Now, it’s time for you to get into bed and to rest. We’ll make some lunch and bring it up in a little while, okay?”
“Okay.”
There were more fussing sounds, and then Alex’s door was opened and closed and feet shuffled along the hallway and down the stairs. Then there was quiet.
Stevie didn’t move.
She could hear cheerful family sounds downstairs, sounds of her mother making soup and sandwiches while the cousins opened and closed cabinet doors in the kitchen, looking first for the soup bowls, then for the proper silverware. Upstairs, nobody spoke.
Stevie found herself thinking about Alex’s illness and her reaction. She thought about all the assignments she’d done, all the good, virtuous acts she’d committed, all the silly things she’d resisted doing, all the fun she’dmissed. Now that Alex was definitely better and was soon going to be completely better, her vow of perfection seemed a little silly—almost as silly as the eruption of anger and resentment that had come over her so recently.
Stevie shook her head in annoyance at herself. She wasn’t a perfect person. She wasn’t an evil, angry person, either. She was Stevie, and although that fact often seemed to get her into trouble, on the whole she rather liked herself. Her friends did, too. There had to be a happy medium somewhere. She just wasn’t sure exactly where that somewhere was.
There was a knock at her door.
“Come in,” she said, expecting to see her mother. Instead, it was Alex.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Me? Of course. You’re the one who’s been sick. You should be in bed, resting.”
“I’m tired of resting,” he said. “I feel pretty good. I think I can be up for a little while anyway.”
“I think Mom’ll kill you if she finds you’re out of bed, so why don’t you come sit on mine? That’s almost as good, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” he said, and he sat down next to her, accepting her offering of pillows. “So what’s been going on at school?” he asked.
“Mostly it’s been people asking about you. If you ever get the idea that no one cares about you, just ask me. I’ve been telling a zillion people about you every single day. Everybody asks—I mean
everybody
. I actually have had eight conversations with Miss Fenton that didn’t have to begin ‘Let me explain my side …’ ”
Alex laughed. Stevie was famous for explaining things so people would see them her way. It was her favorite technique for getting out of hot water.
“At least my getting sick has had one advantage for you,” Alex teased. “But how are you doing? I’ve been worried about you.”
“You, worried about me?” Stevie asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Beverly, the nurse, told me you were there at the hospital every afternoon, working on your homework. Naturally, I thought she was joking. I told her that maybe you’d been drawing pictures of horses or rereading
Misty of Chincoteague
or something, but not homework. Then Friday, when you left your book bag, Beverly brought it into my room. I took a look because I thought it would be a good idea to see what I’ve been missing. And what do I see?”
“What?” Stevie asked.
“No horse pictures, no
Misty
. All I see is homework papers without ‘Late’ written up at the top. They allhave really good grades, too. And they’re in your handwriting. And so I ask myself, ‘Has Stevie had a personality transplant? And if so, how am I going to learn to live with it, and who’s going to tell me how to get out of trouble when
I
get into hot water?’ ”
Stevie didn’t have to answer the question; he didn’t really expect an answer anyway. It was just nice to have him home and well, and she was surprised to find that all her concern about her own confusing behavior didn’t need an explanation—at least not to her twin brother.
They began chatting. Stevie told him more about things that were going on at school, some things that they’d been learning and that she’d
“Okay.”
There were more fussing sounds, and then Alex’s door was opened and closed and feet shuffled along the hallway and down the stairs. Then there was quiet.
Stevie didn’t move.
She could hear cheerful family sounds downstairs, sounds of her mother making soup and sandwiches while the cousins opened and closed cabinet doors in the kitchen, looking first for the soup bowls, then for the proper silverware. Upstairs, nobody spoke.
Stevie found herself thinking about Alex’s illness and her reaction. She thought about all the assignments she’d done, all the good, virtuous acts she’d committed, all the silly things she’d resisted doing, all the fun she’dmissed. Now that Alex was definitely better and was soon going to be completely better, her vow of perfection seemed a little silly—almost as silly as the eruption of anger and resentment that had come over her so recently.
Stevie shook her head in annoyance at herself. She wasn’t a perfect person. She wasn’t an evil, angry person, either. She was Stevie, and although that fact often seemed to get her into trouble, on the whole she rather liked herself. Her friends did, too. There had to be a happy medium somewhere. She just wasn’t sure exactly where that somewhere was.
There was a knock at her door.
“Come in,” she said, expecting to see her mother. Instead, it was Alex.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Me? Of course. You’re the one who’s been sick. You should be in bed, resting.”
“I’m tired of resting,” he said. “I feel pretty good. I think I can be up for a little while anyway.”
“I think Mom’ll kill you if she finds you’re out of bed, so why don’t you come sit on mine? That’s almost as good, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” he said, and he sat down next to her, accepting her offering of pillows. “So what’s been going on at school?” he asked.
“Mostly it’s been people asking about you. If you ever get the idea that no one cares about you, just ask me. I’ve been telling a zillion people about you every single day. Everybody asks—I mean
everybody
. I actually have had eight conversations with Miss Fenton that didn’t have to begin ‘Let me explain my side …’ ”
Alex laughed. Stevie was famous for explaining things so people would see them her way. It was her favorite technique for getting out of hot water.
“At least my getting sick has had one advantage for you,” Alex teased. “But how are you doing? I’ve been worried about you.”
“You, worried about me?” Stevie asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Beverly, the nurse, told me you were there at the hospital every afternoon, working on your homework. Naturally, I thought she was joking. I told her that maybe you’d been drawing pictures of horses or rereading
Misty of Chincoteague
or something, but not homework. Then Friday, when you left your book bag, Beverly brought it into my room. I took a look because I thought it would be a good idea to see what I’ve been missing. And what do I see?”
“What?” Stevie asked.
“No horse pictures, no
Misty
. All I see is homework papers without ‘Late’ written up at the top. They allhave really good grades, too. And they’re in your handwriting. And so I ask myself, ‘Has Stevie had a personality transplant? And if so, how am I going to learn to live with it, and who’s going to tell me how to get out of trouble when
I
get into hot water?’ ”
Stevie didn’t have to answer the question; he didn’t really expect an answer anyway. It was just nice to have him home and well, and she was surprised to find that all her concern about her own confusing behavior didn’t need an explanation—at least not to her twin brother.
They began chatting. Stevie told him more about things that were going on at school, some things that they’d been learning and that she’d
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