"Stacey!"
"Just a minute, Mom!" I yell back, covering the mouthpiece of the telephone. It's noon on Thursday - Thanksgiving Day - and technically I'm supposed to be downstairs helping Mom. She thinks I'm still getting ready. Actually, I've spent the last half hour on the phone with Julie, who's filling me in on what's sure to be the hottest gossip at SHS next week - and we're two of the first people to hear it.
"You can't still be dressing!" Mom shouts from the living room.
"I'm almost done! Just give me a minute!" I call to her. I uncover the mouthpiece and say, "Sorry, Julie. Mom thinks I'm getting ready. I kind of am. I'm looking through her sock drawer for a pair of black pantyhose,"
"I'm not supposed to be on the phone either. I'm hiding in the shower,"
"I was wondering what that hollow echo was," I giggle. I find a pair of black pantyhose and struggle to pull them on while balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. Julie and I have spent a lot of time on the phone this past week. Most people wouldn't guess it, but talking on the phone is one of Julie's favorite activities. She has a lot to say (although it's debatable how much of it is the absolute truth).
Before, the majority of my phone time was spent with Mary Anne. I guess I've sort of replaced her with Julie. As much as I still miss Mary Anne, it's nice talking on the phone with someone who doesn't have to hang up every ten minutes.
I've become Julie's first call on her gossip phone tree. She left three messages with Mom this morning while I was at an early babysitting job that Erica passed on to me (and no wonder, I had to be there at six, so the parents could drive into New York to pick up family at the airport). So, what was so important? Barbara Hirsch is pregnant. Well, possibly pregnant. Usually I'd doubt such a rumor, if not for the original source. Julie heard it from Emily, who heard it from Mr. Bernstein, who sold Barbara the pregnancy test. Personally, I don't think pharmacists should be divulging such information about customers, but the Bernsteins' motto seems to be "if you don't have a
prescription for it, it's fair game". I'm sort of surprised Barbara bought the test from the Bernsteins' pharmacy in the first place. The Bernsteins and the Hirschs are friends and attend the same synagogue. I don't think Barbara's very smart.
"I can't wait to tell Grace!" exclaims Julie. "She already hates Howie Johnson. Wait until she finds out he's a sinner!"
I chuckle, but feel guilty for doing so. Grace obviously has serious problems. It doesn't feel right to laugh at her anymore. I sit down on Mom's bed and pull on my black boots, then stand again and cross the room to Mom's dresser. I pick up one of her perfume bottles and spray it on my wrist.
"Uh oh," I say, glancing out the window.
"What?" asks Julie.
"The Prezziosos are here,"
"Oh! You're so lucky, Stacey. You're going to have an i>exciting /i> Thanksgiving. My little cousins are in the backyard, trying to ride the dog, just like every other year,"
I pull back the curtain and look down at Mr. Prezzioso's car. "Mr. Prezzioso just got out of the car," I tell Julie.
"What is he wearing?"
" What is he wearing?"I repeat. "Uh, black slacks with a navy and gray sweater. He kind of looks like a goober. Why do you care?"
"I'm curious. What are the brats wearing?"
"They aren't out of the car yet. Wait...one of the back doors just opened. Okay, here comes Jenny. Oh my gosh! You won't believe what she's wearing! It's disgusting!"
Jenny Prezzioso steps out of the car wearing a lilac-colored coat. From this distance, I can't tell exactly how the dress underneath looks, but even from this distance, I know it's disgustingly prissy. White. That's all that's under her coat. A frilly white dress covered in lace with white lace stockings and white patent leather shoes. There's even a thin white headband in her perfectly curled hair. Totally gag-worthy.
"How precious. It's a good thing I'm not there. I'd probably vomit all over a dress like that," Julie says when I describe Jenny's outfit. "What's the other one wearing?"
"She has yet to make an appearance. Mr. Prezzioso's leaning inside the backseat. I can't see Andrea. I do, however, have a terrific view of Mr. Prezzioso's ass. And no, I'm not describing thatto you. Oh! I think there's a tantrum being thrown in the car! Mr. Prezzioso's dragging Andrea out! I hope Mom's downstairs watching this,"
"This is fabulous! I wish you had a video camera,"
"I know!"
Mr. Prezzioso has Andrea tucked underneath his right arm. She's dressed exactly like Jenny. She's also kicking her feet and screaming. Her face looks like a tomato. Jenny's standing on the sidewalk, holding a white canvas tote bag and staring at my house and pouting.
"Stacey!" Mom calls from downstairs. "Nick and the girls are here!"
"Yeah, Mom, I think the whole neighborhood knows!" I pull the curtain back into place and walk out into the hall. "I have to go now, Julie. I'll call you tonight,"
"Good luck! If the brats get too out of line, backhand them a couple times and lock them in a closet. That's what Rachel always did to Paul and me,"
"You are such a liar," I laugh.
Julie and I hang up. Quickly, I grab a pair of silver hoops off Mom's nightstand, where I left them. I slide them in and check my reflection. I'm wearing my red cashmere sweater again. I've been wearing it a lot lately. It gives me that little extra boost I need these days. I also have on a new skirt that Mom and I bought yesterday. It's white with large red dahlias. I sigh. Even if the day's going to be a disaster, at least I'll look good.
Downstairs, Mom's standing at the living room window, peering through the curtains. Andrea's still screaming outside. Mom turns to look at me when I enter the room. She can barely mask the expression of horror on her face.
"I told you so," I can't help saying.
Mom frowns and turns back to the window. "What are they wearing?" she asks.
I stand beside Mom at the window, so we can stare at the Prezziosos together. Andrea's disappeared from sight and Mr. Prezzioso's leaning inside the backseat again. For some reason, Jenny's sitting in the driver's seat. If Mom ever entertained the notion of marrying Mr. Prezzioso, I think the past three minutes have erased that desire better than any protest from me ever could.
Mom gives me another slightly horrified look. I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. We're on good terms again. Probably better terms than we've been all autumn. Friday night can take credit for that. I confessed everything to Mom about my fight with Mary Anne. Well, almost everything. I glossed over the parts that needed glossing. There are some things moms should never hear. For the most part, I was extremely truthful. It was sort of like reading aloud from my letter to Mary Anne. As freeing as it felt writing those things, it felt even better to say them out loud.
And Mom understood, even when I got to the part about the actual fight, and the story became a bit foggy since that's when I began glossing over certain details. "I gave Robert and Jeremy head in eighth grade and that makes me kind of a hypocrite" became "I dated a lot of boys in eighth grade and that makes me kind of a hypocrite." Some guilt and blame are lost in that translation, but what more could I say? Mom was already understandably appalled by the thought of Pete and Dorianne exchanging bodily fluids on Julie's coat and Pete's later attempt to do the same on my bed with Mary Anne. Yes, I included those details. I think they provide the full scope of my objections to Mary Anne's further involvement with Pete Black.
Mom didn't completely side with me. She thinks Mary Anne and I are both at fault. I suppose we are. Mom says I've done all I can to set things right. She's impressed that I managed to be so candid in my apology to Mary Anne. And now all I can do is wait for Mary Anne and if the time comes, decide if I still want her as my friend. I think I have a long time to wait. At least my fight with Mary Anne served a larger purpose than simply making me miserable. Mom appreciates that I would confide in her and I appreciate that she remained understanding and nonjudgmental. The past is not forgotten and the road ahead is not smooth, but for right now, Mom and I are all right.
Outside, Andrea has calmed down. She's standing silently on the sidewalk, face still flushed and glistening with half-dried tears. Mr. Prezzioso and Jenny are at the back of the car, messing with something in the trunk.
"I think it's safe," says Mom.
"I think we should lock the doors," I reply.
Mom frowns at me, but I doubt she thinks it's really such a bad idea. She strides toward the front door and I follow her out and down the driveway.
"Happy Thanksgiving!" Mom calls out with a wave. She's plastered a huge smile onto her face and she's trying so hard that I almost believe it's genuine.
"Hi Jenny. Hi Andrea," I greet the girls.
Jenny grunts. Andrea lowers her head and doesn't answer.
"Did you have a nice drive from Greenvale?" Mom asks, taking a paper bag out of Mr. Prezzioso's trunk.
Jenny grunts again. "No. Dad's car smells like bananas. It's gross,"
"It does not," replies Mr. Prezzioso, slamming down the trunk. "I had the inside detailed."
"Smells like bananas to me," Jenny says, then walks away toward the house. Andrea follows her.
Mom's smile strains as they walk away. She smoothes back her hair with one hand and looks at Mr. Prezzioso. "Why are they dressed like that?" she asks him.
"That's what they were wearing when I picked them up,"
"Why didn't you make them change? Those aren't play clothes. Those dresses will get filthy! That's exactly what Madeleine wants,"
"I suppose so," replies Mr. Prezzioso.
"Hmph," says Mom, shoving the grocery bag into my arms and walking off.
Jenny and Andrea don't wait for us. They walk straight into the house and dump their canvas bag onto the living room floor. When Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and I come inside, Andrea's tossed her coat onto the armchair and sprawled out on the floor with her barbies. After all that noise she made out front, I'd think she would say something . Instead she ignores us. It's odd how such a happy, charming baby could grow into such a plain, sullen little girl.
Jenny's standing in the center of the living room with her hands on her hips, surveying the room. She's a lovely eight year old with shiny, bouncy dark brown hair and a sweet face. She must fool a lot of people with that face. Jenny casts a disdainful look at Paddy, who's lounging in front of the fireplace. "Your cat's fat," she announces. "I bet he's going to die soon."
"He has a slow metabolism," I tell her, hiding the edge in my voice. "And he's on a diet."
"I don't think it's working,"
"Let me take your coats," says Mom, picking Andrea's coat up off the couch. Jenny slips off hers and sort of absentmindedly tosses it in Mom's direction. Mom purses her lips and glances at Mr. Prezzioso, who's standing beside me, holding his grocery bags. "Well," says Mom. "Stacey, maybe Jenny and Andrea would like to see the house?"
"No, thanks," says Jenny, flopping backward into the armchair.
Mom smoothes her hair back again. "Well, Stacey, why don't you watch the girls while Nick and I finish in the kitchen?" Mom suggests, taking the grocery bag from me. She gives Mr. Prezzioso a rather pointed look as she walks past him.
"I think it's best to ignore..." I hear Mr. Prezzioso say as they leave the living room.
Mr. Prezzioso clearly has no idea how to deal with his bratty daughters.
"What are you doing?" I ask Andrea, lowering onto the floor beside her.
"Making Lucinda into a rock star," she replies, tugging a pair of hot pink lace pants onto a raven-haired barbie doll.
"Lucinda's an interesting name," I say.
" All her dolls are named Lucinda," says Jenny from the armchair. "Does your mom have a job?"
I turn around, surprised. "Yes. She works at Bellair's department store. Her job is to pick new clothes for the store to carry," I explain.
"My mom has a job too," says Jenny. "Now that my parents are divorced, my dad won't give us any money. My mom has to work for my uncle. He's a veterinarian. Dogs are always jumping on her and cats are always scratching her. Sometimes my mom and Uncle Max drive out to farms to take care of the animals there. My mom once stepped in cow poop. My mom says she wouldn't have to degrade herself if my dad could have kept it in his pants,"
"Er..." Part of me feels sorry for Mrs. Prezzioso and part of me wants to laugh, thinking of her traipsing through fields of cow pies in a black cocktail dress and stiletto heels. But she shouldn't be saying such things to Jenny. "Jenny, of course your dad gives you money. He has to pay alimony and child support. My parents are divorced, too. My dad sends a check every month."
"My dad doesn't. He spends all his money on your mom," Jenny replies. "My mom says your mom's a - "
Jenny proceeds to say the filthiest thing I've ever heard come out of an eight year old's mouth.
My jaw drops. "Jenny!" I exclaim. I clamp my hands over Andrea's ears.
"What?" asks Jenny, innocently.
"Nevermind," I say, remembering what Mr. Prezzioso said about ignoring her. I release my hands from Andrea's ears.
Jenny's face remains expressionless, but I can see something in her eyes, like she knows she's struck a nerve. She continues on, "My mom says your mom's my dad's whore,"
My jaw drops again. What is Mrs. Prezzioso thinking telling Jenny these things? "Jenny, do you even know what that word means?" I ask.
Jenny doesn't reply. She's thinking. Clearly, she has no idea what "whore" means. Finally, she lifts her chin slightly and replies, "It has something to do with her being on her back and on her knees."
I don't think my jaw has ever dropped so much during one conversation. Mrs. Prezzioso has obviously lost her mind. My parents had a rather nasty divorce and I was put through a lot of back and forth fighting. Even so, I don't think Mom or Dad would have dreamed of saying such horrible things in front of me. Mrs. Prezzioso is only hurting Jenny and Andrea in the long run.
"My mom says - " starts Jenny.
"You know, Jenny," I cut her off. "I'm tired of hearing what your mom says,"
Jenny scowls, but says nothing more. Andrea and I go back to dressing her barbie dolls. Despite her psychotic tantrum outside my house, Andrea might be an okay kid. She seems slightly less bratty and argumentative than Jenny was at age four. In the kitchen, Mom and Mr. Prezzioso start laughing. Jenny's head whips around. She lazily climbs out of the armchair and walks to the closet where Mom hung their coats. Out of the pocket of her coat, Jenny slips out a small glittery pink notepad and a gold pen. She pretends not to notice me watching her. Jenny flips open the notepad and writes something down. Then she strides off in the direction of the kitchen. Jenny has a rather cocky swagger for an eight year old.
"I'll be right back, Andrea," I say, jumping to my feet.
In the kitchen, Mr. Prezzioso's holding the turkey while Mom attempts to remove the bag of stuffing from inside it. The bag appears to be stuck. Jenny's standing in front of them, scribbling in her notepad.
"What are you doing?" Mr. Prezzioso asks Jenny.
Jenny shrugs.
"Oh, are you interested in creative writing?" Mom asks her.
Jenny shrugs again.
"Here, Mom, let me try," I say, shoving my hands into the turkey (it's really gross). "Pull, Mr. Prezzioso!"
Mr. Prezzioso and I pull at the same time and the bag finally slides out. "How did you get it wedged in there like that?" I ask Mom with a laugh.
"I have no idea," replies Mom. "Jenny, would you like something to drink?"
Jenny isn't paying attention. She's not writing in her notepad either. She's standing at the back door, staring out the window. "The Pikes!" she cries. "You live behind the Pikes! Look, Dad, they have a volleyball net set up! Can I go over and play with them?"
Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and I all look out the window. All eight of the Pike kids are in their yard playing volleyball. Mallory ducks when the ball comes near her.
"It rained last night," says Mom. "It's awfully muddy out there,"
"So?" says Jenny.
"You're wearing white," I point out.
"My mom will buy me another dress," Jenny replies.
Mr. Prezzioso snorts, then says, "I don't think it's a good idea, Jenny. You should stay inside,"
"Daddy!" Jenny wails. She stomps her foot and I prepare for an ear piercing tantrum. Instead, Jenny turns and stomps out of the kitchen.
"Maybe we should have let her go out," Mr. Prezzioso says. "She could have ruined the dress. That would have shown Madeleine."
"Or maybe next time you could work up the nerve to actually go inside the house and demand the girls wear sensible clothes," Mom replies, crisply.
Quickly, I return to the living room. I don't need my Thanksgiving ruined even further by listening to Mom and Mr. Prezzioso argue. Andrea and I resume playing with her barbies while Jenny sits in the armchair still scribbling in her notepad. She's filling a lot of pages and I think I can hazard a pretty good guess as to exactly what she's writing about (and who for).
"Girls, lunch is ready!" Mom announces, poking her head into the living room. "Stacey, make sure Jenny and Andrea wash their hands."
Five minutes later, we're all seated around the dining room table. Mom sits at the head of the table with me on her left and Mr. Prezzioso on her right. Jenny's beside him (I think maybe he knew no one else wanted to sit next to her) and Andrea's beside me.
"Would you like light meat or dark meat?" I ask Andrea when Mom passes me the platter of turkey.
"I'm not hungry," replies Andrea.
Mr. Prezzioso looks slightly alarmed. "What do you mean you're not hungry?" he asks.
"We already ate," says Jenny. "Before you picked us up."
"Already ate?" Mom repeats, her voice rising.
"Your mother fed you?" Mr. Prezzioso demands. He starts to stand, but Mom lays a hand on his arm and shakes her head. He sits down again.
"Maybe you're a little hungry," says Mom with fake cheer. "Take some food and eat what you can."
When everyone is served, Mom and I try to make small talk with Jenny and Andrea. They only answer with "yes" and "no". At least Jenny doesn't start any sentences with "My mom says..." It's not long before Mom and I give up. We talk to each other instead, mostly about the early morning sales we plan to hit tomorrow. Mr. Prezzioso looks tense and irritated while Jenny and Andrea pick at their food. The ringing of the telephone breaks into the silence. Mom and I both jump up, but Mom gestures for me to sit down. She hurries into the kitchen to answer the phone. Maybe it's someone calling to rescue me from this torture.
"Hello?" I hear Mom say, "Oh, hello... no, she can't come to the phone, Julie. We're eating right now...well, I think that even super, terrific gossip can wait until the evening...all right...I'll tell her...goodbye."
"What did Julie want?" I cry when Mom comes back into the dining room. Could Julie have found out the result of Barbara Hirsch's pregnancy test?
"She has some super, terrific gossip that she's dying to tell you," Mom replies, sitting down and placing her napkin in her lap. "She'll call back this evening. She also wanted me to tell you that her sister and uncle set their turkey on fire."
Mr. Prezzioso and I laugh.
"Can we go over there?" asks Jenny. "It sounds like they're having a lot more fun than us!"
Mr. Prezzioso stops laughing. "Jenny, you're being rude," he says, turning to her.
Jenny ignores his comment. "May I be excused?" she asks, looking at me. Does she expect me to excuse her?
"Where are you going?" asks Mr. Prezzioso.
"I need to get something from the living room,"
"You may go,"
No one says anything while Jenny's gone. She returns in less than a minute and slides back into her chair. Then she opens a book and begins reading. Mom drops her fork and purses her lips. She torn between continuing to ignore Jenny's bad behavior and saying something. Mr. Prezzioso's patience is obviously wearing out as well and I don't think he exactly knows how to handle his irritation. "Mr. Prezzioso" and "discipline" obviously do not go together, just as "Jenny" and "tact" do not.
"Jennifer," Mr. Prezzioso says, sharply. "We do not read at the dinner table!"
Jenny flat out ignores him.
I cock my head to the side to see exactly what Jenny's reading. For the fourth time today, my jaw drops. "She's reading Forever by Judy Blume!" I exclaim.
Mr. Prezzioso looks confused.
"That's not an appropriate book for an eight year old, Nick," Mom tells him.
"My teacher says I'm an advanced reader," Jenny explains.
Mr. Prezzioso plucks the book from Jenny's hands and reads the back cover. His eyes sort of bug out, then he tosses the book onto the table and stands up. He hooks his hands under Jenny's arms and lifts her out of her chair. They disappear out of the dining room. We hear the den door slam shut. Mom and I barely exchange a glance when Andrea bursts into tears. Mom and I both jump up to comfort her.
"It's all right, Andrea," I assure her.
Andrea shakes her head and cries harder. "I don't want to live in your basement," she sobs.
"Our...what?" Mom asks.
Andrea buries her head in the front of my sweater and continues to sob. Mr. Prezzioso returns without Jenny, looking more confused than before. By the time we calm Andrea down our food is cold, but no one really cares. I'm wiping Andrea's face with a damp cloth, Mr. Prezzioso's flipping through Forever, and Mom's pressing her fingers to her temples when Jenny wanders back into the dining room.
"Daddy," she whimpers, pitifully. "My throat hurts."
"It's sore?" he asks.
Jenny nods. "I can barely talk," she whispers.
We could only be so lucky.
"I have some throat lozenges," says Mom, moving toward the kitchen.
"No!" Jenny yells, stomping her foot (and momentarily recovering from her sore throat). "My mom always gives me special medicine. It's grape flavored and it's just for kids!"
"Well, I don't have any children's medicine," Mom replies, testily.
"Are you sure your throat's sore?" asks Mr. Prezzioso.
"Yes, Daddy," Jenny whispers. She walks over to him and rests her head against his side.
"I'll go get her some medicine," I sigh. Anything to escape this madhouse for twenty minutes.
"Where will you go?" Mom asks. I don't think she wants me to leave her. "The only places open are Burger Town and the movie theater. I doubt either place carries children's sore throat medication."
I've already thought of that. I know for a fact that the Bernsteins are spending the day taking inventory at their pharmacy (because nothing says Happy Thanksgiving like counting boxes of condoms and tubes of acne cream).
"The Bernsteins are at their pharmacy today," I explain. "Taking inventory."
"On Thanksgiving?"
"The Bernsteins don't observe Thanksgiving. They feel it celebrates and glorifies the persecution and attempted genocide of the Native American race,"
Mom reapplies pressure to her temples. "Just go," she says.
"You don't have to go," Mr. Prezzioso tells me. "She doesn't have a sore throat,"
"Yes, I do!" shrieks Jenny.
"No, it's really all right," I assure him.
Mr. Prezzioso gives me ten dollars, then I retrieve my purse from my bedroom and my car keys from Mom's. I practically fly out the front door. Is this what the future holds for me? Is this simply a preview of my new life with the Prezziosos? There are too few days between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I don't need a repeat of today. Ever.
I take the long way to downtown Stoneybrook. I feel bad about that since Mom's alone with the Prezziosos. But the silence is so welcome and wonderful. The Bernsteins' pharmacy is on Essex next door to Pierre's Dry Cleaners and across the street from Polly's Fine Candy. Downtown Stoneybrook is deserted. The Bernsteins' Buick parked outside the pharmacy is the only other car on the entire block. The "closed" sign is clearly displayed in the front window, but all the lights are on inside. I'm not nervous about asking the Bernsteins for a favor. Mrs. Bernstein hasn't given Emily permission to hang out with me again, but I think she's coming around. I was in the pharmacy earlier in the week, picking up my insulin and Mrs. Bernstein was...pleasant (she is rarely ever outright friendly). She asked me about school and my diabetes, then forced me to try a new sugar-free snack bar they just started carrying. Mrs. Bernstein was in a good enough mood that I didn't feel bad admitting the snack bar tasted like raisin-flavored cardboard. She didn't seem offended.
I knock on the glass door. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein peer up over one of the aisles. I wave. Mrs. Bernstein comes around the aisle toward the door, holding a clipboard in her hand. Emily doesn't look like her mother, although they both have the same small, frail-looking frame and thin, straight nose. Mrs. Bernstein has thick, dark shoulder-length hair and glasses. She hardly ever smiles.
"Hello, Stacey," she greets me when she's unlocked the front door.
"Hi, Mrs. Bernstein. I know you're not open, but I really need some children's sore throat medicine,"
Mrs. Bernstein looks at me a moment with the same straight, blank expression she always wears. She holds the door open for me. "Come on in," she says in her typical flat, dry voice.
"Thank you!"
Mrs. Bernstein leads me to aisle three, where Mr. Bernstein's standing by the lip balms and writing on a clipboard. Mrs. Bernstein stops at the children's medication and starts picking up the boxes and examining them.
"Who is this for?" she asks.
"Jenny Prezzioso," I reply.
Mrs. Bernstein makes this weird sound in her throat that might be a stifled laugh. "Oh, yes. The Prezziosos. Madeleine Prezzioso used to be one of our best customers. The hypochondriacs always are," Mrs. Bernstein opens a box and looks inside, then sets it back on the shelf. "I can't say I miss her or her screaming children, but I certainly miss her money."
"My mom's dating Mr. Prezzioso," I tell her because it occurs to me that Emily has likely never said anything. "Jenny's at my house now, yelling that her throat hurts."
"Well, if she can yell it must not hurt that much," says Mrs. Bernstein. She hands me a box. "Here, this one will make her drowsy. I don't want to open up the register, so come back tomorrow,"
"Thanks a lot, Mrs. Bernstein. Uh, where's Emily?" I realize that I've not seen her since I came in.
Mrs. Bernstein glances around, looking puzzled. "I...I don't know. She was just here. Bernie! Where's Emily?"
Mr. Bernstein looks up from his clipboard and frowns. "She was in aisle one counting boxes of lubricants," he says.
Mrs. Bernstein sighs. "She's probably hiding in the stock room. Stacey, would you please go back there and get her?"
"Sure," I reply and head to the back of the store. I step behind the pharmacy counter and walk back through the rows of filled prescription bottles until I reach the door to the stock room. It's slightly ajar. I push it open. Emily's standing by a row of cabinets with her back to me. I watch her take an orange prescription bottle off one of the shelves and slip it into the right pocket of her tan slacks.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
Emily whirls around, her eyes wide with surprise. "Stacey! What are you doing here?" she exclaims in an odd, airy voice.
"What did you just put in your pocket?" I ask, taking a step toward her.
"Nothing," she replies, but turns the right side of her body slightly away from me.
"I saw you," I argue. "You put a bottle in your pocket!"
"I did not," Emily replies with a chuckle. "You're seeing things. Perhaps you ought to have your eyes checked."
"Then show me what's in your pocket! Empty it out!"
"No! There's nothing in my pocket!"
I take another step toward Emily and reach for her pocket. Emily - delicate, frail-looking Emily - shoves me. Hard. I stumble backward into the pharmacy and fall against a cabinet. A dozen or so bottles of pills tumble to the floor. The door to the stock room swings closed and the lock slides into place.
"What's going on back there?" calls Mrs. Bernstein from the front of the store.
I struggle to my feet and hurry out from between the cabinets and around the pharmacy counter. "I fell," I say when I pass the Bernsteins, who are still standing in aisle three. What else can I say? Better take aclose inventory, your daughter's stealing from you?
"Emily!" I hear Mrs. Bernstein shout as I push open the front door. "Stop fooling around back there. Get to work!"
I escape from the Bernsteins' pharmacy to the peaceful safety of my car. It's funny, I thought I was escaping to the pharmacy, seeking a brief refuge from the Prezziosos. Now I think an afternoon with five Jenny Prezziosos would be more welcome than the reality of what I just saw. And what did I just see? Is it really possible that what I think I saw is what I actually saw? And Emily Bernstein - smart, clever, driven Emily Bernstein - is some kind of...drug addict? The reality of the possibility slaps me in the face, as my heart pounds and it feels like all the air in the car has become trapped in my chest. I think of Emily's appearance lately, her face pale and drawn, the bags underneath her eyes that grow heavier every day. I've told myself for weeks that Emily looks strung out and now I know the reason - Emily is, in fact, strung out. On something. I laugh. I've spent all this time and energy this autumn worrying about mysteries and secrets and here's this huge secret that's been staring me straight in the face and I was too self-centered to notice it. I overlook Emily. I dismiss her because she's Emily - organized and together and focused. She rants and stresses, but over such minor things, like exams and deadlines and SAT scores. I take it for granted that she will hold herself together. Apparently, she's not doing such a good job of that anymore.
I sit in my driveway for awhile, leaning my head back against the headrest, covering my face with my hands. Too much is overtaking me. I unload one secret and another pops up less than a week later. Of all the secrets I've learned this autumn, this one's the worst, the one I least want to know. If I could I would pour it out of myself and onto some unsuspecting person. I don't want this on my shoulders. I don't want to save Emily Bernstein. Let someone else take that responsibility. I have too much already.
I eventually get out of the car. I have no other choice. I can't hide in there forever. Slowly, I walk up the driveway and into the house. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are on the living room floor, playing barbies with Andrea, who still looks sullen and sulky. Jenny's back in the armchair, scribbling in her notepad. If Mom and Mr. Prezzioso speak to me, I don't hear. I toss the sore throat medicine onto Jenny's lap as I pass by. I get a glass of water in the kitchen, then walk back into the living room. I sit down on the couch and watch Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and Andrea.
"What's wrong?" Mom asks.
"Nothing,"
Mom's face grows dark. "Was Marian Bernstein rude to you?" she demands.
I shake my head. "No. She was very nice. I'm tired, that's all,"
"Have you checked your blood sugar today?" Mom asks, sounding worried.
"Yes, but I'll check it again," I tell her. Any excuse for some time alone. I stand and walk toward the stairs.
"Watch out for that fat cat of yours," calls Jenny, nastily. "He probably had a heart attack in your bed."
Happy Thanksgiving.