BFF* (35 page)

“Come on, you guys,” Charles said to them, with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Not while I'm eating.”

“Cold mashed potatoes are disgusting,” I muttered.

“To each his own,” he said.

I didn't respond.

“You know … I'm worried about you, Rachel.”

“You're worried about me?”

“Yeah … it's not normal for a girl your age not to have friends.”

“I have plenty of friends.”

“So where are they? How come they never come over?”

I chose my favorite mug, decorated with pink and lavender hearts, and poured boiling water over my tea bag. Then I set the mug down so the tea could steep. It's amazing how few people know how to make a good cup of tea. They think they can hand you a cup of hot water with a tea bag on the side and that's it.

“I asked you a question, Rachel.”

“My friends are none of your business,” I told him.

“I think you're trying to hide something.”

I spun around. “I am
not
trying to hide anything. And I don't have to explain my friendships to you!” I knew better than to continue this conversation. So I took my tea upstairs, to the privacy of my own room.

T
he next day I asked Stephanie and Alison if they wanted to come over after school.

“Sure …” Alison said. “Will Charles be there?”

“Probably,” I told her. “But don't get into a long conversation with him. Don't start telling him about your dog and how she can talk.”

“Would he believe me if I did?” Alison asked.

“No, but he'd lead you on and then he'd never let you forget you said it.”

“Fine … I won't say anything,” Alison said.

“No … that would be even worse. Then he'll think you
can't
talk.”

“Okay … I'll just say one or two things.”

“And nothing personal,” I told her. “Don't tell him your mother's pregnant.”

“Got it,” Alison said. “Nothing personal.”

“And no questions!”

Alison repeated that. “No questions.”

“You, too,” I told Steph.

“All right,” Steph said. “Stop worrying! I've known Charles since I was seven … remember?”

“I'm not worrying,” I said.

T
he cats were sleeping outside the kitchen door when we got home. Burt woke up and stretched when he heard us. Harry didn't even move. I gave them fresh water from the outside faucet. Then I opened the door. Charles wasn't in the kitchen, so I poured three glasses of cranberry juice and set out a box of Dutch pretzels.

“The way you eat pretzels is so weird,” Stephanie said to me.

“To each her own,” I answered. It's true that I have a special way of eating pretzels. I like to lick off all the salt first. Then, when the pretzel is very soft, just before it's actually soggy, I chew it up. I didn't always eat pretzels that way. But a few years ago I broke a
tooth on one, and ever since I eat them very carefully.

“Well … are we going to see him or not?” Alison finally asked.

“All right,” I said. And I started down the hall to Charles's room, with Alison and Stephanie right behind me. I knocked and called, “Charles, I'm home with my friends!”

We waited but he didn't answer.

“Maybe he's not here,” Steph said.

“I couldn't be so lucky,” I mumbled on the way back to the kitchen. Just when I decided he probably wasn't home he appeared, fresh out of the shower, barefoot, with wet hair. He was wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt that said E
LVIS
I
S
D
EAD
.

“Well, well, well …” He smiled, surveying the scene.

I said, “Alison, this is my brother, Charles.”

“You're Charles?” Alison said, like she couldn't believe it. What was she expecting … Dracula?

“None other,” he answered, turning on the charm. “And who are you?”

“Alison Monceau.” She practically drooled. “From L.A. I've heard a lot about you.”

“I can imagine,” Charles said. “I'm one of my sister's favorite subjects.”

“Not from Rachel,” Alison said quickly. “Rachel doesn't like to talk about you.”

“What?” Charles said. “Impossible! Rachel, is this true? You don't talk about me anymore? You don't tell people how I bit you on your leg when you were two?”

“He bit you?” Alison asked me. Before I could answer, Stephanie waved her arms, trying to capture Charles's attention. “Hey,” she called, “remember me?”

He looked her up and down. “No!” he said. “I don't believe it! This can't be Stephanie Hirsch!”

Stephanie suddenly grew self-conscious, touching her hair, her mouth, then crossing her arms over her chest. She tried to smile at him without showing her braces.

He was doing such a number on them! And they were just eating it up. Fools! I wanted to shout. He's just using you. He's just playing games.

“I was beginning to think the child prodigy had no friends,” Charles said, making me cringe. “Why, just last night I accused her of being friendless. Right, Rachel?”

“That's it!” I said. “The party's over!”

I opened the screen door and let it slam behind me, expecting my friends to follow. But they just stood there, enthralled by my brother, until he said, “ ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow …”' and disappeared down the hall. As soon as he was gone, Stephanie and Alison burst out laughing.

“I don't see anything funny!” I told them from the other side of the screen door.

“That's your problem, Rachel,” Stephanie said. She pushed the screen door open and she and Alison joined me outside. “Maybe if you treated him better, he'd treat you better.”

“Why are you taking
his
side?” I asked. “You're supposed to be
my
friend.”

“I am your friend,” Steph argued.

“No,” I said, “a friend is someone you can depend on!”

“You
can
depend on me. It's just that you always think everything's going to be a disaster!”

“Not everything,” I told her. “Just
some
things!” But it was useless. They'd never understand. I turned and ran to the top of the hill. Then I lay on the grass with my arms hugging my body, and I began to roll. I rolled all the way down, like I used to when I was small, stopping myself just short of the pond.

Alison and Steph, thinking I was playing some game, followed, rolling down the hill after me, laughing hysterically. Steph stopped on her own, but I had to grab Alison or she'd have rolled right into the water. When she stood up, I steadied her. “Well …” I said, “are you satisfied?”

“About what?” she asked. Sometimes Alison is so dense!

“About Charles,” I said.

“Oh, yeah … I guess.” She and Steph exchanged looks. “I mean, based on what I just saw, I can see how he'd be a pain as a brother … but as a boy …”

I held up my hand. “I don't want to hear it, Alison!”

“All she's saying is—” Steph began.

But I didn't let her finish. “I am not interested in either of your opinions about my brother.”

“It's getting hard to be around you, Rachel!” Steph said. “You're so … intense!” She turned to Alison. “Come on … let's go.” And they walked off together.

I wanted to call after them, to tell them I needed them. But I couldn't find the words.

Instead I went home and rearranged my dresser drawers, folding and refolding each sweater, each T-shirt, each pair of socks. Then I started on my closet. When everything was in order, when everything was perfect, I sat down at my music stand, picked up my flute and began to play.

I
handed in my biography. I thought of taking out the section about inventing a vaccine to prevent hair balls in lions, but I didn't. Just because Charles found it wildly funny or even peculiar doesn't mean anything. Because Charles is peculiar himself.

He stays up all night watching reruns of old sitcoms on TV—“The Munsters,” “Gilligan's Island,” “The Brady Bunch.” He goes to bed at sunrise and sleeps away half the day. It's easy to avoid him on this schedule. Maybe that's why he does it. Maybe he's trying to avoid us. He doesn't even join us for dinner, which is fine with Jessica and me. But it bothers Mom and Dad. They think eating dinner together is the single most important part of family life. They've been seeing Dr. Sparks. They want Charles to see him again, too, but so far he's refused.

“That quack!” Charles shouted at Mom a couple of
nights ago. “He knows
nothing!
You're blowing your money on him.”

“Fine,” Mom said, without raising her voice. “Then we'll find someone else. Someone you feel more comfortable with.”

“Don't count on it,” Charles told her.

At the dinner table we don't talk about him. Jess and I try to keep the conversation light, but you can tell Mom is stressed-out and Dad's not himself, either. He tries not to let us see he's distracted, but he can't fool me. I've seen him gobbling Pepto-Bismol tablets. And I've heard him talking quietly with Mom late at night, long after they're usually asleep. I've stopped asking them about Charles and what's going to happen, but I haven't stopped wondering if we have to live this way until he's eighteen.

On Monday my biography came back marked A+, and in the margin Ms. Lefferts wrote,
Excellent work, well thought out, delightful reading. See me
. When I went up to her after class, she said, “Rachel, I had no idea you were interested in the theater.”

She was referring to my imagined career as a great actress. I'd written that Rachel died onstage at the age of ninety-seven. It was weird writing about my own death, but I suppose if I absolutely have to die—and death is a fact of life, isn't it?—then ninety-seven isn't bad, especially if I'm able to work right up to the end. Besides, since I'm just thirteen now, that
gives me another eighty-four years to figure things out.

Ms. Lefferts was in one of her hyper moods, talking very fast, using her hands to punctuate every word. “I'm going to be advisor to the Drama Club next year and I certainly hope you'll join.”

“Well …” I began.

But she didn't wait for me to finish. “I know you're busy. I recommended you for that helping program myself …. What's it called again?”

“Natural Helpers,” I said.

“Yes, Natural Helpers … but the Drama Club could be a very exciting experience for you. We're going to do a fall play and a spring musical.”

“I'll—”

“That's all I'm asking. That you give it your serious consideration. Because we really need people like you … people with a
genuine
interest in theater.”

“It sounds—”

“Oh … and I forgot to mention we'll be going to New York to see at least two plays.”

“Will we go by train or bus?” I asked.

She seemed surprised by my question. “I haven't worked that out yet. Do you have a preference?”

“Yes,” I told her. “I prefer the train.” I didn't add that I get motion sick in cars and buses but not on trains.

“Well …” she said, “I'll keep your preference in
mind. I'm hoping to get tickets to a contemporary drama and a Shakespearean comedy.”

“Shakespeare is my favorite,” I said.

Ms. Lefferts put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Mine, too, Rachel. Mine, too.”

W
hat am I going to do about all these activities? I wondered as I got into bed that night. Mom says the trick is to know your own limits. But I don't know what my limits are. I wish my teachers wouldn't expect me to do everything!

I decided to make a list. In one column I wrote down the activities I'm participating in now—Orchestral Band, All-State Orchestra, Debating Team, plus a private flute lesson each week and forty-five minutes of practice a day. In the other column I wrote down the activities I'm thinking about adding next year—Drama Club and Natural Helpers. Also, Stephanie wants me to run for eighth-grade class president. She's already volunteered to be my campaign manager and she's thought up the perfect slogan—
Rachel Robinson, the Dare to Care Candidate
.

I tried to figure out how many hours a week these activities would take, not counting president, but until tomorrow, when I go to the introductory meeting of Natural Helpers, I won't really be able to come up with an exact figure. I wonder if it's even possible to handle so many activities. I wish I could be a regular
person for just one year! But then Mom would be disappointed. She'd say it's a crime to waste my potential. I wonder if she's ever wished she could be a regular person.

I turned off the light and lay down. Burt snuggled up against my hip and Harry at my feet. I closed my eyes, but my mind was on overtime. What if class president isn't allowed to participate in other activities? What if Natural Helpers turns out to be a full-time activity? What if I get a part in the school play, which means rehearsals every afternoon, when I'm supposed to be at Debating Club preparing for an interschool match and Orchestral Band is rehearsing for the spring concert and my flute teacher says I haven't been practicing enough and my grades start slipping and everybody says I'm not doing my job as class president because I'm too busy doing other things and I am impeached by the class officers? Being impeached would be even worse than being expelled. Being impeached would probably make the local papers!