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assuring herself that he was still sleeping restfully, and sat down with determination.
    She looked at the pad. She looked at the pen. This essay wasn’t going to write itself. She was going to have to do the work. She could do it.
    Metaphors are the heart of all great literature
, she began.

A T THE FIRST sound of her alarm, Stevie was up and out of bed in the morning. She showered, dressed, packed up her books neatly, made her bed, and was downstairs even before her mother. She poured herself a bowl of cereal, added milk—no sugar—ate it, drank a glass of orange juice, rinsed the bowl, spoon, and glass, put them in the dishwasher, and left the house for school. She glanced at her watch. In earlier times she would have been giving the snooze button on her clock radio a third slap at this hour, rather than leaving the house. She smiled to herself, feeling good about what she was doing. It was working already. She
was
a better person. The walk to school was a short one, only about fifteenminutes, but this morning it took longer because she ran into so many friends of hers and Alex’s. Everybody wanted to know how he was.
    “He’s very sick,” she said. “He’s got meningitis, but the doctors are doing everything they can for him, and he’s going to get better. I just know it.”
    A lot of the kids didn’t know much about meningitis, and Stevie was glad to tell them everything she knew. That included what the neurologist had said as well as what she’d looked up in the encyclopedia the night before. She explained about the difference between bacterial versus viral meningitis and how antibiotics were used to combat it and how they were testing to find exactly the right one, but in the meantime they were using everything. When she got to school, it seemed that the whole rest of her class was there, wanting information as well. Stevie stood on the steps of Fenton Hall, explaining everything all over again. The thing they mostly wanted to know was about Alex, though. How
was
he?
    “He’s been sleeping,” Stevie said. “I guess it’s a coma. That’s what the doctor said. I think it’s like a deep sleep so that his body can work on fighting the infection without having to worry about anything else, like walking, sitting, or talking. That’s what I think, anyway.”
    She glanced at her watch. It was just fifteen minutesuntil the first bell rang, and there was so much to do. She had to go to her locker and then get to her homeroom. This was an activity that usually took her two minutes because that was as much time as she usually allowed for it. This morning, however, the new Stevie had other chores. She had some pencils to sharpen, too. “Got to get inside now,” she said. Her friends stepped aside and let her pass.
    Inside, the teachers had all the same concerns that Stevie’s friends had. Even Miss Fenton, the headmistress, came to Stevie for information. Stevie was used to talking to Miss Fenton and explaining things to her, but those things were usually unexplainable—like how a wad of bubble gum got onto a teacher’s chair, or why Veronica diAngelo’s sneakers had turned green overnight. This time Miss Fenton was very gentle and caring and sympathetic.
    “These are difficult times, Stevie,” she said. “You may find your attention wandering more than usual. If you need extra help, just let me or your teachers know. We’re here to help you, and we’ll be here to help Alex—when he gets better.”
    Stevie thanked her. “I don’t think you’ll have to help me, though,” she said. “I’ll be doing fine, I’m sure, and as soon as Alex is a little better, I can tutor him andhelp him to catch up on all the subjects, except maybe Spanish because he takes that and I take French.”
    “That would be wonderful,” Miss Fenton said. “But sometimes things don’t work out exactly the way we expect them to, and you may find that sometimes school work seems less important than other things. We