Everything had seemed perfect until Enid and George arrived. "I can't believe it," Elizabeth whispered to Todd, watching George open the back door of his car and take out the folding wheelchair. "I was sure she'd be on her feet by now!" Once the wheelchair was reassembled, George opened the front door of the car and carefully lifted Enid in his arms.

  "I can't bear it," Elizabeth said. "I can't stand the thought of Enid living like an invalid!"

  "Just give her time," Todd had said soothingly, putting his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. But Elizabeth could tell that Todd was worried, too.

  "Have some salad, George," Elizabeth suggested now, passing the bowl around the table.

  "I can't tell you how wonderful all this is," Enid repeated. "I feel so spoiled," she added, smiling shyly at George across the table. "Liz, I must be the luckiest girl in the whole world! George has been so wonderful to me. He won't let me go anywhere by myself, and he's always jumping up to get things for me. Aren't you, George?" she prompted.

  "Yeah," George mumbled. "I guess so."

  Elizabeth blushed, staring down at the table. She didn't like the sound of Enid's voice at all. She just didn't sound like herself. She seemed overly cheerful, as if she were forcing herself to believe everything was all right.

  "How's the physical therapy going?" Elizabeth asked gently.

  Enid played with her spaghetti for a long time before answering. "Oh, all right," she said at last. "I didn't go today. I was feeling kind of tired. But tomorrow—"

  "But don't you have to go?" Todd interrupted. "I thought—"

  "The nurses are really strict," Enid complained. "I feel like they expect me just to jump out of the chair and run the hundred-yard dash or something. Dr. MacGregor said it might take me a while," she explained.

  Todd and Elizabeth exchanged worried glances.

  "But you can feel things in your legs now, can't you?" Elizabeth asked.

  Enid sighed. "Yes, but I'm awfully weak, Liz. I shouldn't push myself too much right at the start." She stared down at her food, which she had barely tasted. "And I still can't walk," she admitted. "I've tried, but I just can't seem to do it."

  "Hey," George interrupted, obviously trying to change the subject. "Did you see the baseball game on TV last night, Todd? I thought they looked really good."

  Elizabeth listened as Todd chimed in with his views on how the baseball season was shaping up. But her mind wasn't really on what he was saying. She was watching Enid, wondering what she was feeling. Elizabeth knew Enid too well to fall for the act she was putting on. She could tell something was wrong, and she couldn't wait till she could get Enid alone to ask her some questions.

  "What's new at school?" Enid asked later, when Elizabeth brought out the chocolate brownies she'd baked for dessert.

  "Oh, the usual," Elizabeth said lightly. "Jessica's over at Cara's tonight," she added. "She's still really obsessed with her gourmet class. I think she's planning on asking the teacher to go with her to the dance next week." She giggled.

  Enid glanced across the table at George, who was still deep in conversation with Todd. "I think the dance sounds like a lot of fun," she said brightly. "Maybe George and I can make it."

  "I hope so," Elizabeth said quietly. "It wouldn't be any fun without you there, Enid."

  For the next hour conversation ranged from pro baseball to the sale at Lisette's. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, watching the faces around her as her friends talked, and wondered why she felt as if something were missing. It was true that everyone was being careful not to bring up any subject that might be painful. Enid didn't mention the hospital or physical therapy again, and Elizabeth felt as if they were all tiptoeing around issues that might be embarrassing or sensitive.

  But that, she realized, wasn't what was making the evening so awkward. It was Enid and George.

  Even if Elizabeth hadn't known George's real feelings, she could have guessed something was wrong from his behavior. Every so often he looked furtively at his watch, and once she noticed that he was drumming his fingers anxiously on the table. Elizabeth didn't think he was bored so much as nervous. He didn't look directly at Enid, either.

  And Enid seemed all too aware that things were not quite right. She was handling the embarrassing situation by pretending it wasn't there—talking louder than usual, laughing very hard at George's jokes, and all in all trying to convince the others that everything was fine.

  By the time Elizabeth was clearing the coffee cups from the table, she could feel the strain in the room. The tension in the air was so thick she could almost cut it with a knife, she thought unhappily. After a silence that felt interminable, George spoke up.

  "Hey," he said, "I hate to break up the party, but I have an early morning tomorrow."

  "But, George—" Enid began, crestfallen.

  "Maybe Liz and Todd can give you a lift home," George suggested. "That way you don't have to leave early, too."

  "We'd be happy to," Elizabeth said awkwardly, "unless—"

  Enid stared glumly at her plate, not saying a word.

  "That's terrific, Liz," George said gratefully. "And thanks so much for dinner. It was wonderful."

  The silence that fell after George left was so oppressive Elizabeth couldn't bear it. "I'm really sorry, Liz," Enid mumbled at last. It was obvious that she was deeply hurt by George's behavior, and terribly ashamed. "He's just had a lot on his mind lately. He didn't mean to be rude."

  "He wasn't rude, Enid," Elizabeth said gently. "And it's kind of nice getting to be alone with you for a change. Why don't the three of us go into the living room and watch a video?"

  Enid shook her head, her green eyes filling with tears. "Actually, I'm kind of tired," she murmured. "Would you think it was awful if I asked you to take me home now? I should've gone with George," she added hastily, "but I guess he thought I'd want to stay for a while. I seem to get so tired lately."

  "My car's right outside," Todd volunteered. "Just tell me when, and I'm ready to go."

  "Maybe right now would be best," Enid whispered. "I really do feel awfully beat."

  Elizabeth thought about the dirty dishes piled up in the kitchen. It was a hard-and-fast rule in the Wakefield household that no one leave the kitchen without cleaning up. And Elizabeth's spaghetti sauce had really made a mess of her mother's pot.

  "I'll come with you guys," she announced, opening the front hall closet to get her jacket. If Mom and Dad get back before I do, I'm sure they'll understand, she assured herself.

  "Now, how do I move you in this thing?" Todd asked with a grin, trying to make Enid smile.

  It didn't work. Enid looked listless and depressed, and Elizabeth had a feeling that nothing she or Todd could do would cheer her up.

  George was the only one who could do that. And from the way George had bolted after dinner, it didn't look as if he was capable of keeping up the act much longer.

  "Chicken cordon bleu," Jessica said dreamily, rolling over on her unmade bed to make a note next to the open cookbook. No, maybe I should do something with beef, she thought anxiously. Dad's so big on steak—maybe filet mignon.

  It was funny, Jessica reflected. A couple of weeks ago she couldn't have imagined coming home before eleven on a Friday night to look through cookbooks. And that night she hardly could wait to leave Cara's and get back home.

  Jessica hugged herself with satisfaction, looking happily around at the room the rest of the family had declared a natural disaster. "The Hershey Bar," Elizabeth called it, because Jessica had painted the walls chocolate brown. But what does Elizabeth know, Jessica thought defensively. This room is really cozy. It's true that it's not exactly tidy.

  Even Jessica had to admit she was casual about where her clothes landed when she took them off. But Jessica loved it just as it was. She could just imagine how this room would look in People magazine when she became a world-famous chef. "At home," she said aloud, posing on her bed, "the artist usually spends Friday evenings thumbing through new recipes—that is, when she's not out dancing with her talented boyfriend, Jean-Pierre Baptiste."

  Jessica had decided it was time to ask Jean-Pierre to go to the dance with her next Friday night. True, it was only a high school dance, and it wasn't even going to be at the country club—just in the gymnasium. But it was one of the biggest dances of the year. She was dying to go, and the obvious solution was to get Jean-Pierre to be her date. That way she could enjoy the dance and make Lila and Cara so jealous they'd die. I'll ask him on Monday, Jessica promised herself, turning back to the cookbook.

  Mom and Dad's anniversary was still two weeks away, Jessica reminded herself. She was sure that by then she'd be able to make something exotic. She wrinkled her nose, looking at the recipes in the first part of the book. "Cold pumpkin soup?" she said aloud, shaking her head. "Dad wouldn't get near that for anything."

  Jessica was excited about the surprise dinner for her parents. For once, she told herself triumphantly, she was going to be the good daughter. Lying back on her bed and closing her eyes, she imagined the expressions of love and joy on her parents' faces as she led them into the dining room. "Dinner is served," she would say, clapping her hands—and instantly the table would be spread with exotic dishes—chicken cordon bleu, filet mignon, veal piccatta . . .

  And Elizabeth, Jessica daydreamed happily, would have been so wrapped up in Enid that she'd have forgotten all about their anniversary. She wouldn't have bought them a single thing. And no matter what they said she'd feel absolutely terrible. Jessica would have to pretend Elizabeth helped her make something really easy, like the rice. But they'd know she had really done it all. And Elizabeth would feel like a jerk—

  "Jessica!" her mother's voice interrupted her reverie. "Jessica Wakefield, are you in there?"

  Jessica sat up in confusion, listening to the angry knocking on her bedroom door. "Of course I'm in here!" she shouted.

  "Since when," Mrs. Wakefield inquired, opening the door and coming into the room, "do you leave a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and not even bother to rinse them? Do you realize that your father and I have had a long day and the last thing we want to find when we come home this late is a filthy mess in the kitchen?"

  "But, Mom," Jessica said indignantly, "I didn't—"

  "Don't interrupt," Mr. Wakefield echoed. "Your mother is right, Jessica. We agreed to let you take cooking classes, but we didn't agree to let you turn our kitchen into a demolition derby!"

  "It wasn't me!" Jessica wailed, anguished. "I've been at Cara's all night! I just got home a few minutes ago, and I didn't even go in the kitchen."

  "Oh, that's right," Mrs. Wakefield said, blinking. "Liz had Enid over to dinner. I'd forgotten."

  "Foiled again," Mr. Wakefield said. "Sorry, Jess. Your middle-aged parents are getting senile early."

  Mrs. Wakefield sighed. "I wonder why Liz left a mess. Did you see her, Jess, or did she just—"

  "I don't know where she is," Jessica said, genuinely upset. "I can't believe you'd just assume any mess around this place is my fault."

  "Sorry," Mrs. Wakefield said lightly. "Don't look so upset, Jess." She laughed. "It's hard keeping track of things when you have twins."

  "I bet it is," Jessica said sulkily. "I just bet. If I'd made a mess down there, no one would have accused Liz."

  "That isn't true, Jess," Mrs. Wakefield protested. "I'll have a word with Liz when she gets home," she added, stepping back out into the hall. "But I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

  Of course there is, Jessica thought nastily. Because it's Elizabeth. If it were me, you'd be ready to have me hung.

  "While we're on the subject of demoliton derbies," Mr. Wakefield joked, "maybe it's time you did something to this room, Jess."

  Jessica didn't answer. I'll show them, she thought bitterly, turning back to her recipes. I'll make them the best dinner they've ever eaten, and they'll be so sorry they insulted me they'll just beg me to forgive them.

  "Filet mignon," Jessica wrote in her notebook, trying not to feel hurt. That would teach them. She was sick and tired of being the one everyone picked on!

  Eight

  It was Sunday afternoon, and Enid was sitting in the Rollinses' living room in her wheelchair, leafing absently through the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. She barely noticed what she was looking at. It was one-thirty, and George had promised he'd come over around one.

  Of course, he didn't suggest it, Enid reminded herself, frowning. It was my idea. But I haven't seen him since Friday night, and that was such a disaster.

  Enid sighed. She hated to admit it to herself, but George had been acting strangely since the accident. He just didn't seem like himself. He kept making excuses not to see her, and when they were together, he didn't really look at her.

  And he hasn't kissed me, she reminded herself. Not once all week.

  "How To Tell If He Doesn't Love You Anymore," the article she'd opened to was titled. Enid bit her lip and flipped forward quickly to the color spread on bathing suits. It's not that, she told herself. Of course he still loves me! He's probably just feeling strange because of everything that's happened.

  Enid could no longer pretend that something wasn't wrong. But she told herself that George still felt guilty. He probably thinks all this is his fault, she thought, looking down at her wheelcahir.

  Enid knew this was probably all the more reason to concentrate on getting better. But her heart wasn't in it. She was going to her physical therapy classes, but she just couldn't do the exercises the nurses suggested. She felt so tired all the time, and it seemed like an enormous effort just to roll the wheelchair from one side of the room to another. "I don't think I'll ever get better," Enid whispered to herself. She was afraid to say so to her mother, but she couldn't imagine being able to walk again. It seemed impossible, like something in a dream.

  "Enid, George is here," Mrs. Rollins called, coming into the living room.

  Enid looked up, her face brightening expectantly. "Hi," she said shyly. "How've you been, stranger? I haven't seen you all weekend!"

  "I know," George mumbled, staring at the floor. "How are you?" he asked. "Any chance of getting you out of that chair today?"

  Mrs. Rollins left the room, an anxious expression on her face, and Enid sighed, slowly shaking her head. "I don't think so, George," she said carefully. "I still feel awfully weak."

  "Oh, well," George said, sinking down on the couch. They looked at each other, and Enid racked her brain for something to say that sounded natural. But she couldn't think of anything. She hadn't gone back to school, and all she'd really been doing that day was sitting around waiting for him to come over. She couldn't exactly tell him that, could she?

  "Hey, I wanted to ask you about the dance on Friday," she began. "Do you want to go?"

  George was quiet for a minute. "Do you think you'll feel up to it?" he asked her.

  Enid bit her lip. "I hope so," she told him. "Even though I can't dance, it still sounds like fun," she added wistfully. "We've always had such a good time together at dances, George. Remember that time—"

  But George didn't look as if he wanted to get nostalgic about anything. "If you want to, we can go," he said. "Whatever you want, Enid."

  Enid felt like crying. This wasn't the response she'd hoped for at all. What had happened to the old George who got so excited at the thought of an evening out together? Why was he acting so cold, so distant?

  "George," she whispered, reaching out to him, "is anything wrong?"

  George shook his head. "No. I'm fine," he insisted. "Why?"

  "I don't know," Enid mumbled. "I thought you were angry with me about something."

  "Of course not!" George burst out. "How could I be angry with you?"

  "I don't know," Enid repeated. "But, George, it scares me so much when you don't come by to see me. I don't know what I'd do without you. You're just about all I've got left now," she cried desperately.

  George flushed deeply. "Don't say that," he said angrily. "You've got a lot more than me going for you!"

  But Enid was shaking her head. "No, George, I haven't," she told him. "You're my whole world. I don't know what would happen to me if you—if you—"

  "Don't," George begged her, dropping to his knees and putting his arms around her. "I can't stand it!"

  Enid pulled George to her, tears falling from her eyes as she buried her face in his dark hair. I don't know what's going on, but I feel as though I'm losing him, she thought. And I can't—I just can't—let him get away.

  I've just got to make him realize how much I need him, Enid told herself. I have to make him understand that if he didn't love me anymore, I might just not be able to go on.

  Enid didn't consider whether or not she was being fair to George. She couldn't. All she knew was that she loved him and that he was drifting away from her. And if she didn't hang on for dear life, she might lose him. That was something Enid wasn't going to let happen, whatever it took.

  And Enid had a feeling it was going to take everything she had—perhaps even more.

  "Today, class, we graduate to the entree," Jean-Pierre announced.

  "And today I'm going to graduate right out of this miserable class," Lila hissed, rolling up her sleeves. "I mean it, Jess. I've had it. Not even a sexy French accent is worth ruining two silk blouses for."

  Jessica shrugged. "Go ahead and drop out if you like, Lila. But just see how far you get when you have to entertain important people one day."

  "That's what servants are for." Lila giggled. "And they even do the dishes!" She eyed the uncooked chicken in front of her with distaste.

  "Lila, how do I look?" Jessica asked. She had more important things on her mind than whether or not Lila stayed in the class.

  "Like the Pillsbury Dough boy," Lila snorted. "You've got flour on your nose, and that apron makes you look weird."

  "No, really," Jessica insisted. "I'm serious. Do I look OK?"