After Julie rides away, I continue the walk home alone. I don't know if I have a right to my anger or if I'm just falling into old patterns of childish arguments and grudges. I don't want to be Selfish Stacey again, just as I don't want to be Boy-Crazy Stacey. I want to be Happy Stacey or at least, Content Stacey. Every time I think I find her, she disappears again.
I almost call Mom when I get home. I'm dialing her work number and realize she'll want some kind of explanation about Lauren. She'll ask if I've straightened it all out and I don't think I have. I know what Lauren told me and maybe I believe her. Beyond that, I have no answers. Lauren's not made it up to me. Her excuses and performance don't void out my hurt feelings. It's not enough right now, it might be enough later. Or not.
I slice up an apple and take it into the living room, where I turn on the t.v. It doesn't matter what's on. Paddy's on the couch and I pull him onto my lap and stroke his brown fur. He purrs for me. When I finish my apple, I turn off the t.v. and move Paddy back to his favorite spot. I need some fresh air. I put on my white parka and go outside to the garage to retrieve my bike. I've finally fixed the flat tire. I ride up and down Elm Street, to the far end where Erica lives, then back to my own house, then round the corner to Slate Street. I ride past the Pikes' house, very fast, so I don't have to speak to Nicky, who's hiding underneath Mrs. Pike's station wagon.
I ride around for about twenty minutes and finally end up on Rosedale Road. I pass the Sterns' house, but no one's outside. I hear someone in the backyard though, hitting the tetherball, shoes scuffing back and forth on the concrete. I cross the street and stop in front of the Bernsteins' house. The lights are on and Emily's bedroom window is partly open. I don't think I meant to come here.
Luckily, the Bernsteins' cleaning lady answers the door. Emily probably would have shut it in my face. Or not answered at all. I hang my parka in the hall closet like Mrs. Bernstein always insists, then walk up the stairs to Emily's room. Her door is shut. I listen for a moment. All I hear is the scratching of pencil on paper. I knock. I hear Emily push her chair away from the desk and her footsteps approaching the door. She probably assumes I'm the cleaning lady.
"I don't need...oh, Stacey," Emily says, flatly, when she opens the door. She's dressed in the same clothes that she wore to school, navy slacks and a white blouse. She's wearing her fake pearl necklace and earrings. Her light brown hair is neat and wavy. She looks like normal Emily, the same Emily who's been one of my closest friends throughout high school. Stable, sensible Emily Bernstein. I know her appearance is deceiving. She's not the same Emily anymore.
"We need to talk," I say, shoving past her into the room.
"I'm busy," Emily says, edgily, shutting the door. "Look at all I have to do," she tells me, gesturing to her desk. It's covered in neat, even stacks of books and papers and folders. "I have an editorial to write, five articles to edit, three pages of math, two pages of chemistry, a three page essay on the second amendment, and a critical analysis paper on An American Tragedy, which I haven't even finished reading. At least that's not due until Thursday. So, you see, Stacey, I'm much too busy to talk. I almost regret taking so many Honors classes. I have English, chemistry, statistics, government..." Emily ticks each class off on her fingers. "I'm grateful Mom convinced me not to do French this year. She's right, my Hebrew classes are much more important. My uncle - "
"Emily!" I exclaim. I can't take her babbling anymore. She can't talk me out of her room and out of her life.
"Yes, Stacey?"
I don't have a reply. I never think things through before jumping into these conversations. For hating confrontation so much, I should come more prepared.
"We need to talk about Thanksgiving, Emily," I finally say.
Emily nods and sits down at her desk. She turns the chair to face me. "Oh, yes. My mother wanted me to remind you that you never came back to pay her. She's not mad, don't worry. You can leave the money with me, if you like."
Emily's even better at stalling and avoiding than Grace. She must know I'm unprepared. She thinks I'm no match for her. She might be right. "That's...that's not what I meant, Emily," I say.
"Oh?" Emily raises an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean then."
"Emily! You know what I mean! Stop playing games! I'm so sick of games!"
A strange look passes over Emily's face, but only for a moment, then she regains her usual composure. She glances at her wristwatch and sighs. I'm losing her.
"I want to know what's going on, Emily," I tell her. I try to sound grave and firm. "I want to know why you're stealing drugs. If you don't tell me, I'll...I'll tell your parents!"
Emily's head snaps up. "You wouldn't!" she screeches.
"I would! I will! I'll ride my bike over there right now!"
"They won't believe you!" Emily cries, eyes flashing with panic. It's odd how quickly her appearance alters. In an instant, she's no longer the old Emily. Instead, she has the stressed, desperate look of the Emily I've come to know. "You know what?" she shouts. "Tell them! Go ahead! Not only will they not believe you, they won't care! I'm not taking anything dangerous! I could get a prescription for it, easily. I just don't have the time. And my parents would approve. They'd think it's an excellent idea! I can stay up later, I can work harder, I can do everything."
"Then why are you hiding it?" I ask.
Emily's silent. She doesn't have an answer. She thinks she's two steps ahead of me, but I'm catching up. I'm on to her. She knows it.
"My parents are busy, too," she says finally. "Did you know Hanukkah's coming up?"
"Hanukkah's not for another - " I start, then catch myself. She's not fooling me. Not anymore. "Emily, I care about you. You're my friend. I'm worried."
"I'm fine, Stacey. Really,"
"You're not fine, Emily. You look terrible. You look like you haven't slept in a week. You run around school like a crazy person. You don't talk to anyone. Your mood is all over the place, although you're mostly a total crab. You can't believe what you're doing is healthy, not really. These drugs aren't helping you. They're destroying you. They've made you a liar and a thief,"
Emily stares at me, absorbing all I've said. At first, I think she might cry. Her face sort of crumples, then just as quickly, turns to a look of rage. "Who are you to judge me?" she screams. "Who are you to tell me how to run my life? This is none of your business! You don't understand! You don't understand at all!" Emily really starts to cry now, hot and fast tears. "It's so easy for you. You can be average or mediocre and it doesn't matter. All of you - you and Julie and Grace and Mary Anne. Your parents will still love you. They don't weigh your worth in accomplishments and medals. I have to be the best. The best at everything."
"We all work hard, Emily. We all try our best. Our parents know that. So do yours,"
Emily shakes her head. "You may work hard, but I have to work ten times harder. Your best may be good enough for your mom, but it isn't for mine. And you can fail and it's okay. I can never fail. I can never slip up, even a little. I'm tied for first in the class with Alexander Kurtzman and Bea Foster. I can't risk losing that. Alexander and Bea might lose their focus and slip, then I could be number one all by myself! So, I can't stop, Stacey."
"Is it really worth it, Emily? Endangering your health? Sacrificing everything just to be some number on a transcript?" I ask, starting to feel empty and deflated. Nothing I say will change anything. My arguments don't matter. Emily sees only her side.
"It may seem silly to you, Stacey..." Emily begins, wiping her eyes with a tissue. She's not crying anymore. She looks embarrassed. Emily's only cried in front of me a handful of times. Usually, she keeps her emotions bottled up and locked away, like Julie. Emily doesn't want to be seen as anything but strong. I wish she saw herself more clearly. She's made herself fragile and weak and doesn't even realize.
"You need to stop taking those pills," I tell her.
"Oh, I will. It's not forever, Stacey. Georgetown sends its early-admissions letters in December. If I get in, I'll be able to relax. My parents will back off, too. They'll be so relieved. So will I. I won't have to try so hard to please them. I'll stop taking the pills then, Stacey. I promise," Emily smiles, like she means it. Maybe she thinks she does.
"All right, Emily," I reply, walking toward the door. Emily will never stop. There will always be a reason, an excuse. It doesn't matter if she gets into Georgetown or not. She'll always have something to prove.
"I'll see you at school tomorrow," Emily says, holding the door open for me. "We'll eat lunch together!"
I nod. I can't think of anything to say. Downstairs, I retrieve my parka from the closet. The Bernsteins' mail is sitting on the foyer rug in an untidy pile. The mailman must have just delivered it. The corner of my letter peeks out from beneath a flyer for Pizza Express. I pick it up and slide it into my pocket. It was silly to ever send it.
I ride my bike around for awhile more. Twice, I almost head toward downtown to see the Bernsteins. I don't know what to do. Emily has me all mixed-up inside. As if I weren't mixed-up enough already. I don't want Emily to become lost in the disordered drama of my life. I can't help her. I don't have the strength to do more than I've already done.
It's getting dark when I finally ride home. Mom's station wagon is in the garage. It's later than I realized. I hope Mom isn't worried. Mr. Prezzioso's car is parked along the curb. I roll my eyes, then wheel my bike into the garage. I'm halfway up the porch steps when a voice stops me, loud and angry.
"I am not spineless!"
I step back off the porch, startled. I'm trying to figure out who's yelling and where from when I hear Mom shriek, "Yes, you are!" and realize the first voice was Mr. Prezzioso. Their voices are coming from the living room. The curtains are drawn though, so I can't see them. I look around, hoping the neighbors can't hear.
"I am not spineless!" Mr. Prezzioso bellows again. I've never heard him raise his voice so loud.
"Yes, you are!" Mom shrieks again. I wonder if this is going to be the entire fight, just them screaming the same two sentences back and forth. When my parents fought before the divorce, their fights were vicious and nasty. It figures that Mr. Prezzioso would even be dull in an argument.
"I am not spineless!" Mr. Prezzioso shouts for the third time.
"Yes, you are!" Mom shrieks back.
So, they are just going to scream the same two sentences back and forth. If they're breaking up, it's going to take forever. Or at least until one of them loses their voice. I can't stand out here all night. I walk around the side of the house to the backyard. I'll go inside through the kitchen and up the back stairs to my bedroom. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso can continue their lame fight without even knowing I'm home.
As soon as I round the corner into the backyard, I come to an abrupt halt. Mallory Pike's laying on the picnic table again, flat on her back. I listen carefully. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso's voices don't carry this far. Mallory won't know they're fighting. It's embarrassing, sort of like how it was when Mom and Dad used to have screaming matches in our old apartment. I wonder if it's self-centered of me to be embarrassed.
Mallory hasn't noticed me. She's laying very still again. I can barely see the slight rise in her chest when she breathes. As drained as I am from the day, curiosity gets the better of me. I march over to the fence.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
Mallory turns her head toward me, then sits up. She's chewing a piece of gum. She snaps it. "Thinking," she replies, simply. We haven't spoken since our fight in the bathroom. It's weird talking to her again.
"Where's your cigarette?" I ask.
Mallory crosses her legs, so she's sitting indian-style on top of the picnic table. She shrugs. "Mom and Dad are making me quit," she says.
"I thought your parents don't care what you do. Too many kids and all," I say. There's a slight nastiness in my tone. I thought I was through being angry with Mallory.
"Oh...well...they thought it was a phase I'd grow out of. I guess I didn't grow out of it fast enough. Adam and Byron have to quit, too," Mallory tells me, then snaps her gum a couple more times. "Did you hear about your friend Barbara?" she asks.
"She's not my friend,"
"Oh...well, she has genital warts, you know? That she got from Howie Johnson? Someone called Mom about it yesterday. A lot of parents are pretty hysterical over it. I guess a bunch of kids are getting tested now. Mom made me an appointment for Wednesday. I told her I can't have a STD since I've only been with Ben. We haven't even had sex yet. Just oral sex. That's not a big deal. I told Mom that. She cried,"
I fold my arms tight across my chest. It's darker and colder now. "I thought your parents didn't care if you had oral sex. They said at least you couldn't get pregnant that way,"
Even in the dim combined light of my patio lights and the Pike's patio lights, I can see Mallory blush. "Oh...well...they didn't actually say that...not exactly. I lied to you,"
I should have guessed. How stupid I used to be, believing everyone's lies. "Why would you lie to me?" I ask. Surprisingly, I don't sound angry at all. I guess I'm not. I'm not even that disappointed.
"I don't know,"
She's the second person today to use that reason. What a weak excuse. I turn and start to walk away. "Don't worry too much about it, Mallory," I call over my shoulder. "All anyone does is lie to me."
Mallory doesn't reply. She just lets me walk away and slip into the house. The light is on in the kitchen. There's an open carton of milk and unwrapped block of cheese sitting on the counter, like Mom was about to start dinner when Mr. Prezzioso came over. They're still fighting in the living room, but not screaming and shrieking anymore. Their voices are still raised loud enough for me to hear every word clearly.
"I can't believe you're still bringing this up!" Mr. Prezzioso shouts.
"Why shouldn't I? It proves you have no spine!" Mom shouts back.
At least the fight has progressed somewhat. I pour a glass of milk and start slicing the cheese, then open a bag of wheat rolls. I make a cheese sandwich, then carry my plate and glass to the dining room and up the back stairs. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso don't see me. I sit down in the middle of the stairs and listen.
"You wouldn't even choose me!" Mom is yelling. Finally, the fight's getting interesting. "You wouldn't leave Madeleine for me! You stalled and stalled. You were too spineless to leave her! She had to leave you!"
"I did choose you! She wanted me back, but I chose you! She still wants me back, but I still choose you. You're the one I want!"
I gag and take a bite of my sandwich. I hope Mom doesn't fall for that.
"That's not enough for me, Nick! I can't do this anymore! I can't be with someone I don't respect!"
The entire house falls silent.
I can barely hear him when Mr. Prezzioso asks, "Are you breaking up with me?"
More silence. My mouth goes dry. It's an effort to swallow the bite of my sandwich. I hold my breath. This is it.
"I don't know," Mom replies.
What?
She doesn't know?
"That's not an answer!" Mr. Prezzioso shouts.
"It's the best answer I can give you!" Mom exclaims. She starts crying. I suddenly feel sick and guilty. I shouldn't take such delight in their fighting. Or breaking up. Or whatever they're doing. I don't want Mom to be hurt. I don't want her to cry.
I stand and walk quietly up to my room. I leave the door ajar, so I can still listen. I lay down on my bed. If Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are still arguing, their voices don't carry up the stairs. But I don't think they're saying anything. All I hear is Mom crying. I watch the red lighted numbers on my alarm clock. I wait five minutes, then roll off the bed and tiptoe into the hallway. I look down over the front stairs. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are standing in the center of the living room. Mom's face is buried in Mr. Prezzioso's shirt, muffling her sobs. She's clutching his suit jacket so tightly her knuckles are white. He's stroking her hair. Neither of them say anything. Did they break up? I don't understand at all.
I go back to my bedroom. This time I shut the door. I lay on my bed again, turning on the lamp. I mean to take out my reading assignment for English. I don't. Instead I just lay on the bed. Downstairs, the front door shuts. It doesn't slam, but shuts so quietly I wouldn't hear it if I weren't listening for it. Mom comes upstairs. Her footsteps are slow and heavy. She shuts her bedroom door. I wonder if I should go to her and comfort her like I did after her fights with Dad. I decide against it. Mom might prefer not knowing that I heard. I feel horrible for eavesdropping. I wouldn't want anyone listening in on something so private.
After a few more minutes, I get up and start my homework. No matter how terrible the day has been, I still have to do it. My grades can't fall apart just because everyone around me is. I open my chemistry book and copy down problem one. I pause and listen, then push away from my desk. I crack my door and listen again. The bath tub is running in Mom's room. I go back to my homework. I'm in the middle of problem nine when the telephone rings. I sigh and reach for the phone. It's probably Mr. Prezzioso.
"Hello?" I say into the receiver.
Silence.
"Hello?" I repeat.
"Stacey?"
"Grace?"
"Can you come over?" Grace asks in a funny, strangled voice. "I just had a big fight with my parents."
"You want me to come over there?" I reply. Usually people want to leave the house after fighting with their parents.
"My parents aren't home. They're still in the city," Grace explains. "We fought over speakerphone."
"Oh...well, I guess I can come over," I say, even though I'm not sure how much more of anyone or anything I can take.
"Good because I want to tell you something,"
Grace hangs up without saying goodbye. I stare at the receiver. She wants to tell me something? Is this it? Has Grace finally snapped and is ready to spill herself to me? I might snap myself. But I'll go. Out of curiosity or loyalty, I'm not sure. Maybe both.
I knock on Mom's door. "Mom?" I call out, softly. I try the doorknob. It's locked.
"I'd like to be alone, please," Mom answers.
"I have to go over to Grace's for awhile. For homework. Can I take my car?"
There's a long pause. "I guess," Mom says. "Don't stay too late."
"I won't,"
It's freezing inside my car. I start the engine and immediately turn on the heater. I shiver as I back out. It takes awhile to warm up, but by the time I reach Locust Avenue I'm almost too hot. I park in front of Grace's house and run up the front walk. The lights in the foyer and Grace's bedroom appear to be the only ones on. I ring the bell three times in a row, then open the door. Normally, I'd never walk into anyone's house like this, but I have a feeling Grace doesn't plan to come downstairs. When I get upstairs, I turn on the hall light, so I can see my way to Grace's room. Her door is part way open. I peer in and gasp.
Grace's bedroom is completely destroyed. Her trophy case lays shattered on the floor. Most of the trophies are broken. All the posters and photos have been ripped off the walls and lay in shreds on top of the broken glass. The glass figurines and dolls that once sat on Grace's shelves have been knocked to the floor. Clothes are strewn everywhere. Even the dresser drawers are thrown around the room. Grace's princess phone is smashed on her night table.
I stay frozen in the doorway, my mouth gaping in horror. Has Grace truly lost her mind?
Grace storms out of the closet, arms piled high with coats and dresses. Her face is streaked with black eyeliner and mascara and dried tears. Her long red hair, usually so precisely styled, is loose and wild. Grace looks like a madwoman.
She dumps the coats and dresses in the middle of the floor. "I'm burning all this," Grace tells me. "Everything. You can take what you want. I'm burning everything else. That will show my parents!"
"I hardly think arson is the right answer," I reply, finding my voice.
"Oh, you don't know anything," Grace snaps, marching back into the closet.
"What did you fight with your parents about?" I ask, stepping over a large shard of glass.
Grace comes out of the closet, empty handed. There's a peculiar expression on her face. She stares at me. It's an odd, unsettling stare. I shift from foot to foot self-consciously.
"I want to tell you something," Grace says.
"All right..."
"You have to promise never to tell anyone. Ever," Grace's voice breaks. She swallows. "I trust you, Stacey."
A knot forms in my stomach. It tightens. "I'll never tell, Grace," I promise.
"You can never tell," Grace repeats.
"I won't tell, Grace. I promise I won't," I tell her. I hope I can keep that promise. I want to believe I can.
Grace bursts into tears. She's the third person I've watched cry today. Grace covers her face with her hands. I don't move to comfort her. I stay where I am, the shattered trophy case and piles of clothes between us. The knot in my stomach tightens even more. This isn't some silly little secret.
"I've tried so hard, Stacey, I really have. I've tried to become a good person. I've tried to make up for what I've done. Nothing erases it. It never goes away. It's with me in the morning when I wake and all throughout the day and it's still with me even when I sleep. It's in my dreams. And the worst part, Stacey, is I don't know if I feel so horrible because of what I've done, or if I'm just so afraid of being found out,"
Grace lowers her hands and stares at me. I don't know if she expects me to reply. Even if I knew what to say, I couldn't say it. My throat has closed around my voice.
"That's why you can never tell, Stacey. If anyone knew what we've done...we'd all go to prison. Me, my parents, everyone. This isn't my secret alone. It's not my secret to tell. But I have to tell someone or else I might go mad," Grace breathes in and out, then raises her hands to her head, grasping her hair. She closes her eyes, takes another breath, then shouts, "The summer after eighth grade...Cokie, Kristy, Abby, and I...we ran over Howie Johnson!"
