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You picked up before the second ring, and it was Dr. Welsch, sounding groggy but calm, very calm, just the opposite of you, tripping over your own words, trying to tell the whole story but making NO SENSE — and Dr. Welsch just took over the conversation, in a soft but businesslike way, asking specific questions: Where is Alex now? Is he physically hurt? Does he need a doctor?

The sound of his voice was soothing. Reassuring. You wanted to visit him YOURSELF, to lie on his couch and have a good cry and do whatever you do in a therapist’s office. Your voice was choking up as you answered his questions, but you stuck with it, and soon you were telling him about the whole night, starting from the beginning, from the quiet ride in the car, to the arrival at the party, to your separation from Alex, to the bottle and the bathroom …

And Dr. Welsch was saying, “Mm-hm” and “That must have been hard for you,” and not much else, just letting you ramble on and on, until you came to the end and you were in tears, speaking and sobbing at the same time, asking for advice — which Dr. Welsch gave, telling you not to worry, that Alex was going to be all right, and you were a good friend for calling, and you were doing the right thing to let him sleep comfortably, but you HAD to make sure that Alex came to see him first thing tomorrow.

You felt much better after you hung up. But the feeling didn’t last long.

Because you turned to see Alex standing behind you. Leaning against the kitchen doorway.

You practically jumped out of your seat in surprise.

Alex had this tight, blank expression on his face. For a moment, you thought he was going to throw up again.

But he didn’t.

He spoke. His voice was choked and raspy. And very, very angry.

He called you a traitor.

He said he THOUGHT he could trust you, but he was wrong.

You tried to explain. You told him you were worried. You said you’d dreamed that he’d tried to kill himself.

So you called Welsch because of a dream? Alex spat out.

Well, DID you try to kill yourself? you asked.

But Alex didn’t answer. You know he heard you, but he ignored the question. You PROMISED, he said. Is that was a PROMISE means to you?

You reminded him what HE’D said — about you and Dr. Welsch being extensions — but as the words came out of your mouth, they sounded so hollow, like an EXCUSE, like a kid saying nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah.

Alex just let those words hang in the air, his face twisting with disgust.

That’s it, Ducky, he said. The friendship is over.

And he stomped away, toward the front door.

You ran after him. Asked where he was going. Told him to stay. Reminded him IT WAS LATE

and MANIACS were out on the street at this hour and he couldn’t possibly WALK all the way home — but he was acting like you weren’t there, just walking away and not looking over his shoulder ,right through your front door.

So what can you do when your former friend walks out into the streets of Palo City at 3 A.M. and you have NO IDEA what he’s going to do, because everything he HAS done so far that day has been totally UNPREDICTABLE, and you know that if something happened to him, you could

never forgive yourself?

You follow him.

You get into your car and tail him through the neighborhood. You roll down your window and call out to him, offering him a ride.

And even though he says nasty things to you and tells you to go away, even though he ducks into alleyways and behind strangers’ houses and through empty lots, you stay with him and you don’t let him out of your sight.

And soon he gives up and walks down the middle of the street, pretending you’re not there. And you feel relieved when he ends up at his house, and all the lights are out, which means his mom has gone back to sleep and won’t make a big scene.

And you don’t leave, even then, because in Alex’s state of mind he can do ANYTHING. he [sic]

can wait for you to go and then sneak out again — you don’t even want to IMAGINE what else he could do — so you park halfway down the block, just beyond side of the house, and you walk back along the sidewalk, hiding behind the tall juniper trees next door.

You squat there, looking at Alex’s house. You see the light go on in the downstairs bathroom, you hear the shower, and your heart starts to race. You scan the house for a way to sneak in —

JUST IN CASE — but there’s an “instant armed response” sign in the front window, which will set off an alarm in some police station. Which, when you think about it, might be a useful thing

— the “instant” and “response” parts — JUST IN CASE.

The shower runs on and on, and it’s driving you crazy, and you start looking for a rock to throw in the window —

Then the water noise stops.

You freeze.

A few moments later, the bathroom light goes out.

Then another light flicks on. Alex’s bedroom.

You see the silhouette of Alex’s head briefly, and then the shades roll down.

You do not move. Even after the light goes out, you stay there. Riveted. Eyes scanning the house. Ears listening for odd noises.

You stay there — how long? It feels like hours, but you’re not watching the clock — and finally you’re ready to drop from fatigue and you don’t want to be found tomorrow morning sleeping under the neighbor’s juniper, so you stand up and stumble on creaky legs to your car.

And on the way home, questions nag you like mosquitoes.

DID you do the right thing?

Did you do ALL you could?

Did you HELP Alex?

And most important, WHAT NEXT?

While I was away, Ted came home. He’s snoring peacefully in his room. At least that’s ONE

person I don’t have to worry about.

He’s lucky. HIS life is simple.

I wish I felt tired. It’s almost morning and I HAVE to sleep. Tomorrow could be big.

I KNOW why I can’t sleep. I’m afraid of the morning. I have to do SOMETHING, but what?

Call Alex? Talk to his mom? Call Dr. Welsch to see if Alex talked to him? Go over to his house and DRIVE him over to Dr. Welsch?

What if Alex denies what happened? What if he doesn’t remember?

And what about Jay? HE’S going to want to know how Alex is. Do I tell him? Should I bring him into this?

Maybe Alex needs his friends to rally around him. Or maybe he needs to be left alone.

Am I doing enough?

Am I doing too much?

Where exactly do I fit into all this?

I don’t know.

That’s the problem.

I SHOULD know, but I don’t.

I’m sitting here at 4:30 in the morning, so awake I could run a marathon, writing my brains out because I can’t TALK to anybody — considering I’ve already broken a vow of silence, and Ted would be useless about stuff like this even if I COULD tell him, and Mom and Dad don’t like me to call Ghana — so all I CAN do is write, and that should be helping me, because PUTTING IT

ON PAPER always makes thoughts clearer, and I’ve filled up a whole journal, wearing out my fingers, examining EVERY POSSIBILITY, dissecting, reasoning, spilling. And after all that, I should have an idea, I should know what path to take, I should have an UNDERSTANDING at least, and maybe a strategy.

I’m not a stupid guy. I should have all of that.

But I don’t.

I really don’t know what to do.

Except worry.

And hope.

About the Author

ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, NJ, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.

Although Ann used to be a teacher and then an editor of children’s books, she’s now a full-time writer. She gets ideas for her books from many different places. Some are based on personal experiences. Others are based on childhood memories and feelings. Many are written about contemporary problems or events.

All of Ann’s characters are made up. But some of her characters are based on real people.

Sometimes Ann names her characters after people she knows; other times she chooses names she likes.

In addition to the California Diaries, Ann Martin has written many other books, including the Baby-sitters Club series. She has written twelve novels for young people, including
Missing
Since Monday
,
With You or
[sic]
Without You
,
Slam Book
, and
Just a Summer Romance
.

Ann M. Martin does not live in California, though she does visit frequently. She lives in New York with her cats, Gussie and Woody. Her hobbies are reading, sewing, and needlework —

especially making clothes for children.

Am I doing enough?

Am I doing too much?

Where exactly do I fit into all this?

I don’t know.

I SHOULD know, but I don’t.

• Defining Ducky