"Okay, Liz, I'll pick you up at 6:30!"

"Sure," I said weakly, trying to sound enthusiastic. Meanwhile, I was dreading the fact that I had finally accepted my friend's invitation to her Wednesday night youth group.

"Well . . . hey, I have to go now," I said after a pause.

"All right!" Christa chirped. "See you in thirty minutes!"

"Okay . . . well, bye."

"Yep! Bye!"

As I hung up the phone I began to wonder exactly what had possessed me to agree to go. Christa had been trying unsuccessfully since tenth grade to get me to go to her youth group with her. For a year I had always been ready with a slew of excuses why I couldn't attend. Of course, the real reason was always that I just plain did not want to go.

But that night, I had just had it. After a miserable yet predictable day and with a headache growing and patience thinning, I had said, "Sure," just to make Christa leave me alone.

Now I realized exactly what I had agreed to. I took a seat on my bed, letting out a series of groans. There was no way I could get out of going. Instantly, I regretted my decision, but I was too tired to really care. I mean, it was just youth group.

This phrase carried me through the following thirty-five minutes when I changed into an outfit I assumed was suitable for a youth group, and took all sorts of lovely medicine to rid my headache. When I heard Christa honking in my driveway, I realized with slight relief that my headache was gone, and exited my house with a hesitant smile.

"You're going to love it!" Christa said brightly as I slipped into the passenger seat beside her. "Youth group is so much fun!"

"Yeah, sure," I said, glancing down at my nails.

After a moment Christa wondered, "You don't really want to go, do you?"

"Nope."

"Well, at least you're going," Christa said, and after she had pulled out, added, "For once."

I smiled guiltily. I had long suspected that she knew all of my excuses the past year had been just that-excuses. But Christa had yet to accuse me of this. Usually she would slyly drop in a phrase as she had just done, and then chatter on as if it had never been said.

"Anyway," she continued, "it's fun. You'll see."

"What do you guys usually do?" I wondered, never having been to an actual youth group. I went to church with my family and had attended Sunday school as a child, but that was about it.

"Well, first we sing a few songs and stuff. Then we eat. Afterwards Pastor Greg gives a talk, and then we leave."

"That's it?"

"Yep. But it's a lot of fun." As Christa stopped at an intersection, she glanced down at her clock and muttered, "Man, we're late."

"Is that bad?"

"No. Well, I don't know. Now you can't really meet anybody until later on."

"Oh." This discovery wasn't exactly disappointing to me.

Then Christa of course had to add, "Oh well, we'll just get there when everyone's singing. I can still introduce you to some of my friends."

"Great," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Moments later, we arrived at Christa's church, Jenkinsville United Methodist, which reportedly had one of the biggest youth groups in our small town. I had yet to know exactly how many people a "big" youth group was supposed to have, so my mind was open with possibilities as I entered the church.

Christa led me into the chapel, where a group of twenty to thirty teenagers were gathered, singing music with the band on stage. Christa dragged me right up to the front row, face glowing with a bright smile as she greeted several unfamiliar people around us. I stood next to Christa on the edge of the row, feeling very out of place. Everyone was singing the lyrics to songs I had never heard before, and all of the words on the screen above were foreign.

"Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, open the eyes of my heart. . . ."

I eventually caught on to the basic tune, but I sang very low, self- conscious of my off-key voice and the sweet, beautiful ones around me. Christa introduced me to the people standing beside her in between songs. But since I kept thinking how I shouldn't be here, I could only muster a small smile and an occasional "Hi."

After gazing around the chapel for two songs, my eyes finally traveled up to the band. The short, dark-haired drummer was a senior I recognized from my school. I thought his name was Kyle, but I wasn't sure.

The lead singer was a tall, skinny girl with red hair who had one of the best voices I had ever heard. But when she sang, she closed her eyes and lifted up her hands, just as some people around me were. This sight puzzled me. I had never seen people do this before.

The guitarist also looked very emotional as he sang. His voice was mellow and clear, and blended well with the music. I only briefly glanced at him at first, but then something made me take a second look. He was tall and lean, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Even in the dim lights, I could see how tan he was. He was good-looking, but not in a conventional way. His facial features were so well proportioned and yet not at the same time, one had to look twice at him. He was somebody my grandmother would describe as "Jewish-looking." His hair was thick and dark, and when he opened his eyes a moment, I saw what a piercing, dark brown they were.

I suddenly realized neither his startling looks nor his soothing, emotional voice were what caused me to stare at him. Somehow, he seemed very familiar, but I couldn't place his name. I searched my mind but came up with nothing. Who was he?

Did I know him? I wasn't sure. If so, from where? He looked too old to be in high school; I assumed he was in college. Yet I still could not remember who he was.

For a few songs or so he appeared more and more familiar to me, but I still could not figure out why. Although I kept trying to remember where I had possibly seen him before, I came to no conclusion. Finally, during a brief pause between songs as he spoke, I nudged Christa and whispered, "Who's he?"

She glanced over at me, confused. "Huh?"

"Who's that guy talking right now?"

"Oh. Andy Miller." She gazed for a moment up at the guitarist, then turned back to me, smiling coyly. "Yeah, all the girls in the youth group like Andy at some time or other. I had a crush on him all throughout my freshman year."

"No, it's . . ." I sighed and tried to sort my thoughts. "He looks really familiar, but I don't know why. What school does he go to?"

"Jenkinsville Christian," Christa explained. "He's a senior."

I gaped at her. "He can't be only a year older than us! He looks too old to be a senior."

"Yeah, I know. Hence why he has all of these girls after him." Christa shrugged. "I don't know. Andy's a cool guy. Well, anyway, do you recognize him now?"

"No," I said, slightly exasperated. "I guess I-" I stopped. At that moment, the band started to play again, so our conversation ended.

Throughout the last three songs, I tried to apply my new information about this mysterious guitarist to my memories but nothing came to mind. Even his name, Andy Miller, didn't sound the least bit familiar. Yet as I watched him sing, I knew I had seen him somewhere before. But who was he? This question continued to plague me.

After the last song was sung, Andy started to pray but stopped a moment as we locked gazes. Did he recognize me, too? I wasn't sure, for he quickly closed his eyes and continued with the prayer.

Once he was finished, a man in the back of the chapel exclaimed, "Hey, I've got pop-sickles!" and everybody turned around, instantly buzzing with chatter. I glanced around, obviously confused, until Christa explained, "We always eat when we're done singing. That's Pastor Greg, by the way. Come on. I'll introduce you."

She firmly grabbed my arm and brought me over to a tall, balding man in his forties who was holding a large box of pop-sickles and wearing a friendly smile. Christa pushed through the mob surrounding the man and shoved me right in front of him.

"Hi, Pastor Greg!" she sang. "This is my friend Liz. This is her first time coming."

Pastor Greg beamed at me, and I instantly felt at ease. His smile was probably the most open one I had ever seen and I couldn't help but feel welcomed.

"Hi, Liz!" he said, vigorously shaking my hand. "I'm Pastor Greg. How do you like this so far?"

"It's . . . okay," I said finally. (I still had not formed a real opinion about Christa's youth group and figured that was a good enough response.)

"That's good to hear," Pastor Greg replied. "Now, are you a junior, too, like Chris?"

"Yeah," Christa cut in before I could respond. "She goes to Levy High School with me, too."

"Good. Then you probably know some of the people." Pastor Greg motioned to the large line standing behind us. "Well, there's a lot of hungry kids here tonight, so I guess I'll talk to you girls later! Do you two want pop- sickles?"

"Sure!" Christa enthused. "Can never pass up a good pop-sickle." She reached in to the box and pulled out a grape-flavored pop-sickle. I smiled at Pastor Greg and got out a cherry-flavored one right after her.

Christa and I walked a little ways from the mob, licking our pop-sickles. "So, do you know how you know Andy yet?" she wondered.

"No." I followed her gaze over to where he was standing in a circle with a few popular senior guys and girls I recognized from my school. I was instantly crestfallen-and more discouraged. If Andy was friends with people that acted as if I didn't exist at school, how in the world did I know him?

I realized I was blatantly staring at him, but was too frustrated to care. The same question surfaced in my mind: Who was he? I still did not have the faintest idea how or from where I knew him. I was so busy trying to remember at least something that I didn't even know Christa was talking until she remarked, "Hey, it looks like he recognizes you, too."

I awoke from my thoughts and immediately looked away from Andy and his friends. "Huh?"

"Look. He's staring at you."

I glanced over for a moment to see, indeed, that although he was obviously involved in a conversation with the people he was standing with, his eyes kept traveling over to me.

"This is so stupid!" I fumed. "I wish I knew how I know him."

"You can't remember anything?"

"No! Nothing at all." After saying this I groaned, but that still did not relieve my aggravation.

* * *

After everyone had finished eating, I took a seat back in the front row with Christa and a few of her friends. They were friendly enough, I suppose, but I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that they quickly gave up trying to talk to me.

The entire chapel swelled with noise as everyone settled in their seats. I glanced over my shoulder to see Andy and his friends were sitting in the row directly behind me. I quickly looked away, suddenly uncomfortable and more persistent to find out how I knew Andy.

Pastor Greg walked up on stage, and slowly the room quieted. He smiled at the crowd and asked, "So, how'd you like your pop-sickles?"

After a few compliments a boy a few rows behind me yelled, "Hey, mine tasted like mouthwash!"

Pastor Greg laughed as I overheard people agreeing with him. "Really? What flavor was it, Jack?" he wondered, genuinely curious.

"Well, it was supposed to be grape . . ."

Everyone chuckled amongst themselves.

"Hey, he's right," I heard someone say. Andy. "Mine was cherry but it tasted like cough medicine or something."

"Yeah, mine too!" a girl agreed.

"Mine tasted like-" I began, but stopped as it hit me from out of nowhere.

A younger voice flew into my mind, still changing, full of sarcasm and hidden vulnerability, saying, "Ugh. This tastes like cough medicine. . . ."And a face. A face that hadn't crossed my mind in such a long time. A face scrunching up in disgust as he licked his cherry-flavored pop-sickle. . . . He had said that when we had received pop-sickles the second week of camp during lunch.

It was then I suddenly remembered how I knew Andy.



* * *

It was hard to pay attention to Pastor Greg's talk after my startling realization. It left me completely in shock. Throughout the rest of the evening memories kept flying through my mind, memories I hadn't thought of in years. I remembered things I assumed I'd forgotten.

I still could not believe it was him. Andy. Or Andrew, as he'd been known back then. I could not fathom that our paths were somehow crossing again, and in the most unexpected way. I could not believe how much he had changed.

After Pastor Greg finished talking, I looked for Andy but he apparently had left early. I had been too deep in thought to notice. Christa attempted to introduce me to more of her friends, but it was hopeless. I was too shocked to carry on a simple conversation with anyone. The ride home was silent that night. Although I had told Christa earlier that I remembered where I knew Andy from, I did not expand. There was no way I could explain everything during a ten-minute car ride.

* * *

I was up very late that night, digging through my closet and unveiling my memories. I found old pictures, notes, and other keepsakes from that summer. It was funny how even the most simple objects had so many feelings, so many memories of a long ago summer attached to them.

For the first time in years, I could remember that summer clearly. It had been a hot, painful summer, one of many experiences that caused me to grow up. I was still living in New Jersey at the time; it would be another two years until I moved to Ohio. I was a spiteful, self-centered and yet deeply insecure thirteen-year-old, my eyes just beginning to open up to the world around me. At the time I thought I had everything and everyone figured out, but I was quickly proven wrong.

That past year, I had "blossomed" from a somewhat well-behaved twelve-year- old to a melodramatic, spoiled, thirteen-year-old brat that brought many unnecessary problems into my family's life. I had no respect for authority, and my life revolved around my equally catty, selfish friends. I did everything possible to make my parents' life a living hell.

I suppose all of the drama from my seventh grade year was one of the many reasons my parents decided to send me to a camp in Pennsylvania that summer for the entire month of July. Although I pouted and threw numerous temper tantrums for months, I still ended up going.

I'd been determined that my four weeks of camp would be horrible, and because of my sour attitude, that was how they began. I shared a cabin with conceited rich girls from Long Island who instantly hated me. The first week of camp was probably the worst. The ten girls from my cabin deliberately set out to ostracize and humiliate me in any way they could. First, they froze my underwear at night; another night they covered my face with lipstick that took two days to wash off. The pranks got much worse as the week progressed. The girls also publicly ridiculed me, day after day, until the entire camp was making fun of me.

Nobody would talk to me unless they were trying to embarrass me. I felt so alone and horribly self-conscious, more than I'd ever felt in my life. Back home, I was popular with lots of friends; at camp I was a nobody. I called home every day that week, begging with tears streaming down my face to leave, but my parents just told me to endure it and that they loved me.

But I soon discovered that there was another person in camp who was being taunted and jeered at even more so than me. His name was Andrew, and he was a sarcastic, odd-looking kid from Ohio that was in a wheelchair. Every word out of his mouth was an insult. He had absolutely no social skills whatsoever. Although he was shunned himself, he spent most of the time making fun of everybody. He mocked adults to their faces and soon gained the hatred of all of the camp counselors. But since he was in wheelchair, they had to tolerate him.

Andrew refused to take part in anything because of his wheelchair, which was just as well, for everyone teased him enough anyway. He was a sickly- looking kid, very lanky, with messy brown hair that stuck up all over the place and huge glasses that were thicker than any I'd ever seen. He always wore pants-no matter how hot it was-which brought him even more teasing.

Andrew claimed he hated everybody. I could recall more than a dozen times he'd said so. He was also quick to grow angry and was always deliberately running over kids' toes with his wheelchair. "It's my weapon," he would proclaim.

I still remembered that day when we met. I had sulked to the mess hall that morning for breakfast, my hair sticky from all sorts of gels the girls in my cabin had put in my hair during the night. A quick, two-minute camp shower had only washed the disgusting mess from my forehead.

By the time I arrived and got my food, every table was full of people who would never even let me near them. I instantly felt humiliated as it dawned to me-I had nowhere to sit. I was an outcast.

A counselor, noting the tears brimming in my eyes, walked over to me and said, "Oh, don't worry, I'm sure there's somewhere you can sit. Maybe-"

"Nobody wants me to sit with them," I spouted. "They hate me! Well, I hate them too! I hate them all!" I tried to sound angry, but loneliness still crept into my voice.

"Well, you can't-"

"They all hate me! And I hate them!"

"I'm sure there's somewhere-ah! There. Look."

I followed her gaze over to Andrew, who was sitting at a table all by himself, reading a computer magazine and barely touching his food. "What? No, you can't mean-not with that loser-"

"You know Andrew?"

"Well, no, but I've seen him before and I've heard-"

"Good. Then you can meet him. Come on." After the counselor dragged me over to his table, I reluctantly took a seat, placed my tray down, and mumbled, "Hi."

Andrew didn't look up.

"Andrew," the counselor said, taking a seat beside him and talking in the forced, patient way most counselors did with him, "this is . . ."

"Elizabeth," I informed him.

Andrew continued to read his magazine, acting oblivious to our presence.

"Andrew, do you mind if Elizabeth sits here?"

He shrugged.

"Well, good." The counselor smiled sympathetically and then left the table.

I could feel everyone's eyes on me. All of the people in tables around us turned to gawk and whisper. There we were. The world's biggest loser couple. I could just imagine the teasing that would follow.

I decided, for some odd reason, to attempt conversation. "So . . . what are you reading?"

Andrew glanced up at me through his huge glasses and retorted, "Why does your hair look so bad? Ever heard of a shower?"

My hands instantly flew to my hair, face turning crimson. "Well-yeah, of course, it's just-"

"Guess you don't have much hygiene," Andrew snapped. "What'd you wash it with, anyway? Sewage?"

"No!"

"Then you probably don't even shower, what with your lack of hygiene and all."

"My lack of what?"

"Hygiene. Personal hygiene."

"Oh, yeah. Right," I said, trying to pretend I knew what he was talking about.

"Is 'hygiene' too big a word for your feeble mind?"

"What?"

"You're an idiot," Andrew declared, smiling.

I glared at him. He was such a funny-looking kid. His face was tan but there were gray circles under his eyes, which looked like two beady brown dots behind his thick glasses, and his mouth was in dire need of dental work. His hair stood up in many directions and looked unevenly cut.

"Well, you're handicapped," I deadpanned.

Andrew looked surprised for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. "Well, no duh. Doesn't take that much to notice the wheels."

"You're not even a real person," I continued, my anger fueling. "You're like, half a person. You're a cripple because your stupid legs don't work!"

"At least my brain works."

"Well, obviously not well enough," I said, "if it can't send messages through . . . well, whatever it sends messages through; I never really paid that much attention in health class-"

"My spinal cord, you idiot," Andrew informed me. "You really are an idiot, too."

"Well-well-"

Then, suddenly, Andrew smirked at me, and I smirked back. Our friendship was sealed.

Over the next three weeks we slowly became each other's protectors. Although I was a little too conscious of his wheelchair at first, it soon grew on me, as did Andrew. I became impervious to his endless insults.

We formed our own little world, Andrew and I. I wheeled him all around camp, listening to his constant jargon and revealing some of my own. Over the weeks I began to see through his angry shell to the deep vulnerability he desperately tried to keep hidden. I discovered how painfully shy and insecure he was about his handicap, his bad eyesight, and lack of social skills. We were more honest with each other than I had ever been honest with anybody. One thing, though-I never asked about why he was in a wheelchair, and he never shared. But by the end of the month, a special friendship had formed that would never be topped.

Although I had wanted to keep contact with him, the moment I got home my image-conscious friends saw a picture of Andrew, and the teasing would not stop. I quickly lied about my entire friendship with him and made fun of him along with my friends. Because I did not want my friends to know I'd befriended Andrew, I never contacted him. Ever.

Three years had passed since then, and during those three years many things had changed. I felt as if the span had been much longer. During those three years, I had started high school. I had moved to Ohio, and my life had changed completely.

Obviously Andrew's life had changed, too. He hardly resembled the boy I'd known from camp. It was remarkable that I recognized him, but I did. Somewhere, I hoped, deep beneath the guy he had turned into, was the old Andrew. But I had no idea how deep.

* * *

After that evening I decided to attend Christa's youth group on a full-time basis. I was desperately curious to see if Andrew-or Andy, as he was called now-would recognize me. I wanted to know how many traces of the Andrew I'd known were left. The entire coincidental meeting had surprised and intrigued me.

I still withheld the story from Christa, which annoyed her to no avail. Every day at school she would press me for answers, but I refused to tell her anything. I couldn't. My friendship with Andrew had been something I still could not fully explain myself.

Two Wednesdays passed, and much to my aggravation, Andy still did not recognize me. Instead I just secretly watched the boy I had once befriended. He had changed so much. He was popular, outspoken, and obviously well-liked. I discovered that he played soccer and basketball for Jenkinsville Christian. I saw him more than once catching the attention of many hopeful girls in the youth group.

I had so many unanswered questions that circled in an endless oblivion in my mind day after day. I had to talk to him, but what if he didn't recognize me? What if he wasn't willing to tell anyone he'd known me?

The fourth Wednesday I went, I knew I could stand it no longer. I left Christa and her friends after getting a bowl of the food for that night-ice cream. Then I shyly walked over to Andy, who was talking in his usual circle of friends.

Immediately I felt uncomfortable. What was I going to say? How we would he react? I didn't want to make an idiot of myself in front of his friends; most of who were seniors in my school I honestly could have done without. Some gave me odd looks as I approached the group.

"Dude, that movie was awesome," Andy was saying. He was obviously the center of attention. "I'm tellin' ya-"

"Hi," I greeted.

Everyone turned around. I met many disapproving eyes. Some, however, were friendly. Others were skeptical-like Andy's.

His eyes locked with mine, and I was instantly startled by how different he looked. While I'd known him as Andrew, I had never realized how beautiful his eyes were behind his thick, ugly glasses.

I immediately panicked. I had rehearsed this scene in my mind over and over, but now that I was there, feeling the effects of his powerful gaze, the words tumbled out of my mouth uncontrollably.

"Hi. Hello. Uh, what's up? Okay, well . . . this is going to sound really weird. Like, really weird. But I know you. I mean, I swear I know you from somewhere. It's been bugging me for awhile but I swear I know you."

Andy glanced around at his friends, then at me. "Uh . . ."

"You look so familiar," I quickly continued, blushing. "I mean, I think I know you, but . . ."

After a long pause, Andy finally shrugged and said, "Sorry . . . but I don't think I know you."

Several of his friends snickered, and all of my dreams crashed to the floor.

"Oh." I tried to smile despite the heavy disappointment that washed over me. "Well, I guess I was wrong. Definitely. Sorry about that. Yeah, well . . . I guess I'll . . . well uh, bye. . . . See ya, I guess. . . ." As I walked away, I could hear his friends talking-probably about me.

I didn't have enough courage to stay. I said goodbye to Christa and her friends and quickly walked out to my car. As I waited for the windows to defrost, I had to fight to keep the tears of disappointment from pouring out of my eyes.

So it was true. Andrew had changed more than I ever could have imagined. He was hardly-if even-the boy I had once known. Those four weeks that had been one of the most important aspects of my early teenage years obviously had not meant anything to him.

He didn't even remember me. . . .

I told myself to forget I'd ever known Andrew, but I knew it was impossible. Everything I had experienced, everything I had learned that eventful summer would forever be engraved in my mind. But now the importance of it all seemed greatly diminished. Andrew was Andy Miller now, tall, good-looking, popular, and cocky. He would no longer have anything to do with an average girl like me, and surely would not admit to have ever befriended me that summer.

* * *



When I got home that evening, I took everything from that summer and stuffed it back into all of the nooks and crannies in my closet. I didn't want to think about Andrew ever again. I wanted to put everything back where it had been, and move on with my life. If Andy could act like that summer had never happened, why couldn't I?

But then something inside me held back. Just as I was about to put the last photo away, I hesitated. It was one of me and Andrew, him looking as awkward as always and me laughing, face aglow, on top of a hill the last day of camp. I remembered when that picture had been taken. The same counselor that had introduced us took the photo. She had told me incessantly the last week of camp how surprised-and happy-she was we'd become friends.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to Andrew," she had said one time in particular. "If it hadn't been for you . . . well, I don't know how any of us could have lasted this long. You really brought Andrew out of his shell."

At the time, I had just let that comment slide, but now it really made me think. Everything she'd said conveyed how I felt about Andrew and our friendship that summer. My eyes lingered on the photo for a long time.

Finally, I decided not to put it away. I brought the photograph back into my bedroom and stared at it for longer than I remembered. Then, after one last look, I sighed and left it on my desk to collect dust.

* * *

My spirits were still soured two days later, when Christa, a few of our friends, and I went to a football game on Friday evening. As I took a seat in the bleachers I was surprised to recognize Andy's now familiar brown head a few rows below us. He was sitting, predictably, with a few of the popular girls and guys that went to Christa's church.

Ten minutes passed, and I couldn't stand it anymore. I told everyone I was going to the bathroom. Christa and two of our friends offered to go with me, but I told them I wanted to go alone. Although they looked a little put off by my statement, I didn't care. I was free.

I decided to buy some food once I had used the bathroom. After I purchased a Coke and a hot dog, I turned around too quickly and who did I hit but none other than Andy Miller!

I managed to keep a firm grip of my Coke, but my hot dog flew out of my hands and onto Andy. It rolled down his Jenkinsville Christian soccer jacket, leaving a gaudy trail of ketchup and mustard. The hot dog seemed to hit the ground in slow motion.

Hardly believing my humiliation, I bent down to pick it up when I found Andy had already cleaned the hot dog up for me. I quickly took the soggy mess from his hands, unable to meet his eyes. "Oh my gosh," I said, "I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean . . . I mean, it's all over your-"

"It's all right," Andy assured me, shrugging. He walked with me over to a garbage can as I threw away my squished, gravel-covered hot dog.

"But your jacket," I said. "I'm so sorry-"

"Hey, it's cool." I watched as Andy took a napkin from the refreshment stand and wiped off the ketchup and mustard. "Don't worry about it. It was just an accident. Happens to everyone."

"Right. Yeah," I muttered.

"I'm sorry about Wednesday," said Andy, much to my surprise.

I stared at him a moment, taken back.

"I just don't recognize you from anywhere," Andy continued.

"Oh, well," I said coolly, "maybe I thought you were somebody else."

Andy grinned, and for a moment, the years fell away. My words had betrayed me. The guy standing in front of me was definitely Andrew, no matter how much he had changed. He had the same eyes, the same crooked smile, the same way of watching me.

"So you're Christa's friend, right?"

I awoke from me reverie. "Oh, yeah." I nodded. "I go here. I mean, to Levy High."

"Cool."

We walked in silence back to the stands until I began, "So-"

"Don't-" Andy started at the same time.

We both laughed.

"You first," I said.

"All right." Andy raked a hand through his thick thatch of brown hair and said, "Don't worry about the hot dog, okay?"

"Oh . . ." That was the last thing that was on my mind.

"So what were you going to say?" Andy asked after a pause.

"What? Oh, right. Well, I don't really remember," I said with a nervous laugh. "I guess it wasn't that important."

"Oh. Okay." Andy smiled softly at me. "Well, I guess I'll see you at church or something."

"Right." I shrugged. "Uh, bye."

"Yeah. Bye."

When I joined my friends back up in the bleachers, I ignored Christa's questioning and sat silently, filled with confusion. The assumption I had of Andy Miller had just been proven completely wrong. He was hardly the boy I had imagined him to be. And he was hardly the Andrew I remembered. Besides his grin, there were basically no traces of the boy I'd known the summer I was thirteen.

This disappointed me greatly, but I was still happy that Andy was not the way I had imagined to be. Yes, he had changed. But I had, too.

But why didn't Andy remember me?

This still puzzled me the most. Why hadn't anything even sparked curiosity in his mind? Suddenly I recalled how Andy had been staring at me the day I realized who he was. Had he thought I looked familiar then, but been too unsure to say anything?

I realized he might have never even thought I looked familiar at all. He could have stared at me that day just because I had stared at him. It was a natural reaction. This new information also disappointed me, but brought a new perspective about everything.

I decided not to reveal who I was to Andy. At least, not yet. For some reason, I had a feeling that I should just let this situation take time.



* * *

To my utter shock, Andy came up and talked to me the following Wednesday before youth group began. I had just arrived and was about to find Christa and her friends when he approached me from out of nowhere.

"Hey," Andy said with a grin. "I don't think I caught your name on Friday."

"Oh. It's Liz."

"Oh, well, I'm Andy."

"Right. I know."

Andy's eyes widened. "You do? How?"

"Um, I think I overheard someone call you that," I covered quickly.

"Ah." He nodded. "So . . . how do you like youth group here?"

"It's fun," I decided. Of course, I had just come to youth group because of Andy, and had spent most of the time thus far thinking about our intertwined past, so I really did not know yet.

"Yeah, it is," Andy agreed. "I hope you feel welcome here. I'm sorry I haven't talked to you before." He raked his hand through his hair-a habit of his I had just begun to notice.

After a pause, he continued, "I first started coming to this church about three years ago. I was a little nervous at first, but its grows on you. Everyone is pretty friendly here when you get to know them."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Some people aren't that friendly at first, though. It just takes to time, you know?"

"Sure. I understand."

As Andy continued to talk about the youth group, I just smiled and nodded, pretending to listen and trying to hold back the many questions on the tip of my tongue. It was hard to do; there was so much I wanted to ask. For instance, why didn't he remember me? What had happened to his wheelchair? When had he started walking? Why had he been in a wheelchair to begin with?

Meanwhile, the friendly, honest guy standing in front of me had me perplexed. What had happened to the Andrew I remembered, the one who had did everything to hide his true feelings from everybody? Where was the Andrew who almost always had sarcasm dripping from his voice; the Andrew who forever used big words some English teachers couldn't define?

Andrew had drastically changed, no doubt about it. Somehow, during the past three years, he had starting walking, shed his glasses, gained confidence, and acquired social skills. And, I couldn't help but admit, grown inexplicably more good-looking.

Throughout the evening, all I could think about were about the differences between the Andrew I'd known four summers ago and the boy he had grown to be. Would I ever have guessed three years ago how Andrew would turn out? I wished I could go back to New Jersey and tell all of my old friends from middle school what the "weird dork in the wheelchair" was like now.

One thing I regretted was how I had let what my friends' opinions of me keep me from ever contacting Andrew-and denying that we'd been friends to begin with. Everything that had happened that summer had just remained between him and I. None of my old friends or my family had any idea that my best friend at camp had been a facetious, odd-looking boy in a wheelchair. The moment my friends saw a picture of Andrew and made fun of him, I immediately hid away everything from camp. I didn't recall ever even mentioning Andrew to my parents.

I wondered if Andrew had ever talked about me.



* * *

That night, for perhaps the tenth time since that fateful day when I had recognized Andy, I took out all of my belongings from the summer before eighth grade. I laid out all of the photos I'd kept hidden from everybody. Now they were all covered in sticky thumbprints from looking at them every other night for the past few weeks.

Then I sifted through everything else-all of the notes, all of the pamphlets, pictures, and assorted junk; everything.

I was amazed to find an old, folded Snickers wrapper in the pile that still smelled faintly of chlorine. Memories instantly came flying back to me. Suddenly, I could see that kidney-shaped pool, see the bugs that dotted its surface and smell the strong chlorine. All of the kids at camp had claimed the lifeguards had planned to harm us by dumping in twice as much chlorine as usual because we never listened to anything they said. This, of course, had not kept anyone away from the pool. It had been the only place to swim besides the camp lake, which was filled with algae, goose droppings, and dead fish and therefore avoided most of the time.

Andrew had always made fun of the pool and everyone who swam in it. He boasted that the heavy amounts of chlorine explained the "lack of intelligence" at camp. Whenever somebody blond had even the faintest hint of green in their hair, Andrew was sure to point it out for them loud and clear.

I placed the Snickers wrapper back on the floor, closed my eyes, and tried not to remember the rest. I decided I'd had enough memories for one night.



* * *

A month slowly passed, during which I attended Christa's youth group every single Wednesday and began to get to know Andy more. He still did not seem to remember me. This annoyed me at first, but eventually I learned to ignore the endless amount of questions I had and settled on just becoming friends with him first.

Andy of course was always friendly, but I soon realized he talked to everybody. Still, though, he made it a point to talk to me every Wednesday night. I saw him often at football games, during which we'd talk more.

It was during this month that I put all of my old memories of Andrew aside and focused on getting to know him as he was now. It didn't take me long to realize there were basically no traces of the Andrew I'd known. This disappointed me in the beginning, but eventually I began to like the guy he was now.

Christa continued to question me about how I'd known Andy. Stubborn as she was, she never gave up. Each day Christa would bother me about it- usually by slyly throwing in a sentence, just as she always had. And each day I would breezily change the subject and not reveal a thing.

* * *

One evening, Andy and I spent nearly an hour talking after youth group. Soon everyone had left, and it was just us.

"Well, I guess I'd better get going," Andy said, motioning to the empty chapel. He walked over to the stage to get his guitar.

Before he could put it away in its case, I impulsively commanded, "Play me something."

Andy looked up. "What?"

"Play me something. I don't care what."

"Okay . . ." Andy took a seat on the edge of the stage. Slowly, he began to play. Soon everything around me fell away as the beautiful chords filled the silent room, and he began to sing.

"Laughing but there's sadness hiding there

Can you see it?

It's hidden away, I hope you can't see it

Behind my sardonic words I'm hiding

I throw them at you without abandon

Can you see it?

Although the words are gone now

I can still remember them

I can still remember the effects they had

Can you see it?"



Once he had finished, he looked up at me and smiled sheepishly.

All I could was stare at him. Then I forced a grin and said, "Wow . . . did you write that?"

"Yeah." Andy looked shyer than I had ever seen him.

"That was good. Really good. I-I liked it."

After my compliments, Andy immediately assumed his confident, easygoing nature. He packed up his guitar and walked with me to my car. But for that moment, he had allowed me to see a side of him I had a feeling rarely anybody saw.

As I drove home that night, I couldn't get his face out of my mind. While he had sung, something inside of me had been stirred. As his hands had stroked the chords and as his mellow voice sang those simple words, I had suddenly seen Andrew. But it wasn't just that; no, something else had happened. Something I still didn't quite understand.

* * *

"Hey, Liz, look who it is."

A week later, I followed Christa's gaze over to Andy, who had just entered the chapel carrying his guitar case and talking with some of his friends. I instantly looked away, not sure why.

"Let's go talk to him," Christa suggested.

"No." The word flew out of my mouth instantly.

Christa looked at me skeptically. "Why? What's wrong? It's just Andy."

"No!" I repeated firmly.

Christa and I joined her usual group of friends in the front row and waited as the band assembled onstage. I tried to chat lightly with them, but my mind kept straying. As Andy crossed the stage, my eyes flew up to him, watching his every move. I looked away when I realized what I was doing.

For the past week, the image of Andy playing his guitar, face more open than I'd ever seen it, eyes piercing with memories, had flown through my mind. At first I had thought it had just been because I was comparing him to boy I remembered, but I had begun to realize something was different.

When the band began to play, I tried to concentrate on the song, but my eyes strayed to Andy and Andy only. He looked so at home there, singing on stage and playing his guitar. The same image of him playing me the song he wrote-the image that I hadn't been able to shake from my thoughts- suddenly filled my mind. For a moment, Andy's eyes met mine. I smiled. He smiled back, then continued to sing.

It didn't take Christa long to figure out what I hadn't been able to see. She nudged me and whispered, "You like him!"

"What?" I squawked, caught completely off guard.

"It's written all over your face!" said Christa. "You like Andy!"

I blushed in deep embarrassment. "Say it louder, why don't you? And no, I do not-"

"You like Andy," Christa repeated in a lower voice. "I can't believe it!"

"I do not!"

"Yes you do! I know because I used to watch him the same way two years ago." Christa shook her head at me. "I know you, Liz. You like Andy. It's so obvious."

"It is not!"

"It is, too." She chuckled. "Oh, Liz. When did you start liking him?"

"I do not like him," I said slowly, evenly.

"Then why did you get so defensive when I said you did?"

"Because-" I stopped abruptly, realizing that she was completely right.

"See!" Christa suddenly became serious. "Oh, Liz. Does he know?"

I paused. "I didn't even know until now."

"When did it-"

"I . . . I don't know." I shrugged, looking down at the floor.

"How well exactly do you know Andy? I mean, I've seen you talking and stuff, but-"

"Well enough," I muttered.

"What?"

"I know him well enough," I said slowly, and decided to reveal some of the truth to Christa. "I've known Andy since I was thirteen."

Christa's eyes widened in disbelief. "But-how?"

"It's a long story." I shrugged. "That's all I'm going to tell you for now. Are you happy?"

"Sure. I mean, I don't know. It doesn't seem relevant now." Christa rolled her eyes. "No, it is relevant! What do you mean, you've known him since you were thirteen? He hasn't said anything."

"That's because he still hasn't recognized me."

"Still? It's been-what, two months?"

"I know. I don't understand it myself. But I don't want to tell him. Not-not now."

"Oh, Liz." Christa smiled at me sympathetically. "Oh, Liz," she repeated. "How could you have not said anything?"

"I tried, remember?" I reminded her. "I tried, and he didn't remember me, so . . . I'm just going to let him remember himself."

"Two months, Liz! That's a really long time."

"I guess he's oblivious."

"Really oblivious!" After a pause, Christa inquired, "Are you going to do anything about it? I mean, your liking him?"

"No," I snapped. "Not now. Well, I don't know. Just not now."

At that moment, Pastor Greg walked on stage, and my conversation with Christa immediately ended.

"Hey, everyone," he said, and a few people cheered. "Okay, okay. Settle down," he chided good-naturedly. Once the room had quieted, Pastor Greg said, "All right everyone, announcements! Next Wednesday we're not having youth group."

I looked around the chapel until he explained, "Instead of having youth group, we're going to go swimming at the YMCA. We'll meet there the same time we have youth group. If anyone needs directions, just ask. Remember, though-all you young ladies out there, wear modest suits. No two- pieces, all right? Only one-pieces. Modest, solid one-pieces." Many people groaned.

"I guess that goes for us guys too, right?" a senior named Will called from the back.

Everyone laughed.

"Right. Guys, no two-pieces either." Pastor Greg shook his head, smiled, and laughed. "Just kidding, all right? Still, that would be a sight I wouldn't want to see."

"Oh, darn," a boy behind me muttered, "there goes my string bikini."

I chuckled in spite of myself.

"Hey, what about food?" Andy yelled from a few rows behind me. At the sound of his voice, I immediately warmed, and then quickly tried to gain my composure.

"Oh, that's right. Food. Thanks for reminding me, Andy." Pastor Greg rubbed the back of his head. "We need people to bring food. As most of you already know, we usually eat in the lobby after we swim. Most food is already provided. I'll have pizza and pop. Anything else is up to you." He smiled and added, "And I hope everyone realizes why we're eating afterwards. I don't want anyone to be scared, even if it's just an old wives' tale."

Everyone stared up at him blankly.

"Oh, come on. Didn't you ever hear of 'don't eat before you swim'? Come on. I'm not that old," Pastor Greg said.

"Yeah you are," Will retorted.

"Nah, I've heard it," Christa confirmed.

"Thanks, Chris. Anyway, that's all the news for tonight. Now come on to the back. I've got suckers this time."

"Awesome!" Christa said, eyes bright. "Suckers."

"Lollipops," I instantly corrected with my East Coast lingo.

* * *

It was hard to get through the following week. The days felt like years as they passed by annoyingly slow. I couldn't wait to see Andy again- and yet, I could. My newly-discovered feelings for him turned out to be somewhat of a burden. They seemed to ruin everything.

When I stepped out into the YMCA the next Wednesday, wearing a black bathing suit I'd borrowed from Christa, I didn't have the least idea what was going to happen. What if Andy was here? What would I do? Should I say anything? I was filled with uncertainty as I followed Christa over to the water.

I felt as if I was in a sauna. The air was balmy and warm and smelled of sweat and chlorine. The water turned out also to be warm, just to my liking. "This is nice," I managed to Christa.

She beamed. "Yeah! I love swimming. I can't wait till everyone gets out here. Last year we played Marco Polo and almost got kicked out of here, we were so loud. It was hilarious."

"Marco Polo? I haven't played that since I was ten!" I ducked under water for a moment and resurfaced with a smile. "I love swimming, too. Tonight's going to be fun. I hope-" I stopped as three guys cannon-balled into the pool, splashing water all over me, Christa, and the three other girls that were near us.

I shook out my hair, mouth open in shock. I barely knew the first two guys but definitely recognized the third. It was Andy.

Instantly, I had no idea what to do. I watched as Christa and the three girls from her church leaped onto the guys' shoulders and ducked their heads underwater. But for some reason, all I could do was wade near the wall.

Andy emerged, smiling and laughing. "What's wrong, Liz?"

"Um-uh," I stammered, "nothing. I don't know."

Andy shrugged and went back to splashing Christa and the other girls. Meanwhile I continued to swim around, just watching them with envy. Why hadn't I been able to have a witty response? Why couldn't I flirt so unselfconsciously as Christa?

Throughout the first hour, basically all I could do was wade back and forth by myself. The moment Andy was near me, I froze and had no idea what to do. My jealousy kept brewing until I could hardly stand it anymore. I swam away from the deep end of the pool, where basically everyone my age was, over to the shallow end.

A freshman girl was sitting a little ways from the pool, staring at everyone with wide, lonely eyes. She was wearing a bathing suit, but had her towel wrapped protectively around her waist.

"Hey," I said, swimming closer to her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Her voice was toneless.

"Oh." I paused and then asked, "Why aren't you swimming? Are you sick or something?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just don't want to swim."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

I heard voices behind me and realized everyone was swimming in our direction. Sighing, I turned back to the girl. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" she snapped. "I just don't want to swim, okay? Why is everyone bugging me about it?"

It suddenly dawned to me. "You can't swim, can you?"

She didn't respond, but her narrowed eyes gave her away.

"What's going on over here?" Andy asked as he approached us.

I suddenly wished he wasn't there. Partly because I was just beginning to get through to this embarrassed girl; partly because of how jealous I'd been of him and the girls he flirted with for the past hour; and partly because when he was around, I was immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," I said curtly. "She just doesn't want to swim, that's all."

"Come on in," Andy chided, flashing the girl a smile. "It's not that bad. Trust me."

Just as Christa had said, Andy was definitely a lady-killer. The girl instantly grinned, and her icy exterior vanished.

"I . . . I can't swim," she admitted. Somehow, with Andy there, she seemed to be less ashamed of this.

"Oh, that's it? Don't worry about it. That's nothing." Andy nodded to me. "Me and Liz'll teach you. Come on in. We'll help you."

"No, I don't think so. . . ."

"Why not? Come on. It's not that hard. It'll be fun. Come on."

"Well, I don't know. . . ."

"She doesn't want to," I said firmly, turning to Andy. "She doesn't have to swim. Stop bothering her."

"Chill out, all right?" Andy said.

I turned away, immediately hurt.

Andy didn't seem to notice. His attention was solely focused on the girl. "Come on. Seriously. It'll be fun."

I gave up and decided to join. "Come on," I said. "We'll teach you."

The girl shook her head.

"If you come, I'll buy you candy," I suggested. Andy looked at me and grinned. I shrugged back.

"Come on," I repeated. "You've got to like candy, right? I'll you buy a Snickers bar. How about that? If you swim, I'll give a Snickers bar."

"No!" the girl whispered.

"You sure?"

She nodded.

"All right. Whatever floats your boat." I shook out my hair, noticing for the first time that Andy was watching me.

I turned to him, bewildered. He was staring at me, eyes wide, as if he had just seen a ghost.

"What's wrong?" I wondered.

He didn't respond but just continued to stare.

"Okay. Bye, then." I began to swim away.

"Liz!" he called. "Wait!"

I ignored him and picked up my speed, racing towards the deep end.

* * *

Christa and I were getting our pizza later on when Andy walked over to us. He looked strange. His eyes pierced right at me, and his expression was unreadable.

"What's up with him?" she whispered to me.

I shrugged. "I don't know."

"You're the Liz from camp!" Andy blurted out the moment he arrived.

Christa looked over at me, as if silently saying, He finally remembers you! Noting the look of bewilderment in his eyes, she silently excused herself and went to talk to her friends.

After a pause, I said, "Yes, I'm the Liz from camp."

Andy's forehead creased as he put two-and-two together. "You knew! You've known for awhile, haven't you?"

"I told you I recognized you."

"Yeah, but-but why didn't you say anything earlier?"

"I wanted you to figure it out." I smirked and said, "Took you long enough."

"But I can't believe it. Liz. Liz!" He suddenly hugged me, then stepped back, shaking his head. "I thought you lived in New Jersey! What are you doing here?"

"I moved here in ninth grade," I explained.

"I can't believe this!" Andy marveled. "I never-I mean, you've changed a lot! You look so different."

I motioned down to his legs and said, "So do you."

"Oh, yeah." Andy shrugged. "I started walking that October. The doctors said it was a miracle; I shouldn't have been able to walk in the first place. But by the end of February, I could play basketball again, and . . . well, here I am."

"That's awesome!" I said. "I hardly recognized you. You've changed a lot, too."

"That I definitely have."

I shifted on my feet. "Well, it's great to know you're walking now."

"I know." Andy smiled and shook his head at me. "I still can't believe you didn't say anything!"

"Oh, well, you've remembered. That's all that matters."

"I can't believe you're here, Liz." Andy stepped in closer to me, eyes locking with mine. "This is so cool. I mean, I'd never think we'd meet like this. It's great that you're here."

I looked down at my feet, blushing. "Uh, right. Thanks."

"Liz, we've got to do something sometime." He grinned. "I still can't believe it's you."

"It is." My eyes traveled up and met his. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Little bubbles of happiness floated up inside of me.

Christa floated over to us and broke the silence. "Hey, guys! This is so cool, isn't it? Now, what's this camp thing Liz was talking about? You've got to tell me!"

I turned a little reluctantly to her. "I will. Later."

"Later? Well, all right. But I still can't believe this! Come on, guys, let's go tell everyone. You finally remembered, Andy! I'm so happy. You have to be the most oblivious guy I know. Don't worry about it; you're forgiven! Now come on, you two, let's go. . . ."

Right before we left, I asked Andy, "When did you realize it was me?"

"In the pool," he explained, "when you told that girl you'd buy her a Snickers bar if she swam. Don't you remember that night . . . ?"

"Yes," I said softly. "Yes, I do."

* * *

"Don't you remember that night . . . ?" Andy's words continued to chorus throughout my mind as I drove home from the YMCA.

I paused and reflected at an intersection. Everything from the last night of camp came flying back to me, piece by piece, like a puzzle being put together. What I had told Andy had been truthful; I did remember that evening. How could I not? But up until then, I had only been able to remember some of that evening, not everything entirely. Now all of my memories were put into place.

I remembered it all.

I had been with Andrew, pushing his wheelchair as usual and listening to him complain about everything. Inside, though, something was pulling at my heart. The finality of it all was just beginning to hit me. I realized for the first time that I might never see Andrew again. Nothing would ever be the same.

That night was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The air was cool but refreshing, alit by the glittering night stars and a glowing, round moon. For the first time, the camp was not filled with the sounds of all of the other kids. That night nature took over. I could hear the breeze whistling through the trees, the bull frogs on the lake, the crickets singing in the night. It was beautiful-just the way I wanted to remember camp.

I tuned back to what Andrew was saying. If this was our last night, I wanted to savor it all. It still astounded me how much this sarcastic, funny-looking kid in a wheelchair meant to me. I had learned more from him than any of my other friends back home. Around them, I was always changing myself, hiding the odd aspects of my personality that weren't acceptable. Andrew and Andrew only knew how much I loved to read, loved to write. We discussed books we'd read. At home, I always pretended I hated reading and kept all of my books hidden so my friends wouldn't see them.

Andrew was commenting on the pool for the millionth time. I rolled my eyes and listened to his usual string of complaints. Then, out of nowhere, something cued in my mind.

"Andrew, why do you hate the pool so much?"

I felt him tense. The back of his wheelchair shook slightly. I stopped pushing him and looked Andrew straight in the eye.

"It's stupid," he said after a pause, but his voice had not assumed any of its usual sarcasm. "It's a biological hazard. The lifeguards-"

"Oh, whatever, Andrew!" I exclaimed, growing irritated. "I know all about that. The lifeguards want to harm us because we make their lives so horrible. Yeah, I know that. But what I don't know is why you're afraid of it."

He didn't respond.

"Andrew, please! Don't be stupid. What's wrong? Why do you hate the pool so much? I mean, it's just a pool."

"I just do, that's all."

"Andrew!" Now I was practically yelling at him. "I'm so sick of you! Why can't you tell me the truth? I know it's not the chlorine. What is it?"

"Stop being an idiot," Andrew snapped. "Stop talking so inanely!"

"'Inanely?'" I pushed his wheelchair forward with all my might. "Inanely? What the heck does that mean?" I pushed it again. "Inanely!"

"Stop it! What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to push you into that pool if you don't tell me the truth!"

"You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"You just watch me, Andrew! I'm not kidding!"

"Didn't anyone ever teach you how about anger management?"

"You asked for it!" I hissed, and with a sudden surge of anger, grabbed the edge of Andrew's wheelchair and pushed it toward the pool with strength I didn't know I had.

"Stop it!" Andrew was yelling. "Stop it! Stop it now!"

The closer we got, the shriller his voice became. But I wasn't listening. I was running now, eyes narrowed in determination.

"Stop it! Stop! Liz, stop it!"

I ignored him and picked up my speed.

"Liz! Liz! Stop it!"

We were getting closer . . . closer. . . .

"Liz! Stop! Stop!"

Closer . . .

"SSSTTTTOOOPP!"

And I so did, right on the edge of the pool.

Andrew's wheelchair shook forward after the sudden stop. He caught himself quickly before inertia could throw him into the pool.

"Sorry," I managed with a smile.

Then I saw him. Andrew's face, normally a dark tan, had whitened. He gritted his teeth in fear and relief.

"You can't swim, can you?" I wondered.

Instead of replying, Andrew just commanded, "Wheel me away from here." I obliged.

Andrew spoke once the pool was far behind us. "Can I swim?" he said softly. "Yes, I can flail around my arms. That's swimming for me. Flailing around with my little arms. What a riot. More people to feel sorry for me. More people to pity me. More people to pretend they really care when they just don't want me to feel bad. That just motives me to want to flail around with my little bony arms, of course."

I paused, feeling the effects of his stinging comments. Andrew usually cracked jokes about being in a wheelchair, but there were rare times-such as now-when he allowed his true feelings to show.

"You know what's funny?" he continued, but I had a feeling he wasn't really talking to me but rather releasing all of the feelings he kept hidden from everybody. "My mother packed me swim trunks. What an idiot. Can you believe it? Did she actually expect me to swim? Expose these lifeless things"-he pointed down at his immovable legs-"these skin-and-bone, muscle-less twigs to the world?"

"I don't know," I said softly.

"Well, I do. I'm never going to swim."

"Can you?"

"Of course I can," Andrew said, casting me a glare. "But not swim in the sense of the word. Just move my arms like some kid of duck on Prozac. Quack, quack," he mocked in a high-pitched falsetto. "Why make myself look like more of a social outcast than I already am?"

"Oh, Andrew-"

"I don't deny it. I am an outcast. Who wants to be friends with the kid in the wheelchair?" He stopped the moment he saw the dark look that crossed my face.

"I do," I said slowly. "I'm friends with you, aren't I? Are you somehow implying that I'm some kind of social outcast too? Well, I'll have you know that although I'm not the princess of camp, I have plenty of friends at home! And boyfriends. I had six this past year, Andrew. What about you? Did you have any girlfriends? I bet you've never even been kissed."

Andrew's silence gave him away.

"Maybe if you stop using your wheelchair as a defense," I began, and lowered my voice, "well, than maybe you wouldn't be such an outcast."

"Maybe you'd be better off if you stopped caring so much what people think of you," Andrew muttered.

"What?"

"You heard what I said."

"And the same with you. I mean, you heard what I said."

"Right."

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Andrew said, "I'm going to go back to my cabin now. I still have to pack some things."

"All right," I said slowly. "Do you want me to wheel you there?"

"I can go by myself," Andrew snapped. "My legs may be lifeless, but my arms aren't. I've wheeled myself all around camp. I don't need your constant help."

"Fine," I said, stepping back.

"Bye," Andrew said curtly, and I watched with disappointment and regret as he wheeled away into the darkness.

When I arrived back at my cabin, all of the girls were outside flirting with their summer boyfriends for the last time. I walked into the empty cabin and let out a long sigh.

For two hours I lay on my cot, shifting around restlessly in my sleeping bag but unable to fall asleep. I realized I couldn't leave my parting with Andrew just as that. I had to do something. Anything. I couldn't leave with everything between my only friend from camp and I unresolved.

An idea suddenly brewed. I waited a few more good hours, pretending to be asleep as all of the girls giggled and gossiped. When the room finally quieted, I changed into my bathing suit and a huge, baggy sweatshirt. Then I grabbed my towel and dollar, slipped into my sandals, and exited the cabin.

After purchasing a Snickers bar from a vending machine near the mess hall, I crept over to the opposite side of the camp, where the boys' cabins were. Exhilaration filled my veins. I knew what I was doing was illegal. I knew if I was caught, I would be sent home, no matter what time it was. But that just made the prospect more thrilling.

At last, I arrived at Andrew's cabin. I tiptoed over to the window next to the top bunk, where he slept. I knew he would be awake. Andrew always stayed up late reading with a flashlight inside of his sleeping bag. I reached up and tapped on the screen.

There was no response, so I tried again. "Andrew!" I whispered.

After a pause, he whispered back, "Who's that?"

"It's me. I mean, it's Liz."

"Liz!" He scooted over to the window and peered down at me through his thick glasses. "What are you doing?"

"Get your swim trunks on. We're going for a swim."

"What?!"

"You heard me. We're going for a swim. It'll just be us, so no one will see you except me."

"I-I can't," Andrew stalled. "We're not allowed to, remember? Or have you forgotten that?"

"Of course I haven't," I snapped. "I'm not even allowed to be here. Now, since I risked my neck to come get you, you'd better come swimming."

"No," he stated simply.

"I won't take no for an answer."

"And just what are you going to do?" Andrew wondered.

"Oh, come on, Andrew. Just come for a quick dip."

"Quick?"

"Yes, quick. Please?"

"I . . . I don't think so."

I held up the Snickers bar I'd purchased and grinned. It was Andrew's favorite food.

"I'll give you this if you come swimming with me," I coaxed.

"Oh, I see. Trying to bribe me with food, is that it?"

I gave him my best puppy-dog expression. "Please?"

"All right," he said with a groan. "I'll be out in a few minutes." He rolled his eyes at me and muttered, "Idiot."

"Cripple."

Moments later, the door of Andrew's cabin opened, and he quickly wheeled outside. He was wearing blue swim trunks, a soccer T-shirt, and sandals.

"No towel?" I wondered.

"Oh, shoot, I forgot." He turned to wheel back inside when I grabbed his wheelchair.

"Don't you dare. I don't know if you'll come back." I handed him my towel. "Here. You can use mine. Come on."

Andrew followed me down the gradual hill to the center of camp. "What geniuses they were," he muttered, "to put a kid in a wheelchair in a cabin on top of a hill. I still don't understand it. Maybe they hated me so much, they hoped my wheelchair would roll down and crash or something."

I ignored his all-too-familiar comments and pointed at his shirt instead. "Where did you get a soccer shirt?"

"I used to play," he muttered.

I stared at him, wondering if he was joking. "What?"

"Never mind." Andrew stared straight ahead as he wheeled beside me.

As we headed toward the pool, I felt my eyes drawn to his legs. I had never seen them before. Andrew always wore pants to hide them.

Now, in the moonlight, the bottom half of his legs were exposed. I was shocked by how pale and thin they were. They looked as if they were just as Andrew had described them to be-skin and bones.

When Andrew caught me staring at his legs, I quickly looked away and faked a sneeze.

Finally, we reached the pool, and Andrew suddenly stopped.

"I . . . I can't do this," he mumbled.

"Yes you can." I gently pushed him closer to the water. "Listen. I'm going to be with you. I won't make fun of you or anything. Come on."

Andrew nodded, face paling.

"Do you want me to help you?" I wondered.

"No," he said. "I can do it myself."

I just nodded, indifferent to his tone of voice. I slipped out of my sweatshirt and jumped into the pool. "Whoa!" I exclaimed at the sudden cold.

"What?"

"Nothing," I said, forcing a smile and trying to adapt to the water temperature. "Come on in."

"I don't like it," Andrew said hesitantly. "I don't want to swim now. It's too dark, and I don't want swim with my glasses."

"Wimp," I accused. "Just take them off."

"I'll be blind."

"Then . . . I don't know. Quit with the excuses and get in the water."

Using his arms, Andrew lowered himself from his wheelchair and dragged himself over to the edge of the pool. He floated his lifeless legs in the water.

"Can you feel anything?" I wondered.

"Not really." His voice was toneless.

"Oh. Well, get in."

Andrew glanced over at me and grinned crookedly. "When do I get my Snickers bar?"

"When you've swam! Now get in."

Andrew slowly adjusted to the water, entering inch by inch. Soon he was in up to his shoulders and was holding onto the wall. "There," he said. "Better now?"

"Let me see you swim," I commanded.

Andrew began to wade around much smoother than I had imagined. Although he could not kick, he made up for this by swimming strongly with his arms.

"Quack, quack," I joked.

Andrew swam back over to the side. "There. I'm done."

"Hey!" I said, gliding over to him. "You don't look like a duck on Prozac when you swim."

"No. More like a duck on Ritalin."

I laughed. "No you don't! You looked just fine."

"Right." Andrew took off his glasses, placed them on the edge of the pool, and squinted at me. "Can I have my Snickers bar now?"

"Sure." After retrieving it, I tossed it to him and yelled, "Catch!"

He didn't, of course. He just looked around, obviously blind as a bat. "I heard a splash. Where is it?"

"It's floating over here." I grabbed the candy bar from the surface of the water and handed it to him. "Here. Sorry. I forgot you couldn't see well."

Andrew placed his glasses back on his face. He opened the Snickers bar and sniffed it.

"What are you doing?" I wondered incredulously.

"Inspecting it. Are you sure it's not contaminated?"

I rolled my eyes. "It had a wrapper."

"You never know." Andrew took a big bite of the Snickers bar, swallowed, and grinned. "Perfect."

"See? Swimming isn't so bad, is it?"

Andrew shook his head as he continued to eat his candy bar. "You know," he said through a mouthful of chocolate, "when I was in third grade, I went to this kid's party. He was such an idiot. Well, his mom handed out a bunch of candy-including Snickers bars."

I waited as he continued.

"So I got really mad at this kid, so when nobody was looking, I opened up a Snickers bar and let it float in the water. All of the kids crawled out of the pool within seconds. They thought it was a piece of dog poop."

I started to laugh. "No way! That's horrible!"

"Hey, the kid deserved it." Andrew shrugged and smiled.

We continued to talk for awhile until I wondered, "So? Was this worth it?"

"I'm kind of cold," Andrew said. "Can we get out now?"

"Sure. I'm cold too." After Andrew was settled in his wheelchair with my towel wrapped around his waist, I pulled my sweatshirt over my head, shivering.

I was still freezing when we reached Andrew's cabin. "Hey, Andrew," I said, eyeing my towel.

"Yeah?"

"Now you owe me a Snickers bar."

"Why?"

"For letting you use my towel. I'm so cold!"

"All right," Andrew said. "I'll give you a Snickers bar eventually." He handed me my towel, said goodbye to me, and then wheeled inside.

The following morning, Andrew and I said our final, last goodbye to one another. It was a short, quick goodbye, right before we left with our families to go home in opposite directions.

"I'll write your or something," Andrew said. "Or maybe e-mail you."

"Okay . . ."

"Bye, Liz," Andrew said. "Thanks for . . ." He trailed off.

"Bye, Andrew," I said, squeezing his shoulder. I didn't want to give him a hug in front of everyone's curious eyes. Then I smiled at him one last time and walked over to my parents.

I thought that be the last time I ever saw him. I thought that once we got home, Andrew would be out of my life forever. And for three long years, he was.

But now he was back in my life-back in a way I never would have imagined three years before. As I tried to sleep that night, I could not shake any of the memories from my mind, from that summer or the past two months. It was obvious to me now that I liked him more than just as a friend. Somewhere, something had changed; we had grown up. Now that Andy finally remembered me, I felt as if a large weight had been taken off my shoulders. But I still couldn't help but wonder . . . what if Andy just wanted to leave it at that? What if, since I was attached to an obviously painful part of his past, he did not want to have anything to do with me in the present?

I reminded myself that he had suggested we should do something, but the doubts still continued to flood my mind. I knew I just had to try and be patient until the next time I finally saw him.

* * *

It was impossible to concentrate in school the following day. I was still in shock over what had happened the night before. I was restless, impatient, longing to find out what would happen now that Andy recognized me.

I was never more surprised when I drove home that afternoon to find Andy's car sitting in my driveway. As I pulled in, I tried to contain the butterflies that soared through my stomach. Andy was here. Andy was here. Andy was here.

What was he doing here?

He was leaning against his car, wearing his Jenkinsville Christian soccer jacket, jeans, and a smile. He was so good-looking, it took me a moment to form a complete sentence when I stepped out of my car. "You are-I-why are you here? I mean, in my driveway?"

"Christa told me you lived here," he replied.

"Oh. Right." I was still clearly very confused. "Uh, well, do you want to come inside or something?"

"Sure."

As he followed me into my house and over to the kitchen, I was more aware than ever of his presence. Suddenly I felt as if I was on edge. My movements were awkward, jerky.

After a brief pause, I asked, "Uh, do you want something to eat or drink?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Oh." I turned to face him, beaming at the sight of his smile. "Well . . . okay, this is going to sound dumb, but . . . why are you here?"

"I came to visit you," he said. "I mean, we have a lot to talk about."

"Right. You're right." I took a seat at the kitchen table, and Andy sat down across from me.

He studied me for a moment. I looked away, embarrassed, but then my eyes traveled over to his.

"I still can't believe it's you," Andy said.

I blushed. "Well, it's me, all right. But it's been three years."

"Yeah, a long time."

After a moment I inquired, "I hope you don't mind me wondering . . . but, well, I've got so much to ask you, and-"

"Go ahead."

"You've changed so much," I said. "You used to be so sarcastic. Don't you remember that? And you always used big words and stuff. I don't know. You don't talk anything like that now."

Andy seemed to choose his words carefully. "Well, that's because when I was in a wheelchair, I isolated myself from everybody. My only friend was my computer and my books. I was sarcastic so I wouldn't have any friends besides them. I wanted to keep everyone away, I guess." He stated this simply, without any embarrassment. I realized Andy was unlike most of the guys I knew; he didn't dance around subjects of feelings but rather just went right the point.

"You've changed so much," I repeated.

"Yeah, I guess I have." Andy laughed. "Most people in our youth group don't even know I used to be in a wheelchair. They're all shocked when they find out."

"Oh." I nodded.

"When I started coming," Andy explained, "I was . . . well, I was walking by then. Not perfectly, but well enough that no one would really notice. I made all of my friends there, actually. My first ones in years. My sophomore year, I began to play soccer and basketball for my high school, which changed things even more."

I suddenly remembered the soccer shirt he had worn when we had gone to the pool late the last night of camp. "Wait. Did you play soccer before?"

"Yeah, when I was younger."

I opened my mouth to say something, but decided against it.

"I saw that," Andy said, smiling. "What do you want to ask?"

"Well, okay . . . I don't mean to pry, but . . . why were you in a wheelchair to begin with?" This was a question that had been on my mind since the first day I met him.

Andy's face instantly darkened.

I bit my lip. "Oh, look . . . listen. You don't have to answer. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that-"

"It's all right," Andy said slowly, flatly.

"You sure?"

"Yes. It's all right." He sighed. "You see . . . I was in a car accident in fifth grade."

My mouth dropped. "Oh my gosh. What . . . ?"

"My dad was driving," Andy said. "We got hit. By a drunk driver. My dad made it out okay. I didn't. The doctors said I'd never walk again."

I finally found my voice. "That-that must have been so hard for you."

"I guess. I mean, they told me I'd never play soccer again. Or basketball. I had to stop being a kid. I turned into the freak on wheels. The kid with the wheelchair. I hated it." He paused and said, "But I think you already knew that."

All of our conversations from camp that summer came flying back. "Yes, I remember."

"Yeah. Well, then I walked again. Proved those stupid doctors wrong." Andy smiled a painful smile, one dismissive of everything he'd been through as a kid. "So that's it. After I started walking again, my life turned around. The end."

"And got braces and contacts?" I assumed, looking at his now straight white teeth and clear brown eyes.

He laughed. "Yeah."

"Yup."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Here." Andy reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a Snickers bar. "I owed you this."

"Oh my gosh!" I exclaimed, taking the candy bar from his hands. I gaped at him. "I . . . I can't believe it! You remembered!"

"Yeah, and it took me two months to remember who you were," Andy said.

I looked down at my hands.

"Liz, I still can't believe I didn't recognize you. I guess I'm the idiot. Remember how I used to always call you an idiot?"

"Of course," I said with a smile. "And you were the cripple."

"The idiot and the cripple," Andy said, laughing. "We were probably the weirdest couple at camp."

At the sound of the word "couple" coming out his mouth, I froze, wondering if he realized what he had said.

Andy continued on talking as if hadn't noticed. "Well, so . . . you. When did you move here?"

"Two years ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I lost your address," I admitted.

"I tried e-mailing you when I got back from camp," Andy said finally. "But I don't think your e-mail address worked for some reason. I remember getting an e-mail back that said 'so-in-so's email address is not valid.' "

"Oh, well," I said, "that's because I had been grounded from the Internet for so long before I went to camp that my e-mail address just got terminated. I changed it after that." I felt guilty all of the sudden.

"Oh."

"Um . . ." I bit my lip. "I'm sorry I never wrote your or called you or e- mailed you or anything. I was . . . well, I was dumb."

"That's all right. I was too." Andy shrugged. "But Liz . . . you look so different. You're so much different."

"Good different or bad different?"

"Good."

I smiled broadly, my heart warming. "Thanks. . . ."

Actually, I thought I recognized you," Andy said. "That first night you came, I think. Or second. I just remember, you were in the front row with Christa and I looked at you and I knew I knew you, but since I couldn't remember, I figured I'd made a mistake."

"Oh." I looked down at my hands. "Is that why you were like, 'I'm sorry, but I don't think I know you' when I came up to you that one day?"

"Yeah. I didn't know what to say. What was I supposed to say?" Andy shrugged. "Well, I guess I could have said something. But since I didn't know how I knew you, I didn't want to say anything. I don't know."

"It's all right."

"You sure?" he asked quietly, looking me in the eye.

"Yeah." I thought a moment, then laughed. "You know, I still can't believe you recognized me this Wednesday. I mean, after so long!"

"I told you. I'm the idiot," Andy said with a grin. "But when did you recognize me?"

"That first night I saw you," I explained. "You said something about your pop-sickle-how it tasted like cough syrup or something. I remembered you always used to say that about the red pop-sickles at camp. That was when I finally realized who you were."

Andy's eyes widened. "Really? And it took me two months."

"Well, you're the idiot," I threw Andy's words back at him.

He laughed. "Yeah, I am. Definitely."

I added, "But at least you don't swim like a duck on Prozac anymore."

Andy looked confused for a moment, then nodded. "Oh, right! Yeah. I remember that. But didn't you say I didn't look like a duck on Prozac?"

"Yeah. Just trying to see if you remembered."

"Yep." Andy shook his head. "Man, we were stupid! A duck on Prozac?"

"Or Ritalin, you mean."

Andy grinned at me. "Hey! Yeah. I remember that, too. Now eat your Snickers bar. I've owed you one for three years."

"All right." I pealed off the wrapper and took a huge bite of the bar. "Wow! This is good!"

"Always was."

After I had finished, I asked, "Is it still your favorite food?"

"Yeah. Well, pizza's good too. What's your favorite food now?"

"Beef stroganoff."

"Still?" Andy asked with a laugh. He had teased me about this incessantly at camp.

I wondered, "Do you . . . um, do you want to watch a movie or something?"

"Sure."

Andy followed me out of the kitchen and into the living room. I was immediately aware of how tall he was compared to me. It hit me once again how much he had changed.

He accidentally stepped on the back of my foot. I turned around and said playfully, "Hey, watch it!"

"Idiot," Andy said with a grin.

"Cripple," I returned.

As we settled on my couch, I still could not believe who was sitting next to me. I tried to realize how I felt. Incredulous, yes. Amazed. Happy. Relieved. Andy was only an inch away from me, and I could feel the closeness.

It would take time before anything would happen between the two of us, but time was what we had. Time to get to know one another, to make up for a lack of three years' correspondence. I'd once said that Andy had been my special friend that summer. Over time, he would become more. Much, much more.

THE END