One would assume that after the night I've had I would sleep most of Sunday away. Originally, that was my plan. But when I open my eyes Sunday morning, I know I won't be falling back to sleep. I'm awake and somehow, not at all tired. I roll over and check the alarm clock. It's thirteen after nine. As much as I'd like to stay in bed all day, pretending Saturday night never happened, I realize that's impossible. I kick back the sheets and pull myself out of my nice, warm bed. I throw on a pair of old jeans and a blue v-neck sweater, then brush my hair.

I assumed Mom would still be asleep, but when I step into the hall, I hear her voice down in the kitchen. It's raised, but I'm not able to make out her words. She must be on the phone. I slip into the bathroom, wondering who Mom could be talking to. Mrs. Pike? Mr. Prezzioso? The Masons? Maybe it's news about Cokie. Bad news. Grace, Mrs. Pike, and Mom all made it very clear that Cokie really could die. I guess I didn't believe it. I don't want Cokie to die. Sure, we've never been friends and back in middle school Cokie sort of terrorized the Baby-Sitters Club. But she doesn't deserve to die. And despite all the mean things I've said about her, Cokie Mason isn't terrible. We sit together in English class (because the seating is alphabetical) and we've had a good time. She's still snotty and a bit mean-spirited, but she doesn't torment Mary Anne anymore and...and her faults and attributes don't matter too much because whatever kind of person she is, Cokie Mason doesn't deserve to die.

My stomach's doing backflips as I descend the stairs. Mom's voice has risen, but I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting closer or because she's getting angrier. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I pause and listen. Eavesdropping is wrong, I know, but I need to assess the situation before stepping into it.

"How am I to blame for all this?" Mom demands in a tight voice. "How is this my fault? I can't watch her twenty-four hours a day, Ed."

My stomach does more than a backflip. It twists up into a knot. Mom called Dad. I can't believe it. It never occurred to me that she'd call him. It never occurred to me that she could call him since I threw away his address card. And why should she call him? This doesn't concern him. It's none of his business. He doesn't care about me or my life, so why should he care that I might be (very, very indirectly) to blame for a girl almost dying of alcohol poisoning?

"What does that matter?" Mom exclaims. "It's none of your concern where I was...no, it's not...well, I wasn't here...no, I'm not telling you where I was...that's not the point...that's not the point...that's not the point, Ed!"

I decide it's safe - and possibly for the best - to enter the kitchen. If Mom's consumed with her bitterness and anger toward Dad, then she might not have any left over for me. Mom doesn't acknowledge me when I walk into the kitchen. I'm not sure she fully realizes that I'm even present. She's standing by the phone with a hand on her hip, appearing furious (although not quite as furious as last night). She's already dressed with her hair and make up done. There are deep, dark crescents under her eyes.

I can hear Dad's muffled voice through the receiver. Mom listens for awhile. I pour a glass of orange juice and start buttering an egg bagel. I slide into a chair at the table and watch Mom. She frowns at me and turns partially away.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, Ed," Mom says, although she doesn't sound sorry at all. "It's difficult raising a teenager when there's absolutely no support from the father...of course I got November's check. That's not what I'm talking about...she just walked in...just a minute...just a minute!" Mom turns back to me and holds out the phone. "Your father," she tells me in the flat voice she reserves for talking about Dad.

I shake my head. There's nothing I have to say to him. He has no right to yell at me or judge me or judge Mom's parenting. This isn't about him and I don't want him involved.

Mom puts the phone back to her ear and turns away again. "She doesn't want to talk to you," Mom tells Dad. "Well, why do you think? Maybe because you haven't bothered to contact her in over a month...a mass produced change of address card doesn't count, Ed...if you could stop being a complete bastard for more than five seconds then perhaps - " Mom stops abruptly. Dad hung up on her.

Mom slams down the phone and whirls around, her eyes flashing with anger. For a moment, I'm frightened my earlier theory was incorrect and Mom's going to turn on me with all the pent up rage she has for my father. Instead, Mom storms across the room and pours a fresh cup of coffee. I watch her stir in creamer with a slightly shaking hand. She brings her coffee over to the table and takes the chair opposite mine. Mom continues silently stirring her coffee. The crescents under her eyes are even darker up close. She looks stressed and tired. I feel very sorry for her. This was supposed to be a special weekend for her. She doesn't go on vacation very often. She should be relaxing in a hotel spa right now. I've ruined her weekend, like I've ruined the weekends of so many others.

"How did you get Dad's number?" I finally ask her.

Mom sips her coffee. "I called Eric," she replies. Eric is Dad's brother.

"Oh,"

Mom takes another sip of her coffee. My mouth feels very dry, even though I've drained my glass of juice. I tear the rest of my bagel into tiny pieces. Mom watches, but doesn't say anything. It's not a good sign when Mom doesn't feel like nagging me about my diet.

"I called the hospital this morning," Mom says after awhile.

"Oh...is Cokie all right now?"

Mom sets down her cup and furrows her brow. "No, Stacey, Cokie's not all right. I don't think you appreciate the severity of the situation. Cokie's on a respirator. She's in a coma, Stacey. She might never wake up. She might have irreversible brain damage. She might die."

I swallow a lump that's suddenly formed in my throat. "But...but...Grace said they pumped her stomach. She should be okay now."

"Stacey, doctors pumping a stomach is no guarantee. Most of the damage was already done. Cokie's blood alcohol level was dangerously high. She'd already absorbed way too much alcohol into her blood stream. Stacey, it worries me that you don't know this. I...I don't know what would have happened had Dee not been here. Actually, I do know. Cokie Mason would be dead on our den floor."

"No, she wouldn't," I argue. "I'm sure that as soon as Grace stopped screaming, she would have figured it out. We aren't stupid, Mom. We would have called for an ambulance."

"Really?" replies Mom. I don't think she believes that and neither do I. "I suppose it's my fault that you don't know about alcohol poisoning. I shouldn't have assumed you'd learn about it in school. I've talked to you about sex and smoking and drugs and drinking and peer pressure, but for some reason I never thought to speak to you about alcohol poisoning. I'll take the blame for that. I guess I never expected it to be an issue because of your diabetes and because you've always been so responsible and trustworthy. You haven't given me the problems I used to worry you would give me. I've been so proud of how you've handled your high school years. You have such a nice group of friends. Julie's a little weird, but then all the Sterns are, so I can't really hold her accountable for that. I never expected that you and your friends would abuse my trust like this."

I've never felt so small. Or guilty and shamed. I never thought I could feel this bad. As sorry as I felt for myself, Mom makes me feel fifty times worse. And I'm not even that sorry for myself anymore. I'm sorry for Mom and the way I've betrayed her. The consequences of my actions are not my own. They're Mom's too. What I've done has affected her beyond the broken coffee table and stained carpet and looming possibility of Cokie Mason's death. I am a disappointment. She may never trust me again.

That horrible part of me, that selfish part of me, tugs at me, making me think how unfair this all is. Aside from lying to Mom, I didn't do anything wrong. None of this is really my fault. Cokie could have passed out anywhere. Unfortunately, she happened to pass out in my den. But that wasn't my fault.

"This wasn't my fault," I blurt out.

Mom looks at me thoughtfully, taking a sip of coffee. "All right then," she says, setting down the cup. "Tell me why none of this was your fault."

I appreciate how reasonable Mom is being, especially considering the blow up she just had with Dad. Maybe she's willing to come over to my side of things. I take a deep breath and tell her the entire story of Emily's ill-fated birthday party, glossing over certain details, like how long the party had been planned, and leaving out others, like the brown stain in the dining room and Mary Anne's disgusting misuse of my bed.

"And none of this was your fault?" Mom asks when I finish.

"That's right. I wasn't serving alcohol. Cokie didn't get drunk here. I tried to break up the party and when that didn't work, I very responsibly requested the Pikes' assistance. You should call Austin Bentley's parents. This is all his fault,"

Mom closes her eyes and rubs her temples. "Stacey, I hardly think you are blameless in all this."

"What? Why not?"

Mom sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. She looks absolutely exhausted. "Stacey, did it occur to you that if you had not thrown a party in the first place, Cokie would not have had the opportunity to pass out in our den? And had you not thrown a party, no one could have crashed it. I'd still have a coffee table and you'd still have my trust. Cokie could have passed out anywhere last night, but you provided her the opportunity to pass out here. You are responsible for that, Stacey, so don't try to convince me that you are completely blameless,"

I suppose Mom has a point. I nod and stare at my plate, twisting a strand of hair around my finger. Mom pushes a notepad and pen toward me. I hadn't noticed them sitting on the table.

"Make a list of everyone you invited to your party," Mom tells me.

I nod and pick up the pen. My eyes shift to the edge of the table and for the first time, I notice the SHS Phone Directory sitting there.

"You're calling everyone's parents?" I exclaim. "Mom! You can't do that!"

"Stacey, right now, all of Stoneybrook is talking about Cokie Mason nearly dying in our den. Don't you agree that your friends' parents should hear the truth and not rumors and lies?"

"This isn't fair, Mom!" I protest. "You're going to get my friends in trouble. This isn't their fault. Most of them didn't even know you weren't going to be home!"

"So, you lied to your friends, as well as to me? Is there anyone you haven't lied to this weekend, Anastasia?"

A sudden switch to my real name is never a good sign. I shake my head, numbly, and begin the list. I write down the phone numbers I know, too. Mom watches me for awhile, then stands and pours a fresh cup on coffee. I'm writing out Erica Blumberg's phone number when Mom sits down again.

"Nick thinks I'm overreacting," she tells me. "He thinks your lying to me and throwing an unsupervised party isn't that big a deal. He thinks you've learned your lesson and so, I shouldn't be too angry."

Normally, I wouldn't give a flying fig what Mr. Prezzioso thinks, but in this case, he has proven himself to be one of the few reasonable adults so far involved in this mess. I add him to the list of people on my side along with Mrs. Pike and Mr. Blume. So far, it's a rather short list, but I expect if to grow considerably throughout the day.

"I must admit, Stacey," Mom continues, holding her head in her hand, "I wonder if he's right. I wonder if I am overreacting. I did some stupid stuff when I was a teenager. You're allowed to make mistakes. Mistakes are inevitable. If it had just been the lying and the party, I think I could have gotten over it. But, Stacey, a girl almost died. She still could die. And regardless of whether or not you are at fault, this is not something I can overlook. There are consequences here that I doubt you've even considered. What if the Masons sue me? We could lose everything. Nick doesn't think I'm liable, but Nick is an unrelenting optimist. I would have appreciated your father's opinion, but unfortunately, he was more concerned with accusing me of being an unfit mother and a whore. That's one of the many problems with your father, he can never focus on - " Mom stops and sighs. She reaches for the notepad and pulls it toward her. She studies it and sighs again. "I never thought I'd look at a list and decide the Sterns are the most reasonable people on it." Mom stands and crosses to the phone.

I push back my chair and stand. "I'm going back to my room," I say.

Mom holds out her hand. "Sit," she commands. "You are staying here and apologizing to every single parent for deceiving their children."

"Are you joking?" I cry. This is beyond humiliation.

Mom glares at me and begins dialing Julie's number. I sit down again. The phone rings three times before someone answers.

"Hello? Jeanie?" Mom says into the receiver. "This is Maureen McGill...I'm not having a very good day, actually...have you spoken to Julie about last night?...oh, you just got home...the party? You knew about the party?" Mom gives me a strange look, as if I know what Mrs. Stern's talking about. "No, I didn't give them permission...yes, well, apparently it's the weekend of lying daughters..."

So, now Julie's in trouble. I almost cry. Not just because Julie's in trouble, but because all my friends are. No one's going to speak to me Monday morning. I'll be a social outcast. Mom's angry and disappointed, Cokie's in a coma, Dad has once again proven that he doesn't really care about me, and now I am friendless. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head, eyes tight to fight back the tears. I listen to Mom explain the situation to Mrs. Stern. It's weird because on Mom's end it sounds like a normal conversation, like they're discussing the next PTA meeting or the rise in the price of eggs at the A&P. Mom's visibly relieved, which makes me even sorrier for her and for myself. The Sterns are easy. They don't yell or become angry. Once Mom works her way down the list to the Bernsteins and the Sheas and the Chows, it won't be so easy. Not all parents are as forgiving as the Sterns and the Blumes.

When Mom is done with Mrs. Stern, she hands the phone to me. I feel rather silly apologizing. It's not like I lied to Julie about the party. I apologize anyway because Mom's watching me. I tell Mrs. Stern that I'm very sorry for convincing Julie to participate in an unsupervised party. Mrs. Stern says she's sure Julie didn't need any convincing, then accepts my apology. In the next half hour, I deliver the same apology to Mrs. Kishi, Mr. Blumberg, Mrs. Black, and Mrs. Hoffman. Mrs. Hoffman is a little frosty, but everyone's relatively understanding. Mom dismisses me to my bedroom after the Shillabar twins' mom becomes rather nasty and almost makes me cry. Mom wants me shamed, not verbally abused.

Upstairs, I close my bedroom door. Mom's already arguing with Mr. Chow. I really don't want to listen to that. I wish I had my own phone line. Even more, I wish I had someone to call. I think I've burnt all my bridges this weekend, or at least Mom is in the process of burning them for me. I should be able to call Mary Anne. It surprises me how much I want to call her. Last night, her and Pete making out on my bed, that doesn't seem so important anymore. I've learned there are worse things. Sure, I am still never using my comforter again, but I am ready to forgive Mary Anne.

I fall back into my armchair and kick a leg over one of the arms. I pick up Heart of Darkness, this boring book we're reading in English class, off the floor where I left it the other night. I read about three lines in fifteen minutes. I can't concentrate. I drop the book back onto the floor. I settle back in the chair and attempt to clear my mind of all the worries cluttering it. I stare at the alarm clock on the nightstand. I stare at it until eleven o' clock when my stomach starts rumbling. I decide it's safe to go back downstairs.

In the kitchen, Mom's just hung up the phone. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She pulls a waded tissue from her skirt pocket and dabs at her eyes.

"What's wrong?" I demand, alarmed.

Mom looks embarrassed. "Nothing," she says.

"Who were you just talking to?"

Mom tosses the tissue in the trash can and wipes the corner of her eyes. "Marian Bernstein is a bitch," she finally replies in a choked voice.

I barely mask my surprise. Mom almost strictly reserves cursing for Dad. I don't think I've ever heard her call anyone a "bitch", except my third grade teacher and that was to the teacher's face. "Mrs. Bernstein made you cry?" I ask.

"No. Mrs. Shea made me cry. Don't worry. I didn't cry until after hanging up. At least I managed to come out of that conversation with some dignity,"

"What did Mrs. Shea say?"

"What didn't she say? Just a lot of nonsense about single mothers destroying the moral fiber of America. She requests that you stay away from Katie,"

"No problem," I reply. Katie Shea's Emily's friend, not mine. I doubt I'd spoken a single word to her all year before last night. "So...what did Mrs. Bernstein say?" I ask, hesitantly. Mrs. Bernstein has never struck me as particularly cruel or callous. Strict and a bit overbearing, yes. But Mom wouldn't call her a bitch without good reason.

Mom's face softens slightly. "Oh...well, you know how protective she is of Emily's reputation. She's...very angry. It was actually a very enlightening conversation. It certainly explained a few things about Emily. And, well, Stacey...Mrs. Bernstein would prefer that you and Emily not see each other for awhile,"

"But Emily's one of my best friends!" I exclaim. "This is so unfair! Everything I did was to make Emily happy!"

I burst into tears. Mom envelopes me in her arms and holds me tight. I sob into her shoulder, smearing her blouse with mascara. Mom strokes my hair and makes soft, soothing noises in my ear. She knows I don't deserve this.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," I sob.

"I know, I know. We all make mistakes and must face the consequences of those mistakes. This is an unfortunate consequence,"

I push her away. "How can you be so unfeeling, Mother?"

"What?" Mom replies, looking puzzled. "I am not unfeeling, Anastasia. I am on your side in this matter. Marian Bernstein is being unnecessarily hard-hearted. As a mother, I understand her point of view, but that doesn't mean I agree with her. I think I've been much more reasonable and understanding than most parents would be in this situation, so don't you dare call me unfeeling."

The color has drained from Mom's face and I feel the color draining from my own. I've crossed a line and there's no stepping back. "But it isn't fair," I argue. "I make one mistake - one little mistake and people act like I personally poured the alcohol down Cokie Mason's throat. Lots of kids have parties and nothing bad happens. I do it once and the entire world stops to stone me. It isn't fair!"

"Life isn't fair, Anastasia," Mom replies, her voice rising. "Is it fair that I go away for a relaxing, peaceful weekend and am awoken in the middle of the night with the news that a girl nearly died in my house? During a party my daughter threw behind my back?"

"Oh, please, Mother. You weren't asleep. You were screwing Mr. Prezzioso! Just like you've been screwing him for the last year and a half!"

I never thought my mother would slap me. But she does. It's not a weak or half-hearted slap either. It's hard and it leaves a lingering sting. I raise my hand to my cheek in shock. Mom's expression is a mixture of fury and surprise. Neither of us can believe she just slapped me. I consider slapping her back.

"I didn't know," I spit out, "that you were the only one in this house allowed to make mistakes. I didn't know that throwing a party was a worse sin than committing adultery. And I didn't know that only my actions had consequences. I am so sorry, Mother."

The words spill from my mouth without my even thinking them. It's like my mouth has developed a mind of its own. I'm not sure if I really mean what I am saying, but I must if the words are pouring out of me.

I almost expect Mom to slap me again. She looks furious enough. Instead she points out the window toward the Pike's house. "No consequences? Dee Pike will hardly look me in the face! We will never be friends again, Stacey. Mrs. DeWitt avoids me at the supermarket and I constantly wonder who else she and Mrs. Pike have told. I helped Nick ruin his marriage. And none of those things are worse than the way I feel about myself every single day. Just because you are too self-centered to see them doesn't mean the consequences aren't there. And you can't tell me how you want to move beyond my affair, then proceed to throw it in my face whenever it suits you,"

"I am not self-centered," I protest.

Mom laughs and throws up her hands. "Well, I'm glad you heard something I just said. And I'm glad you zeroed in on the most important part - the part about you," Mom turns and starts toward the back hallway stairs, then stops and whirls around. "What does this have to do with anything, Anastasia?" she demands. "Of all the things that have happened in the past twenty-four hours, why are you picking a fight about my affair with Nick? Nick and I are not the problem here. You are just like your father. Instead of focusing on the central problem, you focus on all the little things surrounding the problem. Maybe you should think about that."

Mom marches out of the kitchen and into the dining room and up the back hallways stairs. Once she's out of sight, I storm through the dining room and into the living room and up those stairs. Mom and I pass each other in the upstairs hallway. Mom's crying, which makes me start crying again. We don't speak. We both go into our bedrooms and slam the doors.

I stay in my room for about thirty seconds. The house is suffocating me. I can't stay here any longer. I grab my purse and car keys off the desk and charge back out into the hall. I consider leaving without a word, but that would probably just get me in more trouble. I press my ear to Mom's bedroom door. She's in there crying and talking on the phone. I open the door without knocking. Mom's sitting on her bed, tears streaming down her face, the receiver pressed to her ear.

"I'm going out," I inform her.

"Excuse me, Nick," she says into the receiver. She covers the mouthpiece and glares at me. "Where are you going?" she asks.

I hadn't thought that far ahead. Is there anywhere I can go? Is anyone still speaking to me? "I'm going to the hospital to visit Cokie Mason," I reply.

Mom stands and sets the receiver on the bed. She steps forward and plucks the car keys from my hand. She tosses them onto the nightstand. "No car," she says. "That's your punishment."

My jaw drops. "How am I supposed to get around?" I demand.

Mom sits down on the bed and picks up the receiver. "You have two legs," she replies.

"Can't you go an hour without telephoning Mr. Prezzioso?" I snap. Mr. Prezzioso's an idiot for even speaking to her after the way she treated him last night.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Mom replies, then turns her head away. "I'm sorry, Nick...I don't know. It's like she doesn't have enough problems in her life. She has to create some more...I agree..."

I step out of the room and slam the door. I don't make it any farther. I'm rooted to the spot outside Mom's door. I almost go back in and apologize. I'm being as cruel and unreasonable as Mrs. Bernstein and Mrs. Shea. I grip the doorknob and rest my forehead against the door. On the other side, Mom's sobbing and I can barely make out her words. It sounds like she's saying, "I don't know what to do. Please tell me what to do."

Very quietly, I start crying. I have so much to make up to so many people.