My parents are arguing.
It's startling. Partly, because my parents rarely ever disagree. And partly, because it is the middle of the night. I am typically a heavy sleeper and sleep through my parents pounding up and down the stairs in the morning, talking loudly and slamming doors. I'm not sure why their voices wake me this time, but my door is open and they're in the hallway and the light spills into the room, ending right before my bed. I roll over and turn the alarm clock toward me. It's three-eighteen a.m. I sit up and rub my eyes, then swing my legs over the side of the bed. I can't hear what my parents are saying. Either their voices are too low or I am too sleepy.
"What's going on?" I ask, interrupting them, leaning against the doorway to my bedroom.
Mom and Dad stop arguing. They're in the middle of the hallway, only a few feet from my bedroom. Dad's in his pajamas, gray flannel pants and a t-shirt. He isn't wearing his glasses. Mom isn't wearing her pajamas. Instead she's dressed in a blue and lavender jogging outfit.
"Your mother," Dad informs me, "has decided to take up jogging."
"What?" I reply, wondering if I heard him incorrectly. "When did you decide this?"
"Fifteen minutes ago," Mom answers. "I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep and the idea came to me. I'm ready to start now."
"It's three-thirty in the morning!" I exclaim.
"I know."
"You aren't running around the neighborhood at three in the morning," Dad tells her. "It isn't even dawn yet. I don't care how safe Stoneybrook is, Fay, you aren't running in the dark."
Mom raises her right eyebrow. "Excuse me?" she replies and rests her hands on her hips. She tilts her chin upward. "You are not my lord and master, Harold Blume. You will not tell me what I may and may not do. You don't control me."
"I'm not trying to control you," Dad argues. "I just don't want my wife running through the streets by herself in the pitch black. It isn't safe. It isn't sane either."
"Well," Mom says and lifts her left hand, fanning her fingers out. She slides off her wedding ring and tosses it at Dad. "Pretend I'm not your wife then," she tells him and then turns and rushes down the hall and down the stairs.
The front door opens and slams shut.
Dad and I stare at each other.
"Are you going after her?" I finally ask.
"That'll only make her angry," Dad answers.
"Is she okay?" I ask.
"Is she okay?" Dad repeats, bewildered.
"Deciding to start jogging at three in the morning isn't exactly normal," I point out.
"Oh...well..." Dad says and scratches the back of his head, where he still has some hair. "That's Fay. She doesn't sleep much. You know that. And she doesn't sleep well." Dad bends down and plucks Mom's wedding ring from the tan carpet. "Go back to bed, Grace."
I hesitate and then obey, slipping back into my room and back into bed, pulling the covers over me. I lay on my left side, facing the alarm clock, which glows bright blue in the dark. I listen to Dad's footfalls on the stairs and in the dead silence of the house, hear the soft creak of an armchair as he sits down, followed by the rustling of yesterday's newspaper. I lay awake, listening to him turn the pages, the singular sound in the house. I lay until five after four when the front door opens and Mom's sneakers squeak on the foyer tile. I rise, quietly, from my bed and slip soundlessly into the hallway and creep to the staircase landing. I can see my parents down below, Mom coming into the living room, cheeks flushed from the cold, and Dad rising from the armchair, folding his newspaper.
"May I have my ring back?" Mom asks him.
"Of course, my dear," Dad replies and opens his hand, revealing the ring resting in his palm. Mom holds out her left hand and Dad steps forward and takes her wrist in his hand. He slides the ring back onto her finger. Mom stares at it a moment, the three diamonds sitting on her finger, and then looks up at Dad and raises her face to his. She kisses him a long time. When she pulls back, she buries her face in the curve of his neck, arms wrapped tight around his back. They don't speak. They just stand there. And they're still there when I turn around and return to bed.
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I drive over to Gran's house after lunch. I ring the doorbell five times before she answers. When she does, she cracks the door open and peers out at me with tired, pale blue eyes.
"I wasn't expecting you," Gran says and her voice sounds tired, too. "Come in." Gran steps back and opens the door wider. She isn't dressed, even though it's nearly one o' clock. Instead, she's wearing a long white nightgown underneath her powder blue silk robe.
"Were you asleep?" I ask her, stepping into the foyer.
"No. I wasn't asleep," Gran answers, leaving the foyer. Her voice drags behind her.
"Do you have another headache?"
"No."
"Oh...Where's Brigitta?" I ask, following Gran into the living room.
"I sent her home. I don't need her here, rattling around and making noise," Gran says and sits down on the couch. She never uses the living room. Aside from her bedroom, the only rooms I ever see her in are the library and kitchen.
I wonder if she's trying to tell me something. I wonder that sometimes, if there are hidden meanings in her words. "Oh..." I say, hesitantly. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No. No. I don't care if you're here," Gran replies and leans her head back against the couch.
"Are you sleeping all right?" I ask her, sitting down on the couch opposite her.
"I sleep fine," Gran tells me.
"Don't you ever have trouble sleeping?"
"What an odd question. Of course. Sometimes. Doesn't everybody?"
I study her a moment. I can't tell if she's lying. I don't see why Dawn would make up stories about Gran staying up late nights, prowling around in her attic. But I don't see why Gran wouldn't admit it either. She can't be sleeping fine if she's awake in the early morning hours. I look at her and she looks exactly the same as any other day, only more worn out, slightly older. There's the same natural rose flush to her pale cheeks, her mouth set in the same relaxed line.
"I don't think Mom's sleeping well," I tell Gran and immediately regret my words as they pass through my lips. I dislike speaking of Mom to Gran and vice versa. It feels like a betrayal and weighs guiltily on my mind.
"She works too much."
I'm uncertain what the two have to do with one another. "She works hard," I say.
"She works too much," Gran says again. "It's just like when she was a girl. Always moving, always going somewhere, always doing something. She never sat still. She would never just be quiet. She was so demanding, just like she is now. I don't know how your father puts up with her. Your mother is lucky to have found a man so worshipful of her. But then, Fay always had a knack for getting exactly what she wanted." Gran closes her eyes.
"Don't you think Dad's lucky to have her, too?"
Gran opens one of her eyes, the pale blue watching me. Mine are the same color, almost exactly the same shade. Mom's are green. It's the single major difference in our appearances, a ripple in the mirror image of Mom at seventeen.
"I suppose he's lucky," Gran concedes and closes the eye again. "Fay is very lovely."
"I think Mom's more than that."
"Fay is a chore," Gran says, flatly.
I should have stayed away another day. Gran's mood has not shifted. I cross my legs and fold my hands over my bare knee. Gran and I sit in silence for awhile. I wonder if I should leave. Maybe I should request that Gran telephone when she is feeling like her normal self again.
But I don't.
"Mom doesn't want me hanging around with Dawn," I inform Gran.
"Because it was my idea?" Gran asks and shifts on the couch, moving so that she stretches across lengthwise on her back, head propped on the armrest.
"No. She didn't say why," I answer. "She doesn't like Dawn's mother. At least, I think she doesn't. She's never said specifically so."
"Fay doesn't like anyone."
I frown at Gran, even though her eyes are closed. That isn't true. Mom likes a lot of people. My parents are very popular in Stoneybrook. They are funny and charming and never around. That makes liking someone easier, I think, if they are never around to really know.
"When Mom was younger, did she and Mrs. Spier not get along?" I ask Gran.
"I don't remember. It was so long ago. I can't imagine why they wouldn't have. Fay is five years older and Margolo and Sharon were never here. They were always over at Rita's house. When would Fay and Sharon have had the chance to not get along? Fay and Margolo fought all the time though. And Margolo and Corinne. And Fay and Corinne. All of them were always fighting. I never should have had three. I hoped there wouldn't be any more after Fay. Fay was more than enough."
"I never knew you only wanted my mother."
Gran doesn't answer.
When the silence wears on, I ask, "You wanted my mother, right?"
"What does it matter? I got her."
"You didn't answer my question."
"You ask too many questions," Gran replies. "You're a very nosy girl. What does any of this matter now? Fay is fifty-one years old. She's here. She's not going anywhere. What's done is done."
My mother didn't want me either. I wonder if Mom knows. I wonder if she knows how it feels to know you were not wanted.
"Were you happy when she was born though?" I ask Gran. Sometimes I wonder if Mom was happy when I was born, or if she was still crying over me.
"I don't remember. I suppose I was," Gran says and drapes her arm over her eyes. "I remember that I was annoyed. Your grandfather tried to name her Vivian. I had already decided that her name was Fay. Everyone said her name should be Vivian. Vivian was Ian's mother. He tried to name all the girls Vivian. It was such an ordeal each time. Vivian. Such a ridiculous name. I wasn't naming any of my daughters that."
That's what she remembers?
"I chose perfectly lovely names," Gran continues, "and Ian and my parents laughed at them all. They said I made Margolo up. It's a real name. And there's nothing wrong with the name Fay. It isn't silly at all. Of course, they were always laughing at me. And I had your mother and they laughed at her name and then that was it. They left me alone. What did I know about babies? I was only twenty-one years old and I'd spent almost my entire life at Miss Kingston's. My parents dropped me off in September and picked me up again in June. Then they dragged me to Scotland and left me there all summer. I never baby-sat. I never knew any little children. Fay was a horrible baby. She was always sick. I would call my mother and she'd say, 'Quit whining, Allison. You're an adult. Grow up. Do what you must.' That was her response for everything."
And I am speechless.
I don't think Gran even notices.
"I'm very tired," Gran announces. "I'm going to take a nap."
I'm uncertain if she means right here and now on the couch. I wait for her to say more, but she doesn't. "Should I leave then?" I ask.
"You don't have to. You may stay if you like."
Am I supposed to watch her sleep? That doesn't appeal to me at all. I stand up from the couch and smooth out my skirt. "I guess I'll go then," I tell her. "I hope you feel better, Gran."
"Thank you," she replies without moving her arm from over her eyes. "Come back tomorrow. Perhaps, I'll feel better."
I hesitate. "All right," I say.
I leave Gran's house. When I shut the front door behind me, I lean back against it and take a deep breath. Sometimes I think I understand Gran and then sometimes she turns as perplexing as my mother. And sometimes she is so warm and wonderful and then sometimes...she is someone else altogether.
I check my wristwatch and it's barely even one-thirty. I still have an entire day to fill. I know where I'll go, but decide to make a stop first. I cross the street, quickly, before I change my mind. So rarely does my mother tell me what not to do that I am unsure if I should disregard her. I am used to doing exactly as I please. Maybe I should listen simply because Mom asks so little of me. She's only ever forbidden me from seeing one person and that was Cokie Mason. I've honored that. And I understand the reason.
Dawn answers the door.
"This is becoming a routine," she says.
I instantly regret coming over.
"Did your grandmother send you?" Dawn asks.
"No," I reply, testily. "I came over to tell you that I'm going over to Emily Bernstein's house."
"So?"
"So, do you want to come? I'm certain that you're feeling like a loser hanging around here by yourself."
"You have a real charming way about you," Dawn tells me.
"I know."
Dawn smiles, slightly. "What's going on at Emily Bernstein's house?"
I shrug. "I don't know. But Emily and Julie are always there," I answer and check my wristwatch again. "And Emily's parents won't be home until after six. That's important to remember. Monday through Thursday, they're in the door by six-ten. Fridays, they're in by four. I try to make sure I'm gone by then."
"That is really sad," Dawn says with a laugh.
"Have you ever actually met the Bernsteins?"
"Well, yeah. I've been in their pharmacy a couple times. And you know, yesterday."
"No, you haven't experienced the Bernsteins at all," I inform her and lean my right hand up against the door frame. "They are the two most bizarre people I've ever met in my life. Mrs. Bernstein is thoroughly unpleasant. The woman is incapable of saying anything nice without following it up with something rude. And Mr. Bernstein is just weird. Have you ever spoken to him?"
"Um...I don't think so."
"Oh, you'd remember. He won't look at you when he speaks to you. He looks at the computer, he looks at the register, he looks at the wall over your shoulder. Sometimes he will look directly at you and when he does, he usually appears confused. Like, you'll be talking to him and waiting for a response and he stares at you with his mouth kind of open and then an hour later, he finally says what he has to say."
"Are you serious?"
I nod. "Absolutely. I think it stems from the fact that living with Mrs. Bernstein, he never knows when it will finally be his turn to speak."
"He seemed to be doing all right yesterday."
I point a finger at her. "That is a new development. I think he's finally snapped. Certainly, he's been teetering on the edge for years. But when they're not having one of their 'discussions', he's the same empty shell of a man, staring down at the pharmacy counter while you're trying to find out if your prescription is ready."
Dawn laughs. "Okay, well, thanks for the tutorial."
"Oh, that's just part one of Conversations With Mr. Bernstein. I'll give you the second part next time. And Mrs. Bernstein, there's no lessons on speaking to her. Just don't. So, do you want to come?"
"Oh, I don't know. You've made Emily's house sound so enticing...I suppose I'll come. Granny and Pop-Pop are out. Let me leave them a note and grab my bag. Do you want to come in?"
"No thanks."
Dawn returns a couple minutes later with an olive green woven bag over her shoulder. I don't find today's outfit nearly as objectionable as the others. She's just wearing jean shorts and a fitted white t-shirt. However, she's wearing those hideous shoes again and that's quite unforgivable. I'm uncertain if she was wearing them when she answered the door. She may have put them on simply to annoy me.
When we reach Rosedale Road, I park at the curb behind Emily's Toyota. Dawn and I cross the front yard together and I ring the doorbell twice in a row. It's a long stretch of seconds before I hear someone's feet padding across the foyer. Emily opens the door.
"Hello!" she greets us and opens the door wider. "Julie and I figured you'd be over eventually," she says to me, then looks over at Dawn. "Hi, Dawn."
"Hey," Dawn replies, stepping after me into Emily's house.
Walking into Emily's house is like walking into a freezer. I'm pretty sure the Bernsteins set the thermostat to fifty or below. It isn't just in the summer. It's year round. And year round, Mrs. Bernstein walks around in sweaters and Mr. Bernstein in short-sleeved shirts. It doesn't make any sense. I'm fairly certain the Bernsteins aren't human.
When Emily turns around and begins leading us toward the living room, I sniff the air. Emily's house always smells exactly the same. Vanilla air freshener barely masking the underlying smell of bleach. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein are obsessive housekeepers. What time they don't spend at their pharmacy, they spend on their hands and knees scrubbing the floors. There's something wrong with that.
"Grace and Dawn are here," Emily announces to Julie when we come into the living room.
Julie's lying on the carpet in front of the television set. She's surrounded by stacks of college brochures, but those are shoved mostly to the side. In front of Julie, there's a half-finished card game that Dawn and I interrupted. Emily takes a seat on the other side of the game and resumes playing, flipping over and moving the cards around. I toss my purse onto the coffee table and fall back onto the couch. I gesture for Dawn to do the same.
And then I hear a cabinet bang shut in the kitchen.
I whip my head around in the direction of the sound, mouth turning down in a frown. "Is someone else home?" I ask Emily.
She glances up from her game. "Yes," she answers. "My mother just got home."
"Why isn't she at the pharmacy?" I ask, barely holding back the grouchiness in my voice.
"She was there earlier. She opened and my dad went in this afternoon. They decided they needed some time apart," Emily explains and bites her lip and turns over another card. "Besides, there was a lot of housework to be done. Dad finished all the laundry this morning and now Mom's cleaning the kitchen."
"Why aren't you helping?" Dawn asks.
Emily wrinkles her nose. "I hate housework," she answers.
"So do I," Julie says, setting down a card, "but my mother doesn't think that's an adequate excuse."
The kitchen door swings open and Mrs. Bernstein walks out. She has not failed my expectations. She's wearing a mid-calf length jean skirt with a dark orange cardigan sweater. In the middle of June. Mrs. Bernstein comes slowly into the living room. The woman never smiles. I think her face might shatter if she ever tried. She's petite like Emily but slightly taller and they have the same thin, straight nose. Luckily for Emily, that's where the similarities end.
Mrs. Bernstein doesn't like me. She always looks irritated when I'm around. She's never forgiven me for all those years Cokie and I called Emily "Emily Bernstink". Kindergarten to fourth grade, Cokie and I spent most of our time and energy thinking of new ways to make Emily miserable. She was such a strange kid. She was so little and quiet and neat. It annoyed us. She was different in other ways, too. She never ate the school lunches or the food at class parties and whenever anyone had a birthday party on a Saturday, Emily never came. Then there were all these foods she couldn't eat. We didn't understand. It all just made Emily seem so much weirder.
Mrs. Bernstein doesn't like my mother either. Kindergarten to fourth grade, they spent a lot of time on the phone together, arguing. There was a stretch of time during third grade when Mrs. Bernstein called every night. My mother blamed Cokie. Mrs. Bernstein didn't appreciate that excuse.
"Hello, ladies," Mrs. Bernstein greets us in a toneless voice. She must be in a good mood. Usually, she sounds crabby. "Hello, Miss Blume," she says to me and on the floor Julie barely stifles a giggle. Mrs. Bernstein glances over at Dawn. "And I don't know who you are," she says.
"Mom, this is Mary Anne's stepsister, Dawn. She's visiting from California for the summer."
"Hello, Dawn. It's nice to meet you," Mrs. Bernstein says. "Would you like something to drink?"
"No thanks, Mrs. Bernstein," Dawn replies. She pauses. "It's nice to meet you, too."
"Miss Blume, would you like something to drink?"
"No," I say, edgily.
Emily picks up a green glass from the coffee table and holds it up. "I'd like some more milk, please," she informs her mother.
Mrs. Bernstein steps forward and takes the glass. "Julie?"
"I'm fine," Julie answers. "But I would like some more cookies."
"So would I," Emily adds.
"All right," Mrs. Bernstein replies and turns to leave the room. Then she turns back. "Since this is Dawn's first time in our home, don't forget to tell her the house rules."
Emily rolls her eyes.
"Please don't roll your eyes at me, Emily Elaine. Please do as I say." Then Mrs. Bernstein turns again and leaves the room, pushing back through the kitchen door.
Emily sighs, heavily and spins around to face Dawn. She leans back on her elbows and rolls her eyes again. "Okay, it's dumb, but they make me tell everyone who comes over."
"I can't believe they still make you do this," I cut in, chuckling.
"Yes, I know. It's dumb," Emily replies. "All right, Dawn - the house rules. There is no playing on the staircase. There is no loitering on the staircase. There is no sliding down the banister or sliding objects down the banister or sending people or objects flying over the banister. And there is definitely no tying ropes or people or chairs to the banister."
Dawn looks over at me and then back at Emily. "There is a story behind these rules, isn't there?" she asks.
"Yes," Emily answers, "but we don't like telling it. My parents are still miffed about having to pay Lauren Hoffman's emergency room expenses. She's still not allowed in this house."
"Lauren Hoffman isn't allowed in anyone's house," I snort, disdainfully, "except Erica Blumberg's."
"Who is Lauren Hoffman?" Dawn asks.
"The girl responsible for some of my most painful childhood memories," Emily responds.
Julie laughs. "The staircase incident is my most cherished second grade memory!" she cries.
Emily narrows her eyes. "That's because you're the only one who escaped unscathed."
"Hey, you'd been wanting to lose your baby teeth," Julie says with another laugh. "And Paul totally didn't end up with a scar like the doctor predicted."
Dawn opens her mouth to say something more, but the kitchen door swings open again and Mrs. Bernstein comes out carrying a plate of peanut butter cookies and Emily's milk. She sets both down on the coffee table, still wearing her usual grim expression. I've no idea when she found time to bake cookies. She's been home less than twenty-four hours. And it smells like she's already cleaned the entire house.
"Thanks, Mom," Emily says, pushing herself into a sitting position and reaching for the glass.
"Thanks, Mrs. Bernstein," Julie's voice echos behind Emily's. She holds the plate out to me and I know enough to take a cookie. I pick one off the plate and bite into it, then shoot Dawn a pointed look.
Dawn doesn't notice. She waves the plate away when Julie offers it. "I don't eat cookies," she explains.
"You don't eat cookies?" Mrs. Bernstein repeats and stares at Dawn from behind her glasses. "Why not? Are you on a diet? You're much too young to be dieting."
"Cookies aren't good for you," Dawn replies. "All that sugar."
Mrs. Bernstein continues to stare at Dawn. "One cookie isn't going to hurt you," she says in her crabby voice. "If you ate twenty, then you'd have a problem." and she turns and goes back into the kitchen.
"You offended her," Emily informs Dawn, sounding slightly irritated. "It may take her awhile to get over this."
Dawn looks over at me. I look over at Dawn. She cocks an eyebrow. I shrug. I warned her that Mrs. Bernstein is nuts.
"Hey, Emily," I say and nudge her back with my foot.
Emily turns around. "Yes? May I help you?"
"Did you open your report card yet?"
"Of course."
"What did you get in P.E.?" I ask. If she says an A, I'm kicking her in the head.
Emily doesn't answer right away.
My jaw drops. "Did you get an A?" I demand.
"Yes and you don't know how many of those dumb history of sports papers I had to write to get that A! Coach Keller should have told me she was docking points for all those excuse notes my mother wrote for me!"
Julie laughs. "You know what I think did it for Coach Keller? The note that said, 'please excuse Emily from P.E. today. She was up late last night studying for classes of importance.'"
Dawn laughs, too. "Your mother did not actually write that!" she cries.
"Oh, she did," I confirm. "I saw the note."
"I think everyone saw that note," Julie says. "I also think Coach Keller's head nearly exploded when she read it."
"P.E. is dumb," Emily says and begins restacking the deck of cards. "I'm so glad we don't have to take it next year! It's such a waste of time and really, my mother was running out of good excuses."
"She was," Julie agrees. "She did give you the bubonic plague once."
"Oh, she did not! She was joking. She gave me a sprained ankle."
"Wasn't that your fifteenth sprained ankle of the year?" I ask. "You were getting really good at hobbling around."
"I practiced at home," Emily says and sits up on her knees. "Do you want to see my photos from the trip? My dad took them to the one-hour place this morning." Emily leans over and moves aside some of her college brochures until she comes up with a photo envelope. She moves onto the couch between Dawn and I and begins flipping through the photos, explaining about each school and her thoughts and her parents' thoughts on them. The photos aren't very interesting. They're mostly of buildings, which is...not interesting. Occasionally, Emily pops up in the photos.
"I hope my dad and stepmom take lots of photos while they're in Europe," Dawn tells us when Emily is through and putting away her photos.
Emily perks up. "They're in Europe?" she asks. "I've been to Europe three times. Why aren't you with them? I'd never forgive my parents if they took a trip like that without me."
Julie looks up from where she's stretched out on the floor, nibbling on what must be her fifth or sixth cookie. "Yeah, why didn't you go?" she asks Dawn.
Dawn shrugs.
"What kind of an answer is that?" Emily wants to know.
I raise an eyebrow at Dawn. I've been wondering the reason as well.
Dawn shrugs again. "He went with his new family," she says, simply.
No one says anything for a moment.
"His new family?" Emily finally asks.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I follow.
Dawn wraps a lock of hair around her finger, appearing awkward and uncomfortable. It's understandable. She doesn't know us. We aren't her friends. Probably none of us know exactly why she's even here. "Jeff and I are Dad's old family," Dawn says after a minute. "We're in high school now and self-sufficient. My stepsister, Gracie, she's almost four and Carol's pregnant again. They're his new family. This trip is supposed to create a stronger bond between them. That's what Carol said."
Emily and I exchange a look and then another with Julie on the floor. I assumed Dawn wasn't in Europe with her father because they don't get along, because underneath her surface she's just as terrible and rotten as Mary Anne claims. Now I wonder where the real truth lies. In the middle or in someone's favor?
"Well, that's stupid," Julie exclaims, rolling onto her side. She props up on her elbow. "Aren't you supposed to be one family? Do you have a wicked stepmother or something?" She's probably thinking of Sharon and how Sharon and Mary Anne are constantly upset with one another.
"No. She isn't wicked at all," Dawn replies. "She's just...well, she's a cool stepmom. That's what she calls herself. She thinks she's my best friend."
"How annoying," I respond. Who wants a clingy mother who doesn't permit you to breathe?
"My dad thinks it's cute," Dawn continues, wrapping her hair tighter. "It isn't cute."
Speaking of mothers who don't permit their children to breathe, Mrs. Bernstein comes back out of the kitchen. Yet again. This time she's holding two identical green glasses, one in each hand. "I brought you a glass of milk," she informs me, holding out one of the glasses. She holds the other out to Dawn. "I hope milk is healthy enough for you," she says. "It's low-fat. We also have whole milk, if that is preferable. I know Emily and Grace like low-fat, but Julie prefers whole."
"Um...this is fine," Dawn replies. "Thank you."
"Yes, thank you," I echo and sip the milk. When Mrs. Bernstein turns her attention to where Emily has rejoined Julie on the floor, I look over at Dawn and mouth so weird and Dawn cocks an eyebrow and nods.
"What are you girls doing?" Mrs. Bernstein is asking Emily and Julie. "Are Stacey and Mary Anne coming over later?"
Emily shakes her head. Stacey and Mary Anne never come over to Emily's house. Except in the fall and winter to use the Bernsteins' hot tub and they're always gone before Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein come home. Mary Anne is afraid of Mrs. Bernstein.
"We're going over to Stacey's later," Emily answers.
I take a quick swallow of milk. "What?" I ask, surprised. This is the first I've heard about it.
"Oh, yes," Emily replies, breezily. "Stacey called earlier today. We're all going over tonight. I was waiting to tell you. Dawn, you'll come too."
"Um...no thanks," Dawn tells her.
"Oh, really now!" Emily exclaims. "This dumbness has gone on long enough! It's ending tonight. Stacey and Mary Anne are making us dinner. It'll be fun."
On the floor beside Emily, Julie looks doubtful, but she keeps her silence. I share her skepticism.
"Emily," Mrs. Bernstein says, "I thought we were going to the store tonight to pick out the fabric for your new curtains."
Emily looks up at her mother. "Can't we go tomorrow instead?" she asks.
"If you prefer," Mrs. Bernstein replies. "However, you also promised your father that you would go over your applications with him."
"I didn't exactly promise," Emily argues.
"He will see it differently and he will be very disappointed," Mrs. Bernstein tells her.
"Can't you deal with him?"
Mrs. Bernstein doesn't answer right away. She regards Emily, dark eyes staring from behind her glasses, face expressionless. She slips her hands into the pockets of her cardigan and says, "Yes. I will deal with him."
Mrs. Bernstein leaves then, this time going upstairs. Thankfully, she doesn't come down again. Emily switches on the television and we spend the next hour and a half flipping back and forth through channels between soap operas and talk shows. Emily, Julie, and I have fun, but Dawn remains quiet, hovering on our outer edges. She doesn't appear so self-confident at the moment. She's worrying about Mary Anne. She's deciding if we can somehow physically force her to go to Stacey's house. Dawn's been away from Stoneybrook far too long. She doesn't realize that even when it's spoken, Emily never hears "no".