Patricia is trying.
That's it. She's just trying, at everything, all the time. Trying to succeed at schoolwork despite being pretty average, intelligence-wise. Trying to maintain her friendships despite always being busy. Trying to keep the flat nea...
I have a friend! I write in my very best printing.
I add several more exclamation points for emphasis.
Then I start to chew on the end of my pencil. What else do I put? I don't know much about Robert except that he seems very nice and he's, well, like me, and I'm not putting that. I don't know any words for people like me that aren't rude. I'm not going to insult Robert on the very first day that I met him.
From his place next to me on my bed, Robert looks over at my scrapbook. I hold up my hand to tell him to be still, then carefully- so, so careful, I mustn't tear it- pull out a page from the back. I fold it carefully in half and then rip along the fold, so that it looks almost as if I cut it neatly with Mum's sewing scissors. Still telling Robert to be still, I start drawing him- his round cheeks, sticking-out ears, little snub nose and rumpled hair, and then his funny checked jumper with the big shirt collar poking out over it.
Truthfully, it's not a very good drawing, but Robert sees that it's him and makes a delighted sort of mumble. He seizes the other half of the page and grabs my pencil out of my hand and draws me as well, his face all squished up he's focusing so hard. It's several minutes before he's done, and if I move he grumbles indignantly. It's a little bit boring to stay so still for so long but he eventually passes me a little portrait, crammed into one corner of the paper, of a girl with a thin face, short straight hair clipped back with Kirby grips, a bulbous nose, and little dark eyes. He coloured those eyes a bit too hard, so it's torn through the paper. I hope he hasn't broken the point of my pencil.
I like the picture, I decide. It makes me look a little bit like that child actress Mandy Miller. Patricia used to love her and would talk about her all the time. She even persuaded our parents to take me to see Dance, Little Lady at the cinema. I hated it. It was too loud and so I made it even louder. I've never been taken to the pictures since, which is just fine with me.
I tuck both of the drawings into the notebook, and Robert smiles.
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We both hear something at the same time and turn to the door. The two nurses come into the room, pushing a loud clanking trolley.
"Time for tea!" says the tall nurse, overly cheerfully.
Nurse Reid starts handing out plates as Robert slips back into his bed. I look down at the meal on my lap- pork chops, mashed potatoes and peas, all drowning in an ocean of gravy.
The nurses finish handing out meals as I stare at my plate.
Robert seems equally uncertain. Out the corner of my eye, I see him lean forward to smell the food.
I sniff too. It does not smell promising.
"Come on, Robert, Rosemary. Eat up," commands the tall nurse.
