BFF* (25 page)

Rachel spun around. “Okay, fine …” She pointed her finger at me. “You told us your mother went to Venice on business!”

“That's true.”

“No, that's not true.”

“What does she mean?” Alison asked me.

But Rachel didn't give me a chance to answer. “I mean that Stephanie has been lying to us since the beginning of the school year and I'm getting sick of it!”

“Lying?” Alison said.

“I haven't been lying!” Why was Rachel doing this to me?

“Her parents are separated,” she told Alison. “They've been separated since the summer. They're probably going to get a divorce.”

“No!” I said. “They're not getting divorced. It's a trial separation … that's why I didn't tell you!”

“Oh, please!” Rachel's yellow sweater had crept halfway up her middle. “You say you want to know everything about your friends' lives but when it comes to your own you don't see anything you don't want to see. You don't face reality. You live in some kind of sick fantasy world!”

“If anybody's sick around here it's you!” I cried. “You and your perfect room and your perfect grades and your perfect flute and …”

Rachel sucked in her breath. “When are you going to grow up?” she hissed.

“When I feel like it!”

“Stop it!” Alison covered her ears with her hands.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Rachel yelled at her. “So just stay out of it.”

“Don't tell her what to do!” I shouted. “You don't rule the world!”

Alison began to cry.

“Oh … you're both such babies!” Rachel yelled. “It's impossible to be friends with such insensitive, immature babies!”

“And it's just as impossible to be friends with somebody who thinks she knows everything … even when she doesn't!”

Rachel lunged and for a second I thought she was going to punch me. So I grabbed her first, by the arm, and I yelled, “Why don't you take your big brain and just shove it!”

She shook free of me and shouted, “And why don't you stay home and play Spit for the rest of your life like the big baby you are!”

“Girls!” Glory opened the curtain to the dressing room. “This is very unbecoming behavior. I'll have to ask you to leave if …”

“You don't have to ask me,” I told her, “because I'm on my way!” I stormed out of the dressing room.

“I'm never speaking to you again!” Rachel yelled after me.

“That's the best news I've heard all day!” I yelled back.

Several customers stared at me as I ran through the store and out the glass door. Let them stare, I thought. Who cares? I had had enough of Rachel Robinson. This proved that not only wasn't she my best friend, she wasn't even my
friend
.

I didn't realize I'd left my jacket on the floor of the dressing room until Alison came through the door carrying it. I didn't even know I was crying until she handed me a tissue. Then I felt the hot tears on my face and the drip from my nose freezing on my upper lip and chin.

“I'm sorry about your parents,” Alison said, softly. “I had no idea.”

“It's not your problem,” I told her.

“Yes, it is,” she said, draping my jacket over my shoulders.

At five, Alison and I went to the bank where we had arranged to meet Mr. Robinson. If I had had enough money I'd have called a cab. But I'd spent my last few dollars buying shoes for the dance.

Rachel was already there, waiting for her father.
She was carrying two packages. I wondered what she'd bought. As soon as she saw us she turned away. When her father pulled up she got into the front seat of the car and Alison and I got into the back.

“Well,” Mr. Robinson said, eyeing our packages. “I see you've had a successful afternoon.”

When we didn't respond he said, “I guess you're tired out. Shopping will do it to you every time.”

When we still didn't answer he laughed and said, “Better you than me. I'd rather do anything than shop.” After that I think he got the message and he didn't say anything more.

When we got to Rachel's I whispered to Alison, “Can I stay at your house tonight?”

“Sure,” Alison said.

“I'll get my things and be right over.”

Rachel ran into the house, tore upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom.

I tossed my things into my canvas bag, found a sheet of paper in Rachel's desk drawer and wrote a note:

Personal Stuff

I would never forgive Rachel for the horrible things she said about me. My parents' separation was none of her business. Besides, what did she know about how I was feeling inside? Which proved that Rachel Robinson was the one who was immature and insensitive, not me!

Mom came back from New York on Sunday afternoon but I didn't tell her about Rachel and me until we sat down to supper. Then, while she dished out tomato-rice soup, I said, “Rachel and I had a fight. We're never speaking to each other again!”

Mom said, “I'm sure you can patch it up if you try.”

“I don't want to try.”

Mom covered the pot of soup and bit into a cracker. “That's not like you, Steph. After all, you and Rachel have been best friends since second grade.”

“Well, we're not anymore!”

“But you've got so much in common.”

“No,” I said, “we don't have anything in common. That's the problem.”

“You shared your childhoods,” Mom said. “You'll always have that in common.”

“That's not enough!”

“It's stupid to fight with your friends,” Bruce said, slurping his soup.

“Rachel is
not
my friend.”

“But she was … before you had the fight … right?”

“Before we had the fight doesn't count,” I told Bruce.

“That's how wars get started,” he said.

“Nobody is talking about war!” I shouted.

“Calm down, Steph …” Mom said, “and eat your soup before it gets cold.”

When I got into bed that night I went over the fight in my mind again, trying to figure out how it had started. But all I could remember was the part about the designer jeans, and the shouting, and the tears. I had trouble falling asleep. When I finally did, I dreamed I was at the Ground Hog Day dance, naked.
Baby … baby
… baby
, Rachel sang, taunting me. Everyone else laughed and pointed. Finally, Mrs. Remo covered me with her coat.

When Dad called the next night I told him that Rachel and I were never speaking again.

He said, “You two will make up in no time.”

“We will not.”

“Want to bet?” Dad asked.

“No.”

“Well, I do. I'll bet five dollars that before your birthday you and Rachel are best friends again.”

“My birthday's this Friday, so you're definitely going to lose.”

“I'll take that chance.”

Parents always think they know so much about their kids when really, they hardly know a thing.

“So,” Dad said, “how was Mom's weekend in New York?”

“Why don't you ask her yourself?” I thrust the phone at Mom, who was relaxing at the kitchen table, sipping tea and reading the newspaper.

“Yes, Steve …” Mom said, taking the phone, “everyone's fine.”

I began to peel the label off the jar of mayonnaise that was still sitting on the counter. If I'm really careful I can sometimes peel labels off in one piece, which feels almost as good as peeling sunburned skin.

“A fling?” Mom said into the phone. “No, I
did not have a fling in New York … not that it would be any of your business if I had.”

I put the mayonnaise jar in the refrigerator and tried to sneak out of the kitchen but I didn't make it. “Stephanie!” Mom called, as she hung up the phone. “Did you tell Dad I was going to New York to have a fling?”

“I might have mentioned something about that,” I said. “And by the way … how was Carla's party?”

“Don't try to change the subject,” Mom said and I could tell by the tone of her voice she was serious. “You had no business discussing my social life behind my back.”

“Dad was jealous, wasn't he?”

“This is a marriage, not some junior high romance,” Mom said. “We've got to work it out ourselves.”

“I don't see why I can't help.”

“Because you don't have the power to make it turn out the way you want … you'll only wind up disappointed. Do you understand?”

“No!” I shouted, as I ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. If you asked me, Mom and Dad were behaving just like Jeremy and Dana. I slammed my bedroom door and threw myself on my bed, on top of my stuffed animals. I hated the way Rachel, and now Mom, accused me of butting into their social lives when all I was trying
to do was help. I lay there for a long time, crying. I was sure Mom would come to my room to apologize, but she didn't.

Word gets around fast at school. By lunchtime on Tuesday everyone knew that Rachel and I weren't speaking. On the bus Rachel sat with Dana, as far from Alison and me as possible. And in the cafeteria she sat at Stacey Green's table. I saw her fooling around with Max, too.

Kara Klaff asked, “What'd you two fight about anyway?”

“Personal stuff,” I answered.

Miri Levine said, “Do you think you'll make up soon, or what?”

“Never,” I told her.

Amber Ackbourne came up to me in homeroom. “I can't believe that you and Rachel aren't speaking. I mean, you and Rachel have been friends forever. I hope it didn't have anything to do with Max or that gold sweater I bought for the dance.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” I said. “It didn't.”

After school Alison said, “Everybody's asking if I'm on your side or Rachel's. They don't know she called me an insensitive, immature baby, too. I hate fights!”

“It wasn't my idea to have this fight,” I told her.

“I know,” Alison said. “I was there … remember?”

We squeezed hands and I thought how lucky I am to have Alison for my best friend. Because if Rachel had been my only best friend imagine how lonely I'd feel now. As lonely as Rachel would feel if she didn't have Stacey Green.