BFF* (36 page)

Suddenly I felt my heart thumping inside my chest. I sat straight up, frightened. The cats looked at me as I leaped out of bed. But then a voice inside my head reminded me to stay calm, to breathe deeply. I began to count backward from one hundred. That's it … count slowly … very slowly … that's better …

The panicky feeling passed, leaving me drenched
with sweat. I lay back down and closed my eyes.
Psychology Today
says one good relaxation technique is to imagine yourself in a serene setting, like a beautiful tropical island with a white sand beach and palm trees swaying gently in the warm breeze. Yes. Okay. I'm on an island, swinging in a hammock, when this incredibly handsome guy comes up to me. He's carrying a book of Shakespeare's sonnets. He sits beside me and begins to read. After a while he reaches for my hand, looks deep into my eyes and, not being able to resist a moment longer, kisses me. It is a long, passionate kiss … without tongues. The idea of having someone's tongue in my mouth is too disgusting to contemplate.

I must have fallen asleep then, but when I awoke in the morning I had a gnawing ache in my jaw.

T
he next afternoon I went to the introductory meeting of Natural Helpers and nearly passed out when Mrs. Balaban presented someone named Dr. Sparks. Could he be
that
Dr. Sparks? I wondered, as I slid lower and lower in my seat. How many psychologists named Dr. Sparks can there be in one town? He must be the same one! Suppose he recognizes my name and asks if I'm related to Charles? Suppose he tells Mrs. Balaban that with my family situation I shouldn't be a Natural Helper?

I worried all through the meeting. I hardly heard a word he said.

But when the meeting ended, Mrs. Balaban thanked Dr. Sparks and he left without addressing any of us individually. I felt so relieved I let out a low sigh. Only the girl next to me seemed to notice. Then Mrs. Balaban told us we should think long and hard about becoming Natural Helpers. “I'll need your answer by the last day of school,” she said. “And remember, it's a significant commitment. Helping others always is. You'll have to be aware and involved all the time.”

A
ware and involved all the time
, I thought as I sat in the dentist's office after school. By then my jaw was killing me. I opened and closed my mouth, hoping to relieve the pain.

Unlike most of my friends, I'm not afraid to go to the dentist. I have very healthy teeth. I've had just two small cavities in my entire life. Besides, our dentist, Dr. McKay, is also a stand-up comic. He performs at the Laugh Track, a comedy club on the highway. He tries out his material on his patients, so in this case you might say, going to the dentist is a lot of laughs!

“So, Rachel … how do you get down from an elephant?” Dr. McKay asked as he adjusted the towel around my neck.

“I've no idea,” I told him.

He tilted the chair way back. “You don't … you get it from a duck.”

I laughed, which wasn't easy to do with my mouth
open and the dentist's hands inside. I hate the taste of his white surgical gloves.

“Hmm …” he said, poking around. “Are you wearing your appliance?”

I tried to explain that I'd lost it, but he couldn't understand me. I guess he got the general tone, though, because he said, “So, the answer is no?”

I nodded.

“Well, you're clenching your jaw again.”

I tried to act surprised. I said, “I am?” It came out sounding like
Ah aah?

“Uh-huh …” he said. “And grinding your teeth, too.”

Grinding my teeth? That definitely did not sound good.

“Everything all right in your life?” he asked.

I wiggled my fingers, indicating so-so.

“Still getting all A's in school?”

I wish people would stop acting as if there's something wrong with getting all A's. I waved my hands around, our signal for letting me sit up and rinse. After I did, I said, “This doesn't have anything to do with school.”

“Maybe not, but I'd still like to see you learn to relax. And so would your teeth.”

People are always telling me to relax, as if it's something easy to do. When Dr. McKay finished cleaning my teeth, he moved the chair to an upright position. “I'm going to do an impression,” he said.

I assumed he meant an impression of someone famous. So I was surprised when he said, “Open wide, Rachel …” and he slid a little tray of flavored goo into my mouth.

O
n the way out of Dr. McKay's office I met Steph, who had an appointment with the orthodontist in the next office. “How do you get down from an elephant?” I asked. I hardly ever tell jokes because no one laughs when I do. I don't know if this means my comic timing is off or people just don't expect me to be funny.

“How?” Steph said.

“You don't. You get it from a duck.”

Steph just looked at me.

“It's a joke,” I said. “Down … as in feathers. Get it?”

“Oh, right …” Steph said. “Now I do.” But she didn't laugh. Then she said, “Did you hear about Marcella, the eighth-grade slut?”

“No, what?”

“She got caught in the supply closet with Jeremy Dragon.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No. Why would it be a joke?”

“I don't know. The way you set it up, I thought you were going to tell a joke.”

“No, this is a true story,” Steph said. “It was the
supply closet in the arts center. When Dana found out she went crazy, yelling and screaming in front of everyone!”

“Really?”

“Yes … then Jeremy goes, ‘How come it's okay for you but not for me?' And Dana shouts, ‘What are you talking about?' Then Jeremy goes, ‘You know what I'm talking about!' And he walks away, which makes Dana so mad she takes off his bracelet and throws it at him. It hits him in the back of his head. So he turns around and goes, ‘Thanks, Dana!' Then he picks up his bracelet and puts it in his pocket.”

“You were actually there?” I asked. “You actually saw this happen?”

“No,” Steph said. “But everybody's talking about it. Everybody knows!”

“What was he doing in the supply closet with Marcella?”

“What do you think?” Before I had a chance to respond, Steph answered her own question. “Pure animal attraction!”

“Yes, but the difference between humans and animals is that humans are supposed to
think,”
I explained, “not just react.”

“But let's say you were alone in a supply closet with Jeremy Dragon …” Steph said. “Wouldn't you react?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I do. I'm reacting just thinking about it, like any normal person.”

“Are you suggesting I'm not normal?”

“I didn't say that.”

“It sounded like you did.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“Good, because I'm as normal as you!”

“If you say so.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Lighten up, Rachel, will you?” Stephanie said, shaking her head. “You're never going to make it to eighth grade at this rate.”

I wanted to ask Steph exactly what she meant by that remark, but she went into the orthodontist's office before I had the chance. It's not as if I wouldn't want to be alone with Jeremy Dragon. But I'd choose someplace more romantic than a supply closet at school!

W
hen Alison came over that night, I asked if she'd heard about Jeremy Dragon and Marcella. “Steph told me,” she said. “I feel bad for Dana.” She walked around my room touching things—the framed photos on my dresser, my collection of decorated boxes, the needlepoint pillows on my bed. “I'd do anything for a room like this.” She sounded as if she were in a trance.

Since she goes through this routine every time, I decided to call her on it. “Okay,” I said, “on Saturday I'm coming over and we're going to organize your room.”

“Oh no,” Alison said, “it wouldn't work!”

“Why not?”

“I'd never be able to keep it like … this,” she said, opening my closet door, “with all my clothes facing the same direction, and my shoes lined up in a row.”

“It's easy!” I told her. “You just have to put away your clothes when you take them off.”

“But you know how I am. You know I never put anything away until my closet is empty and all my clothes are piled on the floor.”

“You can do it if you want to.”

“I want to … but I know myself. I'm too tired at night to care.”

“Then you should go to bed earlier.”

“That's what my mother says.”

“I don't mean to sound like your mother, but you'll never know until you try.”

“No, I'd just wind up feeling bad.” She sighed. “Maybe someday. Maybe next year, okay?”

I shrugged. “Whenever.”

“Besides,” she said, looking around, “Steph says it isn't normal for a teenager to have a room as perfect as this.”

“Stephanie said that … about me?”

“Not about you,” Alison said, backing off. “About your room. We were just talking, you know, about this article in
Sassy
and …” I waited while she painted herself into a corner. “Steph didn't mean it personally or anything.”

“I cannot believe Stephanie told you I'm not normal.”

“She didn't say that!”

“You know what Stephanie's problem is?” I asked.
“Stephanie confuses
normal
with
average
. It's true that the
average
teenager doesn't keep her room as neat as I keep mine. But just because it isn't
average
doesn't mean it's not
normal.”

I absolutely detest the word
normal
. I detest the way Stephanie throws it around. And, I admit, sometimes I do wonder about myself. There's no question, I'm different from most kids my age. I don't know how to explain it. Maybe when my mother jokes to her friends that
Rachel was born thirty-five
, she knows what she's talking about. Maybe I won't find out until I actually
am
thirty-five. Maybe then I'll be more like everyone else.

Alison was running her hand over the books on my shelves. “So, can you recommend something good? I have a book report due on Friday and I forgot to go to the library.”

“They're all good,” I told her. “It just depends on what you're in the mood for.”

“Something about a girl who lived a long time ago.”

“Historical fiction,” I translated. “Let me think …” My books are arranged alphabetically by author so I know exactly where each one is. I pulled two off my shelf—
Summer of My German Soldier
and
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
—and handed them to Alison.

“I'll take this one,” she said, thumbing through the first.

“Good choice,” I told her. “I think you'll like it.” I wrote down Alison's name, followed by the title and author, in my library notebook. Even though every one of my books has a bookplate on the inside cover, some people forget to return them. They don't mean to. It just happens. This way I know who's got what. As I was putting away my notebook, Charles opened my bedroom door. “You know you're supposed to knock!” I said.

But he paid no attention. “I was hoping for a quick game of
torture,”
he said, standing in the doorway.

“We are
not
interested!” I tried to force him out by closing the door but he blocked it.

“What's
torture?”
Alison asked.

“Torture
is having a conversation with my brother.
Torture
is enduring his witty comments.”

Alison didn't get it. But Charles pushed past me and said, “An excellent definition, Rachel.” He looked at Alison. “You just don't know how refreshing it is to live with a child prodigy.”

Alison didn't get that, either. She sat on the edge of my bed, not knowing what to say. Charles smiled at her. She smiled back, clearly flattered by his attention.

“So, what's your ethnic heritage, California?” he asked.

“None of your business,” I told him, answering for Alison.

“I don't mean to pry,” Charles said to her smoothly, “but I'm very interested in ethnic heritage, given my background.”

What background? I wondered.

“Well, I'm adopted,” Alison said. “I don't know anything except that my birth mother was Vietnamese.”

“I'm adopted, too,” Charles said. “I wish our family were as open about it as yours.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, totally shocked. “You're not adopted!”

“You mean you never guessed?” he asked me. “You never put two and two together?”

“You're lying!” I shouted. Then I turned to Alison. “He's lying!”