"Why can't I come?"
"I told you, Maggy! Jackie and Parker didn't invite you!"
"But they like me! They won't care if I come!"
I groan and slam my bedroom door in Maggy's face. She is the most obnoxious ten year old. Ever.
"Copeland!" she hollers. "Copeland, let me come!"
"Go away! Don't you have a doctor's appointment soon, anyway?"
"You're the meanest ever!" I can hear her storming off down the hall and the angry slam of her door. I roll my eyes and stalk over to my closet. Today, I'm meeting up with my two best friends for the first time since summer ended. Jackie was helping at a camp this summer and missed the first week of school. Parker, who catches every sickness ever, was out with strep throat. But now Jackie's back and Parker's no longer contagious, so we decided to meet up at the ice cream cart in downtown Ashdown.
It's August, so the weather's pretty hot. I opt for jean shorts and a sky blue tank top with the band name: BLUE BLOODS. Earlier in the summer, before Jackie left for camp, she'd gotten us both tickets to her favorite boy band, Blue Bloods. I'd thought it was going to be cheesy at first, but soon found that I had it bad for the drummer. Jackie and I pooled our money and bought matching Blue Bloods tank tops.
"Maggy, we're fixin' to leave!" Mom yells from the living room.
I check my phone, grab my flip-flops, and dash out the door.
"Whoa, whoa whoa," Mom grabs my arm. "Where're you going?"
"Downtown with Parker and Jackie."
"D'you want a ride?"
I glance at my moody little sister who stomps into the living room with her arms crossed fiercely over her chest. Would I rather have air conditioning or a peaceful mind?
"No," I smile. "I'd rather walk."
Mom kisses me on the cheek. "Keep your phone on you. Don't be out too long."
"I won't."
Mom herds a brooding Maggy into the garage as I lock up the house. I hear a loud, "I HATE the doctor!"
Yes, walking is definitely the right choice.
The air is hot and within seconds I can feel beads of sweat slowly crawling down my back. It's an unpleasant sensation. That's for sure.
I look at my phone to check the time. Noon. Before I shut it off, my screensaver catches my eye. It used to be a picture of Jackie and me at the Blue Bloods concert, but last week Maggy took a selfie when my phone was unlocked and changed it to my screensaver. I smile, despite my annoyance, because gosh dang it, that little girl is really something special. I feel bad about yelling at her, I do. And saying that she just drives me up the wall sometimes is no excuse for my bad behavior. I love her to pieces, but sometimes I don't want to have to play the part of a big sister. Always in charge. Always the example. I don't want to be the example. Sometimes it would be nice to be Copeland Kennedy, the normal, fifteen-year-old girl.
I have been the "bestest big sister" like I'd promised.
But I do like to think that I haven't been the worst either.
The downtown area of Ashdown is pretty small. A long wooden boardwalk connects a walkway and a small, green park. Across from the park are two rows of tall buildings, interrupted in the middle by a paved street flowing with cars of many colors. Pedestrians cross when they're supposed to. And some cross when they aren't.
I walk towards the center of the park where I see a small white cart with a vibrant pink umbrella. Two cabinets on the side open, one filled with waffle cones and the other with plastic spoons and two sizes of white cups that say in swirly lettering: ASHDOWN'S FINEST. On top of the cart is a tub inside of an ice chest filled with rainbows of ice cream. The cart's owner is a short, balding man with scruffy facial hair and a white hat and apron. Because I've been coming here so long, I don't even have to read his name tag to know that his name is Robert.
"Hey there, Copeland Kennedy!" Robert says cheerfully.
"Hey, Rob," I smile I guess Jackie and Parker aren't here yet. I pull out my wallet from my purse and unzip it.
"I reckon y'all are gonna want the usual?" Rob says.
"No Maggy today, Rob," I tell him.
"No Margaret?"
"She had a doctor's appointment."
"Got it," Robert nods understandingly, slipping on a pair of plastic gloves. "Well, still the usual?"
I nod. "Yes, please. Salted Caramel in a waffle cone."
After paying Robert, I turn away from the stand, licking the perfect swirl on the top. The flavor absorbs into my tongue and I shut my eyes briefly, feeling the refreshing bite of the ice cream.
Suddenly, someone grabs me from behind and I startle, nearly dropping my cone.
"Easy there," says Jackie, laughing. "Its only me."
Jackie has chin length dark brown hair with bangs and pale skin. She likes to change the way she does her makeup pretty consistently so today she has it fairly simple and natural, with only the slightest hint of shimmer on her eyelids.
Following not too far behind her is Parker De Luca. He gives me the typical charming smile and pulls out his huge black camera. "Smile, y'all," he says, holding it up to take a picture. Jackie folds her arm around my shoulders and crane her neck toward my ice cream, pretending to steal a bite. Parker snaps the photo, capturing the moment where Jackie and I are both frozen in laughter. Parker grins, examining the photo. "Perfect."
Where most high school boys would want to be sports stars when they grow up, Parker destroys your typical stereotype. Sure, he's built like a jock and has golden-brown hair that never seems to do much except grow shaggy everywhere. But he doesn't care too much for athletics, much to his dad's disappointment.
I watch as Jackie and Parker head towards the ice cream cart.
"ROBBIE!" Parkers hollers. "How are you, man?"
Robert groans and shuts his eyes for a few seconds. "I reckon it'll take an awful lot for you to drop the calling me Robbie."
"What's wrong with Robbie? It's a good, solid name."
Robert's eyes glint dubiously. "Oh, really?"
Parker nods. "But I figure we could work something out. Free ice cream for the remainder of my sorry life?"
"Not even close."
"Alright, alright. How about a year?"
"Next!" calls Robert loudly.
"No, wait, please!" Parker locks his hands to the cart desperately. "I'll take rocky road!"
"Is that all?"
"In a cone."
"Alright."
"And...can I get it with extra TLC?"
Robert chucks a plastic spoon at him and it falls to the cobblestone pavement. "I always give you a serving of SLD."
I crinkle my nose. "SLD?"
"Strong Loathing and Dislike."
Jackie slaps her hands against her thighs and doubles over, barking out her hyena laughter that just might be the most contagious thing. Soon, both of us are drawing bemused looks from people passing by and we go to sit on a park bench to rest our cramping sides. Parker shakes his head, muttering and sighing in that dramatic way of his. Robert shoves the cone of ice cream at him and musses Parker's hair, causing it to stick up more in the back than it already was. Plopping down beside Jackie and me, he moodily licks his ice cream.
"Where's yours?" he asks Jackie.
She gives him a look so I answer for her. "She's on No Sugar Week, remember?"
Jackie has this thing where every other week, she boycotts sugar.
"Ugh, I still don't understand why you'd do that," complains Parker.
Jackie tugs on one of her golden earrings. "Health is important."
"So is enjoyment."
It's the exact same argument Parker uses anytime that we get onto the subject of Jackie's diets. She's tried multiple times to convince me to try it—there was no point in bothering to ask Parker—but I'd only lasted a few hours. You might be surprised how appealing Maggy's oatmeal raisin cookies are when you know you can't have them. This coming from someone who doesn't even like dried fruit.
I'm distracted from my thoughts on food when Jackie says, "We gotta do our Question."
Parker snaps his fingers. "That's right! Who's turn is it? Copeland?" he looks at me. Some of the rocky road has smeared across his chin.
I crunch my ice cream cone and nod. Questions are a thing we did when Jackie and I were beginning to know Parker, back in fourth grade. We'd go in a circle asking one question every time we saw each other. Now I know Parker and Jackie better than anybody else—except maybe Maggy. Asking a Question every time we get together has become a routine. Though sometimes it can be hard to come up with a Question we've never asked before.
"Hmm," I finish off my ice cream cone and give my lips a satisfied lick. "If you had to color your hair a color—like, not a normal, natural color—for the rest of your life, what color would it be? And why?"
"You first, Jacqueline Bennette," Parker rubs the ice cream off his chin with his knuckle.
Jackie sticks her tongue out. "Okay, okay. Probably...navy. Like jeans navy. It goes with a lot."
I nod. "Parker?"
"Chartreuse," he answers immediately. "You know, that obnoxious yellow-green color?"
"Be serious," says Jackie, rolling her eyes.
"I am!" he insists. "It's underrated. Doesn't get enough appreciation."
"You're hopeless," I say.
"Whatever," Jackie laughs. "You choose the strangest things, Parker. What about you, Cope?"
"Green,"I say. Parker's eyes light up and his mouth begins to open so I quickly add, "But not like chartreuse."
His lips snap shut.
"Green like..." I pause. "Green like a meadow. Or a dandelion stem."
The thought of dandelions whisks me away to a memory from years and years ago. Maggy was maybe four and I was nine and we were sitting on top of the hill where my uncle was going to have his wedding the following day. No chairs were set up yet. The grass was still glazed with morning dew. Tops of dandelions danced under the faintest whisper of a breeze. Maggy plucked a dandelion and held it up to the sun.
"Look, Cope," she said, mesmerized.
"That's a weed," I informed her, ever the Practical Big Sister.
Her wide gray eyes flickered with confusion. "No," she disagreed. "It's not. Cause look." she puckered her lips and blew softly onto the dandelion. The feathery seeds quivered and floated away.
"Fairies," said Maggy.
I looked down at the hopeful expression on her face. I grabbed her hand, squeezed and smiled. "Fairies," I agreed.
She can always change the way others see things. Now when I see a dandelion, I no longer think of weeds. I think: fairies.
"Green like a dandelion stem," I repeat to my friends. "For Maggy."
"For Maggy," they echo.
Parker smiles and leans back on the bench. "How's old Mags doin' anyways?"
"Good," I tell him.
Jackie sighs heavily. "What I wouldn't give to trade my siblings for yours." She has five older brothers.
I shrug. "I dunno. Landon's kinda cute."
She smacks me. "Oh, shut up!"
I laugh and pull my phone from my pocket as it buzzes. It's a text from Mom.
Where are you???
I frown. The multiple question marks could mean one of two things: either something's wrong or I am in trouble.
Most likely the latter.
Out w/ J and P, I text back, wondering how she could've forgotten.
Well come home ASAP, Mom replies.
"Something wrong?" Jackie inquires, noticing my frown.
"I don't think so. But Mom wants me home."
Parker jangles his keys. "Need a ride?"
I get up from the bench and straighten my shirt. "I can walk. Thanks though."
We say goodbye with promises to text later (if I am not grounded) and I wave to Robert before I start to walk home. It's only about a ten minute walk, but I'm pretty sweaty by the time I get home. Standing on the threshold, I pull my damp blond hair into a ponytail before I step inside.
Our house is nothing fancy like Jackie's. It's just a one-story with three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a small kitchen, and an average living room with the world's ugliest couch.
Right now, my mom and sister sit on said sofa. Mom has one hand resting on Maggy's back, her fingers tracing smooth archways down and around her shoulder blades. She glances up at me as I set my wallet onto the coffee table. All at once I am reminded of a doe I once painted a picture of. My mother's eyes look milky and they sparkle with precious tears. Maggy's face is buried in a couch pillow and I can see the tear-stained fabric from here.
"What's going on?" I ask, worried, as I slide my feet from my flip-flops.
Mom wipes at the mascara slithering down her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her lips are bright red, just like mine get when I cry. Just like Maggy's.
"Emma," my mom says, trying to keep her voice in check. "Good, you're here." She called me by my real name. Something's really wrong. I glance at Maggy but she hasn't picked her head up from the pillow yet.
"Mom?" my voice comes out weak and timid. Not sounding at all like me.
Mom scoots some pillows off the couch and pats the cushion. "Come sit."
I obey, plunking down beside Maggy. She clutches the pillow tighter with shaking fists.
"I took Margaret to the doctor today, as you know," Mom tells me. I catch the slightest tremor in her voice.
I nod.
"And they noticed something...abnormal."
There's a lump in my throat. I can't quite force it down. What could they have possibly found in the body of my ten-year-old sister?
"Margaret," Mom says gently.
Slowly, Maggy lifts her head. Her lips are vibrant like Mom's and her eyes are two little pools of sadness. The wet, gray orbs rise to meet mine and before I can speak, she throws her arms around my waist and smushes her face into my stomach. I'm momentarily surprised, but I hug her back fiercely. Her little body feels frail and breakable in my arm arms and she shakes like a leaf. Her tears wet my shirt, each damp spot cold against my skin.
Maggy never cries.
"I've got a brain humor, Cope!" she wails into my shirt.
I glance at Mom, confused. A brain humor? Mom's distraught eyes tear through her mask. It takes me a while to process. Then I realize: Maggy misspoke.
She meant brain tumor.
"Oh, gosh." I choke when I take a breath. "Oh, gosh." Maggy's eyes tear through my skin, cutting deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper until I feel claws trying to rip my heart out. I squeeze Maggy so tight I worry that I'll snap her in two. I brush my fingers through her dirty blond tangles.
"Hey," I whisper into her ear. "Hey. You can get help for that, okay? You'll be alright."
She shakes her head. "No, no, no, no! Mama, Mama, tell her! Copeland, oh Copeland!" Her sobs morph into bitter screams of pain that wrack her body–mental or physical, I can't tell. But I guess it doesn't really matter, judging by the look on Mom's face. She looks as though she herself might succumb to the pain that has plagued my baby sister.
"The tumor is large. Very large," Mom explains helplessly. "There's nothing they can do. Maybe if they caught it earlier on...but it's too late, Emma."
Too late.
Too late?
TOO LATE?
"What's too late?" I demand sharply, causing my mother to wince.
"Margaret has four months. Approximately."
Four months? Four months to do what?
Mom leans forward and rests her lips against my forehead, laying a hand on Maggy's back. As if she can read my thoughts, my mother whispers, "Four months to live." I feel her words breathed upon my skin. I feel them sink into my bones and chill me from the outside in. I break away, shrieking hoarsely. "WHAT?" I pull back from Maggy and hold her out at arms length. She reaches for me, with flooding eyes.
"C-C-Copeland," she stutters.
Mom accidentally lets a sob escape her throat, but she muffles the sound by clamping her hand over her mouth. Quickly, she hurries off to her room, where we hear the door slam. Then I hear my mother explode into tears and choking, hoarse wails. Maggy turns toward the door, terrified.
She shouldn't have to hear this. She shouldn't have to face this. There are so many things that she shouldn't have to do.
"Listen to me, Mag," I say, forcing the words out. It feels like each word shreds a hole inside of me and it hurts. Oh my gosh, how it hurts.
I smooth strands of her hair back and tuck them behind her ears. I trace the lines the tears have made down her face. She wipes a trail of snot away with the back of her hand.
"I'm listening," she says, trembling.
"You're gonna be okay. Do you understand me? Do you understand me, baby girl?"
The pet name shatters her and all of a sudden she's crumbling in my arms. "Copeland!" And she rests her forehead against my beating heart, sobbing into my shirt again. Eventually, she cries herself to sleep and I lay her gently against the pillows. I lay beside her and rest my hand against her cheek.
"You're going to be okay," I whisper to her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, wondering how many breaths she'll have in the next four months.
It's not fair.
"You shouldn't have to go through this," I say. "I would take your place in a heartbeat. You know I would."
She continues to sleep on.
I let her.
She doesn't have many more peaceful nights left.
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