BFF* (9 page)

“I'm sure she'll do fine,” Mom said.

“I'm sure, too, but Rachel's worried. She wants to be the best.”

“She's such a perfectionist,” Mom said.

“I wouldn't mind being perfect,” Bruce said.

“You mean you're not?” I asked.

“Very funny,” he said.

“Be glad you're not,” Mom said. “It's a hard Way to go through life.”

I tasted the carrot puree. Even though it looked like baby food it was delicious. Bruce watched me eat it. “I hope I never need braces,” he said.

“It's temporary,” I told him. “Some day I'll have a beautiful smile.”

“Yeah … but what about the rest of your face?”

“Bruce!” Mom said.

“It's just a joke, Mom,” he told her.

“He really wishes he looked like me,” I said.

Bruce chuckled to himself.

We had vanilla pudding for dessert. “I'm thinking of trying out for symphonic band,” I announced, as the pudding slid around in my mouth.

“Since when do you play an instrument?” Bruce asked.

“I'm trying out for percussion.”

“Since when do you play drums?” Bruce asked.

“Ms. Lopez says I can learn … as long as I have a good sense of rhythm.” I finished my pudding. “Do you think I have a good sense of rhythm?” I asked Mom.

“When you were little I'd give you a pot and a wooden spoon and you were happy for hours. If that's an indication I'd say yes.”

“A pot and a wooden spoon,” Bruce repeated, shaking his head and chuckling again.

The next time Dad called I asked him if he thought I had a good sense of rhythm.

He said, “You used to have a great time with a pot and a wooden spoon.”

“That's exactly what Mom said.”

“I guess we remember the same things.”

I told him about the seventh grade bake sale and that Alison and I are going to bake Sadie Wishnik's brownies.

“Who's Sadie Wishnik?” Dad asked.

“Leon's mother.”

“Who's Leon?”

“Alison's stepfather. And you know who Alison is,” I told him, “she's my new friend.”

“So Sadie Wishnik is her stepgrandmother?” Dad asked.

“I guess so,” I said. “Anyway, we're going to Sadie's house to bake, on Sunday. She lives in New Jersey, near the ocean. And speaking of oceans … thanks for the box of shells from Hawaii. I've never seen such pretty ones. Did you find them yourself?”

Dad hesitated. “The truth?”

“Yes.”

“I never did get to the beach. I bought them at a gift shop.”

I knew it! I could tell by the way they were wrapped. But I didn't want Dad to feel bad so I said, “Maybe next time you'll get to the beach.”

“Maybe so.”

“Anyway … I love the shells!”

“I'm glad,” Dad said. “So … what else is new at school?”

Dad is always asking what's new at school. I tell him what I think he wants to hear. What I don't tell him about is boys. I don't think he'd understand. If I told him that Peter Klaff stares at me he'd probably say,
Doesn't he know it's bad manners to stare?
And I certainly don't tell him about watching Jeremy Dragon at soccer. Dad would never understand that.

“What about your grades?” Dad asked.

“We haven't gotten any yet.”

If Mom and Dad were in a debate and the subject was grades, Mom would say that what you actually learn is more important than the grades you get. Dad would argue that grades are an indication of what you've learned and how you handle responsibility. If I had to choose sides I'd choose Mom's.

Sadie Wishnik's Brownies

The rash on Alison's foot is called contact dermatitis. That means Alison's foot came into contact with something that caused the rash. What I don't get is, how can one foot come into contact with something the other foot doesn't? Dr. Klaff gave her a cream and told her to wear white cotton socks until the rash was gone.

Sunday morning, when I got to Alison's, she was waiting on her front steps. She had invited Rachel to come to Sadie Wishnik's, too. But Rachel said she had to stay home to work on her speech. I think the real reason Rachel wouldn't come is she gets carsick.

Gena Farrell came out of the house carrying
Maizie and a straw bag. She was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Her hair was tied back and she didn't have on any makeup. You couldn't tell she was famous. Leon followed, locking the door behind him. He carried the Sunday newspaper tucked under his arm.

As soon as we got going Gena pulled a needlepoint canvas out of her bag and began to stitch it.

“That's pretty,” I said, trying to get a better look from the back seat. “What's it going to be?”

Gena took off her mirrored glasses, turned around, and faced me. She has big eyes—deep blue, like the color of the sky on a beautiful spring day. She held the needlepoint out, studied it for a minute and said, “A pillow, I think.”

“Mom gave away twenty pillows last Christmas,” Alison said.

Gena laughed. “I spend a lot of time sitting around and waiting on the set,” she said. “So I do a lot of needlepointing. It relaxes me.”

I couldn't believe Gena Farrell was talking to me as if we were both just regular people.

It took two and a half hours to get to Sadie's. Alison and I played Spit the whole time. Sadie lives in a place called Deal, in a big, old white house with a wraparound porch. She belongs to a group that brings food to people who are too
old or sick to cook for themselves. It's called Meals on Wheels. When Leon told me about her, he sounded very proud.

Hearing about Sadie made me think of my grandparents. Gran Lola, who gave me my bee-sting locket, isn't the cooking kind of grandmother. She's a stockbroker in New York. She wears suits and carries handbags that match her shoes. I once counted the handbags in her closet. She had twenty-seven of them. Mom says that's because Gran Lola never throws anything away. Papa Jack is a stockbroker, too. He has an ulcer.

My father's parents are both dead. They died a week apart. I hate to think of Mom and Dad getting old and dying. It scares me. So I put it out of my mind.

Sadie was waiting for us on her porch. When she saw the car pull into the driveway she came down the stairs to greet us. She was very small, with white hair and dark eyes, like Leon's. She was wearing a pink sweat suit. She hugged Alison first. “My favorite granddaughter,” she said, kissing both her cheeks.

“Your only granddaughter,” Alison said. Then she introduced me. “This is Stephanie, my best friend in Connecticut.”

I smiled, surprised by Alison's introduction.

Sadie shook my hand. “Any friend of Alison's is a friend of mine.”

You could smell the ocean from Sadie's front porch. I took a few deep breaths. Sadie must have noticed because she said, “It's just three blocks away. You'll see for yourself this afternoon.”

Inside, the table was set for lunch. As soon as Leon walked Maizie we sat down to eat. Everything tasted great. There's something about salt air that makes me really hungry.

After lunch Alison and I helped Sadie do the dishes. Then Sadie pushed up her sleeves and said, “Okay … now it's time to get down to business.”

I love to bake. I especially love to separate eggs. Aunt Denise taught me how to do it without breaking the yolks, but for brownies you don't need to separate eggs.

“Grandma,” Alison said, after we'd measured, mixed and divided the batter into six large baking pans, “don't you think we should write down the recipe for next time?”

“It's better to keep it up here,” Sadie said, tapping her head. “That way, if you find yourself in Tahiti and you want to bake brownies, you won't have to worry.”

We slid the pans into the ovens. “So …” Sadie said, “you'll have one hundred twenty full sized brownies or, if you cut them in half …”

“Two hundred forty,” I said.

“I don't think we should cut them in half,” Alison said, “because we want to sell each one for fifty cents. And that way we'll make … uh …”

“Sixty dollars,” I said.

Sadie looked at me. “A mathematician!” she said. “A regular Einstein!”

“Not really,” I told her, feeling my face flush. “Rachel's the mathematician. She couldn't come today because she gets car—” I caught myself just in time. “She couldn't come because she had to work on her speech.”

“If we earn enough at this bake sale,” Alison told Sadie, “the seventh grade will be able to have a winter dance.”

“A dance!” Sadie said. “I used to love to go dancing. Nobody could hold a candle to my rumba. I could wiggle with the best of them. And you should see my mambo and samba and cha cha …” She began to sing and dance around the kitchen. “Come on …” she said, holding her hands out to us. “I'll teach you.”

“I don't think we'll be doing the rumba at the seventh grade dance,” Alison said.

“You never know,” Sadie told her. “This way you'll be prepared.”

First, Sadie taught us the basic box step.
Forward, to the side, together … backward, to
the side, together
. Once we had that she taught us the rumba. She was about to teach us the samba when the timer on the oven went off. Sadie stuck a toothpick into the center of each pan to make sure the brownies were done. Then we set them on racks on the counter to cool.

“Now …” Sadie said, “if you'll excuse me, it's time for my siesta.”

“Your siesta?” I said.

“Grandma never says nap,” Alison explained. “Naps are for babies … right, Grandma?”

“Right.”

While Sadie was taking her siesta Alison and I went to the beach with Leon and Gena. Leon held Maizie on a leash until we got there. Then he turned her loose and she took off, running first in one direction, then the other.

Leon and Gena sat on a jetty to watch the waves. Alison and I took off our shoes and socks. “What about your rash?” I asked. “I thought you have to wear a sock on that foot.”

“I'm sure the salt water is good for it,” Alison said.

It was windy on the beach, but sunny and warm for October. We rolled up our jeans and ran along the water's edge, laughing. Alison's long, black hair whipped across her face, making
me wish mine would hurry and grow. Maizie ran alongside us, looking up, as if to say,
How much longer are we going to play this game?

I was having the best time. I like being with Alison. I like being her friend.

Maizie barked.

“Are you having fun, too?” I asked her.

She barked again.

“What's she saying?” I called to Alison, who was ahead of me.

“Nothing,” Alison called back. “She's a dog.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, catching up with her.

Alison flopped down. Maizie rolled over and over in the sand. “Do you really believe that dogs can talk?” Alison asked.

“Only one in seventeen million,” I said, sitting beside her.

Alison laughed and lay back. Maizie jumped on her.

“You mean she
can't
talk?”

Alison shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at me. “You didn't really believe me, did you?”

“Of course not,” I said, drawing a face in the sand with my finger. “I was just playing along with you.”

Alison sat up. Sand fell from her hair. “You
did
believe me!”

“I suppose now you think I'm
gullible,”
I said.

“I don't know what that means,” Alison said.

“It means when a person is easily tricked … when a person believes anything. I know because I looked it up one time.”

“I don't think you're like that,” Alison said. “I think you're a lot like me.” She wrestled with Maizie for a minute. When Maizie escaped she said, “I only told you she could talk because I wanted you to like me. I wanted us to be friends.”