RANDI'S STEPS 1st & 2nd chapters preview
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 landing 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?”
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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 possible
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 a group of 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.
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