Dawn and Whitney, Friends Forever Page 3

  “You like the water,” I said, remembering what Mr. Cater had said.

  “I’m a good swimmer,” answered Whitney. “See?” She pointed to the bookshelves and I realized that many of the shelves contained trophies.

  “Wow,” I said. “Did you win all these?”

  Whitney nodded. “At my school. We have swim meets every year.”

  “That’s great, Whitney!” I said.

  “Do you like to swim?” asked Whitney.

  “I sure do,” I answered. “And surf.”

  Whitney’s eyes lit up. “In the ocean?” She thought for a minute, then said. “A-awesome.”

  I laughed.

  Whitney laughed, too. Then she squatted and pulled a stack of magazines out from the bottom of her bookshelf.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Magazines. M-my mother’s,” explained Whitney.

  I sat down on the floor and Whitney straightened her legs out slowly and sat next to me. She opened the magazines and pointed to a picture of Keanu Reeves.

  “He’s cute.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Very.”

  “You think he’s cute?”

  “Yup. But I like him better.” I pointed to the photo of another star. Whitney studied him seriously, her head turned to one side and her tongue sticking out slightly from between her lips.

  Then she said, “No. I like Keanu better.”

  “Well, I like what he’s wearing better,” I said.

  Whitney nodded and turned the page. She studied the picture for a moment and then said, “He has earrings, too.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Soon you’ll have them, too. Your parents just want you to be more grown-up.”

  “I am grown-up!” Whitney exclaimed.

  “Yeah, but parents never believe you are. You have to show them,” I said.

  Whitney thought for a moment, then nodded. Then she said, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No. Not right now. Do you?” I asked.

  Whitney giggled and put her hand over her mouth. “No. Not yet.” Her eyes lit on my backpack, which I’d dropped on the floor next to me.

  “Do you have magazines in there?” she asked, pointing.

  “No. It’s mostly empty,” I answered.

  “May I look inside?”

  “Sure,” I said, sliding the backpack over to her. She opened it and my string shopping bag fell out.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “It’s a string bag,” I said. “I carry it with me wherever I go so that if I buy anything, I can put it in there instead of in a plastic bag. Plastic bags are bad for the environment.”

  Whitney nodded, but her attention had been caught by something else. “Oooh, make-up!” She pulled out a tube of clear pink sunscreen lip gloss and held it up admiringly. “May I try it on, Dawn? Please?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Whitney scrambled to her feet and went over to the small mirror that hung above her chest of drawers. She opened the lip gloss with great care. Drawing her eyebrows together in a frown, she leaned forward and meticulously outlined her lips with the gloss.

  “It looks nice,” I said, coming to stand beside her. Our two faces looked back at us from the mirror: mine tan, with a faint dusting of freckles, my hair straight and white-blonde on either side of my face, Whitney’s face pale and round with her short dark hair and flat, immobile features. But then she smiled and I didn’t think she looked so expressionless after all. Or so different.

  I decided it was like getting to know anybody new. At first, new people look strange because, well, they are strangers. But after that you know them and then they just look like themselves.

  “Nice,” repeated Whitney. She nodded in satisfaction, closed the tube of gloss with equal care and handed it ceremoniously back to me. “Thank you, Dawn.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. I walked over to my backpack and put the gloss back in and sat down. “So, what else do you do besides swim? Do you have other favorite sports? Or hobbies?”

  Whitney thought for a moment, then said, “I like animals. I like bears. And seals. I want to get a job, too. I’d like to baby-sit and earn money of my own.”

  “That’s what I do to earn money,” I said. “Some friends of mine and I have our own baby-sitting business, the We Love Kids Club.”

  “Really? Do you earn lots of money?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I answered. “But we do a lot of work. Being a good baby-sitter is a big responsibility. I’ve even taken a class to learn how to be a better baby-sitter.”

  Whitney asked me what seemed like a million questions about my job. We sat on her floor and laughed and talked until I heard the front door open and Mr. Cater’s voice call, “Whitney? Dawn?”

  I headed home feeling pretty good. Whitney was nice. And fun. And funny. I’d enjoyed this job a lot, and I was looking forward to seeing Whitney again the next afternoon.

  “I don’t like that color.” Whitney held a magazine up for me to inspect. A boy in an olive green T-shirt and a black zebra-print jacket smiled out at us from the page. Whitney pointed to the model’s shirt.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s cute, but that color green is major yuck. At least, it would look terrible on me. I look better in summer colors.”

  Whitney switched her attention from the model to me. “Summer colors?” she asked.

  “Yeah. You know, the colors you usually see in the summer: bright blue skies, bright yellow sun. Those are the colors that look best on me. But other people look better in colors from other seasons of the year. I have a friend in Connecticut, Mallory, and she has red hair and pale skin and freckles. She looks really good in autumn colors, like the autumn leaf colors. You know, orange-red and gold. Like that.”

  Whitney frowned. Then she said, “What colors am I?”

  I studied her for a moment, her brown eyes and dark hair. Then I said, “Maybe spring. Spring green and all the colors of the spring flowers.”

  “I like that,” said Whitney. “Spring. Spring colors. You are summer and I am spring.”

  “Yeah,” I said, grinning.

  Whitney flipped through a couple more magazines, talking about the different colors. It was interesting to look at magazines that way, as if I were learning different colors in a whole new way. I was used to helping very young baby-sitting charges work on learning their colors. I would say, “What color is the apple? What color is the sky?” But I’d never done anything quite like this before.

  Soon we’d gone through a whole stack of magazines. I pulled out a couple more from Whitney’s huge stack, but she pushed them to one side and shook her head impatiently.

  “I’m tired of magazines,” she said.

  I thought for a moment of the Kid-Kits we use in the BSC back in Connecticut. Kid-Kits (another brilliant Kristy invention) are boxes that we take on some of our baby-sitting jobs. Inside the boxes are books and puzzles and toys, not necessarily new things, but things that are new to the kids we’re taking care of. They’re always fascinated by the contents of the Kid-Kits and are delighted to be allowed to play with the “new” stuff inside.

  But a Kid-Kit wouldn’t work for Whitney. Even if the contents did interest her, she’d probably feel it was too babyish. Also, I didn’t want to do anything that might make her think I was baby-sitting for her.

  “Do you like to play games?” I asked.

  Whitney looked wary. “Sometimes. But at school when we play games, sometimes it means we have to pick up our toys and help clean up the room.”

  I had to laugh. “Yeah. Don’t you hate it when teachers try to trick you like that?”

  Whitney nodded emphatically. “They should just say, ‘Will you please pick everything up from the floor?’ ”

  I suddenly remembered that Sunny was sitting for Clover and Daffodil Austin, who lived next door to me.

  “Hey, Whitney, remember the job I told you about? The one I have baby-sitting as a member of the We Love Kids Cl
ub?”

  “Yes! Baby-sitting. I want to baby-sit,” said Whitney.

  “Right. Well, a friend of mine, Sunny, has a baby-sitting job near here too — er — today. Right now, in fact. We could go visit her at work.”

  Nodding excitedly, Whitney said, “Yes. Let’s do that.”

  Whew! She hadn’t noticed my slip-up, when I referred to Sunny having a baby-sitting job, too. I stood up and reached down to pull Whitney to her feet. She lost her balance a little and she nearly pulled me over.

  “Oops,” I said, staggering and regaining my balance.

  “Oops,” repeated Whitney.

  I left a note for Mr. and Mrs. Cater in case they came home early (although I didn’t think that they would), and Whitney and I set out for the Austins’.

  Since we had another perfect day, complete with all the best colors of summer, from amazing sky blue to sunshine gold, I wasn’t surprised when we reached the Austins’ to find the girls in their bathing suits, playing with hoses and sprinklers. Clover was clutching a big flower that squirted water and chasing Daffodil through the sprinklers shooting water at her. “I’m raining flowers!” Clover was shouting. Although she was soaking wet like her sister, Daffodil was shrieking every time Clover sprayed her.

  Daffodil is nine and Clover is six, but Clover is the Austin you notice first. She lives at the top of her lungs, sort of like Karen, Kristy’s little sister. She saw me and shouted, “DAWN!”

  Whitney’s eyes widened and I laughed. “Hi, Clover! Hi, Daffodil.” Daffodil, still running from Clover, waved her arms in what might have been a greeting as Whitney and I strolled over to join Sunny, who was watching from the extreme edge of the water fight.

  “Sunny,” I said. “Hi. This is Whitney. I told her about the We Love Kids Club and she wanted to come with me to visit you while you work.”

  I’d already told Sunny and the others that my baby-sitting job with Whitney was undercover, so I knew Sunny wouldn’t give me away.

  Whitney held out her hand. After a moment, Sunny took it and gave it a little shake.

  “It is nice to meet you, Sunny,” said Whitney, in the same careful, practiced way she’d spoken when she’d met me.

  Sunny paused, then said, “I’m glad to meet you, too, Whitney. Want to join Clover and Daffodil?”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Whitney instantly.

  “Dawn?” said Sunny. I knew she was asking me if it was all right for Whitney to join in, but Whitney didn’t.

  “You’ll play, too, won’t you, Dawn? You want to?”

  I hesitated. As Whitney’s “friend” there was no reason for me not to join in the sprinkler frolics, but as the person responsible for her, I didn’t know if it was such a good idea.

  Fortunately, Sunny came to my rescue. “If Dawn doesn’t want to, she could keep me company.”

  “Okay,” said Whitney. “I need my bathing suit.” She turned back toward her house.

  “Whitney, wait,” I said. To Sunny, I said, “See you in a few minutes.”

  “We’ll be here,” Sunny assured me.

  I had to hurry to keep up with Whitney as she went back home. I changed the note to the Caters, telling them where we were and what we were doing, while Whitney changed into her bathing suit. A few minutes later, she came out wearing a bathing cap, and a big shirt that almost reached her knees. She was carrying a towel and a small plastic container in her hand.

  “Shoes?” I said, pointing.

  “Oh. Thank you, Dawn. I almost forgot.”

  She returned a minute later wearing sneakers.

  “What have you got in there?” I asked, indicating the plastic container in her left hand.

  “Earplugs,” said Whitney. “They’re special earplugs. Water makes my ears hurt sometimes and I have to take medicine. But if I wear these every time I swim, then my ears don’t hurt and I don’t have to take medicine.”

  “Ear infections,” I said, remembering what Mr. Cater had said.

  “That’s right,” said Whitney, pleased that I had “guessed.”

  “You have drops, too, to put in before and after?”

  Whitney looked at me in surprise and I said, “When you are a baby-sitter, you have to know these things.”

  “Yes. But I’m not swimming. Do I need the drops?”

  “Better safe than sorry,” I said. Mrs. Cater had told me the drops were in the downstairs bathroom cabinet. “I’ll get them,” I said, and hurried away.

  Whitney was waiting impatiently when I reached the front porch. “Come on, Dawn,” she said.

  “Coming, coming,” I said, laughing.

  When we got back to the Austins’, Whitney carefully put her ear drops in, then her earplugs, then folded her towel, lined her sneakers up next to it, gave the ear drops back to me, and slid the earplug container into the toe of one of the sneakers. Then she turned and waved wildly.

  I ducked. “Whoa, Whitney!”

  “I’m heeeere,” she called to Clover and Daffodil, and waded into the sprinklers.

  “Eek!” shrieked Daffodil, who was now holding the hose to keep Clover at bay. She turned and splashed Whitney and Clover with it.

  Whitney put her hands over her head as if she were about to dive headfirst into a swimming pool and dove down the spray of water.

  “I’m a hose fish!” cried Whitney.

  “A hose fish, a hose fish!” screamed Clover, imitating Whitney, and adding her own wiggly side-to-side movements. She “swam” back toward her sister from the other side.

  “EEEEEEK!” Daffodil cried again, flinging down the hose and taking off.

  Clover grabbed the hose and turned it on Daffodil and Whitney, who charged away, laughing.

  If I’d had any worries about how Clover and Daffodil would take to the “new kid,” they’d just been washed away.

  “Wow,” Sunny said. She sat down on the steps and sprawled out to turn her face up to the sun. “Where do they get so much energy?”

  “Pretty amazing,” I agreed, imitating Sunny’s example.

  “Flower fish!” cried Whitney, who’d gotten the hose and was holding it straight up in the air. Clover and Daffodil immediately began to twirl around, making fluttery motions with their hands.

  “Sunny, come play,” panted Clover, twirling up close and spraying us with water.

  “Hey, flower fish, you’re watering me!” said Sunny, laughing.

  “Don’t you want to play?” asked Clover, still spinning.

  “Thank you, but no thanks. I’ll keep Dawn company, okay?”

  Clover shrugged and spun away.

  We sat in the sun watching the dance of the water flowers for most of the afternoon. The three girls couldn’t have been happier.

  At last Sunny stood up and walked over to the faucets. “Time for a snack!” she called and turned the water off.

  The three, soaking wet, splashed around in the puddles for a moment longer, then came tumbling across the lawn in a spray of water.

  “Towels over here,” I said.

  “Dry off all over,” Sunny said, “and we’ll all go see about something good to eat.”

  The kitchen yielded plenty of great food: vegetable chips and yogurt dip, oatmeal raisin cookies, and a slice of watermelon. More than enough food for all of us, even those of us with a huge appetite from lawn swimming, right?

  Wrong. Clover and Daffodil both took one look at the watermelon and made a grab for it.

  “Mine,” said Clover.

  “I saw it first,” Daffodil said, her voice rising.

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Uh, girls,” I said.

  “Hey, you two,” began Sunny.

  Whitney reached out and drew the watermelon back across the table to the middle.

  “You should cut the watermelon in half,” she said slowly. “You should cut it, Daffodil. Then … then Clover gets to pick first. That is fair.” She nodded emphatically.

  I looked at Sunny. Sunny looked at me. We both l
ooked at the two sisters.

  Watermelon fight averted.

  “Okay,” said Daffodil, picking up the knife. She cut the watermelon very, very carefully in half, making sure that the pieces were exactly even, while Clover watched closely.

  Then, after much consideration, Clover chose one of the two identical pieces of watermelon and the two settled back with their treat.

  Whitney reached for the oatmeal raisin cookies and Sunny and I made a nice-sized dent in the vegetable chips (of course).

  The afternoon ended peacefully, and two tired but happy girls waved enthusiastically as Whitney and I left.

  “Come back soon,” called Clover.

  “Soonnn,” echoed Daffodil.

  “That was fun,” said Whitney.

  “Yeah, it was. You were great with Clover and Daffodil.” I had been really, truly impressed with Whitney’s skill with the two girls, and with her own responsible behavior in wearing the earplugs and keeping them in.

  Whitney ducked her head a little and nodded, smiling. “They’re nice. Sunny is nice. She’s a good baby-sitter.”

  “And a good friend,” I said, smiling at the memory of Sunny propped back on her elbows in the sun.

  “Is Sunny your best friend?” Whitney asked.

  “One of them,” I said.

  We’d reached the last intersection before Whitney’s street. It had gotten much busier with the after-work traffic.

  Whitney, who’d been about half a step ahead of me, stopped so abruptly that I ran into her.

  “Whitney?” I said.

  Whitney stepped sideways. Then stepped forward tentatively. A car whizzed by and slammed on its brakes as the light turned yellow. Whitney leaped back and began to rock nervously from one foot to the other.

  I looked both ways. The cars had stopped.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Whitney rocked back and forth. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “Whitney?”

  “So many cars,” said Whitney. “I don’t know.”

  Whitney suddenly sounded very, very young.