The Winner's Game(6)

“I have a problem with it,” Dad responds. “This family can—and wants to—support you while you’re going through this. Isn’t that right, Bree?”

“Right,” I mumble.

“Good. Now, is there something you’d like to say to your sister?”

I don’t want to, but finally I say, “Sorry Ann. I…um…really like your slippers. Maybe someday I’ll get a pair like that. You know…if I break my neck or something.”

Dad immediately points to the stairs. “To your bedroom. Now. And stay there until you can be a little nicer.”

“What?” I reply, throwing my arms up as I stomp out of the room. “I said sorry…”





              Chapter 3





Ann




I DON’T KNOW why Bree always gets so jealous. Sometimes I just want to scream at her, “You have a healthy body! What more do you want?” But a healthy body isn’t the only thing she’s got. She’s popular, she’s talented, she’s got a ton of friends, she’s got an outgoing personality. I could go on and on. And yet she’s all jacked up about some dumb slippers that Mom picked up on discount to give me something to smile about after learning that I need a heart transplant?

Does she not understand that I’m a time bomb waiting to explode, and that I might not ever get a heart? Or that even if they find a decent match, my body could reject it?

I love Bree, but sometimes she gets on my nerves. I wish she’d see that I’m the one who should be jealous of her. She wants my slippers, but I would love to be in her shoes. Still, I would never wish my problems on Bree. She’s got too much potential that would be wasted. People would miss her if she had a heart attack and died. If it happens to me, I doubt anyone will know the difference…





I’m sitting by myself in the living room when Cade comes up from behind and pokes his nose over my shoulder. “Whatcha got?”

I hold it up for him to see. “My pager. It’s sort of my lifeline. I’m supposed to keep it with me day and night for when they find me a heart.”

“Why don’t they just call your cell phone?”

“This has a better signal. They can pretty much reach me anywhere, even without a cell tower nearby.”

He’s fascinated, so I let him hold it. He cradles it gently, like a baby bird. It’s all black and about the size of my palm, with a belt clip on one side and a digital display for text on the top. “Pretty cool,” he says.

“Actually, not so cool.” It’s hard to put it in words, but I try my best to explain to him that ever since they gave it to me I have this constant pit in my stomach. I keep looking at it, thinking it could start buzzing at any moment, but then it doesn’t, which is nerve-racking. It’s like I can’t relax with it near me, but I probably couldn’t relax without it either, because I’d be too worried about missing my page. Kinda sucks.

“Is that why you’re staring at it?” he asks. “Hoping it will go off?”

“No. I was just thinking how—Never mind. You’ll think I’m stupid.”

“No I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will. I know you.”

Cade sits up as tall as he can. “I won’t! Cross my heart and hope to die.”

The comment hits me hard, and I don’t bother hiding my reaction. He immediately apologizes and says he’ll never say that again.

I think about it for a second, then tell him not to be sorry, because I’ve said that a thousand times too. I just never thought about what it means until right now. It’s really kind of morbid.

After a brief silence, I decide to answer his question, just to change the subject. I take back the pager and hold it gingerly in my hand. “I was thinking…it’s like me,” I tell him quietly. “Kind of vanilla. Plain. All it does is sit around waiting for something to happen.”

He looks confused. “You’re like the pager?”

“Uh-huh. I saw doctors at the hospital walking around with these cool, flashy ones—very sleek and shiny. But they gave me the plain black one. No style, just a little boring.”

I’m not trying to be critical of myself…just self-aware. It’s no secret that I like to play it safe. Apart from swimming, I’ve always had a hard time putting myself out there, I guess. I’m nothing like my sister in that regard—she’s anything but safe.

Is it a bad thing to be the dependable and predictable one? Or would it be better to be like Bree, carefree and spontaneous?

I like who I am, but sometimes I wonder. Just once, instead of playing the hostess, it might be nice to be the life of the party.