Billy opened the window and touched Ann’s shoulder. “You’re it, Ann.”
Seven-year-old Ann jumped out of bed and watched the red-haired, gimp-legged boy run off through the falling snow. She could easily outrun and tag him, but why bother? She had the rest of the school day to do that.
She slid the window closed and sighed with relief. Billy must have forgotten about her trying to hold his hand in choir practice yesterday. He pulled away, and she burned red with embarrassment. Never again. They were friends, and that was all. He was too immature for her. She was a princess who’d someday marry a prince in an enchanted world. Alas, Billy was just a dopey boy who wanted to rocket off to some stupid planet where ugly frogs ruled.
She twirled about her little room, walked, talked, and zipped to Planet Bipnback. She stretched her elastic arms and legs into the infinity of her angst-filled youth. Her skin covered her like a perfect glove, elastic and tight.
“Enjoy your young skin while you have it,” her mother often told her.
She spotted light beaming through the cobwebs of the leaky roof and quit twirling. Princesses didn’t have mothers whose cars had been repossessed. Princesses didn’t walk two miles to school to face bullies like Priscilla and Clara who’d point at her torn, stained dress and shout, “Raggedy Ann!”
She again gazed at the falling snow. Perfect. To keep warm, she could wear the coat her mother had found in a dumpster. It looked new and would cover the stains and tears in her blue dress.
She twirled again. But stopped. Princesses didn’t stutter either. She stammered so badly she couldn’t even talk back to Clara and Priscilla. Each night she lulled herself to sleep with fractured speech as she relived each day’s painful events. Far from being a princess, she was a shabby, little girl who could barely talk.
At least her mother soothed her troubles. When a young girl, she’d been bullied too. Catty girls teased her about how she spoke and dressed. Her mother explained that mean people were jealous in their empty lives.
Ann pondered the day ahead. She’d have to sit like a blob in second-grade class and listen to boring lessons about math, spelling, English, history, and such. Why did adults like such dreary things? Real life was climbing a tree, laughing at the sun, telling a boy he had fat lips, riding on a Ferris wheel, skipping rope with friends, and oh well, well, well, jump deep down into a witch’s spell, ring a bell, cause everything is swell.
Boots, blue dress, coat, and knapsack, Ann stood ready to leave. She walked to the door and spotted her skateboard. Hey, hey, hey, too much snow for that today. She placed her hand on the doorknob.
But paused. Why hadn’t she heard her mother cooking breakfast? Why didn’t she smell pancakes, eggs, bacon, grits, coffee, or any other yummies that Food Stamps could buy?
She set her knapsack aside and, with a racing heart, turned the doorknob. Slowly she cracked the door and peeked out to see her mother in her favorite armchair. Her hands hung loose and her eyes stared upward.
She opened the door. “Mom?”
She walked over and touched her mother’s hand. It felt stiff and cold and her beautiful blue eyes stared at nothing. Ann pushed her knee, and it barely moved. Once Billy shot a blue jay with a slingshot, and she felt horrible when it fell to the ground, flapping its wings. They rushed the bird into the shed and prayed for it to come back to life, but when the lovely bird became rigid, they knew it was gone.
Tears flowed as fast as her memories. Her mother had often comforted her with heart-to-heart talks. They’d laughed at silly monkeys in the zoo, shopped at malls, and picnicked in the park. When Ann lay in a hospital bed after an eye operation to straighten her lazy eye, her mother appeared like an angel with delicious crackers for her to eat. They’d done so many things together. Now she’d never again feel her mother’s touch or hear her enthralling voice.
In a daze, Ann picked up the phone and dialed.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
The ambulance arrived and then a forensics van. People wearing plastic gloves and foot covers put her mom in a big bag and carried her away. She’d complained of heartburn the night before, but at twenty-six, she seemed to be the image of perfect health.
The police placed Ann in the backseat of a cruiser, and she sat in shock as they rode away. Trees and houses streamed by. Nothing seemed real anymore.
A heavyset officer in the passenger seat turned to her. “Do you have any relatives you can stay with, Ann?”
“Aunt M-Margaret. S-She loves me, but s-she forgets t-things.”
His kind eyes studied her. “Think about it, Ann. Love’s not so easy to come by in this world.”
A month later, Billy lay in bed unable to energize himself enough to get ready for school. His eyes still grew misty every time he thought of Ann finding her mother dead and getting sent to a foster home. She’d likely never be back. He recalled how they became friends. Terry Brocker had Billy pinned against the wall when Ann ran by and tossed a cup of water on the creep. Kids laughed when Terry hopelessly tried to catch her, giving Billy a chance to escape.
He smelled his favorite breakfast cooking—bacon, eggs, grits, toast, and coffee. That was Ann’s favorite too. He knew because she’d stopped by many times to eat breakfast with him. Good food without Ann, though, didn’t taste the same. Sure, she was a pain sometimes, like when she embarrassed him by trying to hold his hand in choir practice. She also kicked him in the butt, told him he had fat lips, and such, but he didn’t care. They’d hiked, built tree houses, dug underground tunnels, sculpted snowmen, and done many things together. The girl who filled his world with magic had vanished. His life would never again be the same.
The window slid open. Someone reached over and touched his shoulder. “Y-you’re it, Billy.”
Billy jumped up and watched Ann run away through the falling snow. Even without his gimp leg he’d never catch her. She was the fastest second-grader at Bayside Elementary. Was he dreaming? Surely not, because he felt the cold air rushing in. Who was she living with? Not Aunt Margaret. She had Alzheimer’s. He dressed in a flash, packed his knapsack, and ran to the kitchen.
“Mom, guess—”
He froze. In the kitchen doorway stood his mother flashing a big smile. Did she already know?
She stepped aside. “Say hello to your new sister.”
Ann smiled and held up a spoonful of grits. “B-Bon appetit, Billy.”
