered, “She w-w-went that w-w-way.”
Bella tried to teach me to be brave. At the
park, she said, “Slide down the fire pole and I’ll catch you.”
I
thought about it (for two seconds) and said, “No thanks. I’ll slide down the
slide.”
Once
I almost climbed to the top of the
crooked maple tree after Bella. I reached the second branch . . . but needed a ladder to get down.
Then
Bella got sick. One day she told me, “I need an operation. Don’t worry, you
can’t catch it.”
I
didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say, “I’m not worried, but what if ?”
Then
she went to the hospital. It was the first time Bella said, “I’m scared.”
“You
don’t have to be brave now,” I assured her. “I’ll be brave for you.”
“I
know you will,” Bella said. “You’re Berni, brave as a bear.”
We
both giggled. As I watched her drive away, I prayed: “God, please help Bella.”
I watched until the tail lights on her minivan shrunk to pin-size dots and
finally disappeared past a dirt hill. It reminded me of Mom saying there’s a
light at the end of the tunnel. Never made sense to me.
The
next day, Bella’s mom called. She said the operation worked, but the doctor had
to shave off Bella’s hair. What would it
be like to have a bald friend? I wondered.
At
the hospital, I handed Bella a bouquet of white and pink carnations with cherry
lollipops and smiley faces peeking through.
Bella’s
face lit up. “Thanks. They’re happy flowers.” She didn’t have hair, but she had
the same smile. Her hand had a thin tube attached, but her nails still had
chipped bubble-gum-pink polish. Bella covered her head with a white scarf
sprinkled with yellow daisies. I tried not to stare.
“Thanks
for being brave for me,” she said.
I
didn’t feel brave. But for two weeks I watched black and yellow striped caterpillars
crawl up the maple tree, and I thought of Bella. I sat on the first twisted branch
every day after school, waiting.
When
Bella came home she still didn’t have hair and looked too tired to climb, but
that was okay. “Yeah! You’re back,” I
screamed in a super-duper, louder-than-loud voice. Then I gave Bella a big bear
hug.
A week later, we skipped to class wearing
matching scarves tied on our heads. Dumb Dirk reached for Bella’s scarf, but I
jumped in front of her. “You stay away from my friend,” I growled. Then I took
hold of Bella’s arm, and together we turned and stomped away from Dirk—bear
style. Maybe there is a light at the end.
“Do
you want to hunt for caterpillars later?” Bella asked. “You could use a jar.”
I
thought about watching one change into a butterfly. “Okay, but I don’t need a
jar. I’ve got pockets.”
Bella
smiled. She’s my best friend, and we’re both brave.
1 comment:
This is beautiful.
Post a Comment