BFF* (7 page)

“Doesn't it look great?” I asked Rachel.

“Actually, it does,” Rachel said. “It looks just like a flower garden. Maybe I should be an interior designer.”

“Did you recognize Alison's mother?” I asked Rachel.

“No, should I have?” Rachel asked.

“She's Gena Farrell,” I said.

Maizie began to bark.

“Who's Gena Farrell?”

“Alison's mother!”

“I got that part,” Rachel said. “The part I didn't get is
who
is Gena Farrell?”

“The TV star,” I said.

“Actress,” Alison said, correcting me.

“The actress,” I repeated. “You know … she's on
Canyon Crossing.”

Maizie jumped off the bed and began nipping at my feet.

“Quit that,” I told her.

“I warned you,” Alison said.

“I've never seen
Canyon Crossing,”
Rachel said.

“Yes, you have …” I told her. “Last year we watched it at my house … more than once.”

“I don't remember,” Rachel said.

“It's been cancelled,” Alison said. “Mom's doing a new series. It's called
Franny on Her Own
. It won't be on until February. They're shooting in New York now. That's why we moved east. Leon's the head writer. He gets to decide what happens to all the characters.”

“That's so exciting!” I said. “What's it like having Gena Farrell for a mother?”

“She's the only mother I've ever known.” Alison stacked the books on her desk.

“But she's so famous!” I said.

Maizie growled. I wondered if it was true that she tried to bite reporters who asked too many questions.

“It doesn't matter that she's famous,” Alison said. “When she's home she's Mom. The other stuff is just her work. It has nothing to do with me.”

“You sound so well adjusted,” Rachel said. “Kids of stars aren't supposed to be well adjusted. They're supposed to be neurotic.”

“I can't help it if I'm not. Now could we please change the subject?”

I looked at Rachel. All three of us were quiet
for a minute. Then I said, “When you were little and you lived in France did you eat frogs' legs?”

Alison laughed. “Even when we change the subject you're still asking questions!”

“Stephanie likes to know everything about her friends,” Rachel said, linking her arm through mine. “It's a sign that she cares.”

Left Wing

The window in the second floor girls' room at school looks down on the playing field. I discovered this on Monday at the end of lunch period when I happened to look out that window. The soccer team was at practice. And who should be playing but Jeremy Dragon! I ran down to the cafeteria to tell Rachel and Alison. Then the three of us raced back up to the girls' room.

“He plays left wing!” Alison said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“That's his position,” Alison said. “Look … he's trying for a goal!”

We held our breath. But he missed.

Since then we don't waste a lot of time in the cafeteria. As soon as we finish eating we come
up to the girls' room and spend the rest of lunch period looking out the window. Jeremy Dragon has hairy legs. Rachel says that means he's experienced.

“Experienced how?” I asked.

“Experienced sexually,” Rachel said.

“Really?” I asked. “How do you know that?”

“I read it,” Rachel said.

“How far do you think he's gone?” Alison asked.

“Far,” Rachel said.

“All the way?” Alison asked.

“Possibly,” Rachel said.

“Just because he has hair on his legs?” I asked.

“That and other things,” Rachel said.

“Like what?”

“I think what Rachel means,” Alison said to me, “is that his body is very mature.”

“Well, so is Rachel's,” I said. “She has breasts and she gets her period.”

“Really?” Alison said to Rachel. “You get your period?”

“Yes,” Rachel said. “I've had it since fifth grade.”

“I haven't had mine yet,” Alison said.

“Neither has Steph,” Rachel said.

“And that's the whole point,” I told her.
“Your
body is developed and you don't have any experience. You haven't even kissed a boy.”

“Jeremy Dragon is in ninth grade,” Rachel said. “I certainly expect to have kissed a boy by the time I'm in ninth grade.”

“I've already kissed two boys,” Alison said.

Rachel and I looked at her. “Real kisses?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“When did this happen?” Rachel asked.

“Last year. I kissed one at the beach and the other in the courtyard at school.”

“How old were these boys?” Rachel asked.

“My age. Sixth grade.”

“Kissing a sixth grade boy isn't the same as kissing someone like Jeremy Dragon,” Rachel said. “Kissing Jeremy Dragon would be a whole different story.”

Alison looked out the window. After a minute she said, “I see what you mean.”

Mr. Kravitz

Mr. Kravitz, the exterminator, came to our house in a white truck that had K
RAVITZ—SINCE
1967 printed in small letters on the door. He wore a dark blue jumpsuit with
Ed
stitched on the pocket. He had a brown and white dog with him. A beagle, I think. He brought the dog into our house. “This is Henry,” Mr. Kravitz said. “He's trained to find termites.”

“We don't have termites,” Mom told him. “We have mice.”

Mr. Kravitz looked at his notebook. “Oh, that's right.” He laughed and shook his head. “Well, Henry's not a bad mouser, for a dog.”

Mr. Kravitz and Henry followed Mom into the kitchen. Then, as if she'd just remembered I was
there, she said, “This is my daughter, Stephanie.”

“How do, Stephanie,” Mr. Kravitz said.

“Mr. Kravitz bought the yellow house,” Mom reminded me.

“I know,” I told her.

“And we're certainly enjoying it,” Mr. Kravitz said.

“I'm glad,” Mom said. “Well … I'll let you get down to business, Mr. Kravitz. I hope you can clear up our problem.”

“I'll do my best,” Mr. Kravitz said.

Mom went upstairs to work at her computer, which she's moved from the den to her bedroom. I went to the refrigerator to get a glass of juice. “Do you use traps?” I asked Mr. Kravitz.

“No.”

“What do you use?”

“Something else.”

“What?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because my brother and I don't believe in violence.”

“I don't use anything violent.”

“What do you use?”

Mr. Kravitz let out a deep breath. “I use something to discourage them from coming back.”

“Poison?” I asked.

“We don't think of it that way.”

“Oh,” I said, drinking my apple juice. Then I remembered my manners. “Would you like a glass of juice?”

“No thank you,” Mr. Kravitz said. His dog, Henry, was sniffing inside the cabinet under the sink.

“So, who sleeps in my old room?” I asked.

Mr. Kravitz was inside the cabinet now, poking around with a flashlight. “Which room would that be?” he said. His voice was muffled.

“Top of the stairs … first room to the left,” I told him.

“Hmm … that would be my youngest son's room. He's in ninth grade at Fox Junior High.”

“Really,” I said, talking louder. “I go to Fox. I'm in seventh grade.”

“Maybe you know Jeremy,” Mr. Kravitz said.

“Jeremy?”

“Yes. Jeremy Kravitz. He's my son.”

“I only know one Jeremy,” I said. “And he's not your son. He wears a chartreuse jacket with a dragon on the back.”

Mr. Kravitz backed out of the cabinet. “That's
my
jacket,” he said, laughing.

“Your jacket?”

“Nineteen-sixty-two,” Mr. Kravitz said, standing up. “I was a senior in high school then.”

“Are you saying that the boy who wears that dragon jacket is your son?”

“That's right.”

“And his name is Jeremy and he sleeps in my old room?”

“That's right.”

“Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Kravitz. “I've got to do my homework now.” I had to call Alison and Rachel right away! I ran into the den to use the phone.

I called Rachel first. “You won't believe this,” I began, “but …” I told her the whole story. “You've got to come right over.”

“I'm practicing my flute now,” Rachel said.

“Rachel …” I said, “we are talking about Jeremy Dragon whose father happens to be standing in my kitchen ….”

“All right ….” Rachel said. “I'll be over in a few minutes.”

I didn't have to convince Alison. She ran all the way around the pond and arrived at my house breathless. When Rachel got here the three of us went into the kitchen and I introduced them to Mr. Kravitz.

“Are you really Jeremy's father?” Rachel asked in her most mature voice.

Mr. Kravitz was spreading a white powder inside our cabinets. “Has Jeremy been giving you
trouble?” he asked, looking up at us. “Has Jeremy been rude to you?”

I love how parents always assume the worst about their kids. “No,” I said. “We're just curious because he rides our bus.”

“And we're interested in that jacket he wears,” Rachel said. “It's a very unusual jacket.”

I tried to catch her attention but I couldn't.

“Actually it could be a valuable antique,” Rachel continued. “I know because my aunt, who lives in New Hampshire, is in the antique business.”

“The jacket was his,” I said to Rachel, nodding in Mr. Kravitz' direction.

“Oh,” Rachel said. “I didn't mean to insult you, Mr. Kravitz. I only meant that some day that jacket could be considered an antique. I didn't mean it was that old right now.”

“I'm not insulted,” Mr. Kravitz said.

Henry continued to sniff around our kitchen.

“Does your dog talk?” I asked Mr. Kravitz.

“Henry communicates,” Mr. Kravitz said, as if my question was perfectly normal, “but he doesn't speak.”

“Only one in seventeen million dogs can talk in words,” I told him.

“Is that right?” Mr. Kravitz asked.

I didn't tell him about Maizie. It wasn't my business. If Alison wanted him to know she could tell him.

“Now, girls …” Mr. Kravitz finally said, “I'd really like to spend more time chatting with you but I've got work to do here.”

“Well … it's been very nice meeting you, Mr. Kravitz,” Rachel said.

“Same here,” Alison said.

“Likewise,” Mr. Kravitz said, from inside another cabinet.

The three of us went outside and ran down to the pond. “Can you believe Jeremy Dragon sleeps in my old room?”

“Too bad you didn't sell your house with the furniture,” Rachel said. “Then he'd be sleeping in your bed!”

The idea of Jeremy Dragon sleeping in my bed made me feel funny all over.

“You're blushing, Steph!” Alison said.

“Your face is purple!” Rachel sang.

“Excuse me,” I said, walking between them. “I think I need to cool off.” I went down to the edge of the pond and waded into the water, scaring the ducks, who paddled out of my way.

Rachel yelled, “Steph … what are you doing?”

And Alison called, “Steph … come out!”

“It feels great!” I sang, splashing around. “Come on in …”

“Stephanie!” Rachel shouted, “it's not a swimming pond!”

“So … who's swimming?”

They couldn't believe I'd gone into the pond with all my clothes on. Neither could my mother, who happened to be in the kitchen when I came home. “Stephanie … what on earth?”