Stacey's Ex-Best Friend Read online

  “You’re welcome.”

  I left the room smiling. Nicky had a crush on a girl!

  I stood in the middle of my bedroom and turned around in a slow circle, taking in every inch of the room as I did so. Everything had to be perfect for Laine, who was arriving … today. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Lennie, this rag doll that belongs to Claudia. Claud had brought Lennie over once for a slumber party and had forgotten to take her home. I grabbed Lennie and stuck her under my bed, decided that wasn’t a very good hiding place, buried her under some clothes on the floor of the closet, thought again, and finally stuffed her into the clothes hamper and covered her with some underwear. That should hide her.

  I checked over my room again. The poster of the kitten in the teacup (given to me by Mary Anne) had been taken off my wall. In its place, I had tacked up several photos of Retro, this singing group Laine likes. I had hidden my stuffed pig. In fact, I had hidden my entire pig collection. I just love pigs. Laine used to think that was funny. But I had a feeling she was way beyond pigs now. Actually, it wasn’t just a feeling. Laine had said, during one of our recent phone conversations, “You still have those pigs, Stace?” (She’d giggled.) “I don’t know. I guess I’m just way beyond pigs.”

  After one final check, I decided my room looked suitably adult. I dashed downstairs and opened the refrigerator. “Yikes! Mom, did you get the seltzer?” I asked. “Laine drinks seltzer now. She doesn’t drink soda anymore, and I don’t want —”

  “Honey, the seltzer’s in the cabinet near the sink. Put a bottle in the fridge so it can chill. And would you please calm down?”

  I couldn’t. I couldn’t calm down. I raced around our house. It had to look perfect for Laine, just like my room did. I got rid of a couple of magazines that didn’t seem sophisticated enough, then moved a copy of The New Yorker to the top of the stack. I put away my baby pictures and the pictures of my BSC friends and me on our trip to Disney World. I put away a couple of knickknacks that I knew Laine would think were tacky. She never used to think they were tacky, but that was a year ago, before she’d grown up so much.

  By late in the morning I had begun another project. I was getting ready for a sleepover. The members of the BSC were going to spend the night at my house to welcome Laine to Stoneybrook. We planned to do the usual things — listen to music, experiment with our makeup and hair, and eat. Of course, the sleepover also had to be perfect. I pored over my collection of tapes, put away the children’s music that I sometimes take along on baby-sitting jobs, and moved the newest, coolest tapes to the front of the case, where Laine would see them first. Once again, I despaired over the contents of the refrigerator, but then I decided my makeup collection was decent enough, so I felt better.

  Early in the afternoon, Mom said, “Stacey, we should leave for the station now. Laine’s train will be coming in soon.”

  “Just a minute!” I yelled from my room. Now I was making sure I looked perfect. I examined myself critically in the full-length mirror. This was the outfit I had chosen in which to meet Laine: a purple shirtwaist top over flowered leggings, my cowboy boots (cowgirl boots? cow-woman boots?), a purple hair ornament made from shoelaces, and long dangly silver earrings. I passed my test.

  Mom and I set out for the Stoneybrook station. We arrived five minutes before Laine’s train did. When I saw its headlights shining down the tracks I murmured, “Here she comes.” (I meant Laine, not the train.) I could feel my stomach turn to butterflies.

  The train screeched its way into the station, eased to a stop, and opened its doors. I saw Laine the second she stepped onto the platform. She was hard to miss, considering she was wearing a jean coat with a fur collar (I sincerely hoped the fur was fake), black capri pants edged with lace, very chic black ankle boots, and on her head, a brilliant red oversized beret.

  Immediately, I felt slightly dorky. Even so, I called out, “Laine! Laine!” Mom and I waved frantically.

  Laine nodded to us. “Hi!” she replied. She made her way to me, lugging along a stuffed duffel bag.

  I ran toward her (a little too fast).

  I crashed into her.

  “Hey!” exclaimed Laine.

  “Sorry,” I said, giggling.

  Laine didn’t giggle. She greeted my mother. Then she set her bag on the platform and looked up and down the tracks. There wasn’t much to see except the ticket window and a lot of trees. (Personally, I have grown to like the scenery.)

  “Is this Stoneybrook?” Laine asked incredulously.

  “The outskirts,” I answered. “We’ll drive you through town on our way home. Oh, Laine, I’m so glad to see you! I’m glad you decided to visit.”

  “Thanks,” said Laine, smiling finally. “Me, too. Thank you for inviting me. Thank you, Mrs. McGill.”

  “We’re going to have a party tonight,” I told Laine. “My BSC friends are coming. Everyone wants to see you.”

  “A party? Great!”

  Mom gave Laine a brief tour of Stoneybrook as she drove back to our house.

  “Where’s the town?” asked Laine.

  My mouth dropped open. If Laine hadn’t been thirteen years old, I might have thought she was becoming senile. “We just drove through it,” I said.

  “Through it?” Laine repeated. “Through the town? How did I miss it?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I pointed out the pizza place and the library and those stores.”

  “But where’s everything else?”

  “There is nothing else.”

  “Gosh, what do people do for entertainment?”

  “They go to New York,” I said.

  I felt better when we reached my house, though. Laine and I holed up in my room, lolled around on the floor, and talked the way we used to. Laine told me about King, who sounded … interesting.

  “What do your parents think of his hair?” I asked. King’s hair is purple, but only at the ends. Otherwise it’s black, the way it’s supposed to be. Every day he uses mousse and stuff to make it look bushy and spiky. (Most people can get their hair to look like that just by sleeping on it wet.)

  Laine was carrying four pictures of King in her wallet. As she put them back, she shrugged. “I guess they like it okay. No, that’s not true. They hate it. But they stopped mentioning that to me…. Do you have a boyfriend yet?”

  “Laine!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you think I would have told you if I did?”

  Laine smiled. “I guess so. What about that guy who took you to the winter dance? Do you like him?”

  “Austin? No. I mean, I do like him, but we’re just friends.”

  “Oh. Don’t you want a boyfriend?”

  “Sure. But he has to be the right guy. I don’t want to spend a lot of time hanging around someone I don’t like. What’s the point in that?”

  “I like King!” Laine exclaimed.

  “I didn’t say you didn’t. Sheesh.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  * * *

  My BSC friends started to show up around suppertime. Even though there were eight of us, I had ordered only one hoagie (vegetarian, so Dawn would eat it) because we always end up pigging out on pretzels and chips and nuts and stuff.

  When we had downed the hoagie we went upstairs and jammed ourselves into my room, along with the overnight packs, sleeping bags, bowls of junk food, cans of soda, and a bottle of seltzer for Laine. I turned on the tape deck. Claud and I sat on the stool in front of my dressing table. Claud started to paint her nails. Jessi began playing with Dawn’s long hair. In a matter of minutes, everyone was experimenting with makeup, hair, and nails. Except for Laine. She sat on the bed, her legs crossed, and leafed through a magazine.

  “You know who’s cute?” said Claud, carefully painting a gold dot onto a bright red fingernail. “Ron Belkis,” she answered herself. “Too bad he’s in seventh grade. All the cute guys are the wrong age.”

  “You could go out with a seventh-grader, Claud,” said Dawn. “That would be okay.
You know who I think is cute? Dave Griffin.”

  “How old is he?” asked Laine.

  “Our age. He’s in eighth grade.”

  Laine nodded. “But even thirteen-year-old boys are pretty dorky,” she said.

  I watched Mary Anne get all huffy. “Not all thirteen-year-old boys. Logan isn’t dorky!” she cried.

  “Neither is Bart,” said Kristy.

  “Sorry,” said Laine. “It’s just that King is … well, he’s fifteen.”

  “Can he drive?” asked Kristy.

  “No.”

  “Vote?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then what’s the point in —”

  I interrupted Kristy. I cut her off mid-sentence, before a fight could break out. “Laine, you know what? You’re going to be here for our Valentine Dance,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be neat if you could go to it? We’re all going. Most of us are going with the same guys who took us to the Winter Wonderland Dance.”

  “Not me,” spoke up Dawn. “I don’t think I’ll ever go anywhere with Price again. We don’t have a thing in common.”

  “Price,” repeated Laine. “Awesome name.”

  “Boring dude,” said Dawn. She was hiding a smile.

  “Dude?” Laine said. “Sheesh. That word went out with the sixties.”

  “The sixties are back,” snapped Claud.

  Yikes. What was wrong with everyone?

  My friends were quiet for a moment. Then Laine yawned, stretched, and said, “So what are we going to do tonight?”

  I sneaked a glance at Claud. Maybe Laine was senile after all. Then I said. “We’re — we’re having a sleepover, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. But what are we going to do?”

  “Eat,” answered Claud.

  “I’m on a diet,” said Laine.

  “Gab,” suggested Jessi.

  “Gossip,” added Mal.

  “Beautify ourselves,” said Kristy, trying not to laugh.

  Since none of these answers seemed to impress Laine, I spoke up, sounding falsely bright. “We’re going to find you a date for the dance.”

  “When is this dance?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Six days away,” added Mary Anne. “Six long days.”

  “I don’t know …” Laine’s voice trailed off.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “What will you do Friday night if you don’t go? The rest of us will be at the dance.”

  “Well, what would you be doing if you weren’t going to the dance?” asked Laine.

  There was a pause. “Homework?” suggested Mal.

  “On Friday night?”

  I sighed impatiently. “So go to the dance.”

  “I’ll have to check with King,” Laine answered.

  I saw Dawn roll her eyes.

  “Hey, you know what?” exclaimed Claud, who had finished painting her nails and was now leafing gingerly through the TV Guide. “To Kill a Mockingbird is on!”

  “All right!” cried Laine. She sounded genuinely excited.

  We tuned into the movie. Everyone had fun that night. Even Laine.

  Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold are identical twins, but you would hardly know it. They used to look and dress exactly the same. (This was not their idea; it was their parents’ idea. Their mom and dad would make them wear identical outfits, right down to the jewelry!) But the girls were not happy that way. They knew that under their skin they were different people. So how come they had to look alike?

  They didn’t. Just after their eighth birthday, the girls were finally able to talk to their mom and tell her how they felt. Now, the girls wear their hair differently, and each dresses in her own style. Marilyn wears her hair long and dresses in simple, classic clothes. She likes wool kilts, plaid dresses, jean skirts, and pretty shirts. Carolyn, who’s more outgoing than her twin, cut her hair short, leaving longer curls down her back. She likes trendier clothes — leggings, oversized sweaters, short skirts. However, Marilyn is the decision-maker. She tends to be the leader, and Carolyn the follower. Also, Marilyn’s main interest is playing the piano, while Carolyn likes (loves) science. Now, the girls are twin second-graders whom the teachers and kids at Stoneybrook Elementary can finally tell apart.

  Their baby-sitters can tell them apart, too. But you know what? When the members of the BSC first sat for the twins, the only way we could tell Marilyn from Carolyn was by looking at their wrists and reading the name bracelets their mom had bought for them. Boy, was that a drag. No wonder the twins were unhappy. How would you feel if your friends didn’t know who you were unless they read a sign? (You’d probably feel as though you had no identity.)

  But that’s in the past. And I was glad. My friends and I look forward to sitting for Marilyn and Carolyn, knowing they can’t mix us up anymore, and they won’t be terrors.

  It was Monday, two days after Laine had come to Stoneybrook. Claud was sitting for the twins from three-thirty until five-fifteen (just before our club meeting). The day was sunny and the air felt springlike, considering that it was only early February, and that the groundhog, Saugatuck Sam, had seen his shadow, so we were supposed to be having six more weeks of winter. (Now I was worried about global warming.)

  “Do you guys want to play outside today?” Claudia asked the twins after Mrs. Arnold had left.

  “Yes!” cried Carolyn, but Marilyn nudged her. “I mean no,” Carolyn corrected herself. “Marilyn and I want you to help us make valentines for the Masquerade, now that we know who to make them for.”

  The Pike kids’ invitations had been sent out and everyone had replied.

  We’d invited about twenty-two kids, and fifteen were going to be able to come to the party. This was our guest list: Margo, Nicky, Claire, and Vanessa Pike (the triplets had decided they were too old for Valentine’s Day parties); Matt and Haley Braddock; James and Mathew Hobart; Becca Ramsey; Charlotte Johanssen; Buddy Barrett; Karen Brewer; David Michael Thomas; and the twins.

  We gave a list to each guest so he or she could make cards for the other guests. Or buy them, of course, but we figured making cards was more fun, and that most kids would want to do that.

  No wonder the twins were eager for Claud to help them. Claud is so artistic and creative. And sure enough, when Marilyn said, “We want to make really special valentines, Claudia. Not just regular old hearts with poems,” Claud replied, “How about 3-D cards? You know, pop-ups?”

  The twins loved the idea, so Claud helped them find some art supplies and set up a work space in their rec room. “Now, 3-D is really easy,” she said, when she and the girls were seated at the table. “All you do is take a strip of paper and fold it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like an accordian.” Claudia demonstrated. This is how her folded paper looked:

  “Then,” she continued, “glue one end to your card. On the other end, glue whatever it is that you want to pop up. Like this little heart. See?”

  Claud opened and closed her card. Each time she opened it, the heart jumped out. The paper worked like a spring.

  “Cool!” exclaimed the girls.

  “I’m going to make a huge jumping heart for —” Carolyn started to say. “For — for, um …”

  “Yes?” teased Marilyn.

  “For you-know-who.” Carolyn began to cut a giant heart out of a piece of pink construction paper.

  “You-know-who is the boy she likes,” Marilyn informed Claud.

  “Oh! You —” (Claud almost said, “You have a crush on a boy?” but she decided that might embarrass Carolyn.) Instead she said, “Is this boy going to be at the Valentine Masquerade?”

  “Yup,” replied Carolyn. She glued red glitter to the heart. “And you know what? He’s an older boy.”

  Claud didn’t panic. When you’re in second grade, an older boy could be a third-grader, which was nothing to worry about.

  “Yeah,” said Marilyn, “he’s in third grade,” (Aha! thought Claud), “but Carolyn won’t tell me who he is. I know he’
ll be at the party, though.”

  “Well, you won’t tell me the name of the boy you like,” said Carolyn to Marilyn. “And I know you like someone.”

  “I guess,” answered Marilyn, blushing. “But I’m not going to make a big goopy card for him. Just a regular one.”

  The twins worked busily.

  “How are you going to sign your cards?” Claud asked after awhile.

  Marilyn answered immediately. “I’m going to sign some of mine by drawing a picture of a horse. Get it?” she said.

  Carolyn and Claudia frowned.

  “The horse will be a mare. Mare for Marilyn!” said Marilyn.

  “Neat,” said Carolyn. “I might sign some of mine with a number code. I’ll number each letter in my name. Like, A would be one, B would be two.” She began scribbling the code on a piece of paper. “So C-A-R-O-L-Y-N would be three, one, eighteen, fifteen, twelve, twenty-five, fourteen. Do you think anyone will figure out that code?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Claud. “It’s a good one.”

  “Oh, this party is going to be so, so fun!” exclaimed Carolyn. She sat back. “I wonder if my valentine is big enough.”

  “If it were any bigger,” said Claud, “you’d have to take it to the party in a truck.”

  Carolyn nodded, satisfied. “Good,” she said. “Then you-know-who will like his card.”

  Claud smiled. She had forgotten how much fun Valentine’s Day secrets could be.

  “Laine. Hey, Laine! Wake up … come on. It’s time to get going.” I was leaning into our guest room, whispering to Laine, who was a lump in the bed.

  After a moment, she groaned. Then she said slowly, “I cannot believe I am on vacation and I’m going to school today.”

  I paused. “Well, you don’t have to come. You can stay home again.”

  “That’s okay.” Laine buried her head under the pillow and murmured, “I’ll come. I’ll come. And don’t worry. I won’t make you late.”

  Laine had entertained herself the day before while I was in school. I was pretty sure she had been bored out of her mind. The first thing she said to me when I walked through the door that afternoon was, “Thank goodness you have a television!” She had watched something like five straight hours of TV. So I took her downtown for awhile. It was when we were sitting in Renwick’s, sharing French fries (Laine ate about three) and drinking seltzer, that I sprung my news on her.