Everyone tells a story. If you're lucky, you'll be able to identify it. If you are especially lucky, someone will actually tell you as simply as possible: in form of a story. I want to tell a story, but this story isn't mine. However, I don't think the storyteller would mind. He'd want to tell the whole world, and I think the least we can do for him, is try.

When I mean we, that includes myself, Vicky Dahl, and Michael Strawson.

School was out and I really didn't have much planned for the summer vacation. I had assumed I'd spend it like every other summer before. Maybe it was out of boredom, but for some reason I decided to volunteer as a candy striper. I remember vaguely about someone saying the hospital needed more volunteers, but why I really volunteered, I honestly don't know. It's even more baffling when you consider the fact that I really didn't like to wear the candy striped uniforms, or how my stomach churned with each breath of the hospital atmosphere. Who really knows. I guess you can say, "it's just one of those things."

It was at this hospital that I met Michael Strawson.

I've never met Michael at school before not surprisingly, since he's a senior and I'm a junior, but I've heard that he was a little "wacky". At first, I refused to believe that it was the same Michael Strawson. Somehow a boy who filled the varsity football with punch instead of air doesn't match a boy who actually wants to help out in the hospital. Granted, he was a sophomore when he pulled that prank off, but it was the only thing I could remember of Michael Strawson.

I arrived at the hospital to find that I was one of eight new candy stripers. We were greeted by Mrs. Lawson who is the hospital coordinator for the candy stripers. She is an elderly lady who was very nice, except that she forgot to tell you certain things. You were left to try and piece together bits of information, all the while knowing that her clothes were just a little too tight and she had dyed her hair once too many. Absent-mindedly, she would used the end of her pen to scratch into the permed red-brown curls, causing it to fall out of place.

One by one, we were each assigned to different floors. For some reason, I was the last. It is not like me to be superstitious, but I couldn't help thinking "Save the best for last." So it was Mrs. Lawson in her snug white uniform and I in my new red-stripped dress looking at each other. She smiled brightly at me and took me to the elevator. "I can see you're going to love working for the children," she gushed.

That was the first clue I had of what floor I would be working on.

"Mike's been working here for two years now. This is his third year. I'm sure you'll both get along just fine," she said. Another clue of who I would be working with. At that time, I still did not know who Mike was. She went on to describe certain things that I could only nod. By the time we reached the nurses' lounge, I had gathered that I was working in the pediatric section (from the sign in bold letters) and my supervisor was someone named Mike that Mrs. Lawson apparently liked very much.

She pushed open the door.

I remember seeing Mike bending into the fridge. A little light-headed from all of Mrs. Lawson's ramblings, I actually thought that he was trying to freeze his head.

"Mike!"

The boy (I could only see his back from my view) jerked upwards and yelped in harmony with the "thump.". Rubbing his head, he turned to us. "Mrs. Lawson," he said and grinned. "The bulb must've shorted. Who's this? Your sister?" He winked at me. Mrs. Lawson was busy giggling.

"Oh, Mike. Be nice to Vicky. And get Mr. Parker to do that. Are you going to see Nurse Benedict?" she said.

"Aren't I always nice, Mrs. Lawson?" he retorted. "It's only a bulb, and I only got a little bump. You don't visit often enough, Mrs. L. How can we cheer this place up without your lovely smile?"

It was too superficial to be true, I thought, watching the exchange. But Mrs. Lawson obviously enjoyed it. She reminded me very much of my neighbor who lives all alone with a dog. I wondered if Mrs. Lawson was just as lonely or if she simply enjoyed the attention of a handsome young man. Which is what Mike is. He's not incredibly handsome, but he has a cute appeal with his little boy smile.

All too quickly, Mrs. Lawson was already wishing me good luck and scolding Mike for not eating enough. When I turned back to Mike, he was grinning. "Is she always like that?" I said.

Mike shrugged. "Yep. She only comes in when we get new volunteers, 'bout two or three times a year, but she's always like that. Come on.. I'm Mike Strawson. She called you Vicky.. ?"

"Vicky Dahl." I looked at him a little closer. He had mischevious eyes, too. "Michael Strawson? You attend Petterson High?"

He nodded. He watched me curiously as I looked at him curiously, at least I think he did. Then he shrugged and offered to show my way around. I didn't tell him that during my freshman year, he was the reason why one of my favorite shirts was ruined. The punch-filled football exploded in front of me.

Vicky sometimes goes all out with words. I'll never figure out why she's in a hospital; she just really deserves to be behind the computer or something like that. I bet one day you'll find a couple of books by Vicky Dahl.

And the football prank was my worse prank. We were sophomores and the guys wanted to play a joke. It's not as if I was the only one who came up with the idea; I just mixed the punch and figured out how to pour it in. Vicky never did tell me she was one of the girls that the football exploded in front of. I remember one of the guys aimed the ball near the cheerleaders and the guy who was supposed to catch actually missed. He wasn't supposed to. The ball was supposed to explode on him, but having nearly half the cheerleader squad run after him was just as funny.

Vicky wants me to write from some psychological view about what happened, but that's not me. I don't see that way. I figure that if I was meant to see it like that, I will. People keep telling me, "you must look at it from that way," but can't I just see from from my way? Some people tell me that's being ignorant, but I say it's a matter of looking at it. We're all different, so why not go and see it from different ways?

Well, Vicky is groaning. I guess this wasn't her idea of my part. I can't help it. That's the way I am, and no one can change who I am.

I didn't want him to write from some psychological view or anything like that. I wasn't even groaning. It's just when Mike gets that way, you'll end up with pages and pages of what he calls "the ways." I never really understood it and I doubt you will, either. Besides, this isn't supposed to be about "the ways." It's about Roger, so I guess I'll actually start.

My first week as a candy striper wasn't the greatest, but Mike helped out the best he could. Needless to say, I was just as wary of him as I was of the children. Inspite of what Mrs. Lawson predicted, my experience with children had not been pleasant... and Mike can almost be considered as a big child.

He has a gift with children that any mother would envy, though. While children would cry at my attempts to comfort them, they would laugh at the sight of Mike. I guess that's why he's been a volunteer for so long.

I was trying to comfort one little girl during the first week who refused to stop throwing a tantrum when I suddenly found that she was busy trying not to laugh. I looked over my shoulder to see Mike giving me a sympathetic look that didn't look all too genuine. Puzzled, I turned back to the girl again who was still beginning to have giggle fits. I turned my head once more to see Mike sigh exasperately and say sternly, "You better stop throwing tantrums, Anna."

She stuck her tongue out and screamed truly screamed. A few minutes later, however, she was trying not to laugh again. I gave Mike a glance to see him glaring at Anna. Jerking my head back to Anna and then back at him, I gaped. I'd caught him crossing his eyes, sucking his cheeks in and somehow managing to stick his tongue out. I folded my arms and looked at Anna. "He looks like a fish, doesn't he?"

It took me a while to get along with the little patients, but after that incident with Anna, it wasn't really that hard. I began to accept Mike and the patients. You simply had to get to know each child, and most of the time, all you have to do was show you were interested. There was one patient that smiled the moment he saw me. The boy was probably the skinniest patient in the department, but he was a beautiful kid. I guess it was the smile.

"Hi!" he said. "I'm Roger Mann, who are you?"

"Hello." I walked up to his bedside and smiled. "My name's Vicky Dahl." We stared at each other for a while. I don't know what ran through his head, but I was trying to figure out how in the world to move on to the next person. He spoke again.

"Are you a summie?"

I blinked. I couldn't have heard the word correctly. "Huh?"

"Are you a summie?" he repeated.

I tried to scan my memory banks for the word, but as far as I knew, there was no such word. I must have looked puzzled because the little boy grinned at me and beckoned me closer to him. I bent over.

"It's my secret word for a summer volunteer," he said proudly. My lips rounded into an O. I smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'm a summie," I replied. Immediately, my day lit up. Here was one kid who liked me.

"Maybe we'll get her to be a reggie, huh?"

I whirled around to see Michael behind me, grinning. Something clicked in my mind. "Oh, I don't know. For the moment, I'll stay a summie. Being a reggie is too much for me," I said. It wasn't that hard to guess "reggie" was a term for a regular volunteer, but apparently it meant something to Roger. He laughed aloud. "She's not dumb!" he exclaimed with delight. For the first time since I actually decided to put my name on the volunteer form, I felt truly happy that I did.

I don't know whether Vicky really felt happy, but at that moment, she really looked embarrassed. Her face just went as red as the red stripes on her uniform, but she did grin. It's hard not to, though. With Roger, you just can't help grinning.

Just then the door opened. It was Mrs. Johnson, the receptionist for Block B. She looked at us with a strange expression, as if the three of us were grinning fools in a place where grinning fools weren't allowed. She muttered something about a change of an early shift and left. We looked at each other again, and the grins died off. It was a shame, really. What better place to grin, but a hospital? Some people say it's not proper, but who's to say it's proper or not?

Roger just shrugged slightly and gave us both a faint smile. I didn't know whether I should hug the boy or cry right then. Vicky didn't know Roger that well as I did. I've seen the boy in and out of the hospital for a year or two, and each time, he was always smiling.

I asked Vicky right after she met Roger how old she thought he was. She said around 5. That's the thing with Roger. He looks frail and small that you would never believe he was almost 7. I know nearly nothing of medicine, but I do know that without a heart, you don't have much chance of living; Roger had that much of a chance.

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Copyright © 1996 Juliana Ng