"Has everybody had breakfast?" Poppy's mother asked, and when the boys said they had, she looked at her daughter. "And what about you?" she asked, gazing into Poppy's face.
Poppy rattled the Frosted Flakes box and her mother winced.
"Why don't you at least put milk on them?"
"Better this way," Poppy said firmly, but when her mother gave her a little push toward the refrigerator, she went and got a quart carton of lowfat milk.
"What are you planning to do with your first day of freedom?"
her mother said, glancing from James to Poppy.
"Oh, I don't know." Poppy looked at James. "Listen to some music; maybe go up to the hills? Or drive to the beach?"
"Whatever you want," James said. "We've got all summer."
The summer stretched out in front of Poppy, hot and golden and resplendent. It smelled like pool chlorine and sea salt; it felt like warm grass under her back. Three whole months, she thought. That's forever. Three months is forever.
It was strange that she was actually thinking this when it happened.
"We could check out the new shops at the Village---” was beginning, when suddenly the pain struck and her breath caught in her throat.
It was bad-a deep, twisting burst of agony that made her double over. The milk carton flew from her fingers and everything went gray.
CHAPTER 2
Poppy!" Poppy could hear her mother's voice, but she couldn't see anything. The kitchen floor was obscured by dancing black dots.
"Poppy, are you all right?" Now Poppy felt her mother's hands grasping her upper arms, holding her anxiously. The pain was easing and her vision was coming back.
As she straightened up, she saw James in front of her. His face was almost expressionless, but Poppy knew him well enough to recognize the worry in his eyes. He was holding the milk carton, she realized. He must have caught it on the fly as she dropped it--amazing reflexes, Poppy thought vaguely. Really amazing.
Phillip was on his feet. "Are you okay? What happened?"
"I-don't know." Poppy looked around, then shrugged, embarrassed. Now that she felt better she wished they weren't all staring at her so hard. The way to deal with the pain was to ignore it, to not think about it.
"It's just this stupid pain-I think it's gastrowhatchmacallit. You know, something I ate."
Poppy's mother gave her daughter the barest fraction of a shake. "Poppy, this is not gastroenteritis. You were having some pain before-nearly a month ago, wasn't it? Is this the same kind of pain?"
Poppy squirmed uncomfortably. As a matter of fact, the pain had never really gone away. Somehow, in the excitement of end-of-the-year activities, she'd managed to disregard it, and by now she was used to working around it.
"Sort of," she temporized. "But-
That was enough for Poppy's mother. She gave Poppy a little squeeze and headed for the kitchen telephone. "I know you don't like doctors, but I' m calling Dr. Franklin. I want him to take a look at you. This isn't something we can ignore."
"Oh, Mom, it's vacation...."
Her mother covered the mouthpiece of the phone. "Poppy, this is nonnegotiable. Go get dressed."
Poppy groaned, but she could see it was no use. She beckoned to James, who was looking thoughtfully into a middle distance.
"Let's at least listen to the CD before I have to go."
He glanced at the CD as if he'd forgotten it, and put down the milk carton. Phillip followed them into the hallway.
"Hey, buddy, you wait out here while she gets dressed."
James barely turned. "Get a life, Phil," he said almost absently.
"Just keep your hands off my sister, y ou deve."
Poppy just shook her head as she went into her room. As if James cared about seeing her undressed.
If only, she thought grimly, pulling a pair of shorts out of a drawer. She stepped into them, still shaking her head. James was her best friend, her very best friend, and she was his. But he'd never shown even t he sl ightest desire to get his hands on her. Sometimes she wondered if he realized she was a girl.
Someday I'm going to make him see, she thought, and shouted out the door for him.
James came in and smiled at her. It was a smile other people rarely saw, not a taunting or ironic grin, but a nice little smile, slightly crooked.
"Sorry about the doctor thing," Poppy said.
"No. You should go." James gave her a keen glance. "Your mom's right, you know. This has been going on way too long.
You've lost weight; it's keeping you up at night-"
Poppy looked at him, startled. She hadn't told anybody about how the pain was worse at night, not even James. But sometimes James just knew things. As if he could read her mind.
"I just know you, that's all," he said, and then gave her a mischievous sideways glance as she stared at h im. He unwrapped the CD.
Poppy shrugged and flopped on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Anyway, I wish Mom would let me have one day of vacation," she said. She craned her neck to look at James speculatively. "I wish I had a mom like yours. Mine's always worrying and trying to fix me."
"And m ine doesn't really care if I come or go. So which is worse?" James said wryly.
"Your parents let you have your own apartment. "
"In a building they own. Because it's cheaper than hiring a manager." James shook his head, his eyes on the CD he was putting in the player. "Don't knock your parents, kid. You're luckier than you know."
Poppy thought about that as the CD started. She and James both l iked trance-the underground electronic sound that had come from Europe. James liked the techno beat. Poppy loved it because it was real music, raw and unpasteurized, made by people who believed in it. People who had the passion, not people who had the money.
Besides, world music made her feel a part of other places. She loved the differentness of it, the alienness.
Come to think of it, maybe that was what she liked about James, too. His differentness. She tilted her head to look at him as the strange rhythms of Burundi drumming filled the air.
She knew James better than anyone, but there was always something, something about him that was closed off to her.
Something about him that nob ody could reach.
Other people took it for arrogance, or coldness, or aloofness, but it wasn't really any of those things. It was just differentness.