Not that I exactly blame her.
I'm coming out of Pierre's Dry Cleaners on Tuesday afternoon and spy Dawn four stores down, chaining her bicycle to the bike rack between the Bernstein's pharmacy and Donut Delite. I watch her for a moment, though she doesn't see me, as her head is bent low while she fusses with her bike lock. I step off the curb and walk around to the trunk of my Corvette, lifting it and laying my parents' plastic wrapped clothes inside. When I shut the trunk, Dawn has spotted me. She straightens and tosses her long blonde hair back over her shoulder. She doesn't smile or wave. But she starts toward me.
"Those are some interesting sunglasses you've got on," Dawn says, loudly, as she approaches.
"They're Chanel," I inform her, though it's doubtful she knows anything of designer brands.
She surprises me.
"How much did you pay for them?" Dawn wants to know.
"Nothing. My dad got them from work."
"Your dad works at Chanel?"
"No. He works at Fiona Fee. So does my mother."
Dawn bursts out laughing.
"What's so funny?" I demand, scowling at her.
"Your parents sell underwear?" she exclaims, still laughing. "Your parents sell overpriced underwear? I thought they were stockbrokers or bankers or something!"
"They do not sell underwear," I reply, testily. "It's not like they're working the register at the Washington Mall! They work at the corporate office in New York. My mother is the Chief Financial Officer now. And my dad's the head of his department. Public relations or event planning or something. So, they don't sell anything. They're very important."
Dawn just laughs.
"There's nothing funny about it. And Fiona Fee isn't just underwear. It's all kinds of nightwear, plus there's a complete skin care line."
"Could you get me some free lace thongs?" Dawn asks.
"I could. But I won't."
"Oh, well," Dawn says and tosses her hair back again. She's dressed in her usual poorly considered outfit - jean shorts with a multicolored braided belt and an orange Universal Studios t-shirt. She just doesn't make any effort at all. "So, what are you doing?" she asks me.
"Picking up the dry cleaning," I reply, shortly, still miffed that she would laugh at my parents' jobs. What do her parents do? Something boring, I'm sure.
"Fun. I was just at the library, where I helped Erica Blumberg shelve children's books for an hour. She works there, you know. But then she had to go mend books or something, so I had to leave. Now I'm going to the Rosebud Cafe for lunch."
"By yourself? What an exciting life you lead."
"Almost as exciting as making a dry cleaning run."
"Almost," I agree.
"Do you want to come to the Rosebud with me?" Dawn asks.
I hide my surprise quite skillfully. "Not really," I answer.
"Oh, well..." Dawn says and sighs. "If you're that afraid of what Mary Anne thinks..."
"I'm not afraid of Mary Anne," I scoff. "Although, I'm not certain her claims of your horridness are completely unfounded, Mary Anne doesn't make my decisions for me. I can dislike you quite easily of my own volition, thank you very much."
Dawn cocks an eyebrow. "So...you are coming?" she asks.
Did I say that? I don't think so.
I stare at her a moment from behind my dark lenses. "Fine," I finally say and walk past her toward the Rosebud. "If you're that desperate."
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Grace," Dawn says, casually, falling into step beside me. "Asking to hang out with you hardly reeks of desperation."
I roll my eyes and quicken my pace slightly, so that Dawn must match my stride. I pull into the lead and push through the front door of the Rosebud Cafe. My friends and I never come here. We like Argo's and Renwick's. The Rosebud is usually too crowded, especially with old people and pesky middle schoolers, but hardly anyone in between. I guess Dawn isn't aware of that. If she's hoping to reconnect with kids she knew at SMS - on the off chance that any of them actually remember her - the Rosebud is not the place to do it. I don't share that information. Instead, I head toward the back and slide into a free booth and open a menu without waiting for Dawn to sit down.
"Hey, the menu's exactly the same!" Dawn cries when she's opened hers. She looks quite pleased.
"I'm having the patty melt," I announce, even though the egg salad sandwich is much more tempting. Except it doesn't have red meat in it.
"I'm having the egg salad sandwich," Dawn says and closes her menu.
Somehow, in some way, she did that on purpose.
Our waiter comes over and when I glance up, I am less than thrilled to discover it's Logan Bruno. He is not one of my favorite people. I had a crush on him, briefly, in the eighth grade. I think the whole of his appeal rested on his Southern drawl. It certainly wasn't due to an engaging personality. Logan is rather dull. He's also a control freak. All his ex-girlfriends say so.
"Hi, Grace," he greets me and I grunt in reply. He doesn't notice. He's focused on Dawn. "Hey, Dawn!" he cries. "Back in Stoneybrook for the summer? Right on!"
Dawn raises her eyes. "Hey, Logan," she says, then opens her menu again. "I want the egg salad sandwich, but instead of fries can I get the fruit platter?"
"Sure thing," Logan says, flipping open his notepad. "Anything for you." He winks.
I roll my eyes and try not to gag.
"Thanks," Dawn says to Logan. "And I'd like a lemonade." She closes her menu and hands it to him with a small smile.
Logan flashes a huge grin back at her.
"And I would like the patty melt," I tell him, loudly, "with an orange soda. Thanks." I thrust the menu in front of his face.
Logan totally ignores me. He doesn't even write down my order. Instead, he continues smiling at Dawn, leaning slightly against our table. "So, when did you get back?" he asks her.
"A little over a week ago," Dawn answers.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Dawn shrugs.
"Ahh...too bad," Logan says. His accent has become much more pronounced, weighing down his words. "You should keep better company than Grace Blume," he suggests.
"Go put our order in," I snap at him.
"Sure thing," Logan replies, but not to me. He's still smiling at Dawn. "I'll bring that out nice and hot for you, Dawn. And I'll get your lemonade." Logan flashes a final smile and then turns and walks away, ducking into the kitchen.
"That was disgusting," I tell Dawn.
"What?"
"'I'll bring that out nice and hot for you, Dawn'," I mimic and then gag. "He was flirting with you in an absolutely excruciating way."
Dawn laughs. "I don't think so," she argues, lightly. "That's just Logan. He's kind of dorky."
"He's kind of lame."
"Shh...he's coming back," Dawn whispers.
"Here you are, ladies," Logan says, breezily, setting our drinks on the table.
I stare at mine. "That isn't an orange soda," I inform him with irritation.
And Logan's much too busy talking to Dawn to even hear me.
His taste in girls is really quite appalling.
"And three hours later, we finally get our food," I say, sarcastically, when Logan brings our lunches after tearing himself away from our table long enough to return to the kitchen. He still doesn't bring me the correct soda. He so isn't getting a tip.
"Well, it's refreshing to have someone actually be friendly toward me," Dawn says, spearing a strawberry with her fork. "Other than my grandparents and Jeff. Or Claudia and Erica."
"Claudia and Erica are nice to everyone," I say, squeezing ketchup over my fries. "That's just Claudia and Erica."
"And I'm not special, right? I remember," Dawn replies and bites into the strawberry. "Claudia, Erica, and I went to the movies last night. We saw that new Corrie Lalique movie. Second Star. It was really good. Claudia isn't at all concerned with what Mary Anne thinks of me."
"Neither am I. I've just never liked you."
"You know, Grace Blume, you have these moments where you aren't terrible at all and then...you open your mouth again," Dawn says and bites into her egg salad sandwich. She chews and swallows and washes it down with her lemonade. "Did you know your grandmother's an insomniac?" she asks.
"No," I reply and bite into my own sandwich.
"Well, she is. My room at Granny and Pop-Pop's faces her house and every night I wake up at two a.m. to use the bathroom. It's like clockwork. I can't help it. My bed is right underneath the window and I keep the blinds partially open so I get the breeze. So, every night, I get up at two a.m. and when I look out the window, I see your grandmother's bedroom light on. I mean, I assume it's her bedroom. Last night, a light in the attic was on. What was she doing in the attic at two in the morning?"
I shrug and dip a french fry into the ketchup. "I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"
"Well, what's in the attic?"
I shrug again. I've never been in Gran's attic. Why would I go up there? "I don't know. Attic stuff," I answer.
"I think it's kind of strange."
"I think you should mind your own business. Why are you still living with your grandparents anyway? I thought you were going home?"
"Oh..." Dawn says and spears another strawberry. "I don't think that's going to work out. I went over for dinner last night and Richard and Jeff got into it. Then Mom got in the middle and pulled me along with her. Richard can be an uptight jerk, but he really didn't deserve that - three against one and all. He's really upset about Mary Anne refusing to come home. He blames Mom and I'm sure he blames me too. He's been pretty nice about not pointing it out though." Dawn pops the strawberry in her mouth.
"Whatever did you do to make Mary Anne so angry?" I ask. It is the obvious question. Mary Anne can be a drama queen, but she is - usually - not irrational. And she usually doesn't carry on this long.
"I didn't do anything," Dawn insists. "Well, I laughed at her. Well, not so much at her but at something she thought and did. It was dumb. I shouldn't have laughed. But then, that's really not the problem. It's just an excuse. What Mary Anne's mad about started before I came back and it's all wrapped up in her and Mom. They're just dragging me into the middle, pulling me along for the ride, and now I am removing myself."
"What did Mary Anne do?" I ask.
"I can't tell you."
My eyebrows shoot up. She can't tell me? After all she's said, this she can't tell me? I watch her a moment, twirling a french fry in the ketchup, and thinking. What could Mary Anne possibly have done?
"My mother smothers me," Dawn announces, suddenly. She blushes like, out of everything she's said, this is the worst. "Do you know what that's like?" she asks.
I don't answer right away. I continue twirling the french fry in the ketchup. "No," I finally say. "I don't know what that's like. My mother gives me all the space I need."
"Lucky for you. Mine wants too much of me. She wants to be all these things. She wants just me and not Mary Anne. And there is the problem," Dawn says and takes a huge bite of her sandwich. She stares out the window while she chews.
I am lucky.
I bite into my patty melt, chew chew chew, wash it down with diet cola, and remind myself of that again.
After lunch, Dawn rides her bike off in one direction on Essex and I drive off in the other. When I stop at the light at where Essex crosses Main and check the rearview mirror, Dawn has already disappeared from sight, disappeared to wherever she is headed next. Someplace lonely, I suspect. I don't want to be lonely, so I drive to Rosedale Road, to Julie's house. Julie and I have played phone tag the last couple of days. I drop by on the chance that she is actually around when I look for her.
I have to park at the curb because Paul is in the driveway shooting baskets by himself. Paul's on the varsity basketball team and I will - grudgingly - admit that he is a fantastic player. Unfortunately, Paul is perfectly aware of this, too.
"Hello, darling!" Paul calls out as I cross the front lawn.
As usual, I ignore him.
Julie answers the door when I ring the bell. I'm pleased to see that she's wearing the t-shirt and bracelet I bought her in Fiji. She didn't even know I was coming over.
"Hey!" she greets me, brightly, and holds open the front door. "Good timing. I just got home."
"Where have you been?" I ask, stepping into the foyer.
Julie shuts the door behind me. "I went to the community center to play volleyball. Then I visited my dad at the post office and my mom at the Strathmoore. And then I checked on the Bernsteins' pharmacy to make sure Mr. Malkowski hadn't keeled over dead or burned it down or something like that. I don't think the Bernsteins would care for that," Julie says and leads me to the back of her house, to the family room, where she throws herself on the tweed couch. "We were talking about you at the community center - me, Heather, Kathleen, all the girls from the team that were there. Everyone's still mourning the fact that you refuse to join the team. You're so damn tall, Grace. And coordinated. It's a travesty that you waste all that on tennis." Julie makes a disgusted face.
I wrinkle my nose at her and rock back slightly in the recliner. Julie just says that because Julie is a horrid tennis player. I've seen her play and it's just sad. "I don't care for volleyball," I say, simply.
"But you're good! Come on, we dominated the volleyball unit in P.E. this year! Undefeated champions. We carried our team."
"I know," I agree, but don't point out that we never would have remained undefeated had Emily not spent the entire volleyball unit sitting on the bleachers, faking asthma and twisted knees. "Did you get your report card?" I ask Julie.
"Yeah. It came yesterday."
"Did you get straight A's?"
"No!" Julie cries and makes a weird face. Julie dislikes discussing grades. Julie's smart. She just acts like an idiot. She doesn't want people to realize. "I got an A-minus in physics and a B-plus in math analysis."
"Those are advanced classes," I tell her. "You practically got straight A's."
Julie shrugs. "It doesn't matter. What did you get in physics and math analysis?" she asks me. Julie, Emily, and I were in the same classes.
"B-pluses."
"Good job, Miss Blume. I'm proud of you."
"Thanks," I reply and tug down on my jean skirt, which has started to bunch. "You know, if Emily Bernstein gets an A in P.E. again this semester, I'm filing a complaint."
"Oh, me too!" Julie exclaims and laughs. "She's the worst phys ed student in the history of Stoneybrook High, I think. She should get some sort of plaque for it. Remember when she tried to step over the hurdles during the track unit?"
"And somehow got stuck? Yeah. That was pathetic. Or when she jumped under the bar during the high jump? On purpose? And I swear, she hid in the bathroom for the entire lacrosse unit. I don't care what she claims. She was not playing on Katie Shea's team. I know Emily's petite, but she's not invisible. She should fail the class for complete lack of effort."
Julie laughs. "Mr. Bernstein would be furious! Quietly furious, but furious nonetheless. I think Mrs. Bernstein would be torn. On one hand, she thinks physical education should be outlawed. On the other hand, Emily receiving anything less than an A might literally kill her."
"Emily's parents need to get a grip."
Julie shrugs, but doesn't comment. "The Bernsteins will be home on Thursday," she tells me. "Emily called last night."
"How many times have you talked to Emily since she's been gone?"
"Four."
"Four! Julie, she's been gone for a week."
"She has a lot to tell me," Julie replies, defensively. "She's excited and wants to tell me about the schools. It's a big decision deciding where we're going next year."
I'm pretty sure she means where Emily decides they go next year, but I don't point that out. Instead, I say, "It's a good thing you're going away together. If you can't last a week, I don't see how you could survive an entire semester apart. However, Julie, I hope you realize what living with Emily Bernstein in a five-by-five room will be like. That is, not fun."
Julie just shrugs.
"You'll be at each other's throats in a month."
Julie looks surprised. "No, we won't," she protests. "Emily's crazy, but that's Emily. I'm used to her quirks. They don't bother me. Besides, we never fight. Oh, well, except for that one time."
Technically, I think that "one time" is actually called "seventh grade" but I don't point that out either.
"You know her parents will visit every weekend," I say.
"That's fine. I like her parents."
And I will never understand why.
"Do you want some lemonade?" Julie asks me, sitting up on the couch. She swings her legs onto the carpet.
"Yeah, sure."
Julie hops off the couch and vanishes beneath the archway to the living room. A few seconds later, I hear the refrigerator open and then a cabinet open and bang closed. Julie's very noisy. She causes a commotion wherever she goes. I don't think she even realizes. She's just Julie.
Of everyone in our group, Julie and I have been friends the longest. Maybe friends is the wrong term. We've had...an understanding...the longest. Pretty much since the day she gave Cokie and I matching black eyes in fourth grade. Julie moved to Stoneybrook from Stamford the summer before second grade. Cokie and I didn't meet her until the first day of school when we walked into Mr. Eccles' classroom. Julie was a bit of a shock to us. Until then, I'd always been the tallest kid in our grade, taller even than the boys. Then Julie appeared and she was just as tall as me. We knew Julie was strange from the beginning. Julie didn't care about me and Cokie or about anything we had to say. We weren't used to that. In kindergarten and first grade, Cokie and I had dedicated our lives to terrorizing Emily, who aside from Mary Anne and Kristy Thomas, was the smallest kid in our grade, and didn't fight back. Julie changed that and in fourth grade, stopped it altogether with two powerful right hooks. My mother was livid. Julie's mother didn't care.
And since then, Julie and I have been on, more or less, friendly terms.
"Here you are," Julie announces, returning to the family room and handing me a clear plastic glass with yellow daisies around the center. "What do you want to do? Do you want to watch a movie?"
"Sure. That's fine," I reply and sip my lemonade as I rise from the recliner. I sit down, slowly, beside Julie on the carpet by the cabinet where the Sterns keep their videos. Indian-style is awkward and near impossible in my tight jean skirt, so I reposition so that I'm kneeling on my knees. "Oh, hey, Julie," I say, watching her pull out videos from the cabinet. They're all recorded from the t.v. and labeled in various handwritings, some nearly illegible, some neat and precise. The latter would be Julie's. "Does someone named Kara live on this street?"
Julie groans. "Yes. Why?"
"I met her the other day," I say, casually. I don't think I should say any more.
"Unfortunate for you," Julie replies. "She lives next door to Emily in the green house with the black shutters. She's a vicious bitch. Just nasty. So are her parents. They don't like the Bernsteins. They don't like us either. I guess it's because the Bernsteins are Jewish, which is such a dumb reason. I'm stunned the Ferguison's didn't move out the moment Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein moved in." Julie slides a video back into the cabinet and hesitates. "If I tell you what Kara did once, will you promise not to tell anyone?" she asks.
"I promise."
"Oh, well, a couple years ago, Kara left a copy on Mein Kampf on the Bernstein's doorstep. Mein Kampf is this book - "
"I know what it is," I interrupt her. "It's Adolf Hitler's autobiography. We read excerpts in World History."
"Oh. That's right," Julie says. "Kara left a copy on their doorstep. We know it was her because Rachel was in our front yard, weeding the floor beds and saw her. She set it on the doormat and then ran away."
"That's disgusting," I say. "And really cruel. What did the Bernsteins do?"
"Nothing. Well, not nothing. The next time Mr. Bernstein saw Kara, he said, 'thank you for the book. It was very enlightening.'"
"Oh, he did not," I scoff with a laugh. "Mr. Bernstein said that? Out loud? To her face?" Half the time, Mr. Bernstein won't even look me in the eye when he speaks to me. The other half of the time, he won't speak to me at all.
"Yes. He claims he really said it. And a few days later, Kara left her bicycle on her front lawn, so I threw it in the street and Rachel backed over it with our car."
I smile. Oh, the vigilante justice of the Stern family. "I didn't know anyone was like that in Stoneybrook," I remark.
"Some people are just mean. Like the Ferguisons. Most people aren't that way. I don't think anyone else in Stoneybrook cares that the Bernsteins are Jewish. If they do, they keep it to themselves," Julie says. "But you really can't tell anyone. It's a secret because Mrs. Bernstein doesn't know. Mr. Bernstein didn't want to upset her. She's really sensitive about stuff like that."
"Oh, well, I'll try to remember to not mention it during our next weekly phone chat."
Julie laughs. "Please try your hardest," she says and holds up a video. "Do you want to watch this?" she asks. "It's that Corrie Lalique movie - The Desmond Falls. I taped it last week."
"That's fine. I like that movie," I answer and push myself to my feet, stumbling slightly as I straighten, tripping in my wedge sandals.
"I think it's her best movie. Have you seen her new one?"
I shake my head.
"We should go then," Julie says, turning on the television and the VCR. She slides the tape in. "Oh, I almost forgot. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon? We're having a barbecue. You have to come."
I sit back down in the recliner and cross my ankles. "I don't have any plans. Are Stacey and Mary Anne coming?"
Julie turns and makes a face. "No. They're going to some stupid play in Stamford with Mary Anne's grandma. But Erica and Claudia are coming. I saw Erica when I went to the library to return my books this morning and I invited her. It's probably best that Mary Anne won't be here because Paul invited Pete and Ross. I must warn you, Pete will spend the entire barbecue sobbing about Mary Anne. It's pathetic."
"Can I bring someone?" I ask.
"Sure, you can bring Mari," Julie answers. "You can bring anyone you want. My parents won't care."
"Oh...thanks," I reply.
Julie grins and presses the play button and then jumps back onto the couch.
In the evening, long after I've left Julie's house, I'm in my bedroom by myself. Downstairs, my parents are in the office. I hear their voices mixed in with the spinning wheels of Mom's stationary bike and the fast notes escaping from the stereo. My dad likes big band music. My mother tolerates it. Their laughter rises up the stairs, drifting like a cloud, thinning as it spreads. I sit down at my desk and remove a binder from the bottom drawer. I flip it open. The first section is all lists. I keep a lot of lists. Things I like about myself, things I need to improve on. Lists about the kids at school and where I fall in front of and behind and between them. The second section of the binder is full of lists, too. Different kinds of lists. They're lists about the people in my life with a line drawn down the center. In the left column, I write good things. In the right column, I write bad things. Everyone's negatives and positives. My parents have a lot of pages. So does Gran. Their lists go on and on. Almost everyone's lists even out, the good balancing with the bad. Rachel Stern's the only person without a single positive comment. Even Mrs. Bernstein has one.
There's nothing new to write about my parents. There's nothing new to write about Gran either. It's all the same things I've written again and again. Sometimes worded differently, sometimes exactly the same. I turn to Julie's page and in the left column write appreciates gifts. Then I turn to a fresh page in the back and write, very neatly, Dawn Schafer across the top. I use a ruler to make a straight line down the center. In the left column, I write pretty hair and pretty skin. In the right column, I write poor dresser and from California. Perhaps, someday, I will write more. If Dawn is deserving. I close the binder and slide it back into its drawer, and switch off the desk lamp.
