BFF* (39 page)

“Rowena doesn't travel much because she has kids at home,” Jess said. “But there's another agent at her office who travels all the time. She writes a newsletter, reporting on hotels and stuff like that.”

“You've only been working one day,” Mom reminded her.

“You can tell a lot in one day,” Jess said.

“A travel agent,” Charles said. “That suits you, Jess.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jessica asked, suddenly wary.

“I mean I can see you as a travel agent. You'd be very … competent.”

Jessica didn't answer him. It's always hard to know when he's coming in for the kill.

“I'm glad you enjoyed your first day on the job,” Mom said, “but shouldn't you be working on your English paper now?”

“It's not due until Friday.”

“That doesn't give you much time.”

Jess gathered up her travel brochures.

“And you've got the SAT's on Saturday morning,” Mom reminded her. “I hope you've explained that to Rowena.”

“I have … but they're just for practice.”

“Still, you want to do your best, don't you?”

Jess muttered something under her breath and headed upstairs.

Charles tsk tsked. “It's not easy running your children's lives, is it, Mom?”

Mom gave him a look but didn't answer his question.

A
fter Jessica's second day of work it was, “I love the way Rowena dresses. She has such style.” The two of us were in the bathroom, brushing our teeth before bed. “And she built the business on her own. She's a real role model for today's young women.”

“She's not that great,” I said, annoyed at the way Jessica was gushing.

“I guess you really don't know Rowena the person, Rachel. You only know her as Stephanie's mother.”

“You can tell a lot by how someone treats her children,” I said. Not that I've ever seen Mrs. Hirsch treat Steph or Bruce badly, but she's not as perfect as Jessica thinks, either.

By the end of Jessica's first week of work we were all sick of hearing about Rowena and we'd pretty much tuned her out until she said, “And Rowena thinks I should be taking Accutane now.” Mom and
Dad were at the kitchen table finishing their coffee and going over the household bills. Jess and I were drying the pots and pans from dinner. “She doesn't see any point in waiting and neither do I. She even gave me an article about it. Here …” Jess said, pulling a folded page from a magazine out of her pocket and shoving it under Mom's nose. “Her nephew's acne cleared up six weeks after he started taking it.
Six weeks!
And he hasn't had any side effects at all.” She looked from Dad to Mom, then continued, “And with my salary I can pay for it on my own. Rowena even said she'd give me an advance, if I need it.”

“Where did you get the idea we can't afford Accutane?” Mom asked.

“Well, it's expensive,” Jess said. “And you've been making such a big thing out of your
substantial
cut in income now that you're going to be a judge.”

“It's the serious side effects that concern me,” Mom said, “not the cost. Our insurance would cover the cost.”

Jess exploded. “The truth is, you don't want me to take it. You've never wanted me to take it!”

“Jessica, that's just not true,” Mom said. “Accutane isn't a drug to take casually. Maybe Rowena doesn't know that. I'm going to call and straighten this out right now!”

“Nell …” Dad said.

“Don't
Nell
me,” Mom told him, storming out of
the kitchen. Dad followed her into the living room.

“Welcome to another evening of fun and games with the Robinsons,” Charles said, appearing out of nowhere. He opened the freezer and pulled out an ice-cream sandwich.

“Just shut up!” Jessica shouted.

Charles smiled and went out the kitchen screen door, letting it slam behind him.

“I wish I lived at Rowena's!” Jess said to me.

“You sound like Tarren,” I told her. “And you know how much you love it when she gets going over Mom.”

“This has nothing to do with Tarren!” Jess said.

“Why are you angry at me?” I asked. “What'd I do?”

“I'm
not
angry at you. I'm angry at
them,”
she said, with a nod in the direction of the living room, “for not taking me to someone else when Dr. Lucas said I should wait before I take Accutane. And now I find out I've been suffering for more than a year just because Mom has some warped idea that bad skin makes you a stronger person.”

“Mom never said that.”

“She doesn't have to say it, Rachel. You've heard it often enough, haven't you?
Looking back,”
Jess said, in a perfect imitation of Mom, “
I realize I am where I am today because I had very little social life during my teens due to bad skin. Bad skin has …”

She stopped when she saw Mom standing in the doorway, listening. Then she ran from the room.

“How can she possibly believe that?” Mom asked. “Doesn't she know that I, of all people, sympathize and identify?”

I wasn't sure if Mom was talking to me or to herself.

O
n Monday afternoon, while I was sitting on our front steps waiting for Paul to give Charles his break, Tarren drove up. She looked very pretty in a summer dress and sandals, her dark hair pulled back, her cheeks flushed. “I have to leave Roddy for a few hours. Can you watch him? Please, Rachel, it's urgent.”

“An obstacle?” I asked, looking into her car, where Roddy was napping with his pacifier in his mouth.

Tarren thought that over. “Not exactly,” she said. “More of a …”

“A what?” I asked.

“Well, I guess you could call it an obstacle. A romantic obstacle.” She looked down and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Really?” I said, hoping for more information.

“Rachel, this isn't something I can discuss with you or your mother or anyone else.”

Now I was even more curious.

“He's married,” Tarren whispered.

“Who is?” I asked.

“My obstacle,” she said.

“Oh.” Suddenly I felt very uncomfortable.

“He's my professor, at school. We're … involved.”

Did that mean what I thought it meant?

“I know what your mother would say and I'm not prepared to take her advice,” Tarren said. “Because he's wonderful. Even if he is married. Even if it doesn't make any sense. Do you see what I'm saying?”

“I think so.”

“Do I have your word, Rachel … that you won't say anything about this?”

I nodded.

She hugged me. “Thanks.” Then she opened the car door and reached in for Roddy. “Someday I'll cover for you. That's a promise.”

“Do you by any chance know Paul Medeiros?” I asked, as she lifted out Roddy.

“No, should I?”

“He's Charles's tutor … he's graduating this month.”

She handed Roddy to me. “I don't think I know him.” She opened the trunk of her car and pulled out Roddy's stroller.

“What time will you be back?” I said.

“Around six, okay? If anyone asks, just say I'm at the library.”

As soon as she pulled away, Roddy woke up and started screaming. “It's okay … it's okay …” I said, patting him. I tried to get his pacifier back into his
mouth but he wouldn't take it. Then I offered him a bottle of apple juice, which he knocked out of my hand. Finally I strapped him into his stroller and wheeled him, at top speed, down to the pond. But he still didn't let up.

“Want to see the ducks?” I asked, lifting him out of his stroller. He thrashed around in my arms and screamed even louder.

Stephanie saw us from across the pond and waved. “Ra … chel,” she called, “what are you doing?”

I didn't answer. It was obvious what I was doing.

In a minute Steph joined us and took Roddy from me. As soon as she did, he grew quiet and looked around. He seemed surprised to see me. Steph talked softly to him. Then she set him down on the ground and he began to crawl toward the pond, stopping along the way to pull up blades of grass that he stuffed into his mouth. We followed, also on hands and knees, making sure he didn't actually swallow anything.

Later, Steph said, “Can I stay over on Saturday night … because my mother has a date with the StairMaster and I'm not about to hang around the house waiting to meet him.”

“Sure,” I said. “Should we ask Alison, too?”

“Yeah, that'd be fun … like the old days.”

I wanted to ask what she meant by
the old days
but I stopped myself, afraid I might spoil the moment.

D
ad is a Gemini. His birthday is June 3. According to my book on horoscopes, you can't ever
really
know a Gemini. They have two sides. One you see, one you don't. I guess the side you don't see with Dad is the side that sent him to bed for six weeks after Grandpa died.

Mom left Jess and me a list of things to do for Dad's birthday dinner on Wednesday night. Jess doesn't work at Going Places on Wednesdays. The menu was honey-glazed chicken, wild rice and sugar snaps. Jess and I baked the cake—chocolate with buttercream frosting—while Paul was tutoring Charles. We decorated it with forty-seven candles plus one for good measure.

“Well … doesn't this look festive!” Mom said when she got home from work. She admired the table we'd set with our best linens and dishes. We'd
even used Gram's silver, which was passed down from
her
mother. It's ornate and very beautiful, but we hardly ever use it because you can't put it in the dishwasher. It goes to the first daughter in the family, so Jess will inherit it someday. Maybe she'll let me borrow it on special occasions.

“What would I do without the two of you?” Mom asked, shaking two Tylenol out of a bottle, then washing them down with a glass of water.

Jessica didn't answer. She's still angry at Mom for listening to Dr. Lucas about not taking Accutane. Her skin looks angry, too—red and broken out, with swellings on her chin and forehead. Tomorrow she's got an appointment to see the dermatologist Rowena recommended.

Mom headed upstairs to get changed, and when she came down a few minutes later, she said, “Rachel … get Charles, would you? Dad will be home any minute.”

“Charles doesn't eat with us … remember?”

“Tonight is a special occasion.”

“We'd have a better time without him,” I told her.

“Rachel, please! We have to make an effort.”

“I don't see why,” I muttered under my breath.

“Because that's the way I want it,” Mom said, setting another place at the table.

“Okay … okay …” I said.

C
harles's room is painted lipstick red, which was his favorite color when he was thirteen, the year he persuaded
Mom and Dad to let him move downstairs. Last year, before he went away to school, he taped an embarrassing poster to the wall behind his bed. It shows a woman wearing only red boots. I
WANT YOU!
she's saying.

Mom was offended by it but Dad convinced her Charles was entitled to his privacy. So his room was declared off-limits to the rest of us, as long as he kept it reasonably clean. But keeping his room clean has never been a problem for Charles. Jessica is the one who lives in a mess. Charles likes things in order. Once, when I was in fourth grade, I made the mistake of letting Stephanie borrow one of his
Batman
comics, and he almost killed me for taking it out of its plastic wrapper.

Now I knocked on his door and when he called, “Come in …” I opened it slowly, not sure of what I might find. The shades were pulled, making it very dark except for a single bulb inside the slide projector. Charles lay on his bed, a black baseball hat on his head. He was munching chips dipped in salsa and swigging Coke from a can as he flipped through a tray of slides with his remote control.

“Look at this picture, Rachel …” he said, as if he were expecting me. “Remember when this was taken?”

I turned to look at the screen and saw a picture of the two of us at the lake in New Hampshire, where we go every summer to visit Aunt Joan. I'm about six
and Charles is eight. We have a huge fish between us. We're both laughing and pointing to it. We look happy. Were we? I don't remember.

“Mom says your presence is requested at the dinner table,” I told him. “We're celebrating Dad's birthday.”

He cut off the projector, jumped off the bed, smoothed out his shirt and gave me a smile. “Do I look … acceptable?”

I nodded.

When Dad came home, he feigned surprise. “What's this?” he asked, eyeing the festive table.

“Happy birthday!” the rest of us shouted.

We go through this with each of our birthdays. Even though we're never surprised, we always pretend we are. We sit down to dinner before we open presents. Mom started that rule when we were little. Otherwise we'd get too involved in our gifts and forget about the food.