BFF* (31 page)

I didn't feel like talking about Charles, so I told Tarren I had homework and went up to my room.

Later the two of us had supper in the kitchen while Jessica soaked in a bubble bath upstairs. Tarren likes to hear about school since she's studying to be a teacher. So I told her about the biography and what Max Wilson had said in class. She laughed and laughed. She'll probably be a good teacher. She wants to teach fourth grade, which should be just right for her. We ate standing at the counter—tuna right from the can, lettuce leaves pulled off the head and, for dessert, frozen Milky Ways left over from Halloween. We're lucky we didn't break our teeth on them.

“Is this how you eat every night?” I asked, thinking of the way we sit down to dinner, the table set with place mats and pretty dishes.

“Rachel,” Tarren said, “when you have a ten-month-old to worry about,
plus
papers and exams, you just don't have time to think about meals. If my
mom doesn't fix supper, I'm happy grazing. When Roddy's older, it'll be different. I'll have a teaching job and my own place and …” Her voice drifted off for a minute. “But not everyone can be a wonder woman like your mother.”

“Dad helps. He does all the grocery shopping.”

“Well, I'm a single parent. There won't be anyone around to help me.”

“Maybe you'll get married again,” I suggested, causing Tarren to choke on her Natural Lime Spritzer, which she was swigging straight out of the bottle.

“Pul-eeese …” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She sounded exactly like one of my friends.

We could hear Jessica rustling in her magenta taffeta prom dress before we actually saw her. She let me try it on last week. It fit perfectly. Jess and I could be doubles except she has a major case of acne. She uses a heavy medicated makeup that hides some of it on good days. On bad days nothing can hide it.

As Jess came down the stairs, Tarren snapped away. I was surprised when Jess posed for the camera. Usually she refuses to have her picture taken. But tonight she put her arms around me, as if I were her date, and twirled me across the room until we were both laughing our heads off and so dizzy we fell back onto the sofa.

“You two are so great!” Tarren said. “You remind me
of me and my friends when we were your age.” She turned serious. “Enjoy it now,” she told us, “because life isn't always all you thought it'd be.” She paused for a minute, then added, “I speak from experience.”

Neither of us knew how to respond. Finally Jessica cleared her throat and said, “Tarren … didn't you say you have to run over to the library?”

“Well … yes,” Tarren answered, “but only for a little while.”

“Why don't you go now?” Jess suggested. “The library closes at nine.”

I found it strange that Jessica was suddenly so anxious for Tarren to go to the library.

“I've just got to pick up some books,” Tarren explained to me. “We're studying the gifted and talented child this month.”

I felt my face turn hot.

“I won't be long,” she said.

As soon as she was gone, Jessica let out a sigh and raced upstairs. Ten minutes later she returned transformed in Mom's slinky black dress, satin heels and dangling earrings. She'd put on dark, wine-colored lipstick and had pinned her hair back on one side, letting the rest fall over her face.

I almost passed out. “Jessica …”

She held up her hand. “Don't say it, Rachel. We'll have pictures of me in pink.”

“But Mom will—” I began again.

“Mom's not here, is she? And if someone at school tells Dad, it will be too late. The prom will be over.”

Dad teaches history at the high school and coaches the track team. Someone will definitely tell him about this. Someone will say, “That was some outfit your daughter wore to the prom, Victor!”

A car horn tooted. Jess took a quick look out the window. “My chariot,” she said.

I followed as she ran down the front walk. “And not a word about this to anyone,” she called over her shoulder, tripping on Mom's heels. “Understand?”

Her friends Richie, Ed, Marcy and Kristen whooped and whistled when they saw her. Jess says she has the best friends ever. She says she can tell them anything. But I think they were surprised tonight.

“Get the camera, Rachel,” Jess called. I ran inside for Tarren's PHD and snapped one group photo before they all piled back into the car.

I tried to imagine the three of us — Stephanie, Alison and me—going to our junior prom four years from now. Will we go in a group like Jess and her friends, or with individual dates? Jess says it's better to go in a group. There are fewer disappointments that way. I don't know. I think it would be more romantic to go with someone you really like. But if it came down to Max Wilson or my friends, I would definitely choose my friends.

As they pulled out, I called, “Drive carefully!”

“We always do,” Jess called back, laughing.

I watched them drive away. Then I went back into the house, wondering what Mom will say if she finds out Jess wore her black dress.
She'll probably blame herself
, I thought.
She'll probably say Jess is
acting out.

A
cting out
is exactly the expression Dr. Sparks used to describe Charles's behavior. He's the psychologist who evaluated him last year, the one who suggested he go away to school.

I admit it was a great relief when Charles left for Vermont last August—even though boarding school is a luxury we can't really afford, not with three kids who will soon be ready for college. I know my parents sometimes feel guilty about the decision to send him away to school. But I don't. Now I can invite my friends over without worrying.

I never told anyone I'd read Dr. Sparks's report. I'd found it by chance on the dining room table, mixed in with Mom's legal pads and reference books, while I was searching for a letter from music camp. It said Charles was
acting out
as a way of getting the attention he craved. Well, I could have told my parents that for free!

T
hinking about Charles made me feel weak, so I took the last piece of watermelon out of the refrigerator and sat at the kitchen table slurping it up while I waited for Tarren to return from the library. When I finished, I collected the seeds and stood halfway across the kitchen. Then, one by one, I tried spitting them into the sink. Stephanie had a party on the last day of school last year and spitting watermelon seeds from a distance was one of the games we played. I was hopeless, missing the target every time. Even though I think it's incredibly stupid, I've been practicing in secret ever since. Tonight I hit my target eight out of eleven times.

T
he watermelon reminded me of dinner last night. We'd sat down to eat early, as soon as Mom had walked in, because Jess was in a hurry to get back to school. She and Ed were on the decorating committee for the prom. They were transforming the gym into some kind of futuristic fantasy with a hundred silver balloons and yards and yards of tinsel.

We'd been talking about the prom all through dinner, but just as we were finishing the watermelon Mom said, “Guess who's on the governor's short list for Superior Court?”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but Dad pushed back his chair, practically leaped across the
table and lifted Mom out of her seat. “I've always wanted to make it with a judge,” he said.

They kissed, then Mom told him, “You'll have to wait till the end of the month to find out.”

“Find out what?” I asked.

“I've been nominated for a judgeship,” Mom said.

“A judge?” Jessica asked. “You're going to be a judge?”

“Maybe,” Mom said.

“What would that mean?” I asked. “Would you have to quit your job at the firm?”

“Yes,” Mom said. “Being a judge is a full-time job.”

“I can't imagine you as a judge,” Jess said.

“I can,” I told her. “Mom would make an excellent judge.”

“I didn't say she wouldn't,” Jess said.

“Would you get murder cases?” I asked Mom.

“That would depend on which court I'm assigned to,” she said. “If it's criminal court, I could get murder cases. If it's domestic court, I'd get divorces and child custody cases, and if it's civil court …” She paused. “But it's too soon to think about the details. First we have to see if I'm actually appointed.”

My mind was racing. What if Mom gets criminal court and sends a murderer to jail and he escapes and finds out where we live and comes after her …. I'd read about a case like that in the paper. Maybe we'll have bodyguards to protect us like the President. Not that I want to live
with bodyguards. And I certainly don't want to be escorted to school every day. I don't think that would go over very well with my friends. Probably they won't want to come to my house if that happens. Probably their parents won't even let them!

Jessica brought me back from my
what ifs
when she jumped up from the table. “I'm going to be late! Be home around ten,” she called as the screen door slammed.

Mom flinched. She hates it when the door slams.

It was my night to help clean up the kitchen. Mom makes out lists every Sunday night—household jobs, groceries, errands, appointments. Steph is envious of the chalkboard in our kitchen with the dinner menu printed on it every day. She never knows what's for dinner until her mother gets home from work with some kind of takeout. If it were up to Dad and Jess, our household would be chaotic. But Mom says if you're organized, everything in life is easier. I agree. Except maybe dealing with Charles.

I started clearing the plates off the table. When the phone rang, I ran for it, sure it was Stephanie or Alison. I wouldn't tell them anything about Mom being a judge yet. I'd wait until it was definite.

But it wasn't Alison or Steph. It was Timothy Norton, the director of the Dorrance School. I put my hand over the receiver and whispered to Mom and Dad, “It's about Charles.”

Dad turned off the water at the sink and dried his hands on his jeans. I held the phone out to him as Mom raced upstairs to pick up the extension in their room. I felt my dinner sloshing around in my stomach. Yet from the tone of Dad's voice, I didn't think it was as serious as last time, when Mr. Norton called to tell us about Charles's accident.

That was last January, right after the holidays. Charles had gone for a joyride on his teacher's Yamaha. It was a wet night and he'd lost control, skidding across the road and crashing into a tree. He'd wound up with cuts and bruises plus a gash in his leg requiring twelve stitches.

Still, they said he was lucky because he hadn't been wearing a helmet and he could have been killed. I am somewhat ashamed to admit this, but at the time I'd let that thought run through my mind.
He could have been killed
. Then I'd pushed it away. I don't want Charles to die. Dying is too final. My parents would blame themselves and never get over it. Besides, he's my brother. I'm supposed to care about him. Even though the teacher didn't press charges, Charles was suspended for a week. But he didn't come home. He went to Aunt Joan's house in New Hampshire, instead.

A minute after Dad hung up the phone, Mom came back into the kitchen. She'd aged ten years in ten minutes. She thinks she's good at hiding her feelings because she doesn't talk about them. But she
can't fool me. I can read her thoughts by the changes in her face. The crease in her forehead was deeper, her mouth was stiff and her shoulders hunched.

Dad put an arm around her. She gave him a pained look.

“What?” I asked.

Mom didn't answer.

“What?” I said again, this time to Dad.

“He hasn't handed in his papers and he refuses to take any exams,” Dad explained. Then he went back to the sink, turned the water on full blast and began to scour the lasagna pan as if his life depended on it.

“What does that mean?” I asked Mom. “Will he have to do ninth grade a third time?”

“Absolutely not!” Mom said, pulling herself together. She stood tall and erect and looked me straight in the eye. “And he
didn't
repeat ninth grade. The system at Dorrance is different from public school. You know that. It was in Charles's best interest to start over as a freshman.”

Mom marched across the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher, with all the dishes facing the same direction. She can't stand how Dad does it, shoving things in any which way.

“He's always been too young for his class, emotionally,” Mom continued, building her case as if she were in court. She's full of excuses when it comes to Charles.
“And I don't want you to discuss this with anyone, Rachel.”

“Mom!” I was annoyed that she thought I needed reminding.