The Summer Before Read online

  "They're Mary Anne's," said Kristy. Then she added, "They need clothes."

  "So we thought we'd get advice from you," added Mary Anne.

  "Doll advice?" I felt my stomach drop.

  "No, fashion advice. The clothes they were wearing were -"

  At this very moment, like a rescue helicopter appearing above someone stranded on a desert island, Mimi once again called up the stairs. "Claudia? Girls? I'm going to drive into town. Do you want to come with me?"

  I leaped to my feet. "Yes!" I shouted. "Yes, I do!"

  Mary Anne glanced at me, and I couldn't quite read the expression on her face. It was somewhere between hurt and puzzled. "I want to go to the shoe store," I said to my friends. "I need..." Frankly there wasn't much I needed in the way of shoes, since that was mostly what I spent my baby-sitting money on. "There's a sale," I finally said. "I just want to look. Maybe there'll be some good bargains. Want to come with me?"

  Kristy made a face. "Not really."

  "Not really," echoed Mary Anne.

  "Claudia?" Mimi called again.

  "Coming!" I replied.

  Mary Anne gathered up the dolls, and as I watched her walk out of my room, her possessions cradled in her arms, I felt a pang of sadness. When, exactly, had I become so different from Mary Anne and Kristy? When had an armful of dolls come to represent the gap I felt widening between us?

  "How about if I call you later?" I said to my friends' backs as they reached the staircase.

  "Sure," said Kristy.

  "I will call you," I promised.

  There was no response. Still, what I felt as I climbed into the car next to Mimi was enormous relief.

  I didn't have to play dolls.

  The relief lasted for about two minutes and then was replaced by regret, but I couldn't take back what I'd said, and anyway the problem wasn't the dolls but Kristy and Mary Anne and the vast differences between us.

  "You are very quiet, my Claudia," said Mimi as we drove slowly toward downtown Stoneybrook.

  Mimi, my beloved Mimi, came to this country from Japan when she was thirty-two years old. She spoke with a gentle accent. Mimi might have been as proper and conservative and serious as the rest of my family, but she also understood me better than anyone else in the world. I could tell her things that I would never tell my parents or Janine. Or Kristy or Mary Anne.

  "I'm just thinking," I said now.

  "About Kristy and Mary Anne?"

  Now how did Mimi know that? "I guess."

  "Would you like to talk about it?"

  "Yes. But I don't know what to say."

  Mimi nodded. "Sometimes it is like that. Words don't express the thoughts accurately."

  "Especially not when the thoughts are all jumbled," I told her, and stared out the window at the rain.

  That aftemoon the rain stopped and the sun came out. By supper time the air was clear and warm, so I said to Mimi, "Could we eat dinner outside tonight?"

  "That's a lovely idea, my Claudia. Why don't you set the picnic table?"

  So I did, and later, when Mom and Dad came home from work, my family and I sat at the picnic table while the sun set beyond a row of trees. Janine was glowing from a day of statistics and sentence diagramming, and I felt pretty content myself.

  "This is the life," I said, spreading my napkin on my lap and contemplating Mimi's dinner of salad and rice and baked chicken.

  My mother smiled at me. "Did you have a nice day? What did you do?"

  "Worked on my painting and went downtown with Mimi." I didn't bring up the subject of the party. It wasn't quite the right moment. "How about you?" I asked, looking across the table at Mom and Dad and Janine, who were seated in a row.

  "Same old, same old," answered my father, but he didn't look nearly as bored as he sounded. He loved his job, which had something to do with money or finances or... something.

  "We were very busy today," said Mom, who was the head librarian at our local public library. She was perfect for the job since she loved books and literature and was very organized. I knew she wished I would visit the library more often, but frankly, my collection of Nancy Drew books was bigger than the library's.

  "And you?" I said politely to Janine.

  "School was quite enlightening," she replied, and that was when I got to hear all about statistics and sentence diagramming.

  I was still trying to determine when I should bring up the subject of my party when my mother said, "Claudia, I was thinking today that since your birthday is only about a week and a half away, we ought to buy supplies for your party and, well, I was going to say that we should send out your invitations, but maybe you feel too old for invitations. Maybe you'll just want to phone your friends."

  Perfect! This was the opening I needed! "Actually," I said, "speaking of my birthday and, um, speaking of feeling too old, I was thinking that this year I might have a different kind of party."

  "Oh?" said Mom, and everyone at the table tumed their eyes to me.

  I fidgeted with my napkin. "Yes. I was thinking that instead of a sleepover, which I guess I do feel a little old for" (I chuckled in a mature way) "I might have a pool party."

  "A pool party? Where?" asked my father.

  I pointed next door. "At the Goldmans'. If they don't mind."

  "Well, they have been awfully generous with their pool," said Mom. "I think they'd agree to that."

  I nodded, then swallowed hard. "Also," I went on, "I thought I'd invite girls and boys. I've already written out the guest list," I added.

  This was followed by silence. At last it was broken by ]anine, who said, "A boy-girl party? " She sounded like I'd just suggested a party where the guests would play with scissors and fire.

  "Well, yeah."

  "Oh, Claudia, I don't know," said Mom.

  "But I'm tuming twelve. And it would be an aftemoon party not a nighttime party. And you and Dad and Mimi would chaperone. Of course you would. And," I went on, "Janine, you could invite a couple of your friends. That would be really um, fun." I looked around at my family quite pleased with this inspiration.

  "Well..." said Janine.

  "No more slumber parties?" asked Mom sadly.

  "I'm sure I'll have plenty more slumber parties. I just thought this birthday could be different."

  "I think the swimming pool party sounds lovely," Mimi spoke up.

  "You do?" I said. This was going much better than I had imagined.

  "It sounds as though you've given this some careful consideration," said Mom.

  My father nodded. "We'll have to talk to the Goldmans first, though," he said.

  "I know. We can have the party whenever it's convenient for them. It doesn't have to be on my actual birthday."

  And that was how my parents agreed to let me have a boy-girl pool party to celebrate my twelfth birthday. I still felt like an elephant in a family of mice, but so what. I decided not to dwell on that. Or on whatever was happening between Kristy and Mary Anne and me. I would concentrate on the party.

  I couldn't wait to tum twelve.

  This is what I saw when I looked out my bedroom windows: treetops. Would it surprise you to leam that I lived in New York City? Most people who don't live in a city think there are no trees or bushes or wildlife in cities, but that's just not true. I could see Central Park from my bedroom.

  Okay, I know that's not the same as having trees in your very own yard, but still. Considering I lived in a giant apartment building in the middle of one of the largest cities in the world, a tree-top view was pretty special. I never took it for granted.

  In fact, there wasn't much I did take for granted, and that was because of what happened last year in sixth grade.

  I stood at my window and gazed down at the view. The truth was that while I could see tree-tops, I could also see, far below, taxicabs and city buses and an entrance to the subway station. And if I'd opened my window I would have been able to hear car homs and fire sirens and the grinding of garbage trucks. With the window
closed, all I could hear was the humming of my air conditioner. Late June could be sweltering in New York.

  I had lived in the Big Apple my entire life and I was going to be sad to leave it behind. But I would not be sad to leave certain people behind. Like everyone in my school, especially Her Royal Meanness, Laine Cummings.

  I didn't know exactly how things had gone so wrong, but I was pretty sure that my diabetes was not the cause. It was more of a symptom. Which was kind of ironic - a disease being a symptom of a nonmedical problem. Sometimes I tried to blame the diabetes for what had happened between Laine and me, since that was easier to believe than what had actually happened - that Laine had tumed on me. My best friend. Tumed. On me.

  And now my parents had decided to move. We were going to move away from the city, the only home I'd known, to a very small town that I'd never even heard of. Stoneybrook, Connecticut.

  What was I supposed to do in a town without skyscrapers or subways, without movie theatres on every comer or a million restaurants beckoning customers with their fancy menus? On the other hand, what did I care? Stoneybrook would be my chance to start over. With any luck, I wouldn't run across another Laine Cummings.

  "Stacey?" my mother called from the kitchen. "Come get breakfast."

  I sighed. I wasn't hungry. But I didn't have a choice about eating, not since last fall. That was when I had been diagnosed with diabetes. I thought about saying "I'm not hungry," but I knew where that would get me. I tumed away from my window, walked down the hall, and entered our little kitchen.

  "Moming, honey," said Mom. She was at the stove. "I have eggs and sausage for you." I knew she meant organic eggs and meatless tofu sausage.

  "Thanks," I replied. I carried my plate into our dining room and sat by myself at the table. A long day stretched ahead of me. Dad was at work and Mom would probably be busy getting ready for our move. Even though we weren't going to move until August, there was a lot to do. The entire apartment needed to be packed up. But surprise - even if we brought every last thing in the apartment with us - right down to melted candle stubs and rusted safety pins - our possessions still wouldn't fill the rooms of the house Mom and Dad had bought in Connecticut. So Mom was busy looking for more fumiture, plus things we'd never had any use for in New York, such as snow shovels and a lawn mower, all to be sent ahead to our new house. Mom had also decided that now was the time to get rid of things we didn't need anymore (the melted candle stubs, the rusted safety pins). In other words, she had embarked on a massive cleaning out of the apartment.

  It was not the most glamorous summer of my life.

  I finished my breakfast, paced around the quiet apartment for a minute or two, then finally said to Mom, "I'm going out."

  "Okay." My mother was standing in front of a jam-packed closet, obviously trying to decide which things would come with us to our new house and which could be tossed. "Check in later."

  lt was funny. Where my diabetes and my health were concemed, Mom watched me as if I were two years old. Otherwise, she gave me quite a bit of freedom. I was allowed to walk around our neighborhood on the Upper West Side by myself. Iwas even allowed to take cabs and buses and the subway on my own, depending on where I was going.

  I let myself out of our apartment and walked down the hall to the elevator. In the last few months I'd grown accustomed to doing most things alone. No more meeting friends after school. No more shopping with Laine. I went to the movies by myself and shopped by myself and, until school ended, did my homework by myself.

  I rode the elevator to the ground floor and walked through the lobby to the front desk.

  "Moming, Stacey!" Will greeted me. Will was the 8:00 AM to 4:00 PM doorman. He'd known me since I was three, which was when we'd moved to this building from a building downtown in Greenwich Village. It was possible that, at the moment, he was my best friend. "It's hot out there," he informed me.

  "Tell me about it," I replied. I could feel a blast of boiling air as Will held the door open for me. "Want anything?" I asked him. "I could bring you a coffee or something."

  Will grinned. "No, but thanks for asking." The day ahead of me was officially empty. I didn't even have an errand to run.

  I walked along Broadway for a block or two, looking into store windows. I walked by a movie theatre to see what was playing. Finally, I walked over to Riverside Park, where I plunked myself down on a bench to do some people-watching. An old man and an old woman were sitting at the other end of the bench, sharing a sticky bun and talking quietly. A group of toddlers hustled by, two by two, with their day-care teachers, everyone joyfully singing "This Old Man." Three girls my age ran into the park, arm in arm, laughing and calling to a group of boys who were playing catch. I didn't know any of them, the boys or the girls, but I felt a pang as I listened to their easy chatter and watched the girls toss their hair as they approached the boys.

  Way back last summer, before sixth grade, I could have been one of those kids. Laine and I and one or two other girls from school used to meet up and walk to the park, laughing and talking and whispering secrets, often with a nanny or a parent hovering in the background. They'd felt like my sisters, those girls, which had been very satisfying for an only child. Our phone rang constantly then, and my life was full of plans and meetings and excursions.

  But that changed as soon as sixth grade started, shortly before I got sick. Laine had gone away to summer camp in Maine for the month of August. When she'd retumed, she was different. My best friend, Laine Cummings, was on her way to being crowned Her Royal Meanness.

  Here's a fact about Laine and her family and me and my family: Our parents were best friends before Laine and I were old enough to say "goo- goo, ga-ga," and they were still best friends. Of course, they were delighted when Laine and I, as little girls, became best friends, too, but when Laine tumed into Her Royal Blah-Blah, the best-friend situation became a bit complicated. Laine and I might not have been speaking to each other, but our parents were still yapping on the phone, planning dinners and outings and trips to the theatre.

  The beginnings of the change in Laine were subtle, as subtle as the first signs of my diabetes. Laine retumed from Maine a week before sixth grade began. I expected her to phone me the exact moment she walked into her apartment. I wanted to hear everything, every detail about camp - about bunk mates and counselors and campfires and whether the girl campers ever snuck out to see the boy campers. I hadn't been to ovemight camp, and my knowledge of such an adventure was limited to having watched The Parent Trap - with Laine, of course.

  Mrs. Cummings had told Mom that Laine would be dropped off at their apartment building by the camp bus at three-thirty that aftemoon. So at 3:25 I plunked myself down by the phone and waited for it to ring. When it hadn't rung by 3:35, I decided that Laine's month's worth of camp clothes probably stunk, and that her mother had made her unpack her trunk first thing. But the phone didn't ring by four o'clock and it didn't ring by dinnertime. Finally, not long after Mom and Dad and I had finished eating supper, I decided to call Laine. The only reason she hadn't called me by that time, I told myself, must have been because she was sick.

  "Laine! How are you?" I cried when she picked up the phone. "Are you okay?"

  "Hi, Stacey. Of course I'm okay. What do you mean?"

  "Well, I - I just thought - I guess I meant - you didn't call when you got home -"

  "Well, I've only been home for three and a half hours," she said. And that was when I detected the first nasty hint of... something. Something in her tone.

  But then the rest of the conversation was okay. Eventually, Laine did tell me everything about camp. And when we finally hung up the phone, I told myself I'd been silly to think that anything was wrong. But then the entire next day went by without a word from Laine. Before she went to camp one of us would have called the other first thing in the moming and we would have made our plans for the day. I suppose I could have called Laine, but an unfamiliar voice was twittering around in my head, telling me that Laine
would be annoyed if I phoned her.

  Annoyed? Laine? The person I thought of as my sister? But I listened to the voice and didn't call her until the next day. By then I couldn't stand it any longer. When I did call, Laine seemed surprised to hear from me. Surprised, and a little annoyed.

  "Look, I only have a few days to get ready for school, Stacey. I have a lot to do."

  I wasn't sure what, exactly, she had to do, but since we always did everything together, I replied, "Well, great. I have stuff to do, too. Want to go shopping?"