Authors: Judy Blume
BFF* (30 page)
I saw a bee buzzing around the forsythia bush in front of Alison's house. I'll have to start wearing my bee-sting necklace, I thought. I wonder what Alison will say when I tell her Rachel and I are speaking again, that maybe we are even friends. Probably she'll be glad. I broke off a sprig of forsythia and rang Alison's bell.
To Amanda
T
rouble in our family is spelled with a capital
C
and has been as long as I can remember. The
C
stands for Charles. He's my older brother, two years and four months older to be exact. Ever since the phone call about him last night, I've felt incredibly tense. And now, at this very minute, my parents are driving up to Vermont, to Charles's boarding school, to find out if he's actually been kicked out or if he's just been suspended again.
I tried to take a deep breath. I read an article about relieving tensions in
Psychology Today
. You take a deep breath, then count to ten as you slowly release it. But as I inhaled, I caught the scent of the fresh lilacs on Ms. Lefferts's desk and I started to cough. Ms. Lefferts, my seventh-grade English teacher, looked over at me. She was discussing the three most important elements in making a biography come alive for
the reader. When I coughed again, she crossed the room and opened two windows from the bottom, letting in the spring breeze.
The class was restless, shifting around in their seats, counting the hours till school let out so they could enjoy the first really warm day of the year. But the clock on the wall read 10:17. The day was just beginning. And the date on the chalkboard said F
RIDAY
, M
AY
8. Still seven weeks of school to go.
I forced my mind back to class.
“So now that we've come to the end of our unit on biographies,” Ms. Lefferts was saying, “I have an assignment for you.” She walked back to her desk and stood there, looking at us, a half smile on her face. She knows exactly how to get our attention. She makes good use of pregnant pauses. I once used that expression in class and have been paying for it ever since. Now I would know better. Now I would say
dramatic
pauses.
“I want you to write a biography of your own lives,” Ms. Lefferts continued. “Not an
autobiography
, but a biography. Who can explain the difference?” She took a hair clip out of her desk drawer and held it between her teeth while she gathered her streaked blond hair into a ponytail. She looked around the room as she fastened it, waiting for someone to respond to her question.
Max Wilson raised his hand.
“Yes, Max?” Ms. Lefferts said.
“An autobiography is about the life of a car,” Max said.
The class cracked up. Ms. Lefferts didn't.
“Get it?” Max asked. “Auto â¦Â biography.”
“Yes, Max â¦Â I get it,” Ms. Lefferts said. Then she sighed deeply.
I cannot believe that just a few months ago I liked Max Wilson. I actually spent the entire seventh-grade dance with my head nestled on his shoulder. We even kissed in the parking lot while we were waiting for our rides home. What a revolting thought! Now I understand that I never really liked Max, the person. It's just that he is the only boy in seventh grade who's taller than me.
“Rachel ⦔ Ms. Lefferts said.
I snapped to attention. Ms. Lefferts was calling on me even though I hadn't raised my hand. I hate when teachers do that. But I said, “The difference between a biography and an autobiography is that in an autobiography the writer is writing about his or her own life. In a biography the writer is writing about the life of someone else.”
“Exactly,” Ms. Lefferts said. “Thank you, Rachel.” Then she went on to explain that she wants us to write a short biography of our own lives, as if we don't know anything about ourselves until we go to the library to do research. “And try to hold it to five pages, please.”
Ms. Lefferts never says a paper
has
to be at least five pages. She uses reverse psychology on us. And it always works.
I began to think about my biography right away. Luckily my French teacher was absent, and the substitute told us since she doesn't know one word of French, we could use the period as a study hour. I opened my notebook and started writing, ignoring the kids who were using the period to torture the substitute.
RACHEL LOWILLA ROBINSON
A Biography
Part OneâThe Unexpected Visitor
Rachel Lowilla Robinson was born tall. The average infant measures nineteen inches at birth but Rachel measured twenty-three. She was the third child born to Nell and Victor Robinson, following Jessica, who was four, and Charles, who was twenty-eight months. The Robinsons had planned on only two children, so Rachel was, as they sometimes put it, the unexpected visitor.
From her mother, Rachel inherited her height and her curly auburn hair. From her father, dark eyes and a love of music. Although her mother was from Boston and her father from Brooklyn, the Robinsons settled
in Connecticut to raise their family, in an area of cluster housing called Palfrey's Pond, located just one hour from New York City by train.
Nell Robinson liked to say Rachel was mature from the day she was born. “She was born thirty-five,” Mrs. Robinson joked with her friends. But obviously that wasn't true. Rachel was born a baby, like everyone else. She just did things a little earlier. For example, at eight months Rachel was walking. At eighteen months she was speaking in three-word sentences. She could read at three and at four she could pick out tunes on the piano. Her favorite was the theme from “Sesame Street,” which Jessica and Charles watched on TV every day. Rachel's first memory was of Charles biting her on the leg, right above her knee. She was barely two at the time.
By first grade it occurred to Rachel that she was different. As her classmates were learning to read, she was finishing the Beverly Cleary books and starting the
Little House
set. As they were learning to add and subtract simple numbers, she enjoyed adding up long columns of figures, especially the register tape from the supermarket. This difference did not make her happy.
I
was careful, in Part One, not to tell too much. I told just enough to show Ms. Lefferts I've given serious thought to this assignment. And even though I tried to use interesting details, little-known facts and humorous anecdotesâthe three most important elements in making a biography come alive for the readerâI was not about to share the private details of my family life. I was not about to discuss Charles.
The bell rang before I had the chance to start Part Two. I didn't notice until then that I hadn't had any trouble breathing while I was writing. I guess
Psychology Today
is right when they tell you to get your mind off whatever is making you feel tense and onto something else. I picked up my books and went to the cafeteria to meet Stephanie and Alison for lunch.
“W
hat's wrong?” Steph asked, the second I sat down. She was already halfway through a bologna sandwich.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You're doing that
thing
with your mouth.”
“I am?” Last year the dentist made me a kind of retainer to wear at night, to keep me from clenching my jaw, but I left it at Steph's in January and haven't seen it since. My parents still don't know I lost it.
“You get an A
minus
or something?”
“No,” I told her.
“Then what?”
“Charles.”
“Again?”
I nodded and began to peel a hard-boiled egg. All three of us bring our lunch. We're convinced we'll live longer that way.
“Why doesn't Charles ever come home?” Alison asked, chewing on a carrot stick. She's small and delicate and eats so slowly she hardly ever has time to finish her lunch. But that doesn't bother her. Hardly anything does. She's probably never had trouble breathing in her entire life. She's probably never even felt tense. We are total opposites, so it's amazing that we're friends. “I mean, doesn't he
want
to?” she continued.
“I guess not.” I salted my egg, then bit into it.
“I don't get it,” Alison said. She's never met Charles, since he left for Vermont last August and she didn't move here from L.A. until Labor Day. Actually Steph met Alison first and they hit it off right away. She didn't even tell me Alison's adopted or that her birth mother's Vietnamese until school started. I used to worry that Steph, who's been my best friend since second grade, would forget about me. Actually, I still do. But at the moment it seems to be working out okay, even though I know she and Alison prefer each other's company to mine.
“There's nothing to get,” I told her. “Except that he's impossible! Now, could we please change the subject?”
“Impossible how?” Alison asked, ignoring my request.
“Rude and obnoxious.”
Alison looked over at Stephanie to see if she agreed. Stephanie nodded. “He's definitely rude.” Steph took a mirror out of her backpack and set it on the table. She opened her mouth wide to make sure food wasn't caught in her braces. Stephanie is the least self-conscious person I know.
“How'd he get that way?” Alison asked.
I was really getting annoyed and Alison could tell. She offered me her bag of potato chips. “How does anybody get that way?” I said, reaching in and grabbing a handful.
W
hen I got home from school, my cousin Tarren was at the house. She's twenty-two and has a ten-month-old baby, Roddy. She could tell I was surprised to see her. “Nell and Victor had to go to Vermont,” she said, using my parents' first names. “It has something to do with Charles,” she added, as if I didn't know.
“Jess and I could have managed on our own,” I told her, irritated that Mom had asked her to come over without discussing it with me.
Tarren bent down to tie her running shoes. She's tall, like all the women in our family, but her hair is black and her eyes blue. Jessica and I were bridesmaids at her wedding two years ago. Now she's divorced. She and Bill, the guy she married, didn't get along even though they went together all through high school and two years of college. Tarren
says Bill couldn't accept adult responsibilities, like being a father. He moved out west after the divorce and spends all his time hang gliding. His picture was on the cover of
Hang Glider
magazine a few months ago. He looked like some sort of strange prehistoric bird.
“Nell asked me to spend the night,” Tarren said, “since tonight is Jessica's junior prom and all â¦.”
I had totally forgotten about Jessica's prom. I'd be devastated if it were my junior prom and Mom and Dad were away because of Charles.
“I promised we'd take lots of pictures,” Tarren said. “I brought my new camera.” She grabbed it off the kitchen counter. “It's a PHD. The guy at the store claims you can't take a bad picture with it.” She pointed it at me. “You know what PHD stands for?” she asked.
“Press Here, Dummy!”
She laughed as she pressed but I jumped out of the way.
“Rachel! That was my last shot.”
“Sorry.”
“I guess it doesn't matter. Nell said you've got two rolls of film in the fridge.”
I couldn't believe that in the midst of a family crisis Mom would remember we had film in the refrigerator. I guess Tarren could tell what I was thinking because she said, “Nell is the most amazing woman!”
I've heard that expression more times than I can count. It's true Mom is a successful trial lawyer, but
I don't see what's so amazing about that. I expect to do just as much with my life.
“Between you and me,” Tarren continued, “I think it's grossly unfair that Nell has to spend so much of her time worrying about your brother. A lot of kids would jump at the chance to change places with him. He doesn't appreciate what he has. That's his problem!”