I expected Stoneybrook to be farther from New York. On a map, it appears so far away. I used to look at the map and see only distance between Stacey and myself. Really, she was much closer than I'd known.
I reach the Stoneybrook exit in no more than an hour. Coming off the freeway, I almost hit a rabbit. I hate the country.
Driving through downtown Stoneybrook I realize I'm lost. I have no idea how to actually get to Stacey's house. The one time I visited Stoneybrook I spent too much time with my nose turned up to notice the streets and landmarks. I pull over in front of a row of shops and crane my neck to see the street sign. Essex. It means nothing. I should have bought a better map.
I leave the car and run inside Pierre's Dry Cleaners. A tall black girl stands behind the counter, filing long square-cut nails and looking extremely bored.
"Can you help me?" I ask. "I'm lost. I need to find Elm Street."
"Sure," she smiles, flipping over a blank dry cleaning ticket and sketching a quick map. "You're really close. I used to live near there, but we moved last year." She slides the map toward me, still smiling. I thank her and leave.
Renwick's sits across the street. Stacey and I ate there during my visit. Actually, Stacey ate while I drank seltzer, pretending to listen to whatever it was she talked about. I kept calling her "Anastasia". I knew it drove her crazy. That's probably why I did it. I wanted to be in Stoneybrook. I wanted to be with Stacey. I wanted Stacey and I to be the same as always. And, yet - I didn't.
Stacey was tolerant and polite, to a point. Then, she called me on my rudeness, called my bluff about wanting to return to New York. A part of me knew Stacey was right. Another part of me didn't realize it for quite awhile. I accept it now. Everything wrong with that visit was completely my fault. I changed too fast for Stacey. I changed in all the wrong ways.
At the stoplight on Essex and Main Street, the light turns red. I hesitate about making a right turn. Turning against the red makes me nervous. I decide to wait for it to turn green again.
Two girls walk their bikes across the crosswalk in front of my car. As they pass, the girl in the lead flashes me a friendly smile, revealing two rows of silver braces, framed by slick and shiny lips, the color of ripe raspberries. I grip the steering wheel and slouch down in the seat. I swear, the passing girl is Kristy Thomas. Not the tomboy, but a young woman in olive green shorts and a tight beige t-shirt, her shoulder-length hair pushed back with a coppery headband. Is this really Kristy Thomas? I remember her in baseball caps and bulky sweaters, blowing a whistle in people's ears. I certainly don't recall her being so...busty. If the years could alter me as they have, then I suppose they could give Kristy Thomas breasts and an affinity for shiny lip gloss.
The girl behind her gives a small wave. She has wild curly hair. I'm sure I've never met her. Kristy and the girl climb onto their bikes and peddle off down Main Street. The car behind me blasts its horn. I finally make the right turn. For several feet, I drive alongside Kristy. I think of all the regrets I have tied up with Kristy and her friends. I almost roll down the window and shout them out to her.
I'm sorry, Kristy Thomas, I'd yell, for calling your club babyish, for insulting your school, for laughing at your Valentine Masquerade.
Instead, I press hard on the gas and zoom away. Maybe Stacey and her friends hadn't been immature. Maybe they were just as thirteen year olds should be. Maybe I was wrong.
I know I was wrong.
It's one thing to admit it to myself. A whole other thing to roll down the window and shout it out to Kristy Thomas and all of downtown Stoneybrook.
I wish I could go back and have another year of baby-sitting. I wish I could go back and enjoy one more afternoon at The Last Wound-Up. I wish I could go back and accept a slow dance with Pete Black. I wish I could go back and be Stacey McGill's best friend again.
I'd do everything right this time.
I drive slowly down Elm Street, searching for number eighty-nine. I forgot to rehearse an apology. It doesn't matter. I was the debate champion at Miss Holloway's. I'll wing it.
I remember Stacey and I exploring the streets of New York.
Stacey and I eating frozen Milky Ways in my old apartment.
Stacey and I shrieking on the telephone because she's moving back to New York.
Stacey and I hugging and sobbing in my bedroom because she's moving back to Stoneybrook.
Stacey and I screaming at each other in her mother's car after the Valentine's Day dance.
And, the panic in Stacey's eyes after spotting me outside the Starstruck diner.
I roll slowly passed number eighty-nine Elm Street. The shutters are painted dark teal. Were they always that color? A fat tabby cat stretches on the porch. Mrs. McGill's station wagon is parked in the driveway beside a dust-covered turquoise Chevy Impala. Both have the same bumper sticker - Stoneybrook High School Swim Team.
I roll to the end of the block, then slam on the gas and turn the corner, in search of the nearest freeway on-ramp.
There's no going back.