Girls in Pants - Ann Brashares [22]
“Yes,” Lena said. “I felt a little awkward the first day, but then it went away. I don’t think about it anymore.”
“That’s what I thought,” Annik said. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen at the end of the summer.”
Annik nodded. “Can I tell you what I think?”
Lena nodded.
“I think you should take the class.”
“I think I should too. I wish my dad felt that way.”
Annik put her hands on her wheels like she was getting ready to roll away.
Lena wondered, as she had many times before, what had happened to Annik that made her need a wheelchair. Had she always been in a chair or had she grown up on her legs like a regular kid? Had she had an accident or a disease? Lena wondered what of Annik’s worked and what didn’t. Could she have a baby if she wanted to?
Though Lena wanted to know, she didn’t dare ask. She shied away from the intensity that might come from asking such a question. Intimacy came faster when a person wore their pain and poor luck for all to see. And yet, not asking felt like an act of neglect or cowardice. It kept a distance between them that Lena regretted.
Annik rolled back and forth a little, but she didn’t go anywhere just yet. “You do what you need to do,” she said.
Lena wasn’t sure whether this meant take the class or listen to your father, but she had a pretty strong suspicion it was the former.
“I’m not sure how I’d pay for it, for one thing,” Lena mused.
“I’m allowed a second monitor,” Annik said. “You’d need to help set up and clean up every day, including mopping. But you’d get free tuition.”
“I’ll do it,” Lena said instantly, not aware of making the decision.
Annik smiled openly. “I’m so glad.”
“I’m not sure what I’m going to tell my dad,” Lena murmured, half to herself.
“Tell him the truth,” Annik said.
Lena shrugged, knowing that this was the piece of Annik’s advice she was not going to take.
There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up.
—Oscar Wilde
Tibby sat frozen on a chair in the den watching Nicky watch cartoons. Her thoughts came together and broke apart, occasionally punctured by the sadism of Tom and Jerry. Her whole body hurt; every bone ached when her mind flashed on Katherine. She let herself think of Katherine for only a second at a time and then she pulled away, because it hurt too much.
Nicky didn’t know anything yet. They didn’t want to scare him. Whereas Tibby was good and scared, wanting desperately for the phone to ring, but only if it was good news.
Tibby was not raised religious. For the early part of her childhood, her parents were devout atheists, spewing Marx’s “opiate of the masses” rhetoric. Nowadays Tibby wasn’t sure what they believed. They didn’t talk about it anymore.
But Tibby was not them. As far as Tibby was concerned, you couldn’t have someone you loved, really loved, die and not believe in some kind of god. It was the only way to look at it. And besides, Bailey herself—as she had lived, not as she had died—had been proof that somebody or something existed beyond the realm of rational things.
And when Tibby thought of Bailey, it made sense, because a god who was smart enough to want Bailey back as soon as possible was also smart enough to see the beauty of Katherine. Katherine was too good for the world Tibby lived in. Tibby belonged there just fine, but not Katherine. Katherine was brave and generous and passionate. If she weren’t on God’s dance card, then who would be? Tibby would stand in the corner of heaven, if she ever made it there, but Katherine, like Bailey, would be doing the polka or the bunny hop or maybe the bus stop with God.
Please don’t take her yet, Tibby implored. She’s only three and we love her too much to survive without her.
Tibby was asking selfishly. Because she knew it was her fault. She had opened a window that was always shut. Why had she done that? She knew Katherine wanted to climb the apple tree. She knew that was how Katherine