Betsey Gordon set down her book with a troubled sigh. She didn't know what was wrong with her—usually Jane Eyre's exploits entertained her for hours on end—it was her favorite book. But today it didn't seem to have the same tang to it. In fact, Betsey found herself wondering why she had ever read it before! Jane was so wishy-washy—why did she let Mr. Rochester stomp around in those black moods?—if he had tried that with her, Betsey, he would have found his ears tingling, and that's for sure!

She tossed the book aside in annoyance—at herself. It wasn't Miss Bronte's fault that she was in a nasty mood. Betsey knew that it probably had more to do with the fact that it was a whole week since Judith had gone—a whole week without Judith! In all of her mind's eye, she could not remember even a day without darling Judy by her side.

The house was too quiet, without Judy's radio always blaring—without her friends calling always on the 'phone—and things seemed dull and flat without her whirling in and out, always on her way to somewhere else. Betsey even thought, in the long silences of the evenings, while mother sewed and dad drafted in his study, that she rather missed Judith's arguing with everyone, too.

And she had to admit that it was more—comfortable—with Judy around. Not only because Betsey missed her; not only because her twin was her best friend. But because Judy was always doing something, and that kept mother and dad from noticing Betsey too much. But now—Mother was always looking at Betsey with a concerned look in her warm brown eyes and Dad was always saying, in some surprise:

"Home again, tonight, Bets? Haven't got a date?"

The question always made Betsey flush. She had never had a date—not even once. Judy was always trying to arrange 'doubles' but at first Betsey was too shy to go along, so she said no. Now it seemed that everyone had paired off, and Betsey had reconsidered her position. She would like to know what it was like to go out with a boy—to hold his hand—perhaps even to kiss him. But she had said 'no' so many times that she did not know how to now say 'yes.'

It wouldn't be so bad if only Mother stopped pestering her, too! Every afternoon, when Betsey came in with her book, Mother met her anxiously at the door.

"Why don't you go to the movies?" she suggested. "You could call Patty, or Meg. I'm sure they're missing you."

Betsey only shook her head lightly. Patty and Meg—and Joanie and Linda and Bobbie—they were all friends of Judith's. Betsey only tagged along with them—they weren't her friends, not really.

Oh, what she would have given for a friend—just one girl-friend—to laugh and talk with!

She was lonely. She thought peevishly that mother might have thought about how Betsey would feel before she sent Judy away for the whole summer! And she was angry with herself. Why, mother and dad had a party to go to almost every night—how was it that Betsey's parents should have a better social life than she did?

"I hate leaving you alone," Mother said regretfully, as she and dad were leaving to go to a party at the Morrisons' down the street. Betsey would have come along except that Joanie Morrison made her nervous—she was such a pretty girl, always in the middle of a crowd. Rather like Judy. Betsey smoothed her skirt.

"I'll be all right," she said, trying to keep her tone bright and cheerful. "I—I have a book I wanted to finish, anyway. You know I'm not one for parties—and—and things."

So Mother and Dad went, and all night Betsey sat in her darkened bedroom, listening to the sounds of laughter floating in on the night air. She felt lonelier and lonelier, and looked longingly at the telephone on her night-side table. It was a powder blue princess phone—she and Judy each had gotten one for their last birthday. Only Judy was always using hers—while Betsey hardly ever did. She seized it, now and dialed long distance.

She waited while the operator connected her to the Bay Shore. And then the phone rang once—twice—three times. A voice answered, out-of-breath but full of laughter.

"May I speak to Judith, please?" Betsey asked, the terrible hunger for her twin like a lit flame in her heart. If she could only hear Judy's breathless, cheerful voice, it would help a little.

"Oh, dear," said the woman on the other end of the line—was it Aunt Winnie? Betsey didn't know. She only felt her heart plummet at her words. "Judy's gone out with her cousins tonight, I'm afraid."

Betsey blinked hard to keep the tears from falling. "Do you know when she will be back?" she asked, voice wobbling dangerously.

"I'm afraid I don't," said Aunt Winnie gently. "Could I take a message for you, and pass it along to her?"

Betsey listened to the static and crackle coming across the line. It seemed too unfair that Judy should be able to go away to a whole new place and make friends, and have things to do—fun times, and the like—while she, Betsey, didn't have one friend in a place she had lived her whole life.

"Dear?" asked Aunt Winnie. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"No," said Betsey, and hung up quickly, so that her aunt would not hear the tears in her voice.

xxxxxxxxxx

It was a new morning, and Betsey woke up with a feeling of resolve in her heart. She brushed her long dark hair and was about to tie it back with her usual Alice-band when she thought of the colorful barrettes in Judy's dresser. Her hand hovered for a moment, and put the Alice-band back. Why not? She thought as she made her way into her sister's room. Judy was always getting after Betsey to do something different with her hair—she surely wouldn't mind.

Betsey clumsily clipped back two sides of her hair with bright plastic barrettes shaped like cherries. She looked at herself in the mirror and for a moment thought she looked foolish. She made a move to take the clips out but stopped herself. No—it was only that she was wearing her old, school-girlish pink gingham dress. Anyone would look silly in that! Her heart pounded with an idea and slowly she eased open the top drawer of Judy's bureau, peeping inside.

Judy had taken all of her 'best' outfits with her to the island but there were a few things she had left behind. There was a white pair of culottes that Judith had always hated because they were too 'long'—even still, they were shorter than anything Betsey owned. She put them on, and was surprised by how long and tan her legs suddenly looked. Buoyed up with courage, she rummaged further and found a red t-shirt, which she pulled over her head. It came with a little belt that was also printed with gay, red and white cherries. Betsey wound it around her waist and stepped back to regard herself.

Why—she had a shape! Quite a nice shape, too, if she wasn't mistaken—Betsey had thumbed through enough of Judith's magazines to know that this kind of gently curving figure was much sought after. She looked at her reflection and marveled again how much she and Judy looked alike. Of course they were identical twins, but you know...

Betsey reached forward for a little make-up bag on the dresser top and stopped. Did she dare? She bit her lip. Oh—well, maybe just a little of this clear gloss on her lips. She dabbed it on, experimentally.

"Betsey!" called Mother up the stairs. "Breakfast is ready!"

Betsey suddenly felt nervous—and ridiculous. She couldn't let mother see her like this! What on earth would she think—and Dad? She stepped out of the shorts and shirt and tossed them back into their drawer, pulled the cherry barrettes from her hair and threw them across the room, and used one of Judy's scarves to scrub her lips. The pink gingham went back over her head and she shook her hair loose. Oh, that exciting girl in the mirror was gone—and old, drab Betsey was back again!

"I'm coming," she called back, and trudged downstairs to the kitchen.

Mother served her a plateful of eggs and bacon and sat down eagerly to watch Betsey eat.

"What are your plans today, darling?" she asked eagerly.

Betsey's plans had been to sit out under the willow tree with Wuthering Heights but her mother looked so hopeful that she couldn't tell her that.

"I—I think I'll go and see what Patty Kelly is up to," she said, surprising herself. Patty Kelly was Judy's friend—but Betsey had always liked her. She read things—things besides Seventeen magazine—and she had a sturdy, sensible look to her that Betsey had always liked.

"Oh!" Mother cried, in delight. "Well, isn't that marvelous? Won't you have fun!" Betsey tried to smile and pushed her plate away but her heart was thudding painfully in her chest. Mother was so happy, that now Betsey must really do it—go and knock on Patty Kelly's door and talk to her, without Judith beside her to make things easier.

Her stomach was in knots as she made her way down the street. The Kellys had a pool in their backyard—one of the only families on the street to have one—and Betsey could already hear the sounds of laughter and splashing coming from their backyard. She wished miserably that she had worn her bathing suit under her clothes but she hadn't; she had been afraid it would look rather presumptuous. But wouldn't it look sillier still not to have brought it? She raised her hand and knocked at the front door miserably.

There was no answer. Betsey groaned inwardly. She had two options—she could either go home in defeat or walk around the yard to the back. She could hear Patty's voice from back there, and a half-dozen other voices, to boot. She cringed, and decided to go home—but then remembered the happy look in her mother's eyes. Betsey squared her shoulders and thought that if she was going to do it, it was best to get it over, quick.

"Oh!" cried Patty Kelly, as she saw Betsey come through the gate. "It's you! You're here! Oh, I'm so glad to see you?"

A chorus of other voices averred the same sentiment, and Patty jumped up to pull Betsey over to the little glass-topped table, where lemonade was being served in painted glasses. Betsey couldn't believe her luck. Why, it was just as mother said—people did like her, and they all seemed to want her here! She glowed with pleasure.

"Back from that musty old island already?" Kathy Powell asked, getting out of the pool and coming to give Betsey a hug. "We all knew your parents would relent, Judy. They couldn't keep you away all summer—that's what we all thought."

At once Betsey's happiness faded and her arm trembled so much that a little wave of lemonade slopped over the edge of the glass onto her dress. They thought—they hadn't thought—oh, they thought she was—!

"I'm not Judy," she said in a low voice, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks. "I'm—I'm Betsey."

"Oh," said Kathy. Her arm dropped limply to her side.

"Oh," said the other girls.

"Oh—Betsey," said Patty Kelly in surprise. "Well, of course we're happy to see you, too—aren't we, girls?" There was a warning note in her tone. "We'd love for you to stay and swim with us. Why, it's the next best thing to having Judy here, after all!"

"Yes," said the other girls faintly. "The next best thing."

"You must go put your suit on and come swim," said Patty, regaining her confidence.

"I—I haven't brought one," Betsey said miserably.

"That's all right—you can borrow one of mine. It's hanging on the back of the bathroom door."

Betsey went inside, trying not to notice the peculiar silence that had fallen over the group. Once in the bathroom she splashed her face with cold water and surveyed the tiny yellow two piece Patty had provided for her. Could she wear such a thing? She put it on, but still felt naked, so she grabbed a towel from the back of the door and wound it around her body, which seemed so pale next to all the other girls.'

"I can do this," she whispered to herself. "Judy could—and so I can, too."

She affixed a cheerful smile to her face as she made her way back to the giggling group. It was like Mother said, if you couldn't be happy you should be as happy as you could.

"Hey," said Julie Hodgkins, as Betsey loosened her towel a bit. "That's a really cute…" Betsey held her breath. "Bathing suit," Julie finished.

Betsey slumped. "It's Patty's," she whispered, feeling as out of place as she ever had.

Still, she stuck it out, all afternoon, and only when her face flamed red with sunburn did she get up to go. She noticed, as she left, that though the girls wished her farewell with warmth and enthusiasm not one of them said she hoped to see Betsey again at one of their gatherings.

Betsey went upstairs and slathered her red and peeling face with Noxzema. She changed into her own comfortable clothes, put Patty's bathing suit into the hamper to wash, and went downstairs to find her mother.

"Can you please—please Mother—oh, won't you send for Judy—and bring her home?"

Pat put down the book she had been reading and regarded her daughter. Older than Judy by six minutes—but sometimes it felt as though Betsey were younger—by six years. With her hair tied back and her face dabbed with cold cream, she looked no bigger than the little, shy, scared girl she had been at four—six—twelve—that she was, even now.

"Do you really miss her so much, darling?"

"Oh," Betsey cried, throwing herself at her mother's feet. "So terribly—so terribly, mother! I don't know what I'll do with her gone all summer. Judy's always been my eyes—my ears—my voice—and I can lean on her, when I need to. It's horrible with her gone—I feel as though I'll stumble and fall, because she isn't there to help me up. Oh mother, what shall I do if you don't let her come home?"

Pat looked into her daughter's face and thought of her other daughter, who was far away. It was true that Pat herself had been having misgivings about Judy's punishment—the entire summer was a long time—but now, looking at Betsey, she resigned herself to it. It must be done.

"You have relied on Judy your whole life—and well you should. She is your sister, after all—and sisters should depend on each other. But there are limits, Bets. What will happen when Judy grows up—and goes away—what will you do then? It is never too good to cling to one person too much."

"Does this mean," asked Betsey piteously, "That you won't let Judy come home?"

Pat leaned down and kissed her girl's reddened cheek. She wondered why it was that the world, which was so full of fun and excitement for Judith, should be so terrible and frightening for Betsey. She, Pat, had always found the world a very lovely place—and she was determined that Betsey should, too—in her own time.

"It means," she said, gently but firmly, "That it is about time for you to learn to stand on your own two feet. Without Judith. Just as Betsey."

Just as Betsey! Betsey buried her face in her hands. Just as Betsey—how lonely that sounded—and how impossible!