BFF* (5 page)

“So what'd you think?” I asked Rachel, as I walked her home from Alison's house.

“Obviously she's very insecure,” Rachel said. “That's why she uses that talking dog story.”

“But Maizie
can
talk,” I said. “You heard what Leon said.”

“You're so gullible, Steph!” Rachel said. “But I suppose that's part of your charm.”

I had no idea what gullible meant and I wasn't about to ask so I just nodded and said, “It runs in my family.”

Rachel gave me one of her skeptical looks, then said, “Well … I think we should try to help her get adjusted here. I think we should try to be her friends.”

“I think so, too,” I said.

Bruce

Bruce's fifth grade teacher is Mrs. Stein. I also had her. But she taught fourth grade then. “She remembers you, Steph …” Bruce said at breakfast the following Friday. “She said you came in second in the reading contest.” He reached across the table for the box of Cheerios.

“Rachel came in first,” I told him, as I buttered my toast. I like my toast very dark. I try to catch it just before it burns and is ruined.

“Mrs. Stein says she remembers Rachel, too,” Bruce said.

“Rachel's teachers always remember her,” I said. In fourth grade Rachel started reading the kinds of books her sister, Jessica, was reading for
eighth grade English. When we gave book talks in class Rachel never reported on those books, though. She'd choose a book she thought a normal fourth grader would like instead.

By sixth grade everybody knew Rachel was smart but she didn't like it if the teacher made a big thing out of it. During math she'd go around helping kids who didn't understand. Our sixth grade teacher called Rachel his teaching assistant.

I was still sitting at the kitchen table, finishing my toast and thinking about Rachel, when Mom opened a kitchen drawer and said, “Oh, no!”

“Did you get a mouse?” I asked.

Mom slammed the drawer. “I give up!” she said. “They ate the peanut butter right off the traps. I'm going to have to call Mr. Kravitz.”

“Who's he?” Bruce asked.

“The exterminator,” Mom said. “He's the one who bought the yellow house from us.”

“I never knew we sold our house to an exterminator,” I said. “I thought Mr. and Mrs. Kravitz owned a shoe store.”

Mom laughed. “Where did you get that idea?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, Mr. Kravitz is an exterminator,” Mom said.

That night Aunt Denise asked Mom to go to the movies with her. Besides being sisters, Mom and Aunt Denise are also best friends. I wish I had a sister, even though Rachel says she and Jessica don't get along that well. Mom has two sisters, Robin and Denise. Mom is the middle one. Her name is Rowena.

“Maybe I should call Mrs. Greco,” Mom said at dinner.

“I'm too old for a sitter,” I told her. Mrs. Greco sat for us when we lived in the yellow house. “I could be a sitter myself.”

“You're not too old for companionship,” Mom said.

“I have Bruce.”

Bruce smiled. “She has me,” he said, as if it were his idea. “And the mice.”

“Very funny.” Mom poured her tea. She took a few sips, then said, “Tell you what … if I'm going to be home by midnight you two can stay by yourselves … that is, if it works out tonight. But if I'm staying out later than that, you'll have a companion.”

“You mean someone like Rachel?” I asked. “That kind of companion?”

“We'll see,” Mom said.

We'll see
is what Mom says when she wants to change the subject.

As soon as Mom left I took the phone into the pantry and called Rachel. The pantry is small, like a closet, but it's the only place in this house where I can talk on the phone in private. There's a light inside and enough room to sit on the floor, as long as I don't try to stretch out my legs. There's a nice spicy smell, too, which makes me hungry, even if I've just finished dinner.

While I was talking to Rachel I munched on the macadamia peanut brittle one of Mom's clients brought her from Hawaii. I tried Alison's number after I'd talked to Rachel, but her line was busy so I went into the den to watch TV with Bruce.

Next year, when we get cable, we'll have MTV. Aunt Denise's neighborhood already has cable, and my cousin, Howard, watches MTV all the time, even while he's doing his homework. Mom says I'll never be allowed to do my homework in front of the tube. I say,
We'll see
.

Bruce went to bed at ten. One thing about Bruce, he falls asleep really fast, as soon as his head hits the pillow. Same as me.

I went to the bathroom and used the Water Pik. Then I scrubbed my face. Some nights I don't bother washing my face at all. I keep forgetting to ask Mom if scrubbing your face will
keep you from getting acne. I scrubbed mine until it turned very pink, to make up for all the nights I'm too lazy to do anything.

Next, I decided to call Dad. I went down the hall to Mom's room and looked up Dad's number in the little phone book she keeps in her night table. There was also a flashlight in her drawer, and some lip goo.

I dialed the number of Dad's apartment. The phone rang three times before Dad's answering machine clicked on with Dad's voice saying, “This is Steve Hirsch. I'm not home right now but if you leave a message …”

“Hi Dad,” I said at the sound of the beep. “It's Stephanie. I just wanted to say hello.”

I went back to my room. The house was so quiet. There was a half moon outside my window and it lit up Benjamin Moore's poster. Well, Benjamin, I thought, as I got into bed. It's just you and me tonight. I wish you were real. I wish you could come down off the ceiling and kiss me goodnight. You look like you'd be a great kisser.

I rolled over and fell asleep. I slept until a frightening sound woke me. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. Then I raced down the hall to Mom's room. But Mom wasn't home yet. I grabbed the baseball bat from under her bed. She keeps it there when Dad is away, just in case. I glanced at the clock—11:20—not even an hour since I'd
gone to bed. I listened for other sounds, trying to decide if I should call the police or a neighbor, but all I heard was Bruce, crying and calling for Mom. I ran to his room, clutching the baseball bat, and that's when I realized nothing was wrong in the house. It was just Bruce, having one of his nightmares.

I sat down at the edge of his bed. He threw his arms around me, sobbing. I held him tight. I would never put my arms around him during the day. Not that he'd let me. His face felt hot and wet with tears. He smelled like a puppy.

“The usual?” I asked.

“Yes … I saw it,” he said, gulping for air. “I saw the bomb … it was silver … shaped like a football … rolling around in the sky. When it got to our house it started to fall … straight down … and then there was a flash of light … and I heard the explosion …”

“It's all right,” I told him. “It was just a bad dream.”

“It's coming,” Bruce said, “the bomb is coming ….”

“But it's not coming tonight,” I told him, stroking his hair. His hair was soft and damp around the edges.

“How do you know?”

“I just know. So there's no point in worrying about it now.”

“It could be the end of the world,” Bruce said, shuddering.

“Look,” I told him, “if it happens, it happens.” I don't like to think about the end of the world or the bomb so I don't. I'm good at putting bad things out of my mind. That's why I'm an optimist.

I lay down on Bruce's bed and held him until he fell back asleep. The good thing about his nightmares is that he never has more than one a night. It's as if he just needs to be reassured that the end of the world isn't coming yet.

I guess I fell asleep holding Bruce because soon my mother was gently shaking me and whispering, “Come on, Steph … let's go back to bed.”

She walked me down the hall to my room. “He had a nightmare,” I said, groggily.

Mom tucked me into bed and kissed both my cheeks.

The next morning, when I came into the kitchen, Bruce was sitting at the table, writing a letter.

I poured myself a glass of orange juice. “Who are you writing to today?” I asked.

“The President,” Bruce said.

“Oh, the President.” I set out a bowl for my cereal.

“You should write, too,” Bruce said. “If everybody writes to the President he'll have to listen. Here …” Bruce shoved a piece of notebook paper at me.

“Not while I'm eating,” I said. I finished my cereal, rinsed the bowl, then brought the box of doughnuts to the table. Mom is a doughnut addict but since we moved she's buying only the plain or the whole wheat kind. No artificial flavors or colors, no preservatives. Mom will eat only one a day now, at the most two, because she's trying to lose weight. I miss glazed doughnuts. I miss chocolate and jelly filled too.

“Mom is going to kill you,” Bruce said.

“For what?”

“Polishing off three doughnuts.”

Three? I counted the ones left in the box. He was right. Sometimes when I'm eating I forget to keep track.

I washed my doughnuts down with another glass of juice and then I started my letter.