Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (2 page)

 

My best friend Taylor is offstage

in her huge sheepdog costume

and I see Kelli lean over

and say something to her.

 

I can tell Taylor is annoyed

when she makes

an elbow-space between them.

 

After the scene, I ask her

What did Kelli say to you?

 

She lifts the shaggy dog head

so she can talk without shouting

and shakes out her dark hair.

She said you were dying out here

that she should have been Wendy

that you were typecast      

because you're blonde.

 

I sigh.             All I can come up with is

Wendy's not always a blonde.

 

Taylor says,
She's an idiot either way.

You're the best one on this stage.

 

I wish.

 

Right now I almost feel

like I'm dying out here

for real.

 

 

 

By the time rehearsal is over

my head is pounding

and my eyes feel dry-as-the-desert

even though my nose

has sprung a leak.

 

Miss Conglin starts to snap at me

because I'm taking so long

getting my stuff together

 

then she takes a harder look

and lays her cool hand

against my forehead.

Her mouth twists.

Someone coming to pick you up?

 

I nod.

 

She fingers the studs high on her ear.

Get some rest, Sara.

And drink a lot.

Does your dad keep juice in the house?

 

I shrug.

 

Miss Conglin pats me on the back.

See you tomorrow.

 

But she doesn't sound

like she believes it.

 

 

 

Tuesday morning. . . .

In four days I'm supposed to be

asking Peter Pan

Boy, why are you crying?

 

but my throat is so raw

I can barely whisper.

 

Dad has fixed up the couch in the family room

with extra pillows

and the daisy quilt Mom made me

when I was four.

 

I have the remote control

a glass of juice

a box of tissues

and a phone to call Mrs. Whittier

from next door if I need something.

 

I am wishing I could just sleep and not feel

the head pounding

heat flashing

throat stabbing.

 

But I hurt too much to sleep.

 

And my mind is replaying

the way Garrett squirms and laughs

when I sew the shadow

back on Peter Pan's foot.

 

Who will do that now?

 

What if his tickled smile

is for someone other

than me?

 

 

 

I keep seeing that smile.

 

Maybe if Mom was here

I wouldn't ask her.

But since she's not

I wish I could ask

Why do I feel this way?

 

I can't talk to Taylor

because she still

punches boys in the arms

like that's what they're made for.

 

And I can't talk to Dad

because he's Dad.

 

Already bad enough Mom can't

see me in my first ever play. . . .

 

If Mom were here she would

tuck my stuffed kitty next to me

watch a movie with me

keep my juice refilled

check my temperature

with her lips

on my forehead . . .

 

explain to me about boys.

 

 

 

Wednesday—two days into this illness.

I am still not feeling better.

 

Dad had to go to college chapel—

he was presenting something about

poetry and spirituality—

so Mrs. Whittier stayed back.

 

She has just come to check on me

when Dad gets home.

She leans over to take

the thermometer from my mouth

her long silver hair swinging forward.

 

She reads the numbers

and hands Dad the thermometer.

You might want to call the doctor

she says quietly.

 

She is trying her best not to interfere

so she can stay in our lives.

 

I know this because it's

exactly what she told me

when I asked where she'd been

lately.

 

Dad looks at the thermometer,

mutters,
Still 102,

and reaches for the phone.

He pushes my bangs off my forehead

while he waits for an answer.

 

He looks surprised

by how wet it is.

My freshmen were supposed to come over

tomorrow night,
he says.

Looks like I'll have to reschedule.

 

I look out the window

and across the street

at the small college campus.

 

Some crazy kids are braving the March chill

and having an early water fight

between classes.

 

I watch a biker duck under

a stream from a water blaster

and land in the bushes

under a girls' dorm window.

 

I should be sad we'll be missing

the freshman meeting

 

the only time our house

has life in it.

 

But right now I

just don't care.

 

 

 

The quick strep test—

the one where you

sit outside the doctor's lab

and feel like a germ factory

and gag on the swab

the nurse sticks down your throat—

 

comes back negative

 

which means it's a virus

and there's nothing they can do for me

and I have to just get through it.

 

Miss Conglin calls

to ask how I'm doing.

 

Dad tells her I won't be in school

for at least another day

that I'm really not doing well

 

and I'm motioning for him to

stop talking

stop making her think

I won't be ready for the play

 

and he doesn't get it

thinks I want to talk to her

 

hands me the phone.

 

 

 

Sara?

I can hear music in the background

something with a heavy beat.

Sara? How are you?

 

I want to say, Horrible.

I want to say, Ready to perform.

I want to say, Please don't replace me.

I can still be Wendy.

I can still fly

second to the right

and straight on till morning.

 

What I say is
Fine.

It comes out a whisper.

It comes out a scratch.

 

Oh, sweetie,
Miss Conglin says.

Get better.

I'll send Taylor over

with your makeup work.

 

But we both know

schoolwork

is not the real issue

here.