The Best Friend (5 page)

A gust of wind sent a curtain of powdery snow across the yard. The bare trees rattled and creaked, then resumed their silent watch over the house.

The dark, still house.

Becka stared from window to window, searching for a light, any sign of life. But the old house, snow drifts pushed up against its dark shingles, icicles hanging from the low roof of the front stoop, appeared as empty and deserted as it had for months.

“How can this be?” Becka said aloud.

As she trudged up the unshoveled walk to the ice-covered front steps, she felt a shiver run down her back, a shiver of dread.

There were footprints in the snow, but they were old, half filled in by the afternoon's snowfall.

Becka slipped on the first step, but stopped herself
from falling by grabbing onto the metal rain down-spout beside the stoop. Making her way more carefully, she crossed the small, square stoop and pounded hard on the front door.

Silence.

Leaning off the stoop, she peeked into the living room window.

Darkness inside.

Were those cartons against the wall? Too dark to tell.

She knocked again. Tried the doorbell, but the button was frozen in place.

Silence.

Another wind gust tossed a swirl of powdery snow onto the stoop.

Shivering, Becka turned away from the dark, empty house, carefully made her way down the frozen stairs, and started to jog home.

Where is Honey? she wondered, questions swirling across her mind like the flakes of snow being tossed by the wind. Why did she appear so suddenly and lie about moving in next door? Where is my parrot pin? There's
got
to be a logical explanation for this—right?

Right?

“Did you see Mary Harwood when she came out of the supply closet with David Metcalf? She had a big purple spot on her neck.” Lilah shook her head and giggled.

Becka stopped walking and gaped at her friend. “You mean a hickey?”

Lilah rolled her eyes. “Mary said it was a mosquito bite. Isn't that lame? A mosquito bite in December?”

Both girls laughed and began walking again. It was a bright afternoon, the sun high in the sky, making the melting snow sparkle like silver. School had just let out, and they had decided to walk home.

“What's with Mary's mother?” Becka asked, shifting her backpack from one shoulder to the other, then adjusting the hood of her parka. “Doesn't she know what a tramp Mary is?”

“She has no idea,” Lilah replied, an amused grin on her face. “Mary's mom lives on some other planet. Billy Harper told Lisa Blume that he was making out with Mary Saturday afternoon on the couch in Mary's living room. Mary's mom walked up to them with a tray and asked if anyone wanted homemade fudge!”

This story made them both laugh gleefully.

“Wow!” Becka exclaimed. “And my mom monitors every phone call I get!”

“Speaking of phone calls,” said Lilah, turning serious, did you hear from Bill again?”

Becka shook her head. “No. He's probably angry with me because I wouldn't sneak out and meet him at the mall Saturday night.”

They crossed the street. Becka had to hurry to keep up with Lilah's long strides.

The blare of a car horn startled them both. They turned to see a station wagon rumble by, filled with kids they knew from school. It stopped in the middle of the intersection. The driver's window rolled down, and Ricky Schorr poked his grinning head out.

“Want a ride?”

“There's no room,” Becka told him, pointing to the crowd jammed into the back of the wagon.

“You can sit on my lap!” Ricky yelled. The car exploded with raucous laughter.

“I'd rather walk home barefoot,” Becka shot back. She and Lilah turned and continued on their way. The station wagon rumbled on.

“Ricky's friends think he's a riot,” Becka muttered.

“Since when does he have friends?”

“Since he began driving that station wagon to school,” Becka replied.

“So did you tell your parents you want to start seeing Bill again?”

Becka shook her head. “I haven't been in the mood for World War Three.”

“Are you going to sneak out and see him?”

“No. Maybe. I don't know. I can't decide.”

“You sound pretty undecided,” Lilah said. She stopped to wave to a man and a woman in the yard across the street. The man was up on a ladder, stringing a row of Christmas lights along his roof edge. His wife was on the ground, helping to untangle them.

“The Andersons really get into Christmas,” Lilah said softly. “Look at all those lights. Their house looks like one of those Las Vegas casinos! Can you imagine their electric bill?”

“Well, at least I'll get to see Bill at Trish's Christmas party,” Becka said, sighing.

“He's coming?”

“Yeah. Who isn't? It's going to be a mob scene. Trish has invited everyone in the world!”

“Did you buy a dress?” Lilah asked, kicking a clump of hardened snow along the walk.

“I got a great skirt,” Becka said enthusiastically. “It's really short and really silky. It's silver. I'm going to wear it over that black catsuit I bought at the mall.”

“I can't wear a catsuit. I look like a broom,” Lilah complained.

“I can't believe you're unhappy about being tall,” Becka told her. “I would
kill
to be as tall as you.”

“No, you wouldn't.”

“Well. . .
almost
as tall as you!”

Both girls laughed. They said their goodbyes, promising to call each other later. Becka watched Lilah jog over the snow toward her house, her long brown ponytail bobbing out from under her blue wool cap. Then Becka turned and headed for Fear Street, thinking about Bill and about Trish's party.

“Anyone home?” she called, stepping inside the kitchen and closing the door behind her. The kitchen was warm and smelled of cinnamon. There was no reply.

Becka made her way through the back hall and started up the stairs to her room to get rid of her backpack. She stopped halfway up and listened.

A voice upstairs.

A voice from her room.

Was it her mother? Who was she talking to?

Becka climbed two more stairs and stopped. Hidden by the railing, she peered across the landing into her room.

The door was open more than halfway. The lights were on. Becka could see a portion of her bed.

Someone was moving around in there, chatting.

Someone.

Becka poked her face through the railing and watched.

Honey!

Staring across the dark hallway, Becka saw Honey deposit some clothes on Becka's bed.

My
clothes, Becka realized. What is going on here?

Honey is in my room, taking clothes out of my closet.

Honey disappeared from view. Becka heard her voice but couldn't make out what she was saying.

When she reappeared, Becka recognized the skirt Honey was wearing. It was the silver skirt Becka had bought for Trish's party.

She's wearing my skirt?

Becka gripped the rail tightly, frozen, staring in disbelief at what the rectangle of light revealed in the doorway to her bedroom.

She's wearing my skirt!

She was also wearing a silky blue top that Becka's parents had given her for her birthday.

Once again, Honey stepped out of view. Becka could hear her opening dresser drawers now.

What is she doing here?

Why is she in my room, trying on my best clothes?

And who,
Becka wondered,
is Honey talking to?

“H
oney!” Becka burst in to her bedroom, her heart pounding.

“Oh, hi.” Honey stood up from the dresser drawer she had been leaning over. A smile spread across her face. “You're home.”

Becka gaped at her, speechless for a moment. Her eyes darted around the room. Honey, she saw, had removed most of the clothes from the closet and piled them on the bed.

“Uh—I didn't know—I mean, I didn't expect. . .” Becka stammered, feeling her face grow red.

“Your mom said I could come up,” Honey said casually. She turned and pushed the dresser drawers closed.

“My mom? She's home?”

“No. I think she went out,” Honey told her.

“Then who were you talking to?” Becka demanded, stepping reluctantly to the bed.

“Huh?” Honey stared at her, a bewildered expression
on her face. She pushed back her disheveled pile of auburn hair.

“I heard you talking to someone,” Becka insisted, turning to examine her nearly empty closet.

“No. Not me,” Honey replied, her smile returning. “I'm all alone.”

“But—” Becka realized she was still holding her backpack. She let it slide to the floor and kicked it under the bed.

“Oh, Becka, I just love your clothes!” Honey gushed. She swirled around in front of the mirror, admiring herself in the silver skirt and the silky blouse. “You always had such great taste! Even when we were little, you knew just what to buy.”

“But, Honey—”

“I don't
believe
this skirt!” Honey exclaimed, not giving Becka a chance to get a word out. She spun around one more time, then walked over to Becka, stopping so close to her that Becka could smell the sweet chewing gum on her breath. Feeling awkward, Becka took a step back.

“I just bought that skirt. I haven't worn it yet,” Becka said unhappily, hoping Honey would hear how irritated she was.

“Where did you get it?” Honey chirped. “Not at the mall. You couldn't have bought this skirt at one of those tacky shops at the mall. Where, Becka? You
have
to tell me! It's just so sexy!”

“At a little shop in the Old Village. Petermann's, I think,” Becka muttered.

This can't be happening, Becka thought miserably.

Honey didn't seem to be picking up any of Becka's signals. She made her way back to the mirror to
admire the outfit. “This top isn't exactly right. What else goes with the skirt?”

“I don't know,” Becka said. “I'm going to wear the skirt to a Christmas party.”

“Do you believe it?” Honey cried happily. “We're still the same size! I know I look bigger than you. But we're still the same size. We can still wear the same clothes, just like when we were kids.”

“Really?” Becka uttered. She didn't know how to reply.

“People always said we looked like twins,” Honey gushed, holding up a denim jumper and checking it out in the dresser mirror.

“They did?”

“We were always wearing each other's clothes. Always trading everything. Even our jeans. Even our socks. It was so amazing,” Honey declared almost rapturously. “It got so we didn't know what was whose. We really were just like twins.”

How come I don't remember that? Becka asked herself. It seems to me I'd remember that if it were true. Honey seems so sincere. I don't think she's deliberately lying.

Does she live in some kind of fantasy world?

“Do you like my hair up like this?” Honey asked, bunching her thick auburn hair with both hands and piling it in a bun on top of her head.

“Yeah. It's okay,” Becka replied without enthusiasm.

“You're not looking!” Honey complained. “Look. Like this? Or, like this?” She let go of the hair and let it fall loosely behind her shoulders.

“It might be nice if you tied it loosely in back and
let it hang down,” Becka suggested. “You know, with a wide ribbon.”

“You're right!” Honey exclaimed happily. “You're always right about things like that! You're just amazing, Becka!” And she lunged across the room and gave Becka a long, heartfelt hug.

Becka gasped. She could barely breathe.

“I can't believe we're going to be best friends again!” Honey said, finally taking a step back. “I'm so happy, Becka. Aren't you?”

“Yeah.” Becka tried to sound enthusiastic. But having gotten over her astonishment at finding Honey in her room, Becka remembered she had some important questions to ask.

“Honey, I went next door to see you Saturday afternoon,” she said, searching Honey's face as if looking for answers. “But the house—it was totally dark and no one was there.”

The smile faded slowly from Honey's face. She pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. I know. My dad couldn't get the furnace to start up. It was freezing in that old house. So we had to leave. Here I was so excited about moving into my new house, and Dad and I had to spend the weekend at a crummy motel.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Becka said, still studying Honey's face. “Is it okay now?”

“Yeah. The furnace guy finally came and we moved in,” Honey said. “But I had to go to school today, so I still haven't had time to unpack.”

Becka chewed her thumb nervously.