He was more different than any of the exchange students at school. Time after time, Poppy felt she had almost put her finger on the difference, but it always slipped away. And more than once, especially late a t ni ght when they were listening to music or watching the ocean, she'd felt he was about to tell her.
And she'd always felt that if he did tell her, it would be something important, something as shocking and lovely as having a stray cat speak to her.
Just now she l ooked a t James, at his dean, carven profile and at the brown waves of hair on his forehead, and thought, He looks sad.
"Jamie, nothing's wrong, is it? I mean, at home, or anything?"
She was the only person on the planet allowed to call him Jamie. Not even Jacklyn or Michaela had ever tried that.
"What could be wrong at home?" he said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then he shook his head dism issi vely.
"Don't worry about it, Poppy. It's nothing important-just a relative threatening to visit. An unwante d relativ e." Then the smile did reach his eyes, glinting there. "Or maybe I'm just worried about you," he said.
Poppy started to say, "Oh, as if, " but instead she found herself saying, oddly, "Are you really?"
Her seriousness seemed to strike some chord. His smile disappeared, and Poppy found that they were simply looking at each other without any insulating humor between them. Just gazing into each other's eyes. James looked uncertain, almost vulnerable.
"Poppy”
Poppy swallowed. "Yes?"
He opened his mouth-and then he got up abruptly and went to adjust her 170-watt Tall-boy speakers. When he turned back, his gray eyes were dark and fathomless.
"Sure, if you were really sick, I'd be worried," he said lightly.
"That's what friends are for, right?"
Poppy deflated. "Right," she said wistfully, and then gave him a determined smile.
"But you're not sick," he said. "It's just something you need to get taken care of. The doctor'll probably give you some antibiotics or something-with a big needle," he added wickedly.
"Oh, shut up," Poppy said. He knew she was terrified of injections. Just the thought of a needle entering her skin ...
"Here comes your mom," James said, glancing at the door, which was ajar. Poppy didn't see how he could hear anybody coming-the music was loud and the hallway was carpeted. But an instant later her mother pushed the door open.
"All right, sweetheart," she said briskly. "Dr. Franklin says come right in. I'm sorry, James, but I'm going to have to take Poppy away."
"That's okay. I can come back this afternoon."
Poppy knew when she was defeated. She allowed her mother to tow her to the garage, ignoring James's miming of someone receiving a large injection.
An hour later she was lying on Dr. Franklin's examining table, eyes politely averted as his gentle fingers probed her abdomen.
Dr. Franklin was tall, lean, and graying, with the air of a country doctor. Somebody you could trust absolutely.
"The pain is here?" he said.
"Yeah-but it sort of goes into my back. Or maybe I just pulled a muscle back there or something
The gentle, probing fingers moved, then stopped. Dr.
Franklin's face changed. And somehow, in that moment, Poppy knew it wasn't a pulled muscle. It wasn't an upset stomach; it wasn't anything simple; and things were about to change forever.
All Dr. Franklin said was, "You know, I'd like to arrange for a test on this."
His voice was dry and thoughtful, but panic curled through Poppy anyway. She couldn't explain what was happening inside her-some sort of dreadful premonition, like a black pit opening in the ground in front of her.
"Why?" her mother was asking the doctor.
"Well." Dr. Franklin smiled and pushed his glasses up. He tapped two fingers on the examining table. "Just as part of a process of elimination, really. Poppy says she's been having pain in the upper abdomen, pain that radiates to her back, pain that's worse at night. She's lost her appetite recently, and she's lost weight. And her gallbladder is palpable-that means I can feel that it's enlarged. Now, those are symptoms of a lot of things, and a sonogram will help rule out some of them."
Poppy calmed down. She couldn't remember what a
gallbladder did but she was pretty sure she didn't need it.
Anything involving an organ with such a silly name couldn't be serious. Dr. Franklin was going on, talking about the pancreas and pancreatitis and palpable livers, and Poppy's mother was nodding as if she understood. Poppy didn't understand, but the panic was gone. It was as if a cover had been whisked neatly over the black pit, leaving no sign that it had ever been there.
"You can get the sonogram done at Children's Hospital across the street," Dr. Franklin was saying. "Come back here after it's finished."
Poppy's mother was nodding, calm, serious, and efficient. Like Phil. Or Cliff. Okay, we'll get this taken care of.
Poppy felt just slightly important. Nobody she knew had been to a hospital for tests.
Her mother ruffled her hair as they walked out of Dr.
Franklin's office. "Well, Poppet. What have you done to yourself now?"
Poppy smiled impishly. She was fully recovered from her earlier worry. "Maybe I'll have to have an operation and I'll have an interesting scar," she said, to amuse her mother.
"Let's hope not," her mother said, unamused.
The Suzanne G. Monteforte Chil dren's H ospital was a handsome gray building with sinuous curves and giant picture windows. Poppy looked thoughtfully into the gift shop as they passed. It was clearly a kid's gift shop, full of rainbow Slinkys and stuffed animals that a visiting adult could buy as a last-minute present.
A girl came out of the shop. She was a little older than Poppy, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She was pretty, with an expertly made-up face-and a cute bandanna which didn't quite conceal the fact that she ha d no ha ir. She looked happy, round-cheeked, with earrings dangling jauntily beneath the bandanna-but Poppy felt a stab of sympathy.
Sympathy ... and fear. That girl was really sick. Which was what hospitals were for, of course-for really sick people.
Suddenly Poppy wanted to get her own tests over with and get out of here.
The sonogram wasn't painful, but it was vaguely disturbing. A technician smeared some kind of jelly over Poppy's middle, then ran a cold scanner over it, shooting sound waves into her, taking pictures of her insides. Poppy found her mind returning to the pretty girl with no hair.