Mary is my best friend in the whole world.

We both love wearing our hair in pigtails, we are both exactly 42 inches tall, and we both put ketchup on everything. Ever since I shortened my name from Teresa to Terry, our names even rhyme.

“Mary,” I hollered as I raced into the classroom, “see my shoes? Now we match!”

I plopped my foot down next to Mary's to prove that our shoes were exactly the same. Mary didn't squeal with excitement or grab me in a tackle hug; she just shrugged.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Mary said. “I am playing puppets with Maggie. She is Hansel, and I am Gretel.

“I'll be Gretel, too,” I said.

“That's impossible,” Mary groaned.

Best friends don't groan at each other. I had a bad feeling about this day.

Miss Eliza rang the clean-up bell and handed out art smocks. I took a blue smock. Miss Eliza gave Mary a yellow smock.

“Quick, Billy,” I said. “I have to trade smocks with you.”

I waved my new yellow smock at Mary. She flipped her easel around and began painting.

Mary is acting crazy, I thought. I had to keep peeking over her shoulder to make sure that my blue daisy matched her blue daisy.

“Our drawings look great. Don't they?” I said.

Mary didn't say anything. She was all huffy. Best friends do not act huffy toward each other.

Outside at recess, Maggie yelled, “I'm the farmer. Who's an animal on my farm?”

“I'm a pony!” Mary whinnied.

“I'm a pony, too.” I whinnied.

Mary turned and said right in my face, “I'm a goat instead!”

“OK,” I said. “We're goats instead!”

“Terry, you have copycat fever,” Mary shouted. “You should go to a doctor and get a shot.”

Right there, in the middle of recess, I thought I was going to cry. Best friends do not shout at each other.

After recess, Mary pulled one of our favorite princess crowns from the dress-up trunk. I frowned. If I took a princess crown, Mary would say I had copycat fever again. I grabbed a cowboy hat.

When the bell rang, Miss Eliza handed out paper plates with eyeholes. Mary grabbed fuzzy pink pompoms. She loves fuzzy pink pompoms. I glared at Mary and picked up tissue paper streamers.

I was cured of copycat fever, but now I felt sick. Mary and I were not doing the exact same thing. She was huffy at me, and I was glaring at her. It was official. We were not best friends. When my mask was finished, I put it over my face and cried.

“The tissue paper streamers on your mask look great,” I heard someone say. It sounded like Mary. But with my eyes all blurry and the tiny holes in my mask, I couldn't see.

In music class, I danced with a bright orange scarf and tried to forget that Mary wasn't my best friend.

“Very creative dancing, Terry,” Miss Eliza said. “Everyone may switch scarves for one more dance.”

Mary tapped my shoulder.

“May I try your dance?” she asked.

“Won't you have copycat fever?” I asked. “You'll need a shot.”

“A little copycat fever is OK,” Mary said.

“I thought you didn't want to be best friends anymore,” I said. “And you have never wanted to copy me before.”

“I want to be your friend,” Mary said. “I just want to keep some of my own ideas. I never have the chance to copy you because you are too busy copying me.”

“Oh, right,” I said quietly. “That must be annoying.”

Mary nodded. “Plus, if you copy me all the time, I miss out on all the great stuff you can do,” Mary said. “Like that dance!”

“You may copy my dance,” I said. “But I'm going to keep my orange scarf so you should use a green scarf. And tomorrow we can wear our matching shoes, but when you wear the princess crown, I'll be a cowboy who comes to visit your castle.”

“Sounds like a best-friend plan,” Mary said.

Miss Eliza started the music. I twirled my orange scarf. My best friend, Mary, twirled her green scarf. And we did the greatest copycat-fever dance ever.

“We all have gifts. They differ in keeping with the grace that God has given each of us.” —Romans 12:6