Deadly Offer by Caroline B. Cooney

stepped in the shower and sang under pulsing hot water.
    She wrapped herself in one of the purple towels to dry, and the towel was soft and wonderfully thick.
    Life is good, thought Althea. I am in control.
    She danced into the kitchen to see if she could help with or start breakfast. Becky’s parents had apparently come in late, for their bedroom door was shut and the house lay quiet, as houses do on Sunday mornings while people sleep in.
    Althea found cereal and milk and crunched happily. Out the kitchen window she could see the backyard, and in the sun it was such a pretty yard. The leaves were gone from the trees, but they were such graceful trees: a willow and two clumps of white birches with papery, peeling bark. The thick shrubs were covered with frost, and they glittered, half snow, half sun, utterly beautiful.
    Becky walked slowly into the kitchen. Her eyes seemed to lack focus. Her body lurched slightly, and she sank into a kitchen chair as if unsure where she might be. Althea poured her a glass of orange juice that she had whipped in the blender; it was frothy and light.
    Becky looked at the glass. She frowned. She said, “This is so weird, Althea. I just didn’t seem to get any rest last night. I don’t think I can even pick up that juice glass.”
    Althea became very still.
    Becky said, “I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t want you to catch it, Althea. Or Ryan, either. We have such important games next week. He can’t get sick; the football team needs him. You can’t get sick. The squad needs you.”
    Through uncooperative, frightened lips, Althea said, “The cheerleading squad needs you, too, Becky. Getting sick is out of the question.”
    Becky put her arms on the kitchen table and then rested her head on her arms. “I think it’s in the question,” she said, trying to laugh. “I think—I really think you’d better go on home, Althea. I think I need to go back to bed.”
    “NO!”
    Becky focused one eye on Althea and then closed it, exhausted by the effort. “I feel as if I could sleep for a month,” she said.
    Althea grabbed Becky’s shoulders and shook her. “Get up!” she cried. “You have to get up! You have to try. You have to stay on your feet!”
    “Huh?” said Becky, falling asleep.
    Becky’s mother came into the kitchen. “What’s the matter?” she said.
    “I think Becky—um—has the flu,” said Althea. “She—um—”
    Becky’s mother went right into action. Thermometer, aspirin, chicken soup, the works. “My poor baby,” crooned Becky’s mother. “You haven’t been sick in years! This is not like you! I think cheerleading is responsible. It takes such time and energy and it is simply draining. I just don’t think it’s healthy to work so hard day after day, week after week. I’ve said that all season, haven’t I, darling?”
    “Mmmm,” said Becky, leaning on her mother.
    With Althea on one side and Becky’s mother on the other, they walked Becky back down the hall to her bed, tucked her in, and wrapped her warmly.
    “What a sweet girl you are,” said Becky’s mother to Althea. “So helpful and understanding. I want you to do one little thing for me.”
    “Anything,” said Althea, who felt dead, like something evil and sick, who infected her friends, and ended their happiness. Somebody who could turn a lovely purple and white room of irises and violets into a purgatory of exhaustion.
    “At practice on Monday, tell Mrs. Roundman that I am taking my daughter off the squad. There is simply too much being demanded of her.”
    “No!” whispered Althea. “I’m sure Becky will be fine by Monday. She’ll be in school Monday. Send a note with Becky to say you want Becky to sit out the practice! Mrs. Roundman will agree to that. Please! Please don’t take her off the squad.”
    Becky had fallen back asleep.
    Her long, dark hair swirled on the pillow, like a winter storm cloud around the paleness of her tired face.
    My friend, thought