It's August. A terrible time of year in New York. I turned eighteen in January. I leave for university on September 9th. Washington, that's where I'm going. Not the state.
I brush my hair fifty times, standing in front of the full-length mirror that hangs on the closet door. I stopped perming it three years ago. I use brown liner and mascara on my eyes. I'm not into dramatic make up anymore. I dress in plain khaki slacks and sandals and a heather-gray cashmere shell. It's the wrong weather for the matching sweater. I admire my reflection - a little vanity never hurt anyone. The look is understated, yet mature. I laugh at the memory of Stacey's and my eighth grade definitions of "mature" and "sophisticated". I like how I look when I laugh.
In some ways, I'm still that thirteen year old girl, standing outside the Starstruck diner, waiting for her ex-best friend to want her again. I regret not turning around, calling out, "I'm sorry and I miss you."
I am full of regret.
"I think I'll take the car out of the city," I tell my mother. "For practice."
My mother pushes her glasses down the slope of her nose and peers up at me. She's seated at the dining room table going over plans for a charity auction she's in charge of. For a moment, we just stare at each other, then finally, she sighs and walks into her bedroom. Our relationship has not repaired itself. She never apologized for slapping me. I doubt she ever will. I never apologized for almost getting pregnant. I doubt I ever will.
My mother and I, another casualty of the old Laine Cummings. Another great regret.
She retrieves the car keys from her purse, presses them into my palm along with three brand-new twenty dollar bills. I've not yet earned back credit card privileges. Not until I leave for university. My parents call it "straightening Laine out." I call it "cruel and unusual."
I hurry out of the apartment and to the garage where we park my new car. It was a graduation gift. I asked for a fiery red BMW convertible. I got a silvery-green Mazda sedan. I know I should be grateful. Sometimes I am.
I've only had my license for two weeks. I've already had four almost-accidents. I drive out of the city without incident, heading toward Connecticut. I don't know what I'll say. After so much time is "I'm sorry" enough?
Since the morning at the Starstruck diner, I've seen Stacey several times. As far as I know, she's not seen me.
The first time, she was jogging in Central Park with a redheaded boy. I think he'd gone to Parker Academy. Stacey ran right by me without a backward glance. That was the summer after eighth grade.
I saw her again at Christmastime, standing under the tree in Rockefeller Center with her friend, Mary Anne Spier. Twice in the spring I spotted them riding the escalators at Saks. Once, they were going up. The other time, they were going down.
The next time, we were eating at the same italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. Stacey was with Mr. McGill and his new wife (my father heard he remarried). I made Read Marcus switch seats with me, so I wouldn't have to watch them.
The last time was the January before Tobin and the pregnancy scare. Troy, my then-boyfriend, and I were ice skating in Central Park. We passed Stacey and Mary Anne on the ice, wearing matching ivory parkas with fake fur-lined hoods and fuzzy pink earmuffs. I skated circles around them for fifteen minutes. They never noticed. I guess they're best friends now. I wonder whatever happened to Claudia.
It's been awhile since I've seen Stacey. Sometimes, I'll walk down 70th Street or passed the Hard Rock Cafe and think I see her. Any tall, thin girl with shiny blonde hair can be Stacey. I never run after these girls or call out to them. Somewhere deep, I know they aren't Stacey. Even deeper, I know I wouldn't run after the real Stacey. There are too many regrets to spill out on the street, covering it with sticky guilt and heavy burdens.
In April, while looking at wallets in Bloomingdale's, the urge struck me to check for Stacey at Mr. McGill's apartment. During the walk to 321 East 65th Street, I practiced what I'd tell Stacey - how sorry I am, how much I've changed, how I miss our friendship, how I've learned the subtle differences between "mature" and "snobbish". Would I admit the pregnancy scare as the catalyst? I'd decide later. I pressed the buzzer for apartment 2F before noticing it read Flynn and not McGill.
Mrs. Flynn told me the McGills moved out in October. Transferred. To Columbus, she thought.
Another misstep. Another regret.
I knew, I knew I'd have to rouse the courage to make amends in Stoneybrook.