The Birthday Room by Kevin Henkes

doll’s and was uneven, swollen in places as if stuffing had bunched up inside. The longest cut on his face was dangerously near his right eye, and Ben sighed, relieved that the eye hadn’t been poked out. The cast on Kale’s arm was a rigid capital L lying on its back; the cast on his leg and foot added so much bulk that his other leg seemed as thin and fragile as an icicle. He sat in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows. Broken.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Ben. “I’m so sorry.”
    â€œI’m mad at you guys,” Kale said sternly. His eyes flashed, then roved like searchlights. “You tricked us.”
    â€œYou did,” said Elka, leaning into the footboard of Kale’s bed. One of her legs and one of her forearms were wrapped in towels that were secured with rubber bands—imitations of Kale’s casts. As a sympathetic gesture, she limped around the room, holding her arm frozen at a right angle. She returned to the bed and clumsily scooted up onto the mattress. She adjusted her towels and rubber bands.
    Without realizing it, Ben had let go of the cooler (Lynnie had, too). It sat in the middle of the room, and Ben had worked his way over to the window. “I didn’t mean it. To trick you. Or for you to get hurt.”
    Kale wiggled the toes on his uninjured foot.
    â€œIt’s hard to wash with casts on,” Elka stated matter-of-factly, snapping her rubber bands. “And it itches underneath sometimes.”
    Ben wished he could shuck his skin off, change his insides, too. Start this trip all over. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is there something I can do to make it up to you?”
    â€œ We ,” said Lynnie. “Something we can do . . .”
    Kale and Elka exchanged a glance and shrugged. “Maybe,” Kale replied, considering. “Maybe, if you think of a new gift, I’ll forgive you. But it’s got to be better than the tree, or at least as good. And it’s got to be big. Like a tree. Or a house,” he added, regaining some of his spark, but only for a second. He wiggled his toes again.
    â€œOkay,” said Ben. “We’ll think of something.” He wanted to leave. He wanted to be outside. The room seemed so small, and growing smaller, and everywhere he looked was Kale with his grave, sewn-up face.
    Minutes later, Ben and Lynnie were settled on the steps of the porch, and the wide outdoors rolled on forever. No walls, no ceiling. “We will think of something,” Ben told Lynnie, although he hadn’t a clue as to what that something might be.

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    11
    S INCE B EN AND his mother would be returning to Wisconsin in just two days, Ben knew there was very little time to come up with a gift that would be satisfactory to Kale. So that first morning after Kale’s accident, Ben and Lynnie went right to work. Although they brainstormed for hours, all their ideas were flawed. They were either too easy—a banner made from a bedsheet and hung from Ian’s studio; or too grand—the word BABY spelled out by a skywriter in letters the size of clouds for everyone to see. (How would they ever find a skywriter? Where? And how could they afford one, even if they located one?)
    Ben’s idea to plant a young apple tree in honor of the baby struck him as perfect. Not Lynnie. She convinced Ben that Kale would never go for it. It wouldn’t be a big gift now , she pointed out; it would take years to grow big. He would feel as though he were being tricked again.
    They both tried to keep Kale’s words in mind: “. . . it’s got to be big. Like a tree. Or a house.” And so a tree house seemed obvious and logical. But only momentarily. Considering the circumstances, the nature of Kale’s accident, they soon decided that a tree house was completely wrong, even ironic.
    â€œAnother Valley of the Shadow day,” Lynnie said flatly. She arched her fingertips together,