Stacey's Choice

  “Me, too. Oh, well. I better call Kristy now. Thanks for being treasurer tomorrow. I’ll see you in school, Dawn.”

  After Dawn and I got off the phone, I called Kristy as I had planned. Of course, she was understanding about the meeting. Then I sat down to my homework again. I worked diligently for fifteen or twenty minutes, but I had to stop when I felt (and heard) my stomach growling. Dinnertime. I needed to eat, and hoped Mom would want to eat again, too. So I abandoned my homework for the second time that day.

  I poked my head into Mom’s room. She was watching one of those ancient sitcoms on a cable station that shows nothing but ancient sitcoms. It was called Our Miss Brooks. She looked pretty contented.

  “Mom? Do you want some dinner?”

  “Dinner? I feel as if I just ate.”

  “You did,” I said, laughing, “but you should eat again. It would be good for you. You don’t have to eat a lot. How about some soup?”

  “Okay,” replied Mom. “Thanks, honey.”

  I fixed Mom a bowl of vegetable soup, plus crackers and peanut butter. Peanut butter is full of protein. Also calories.

  I fixed myself a frozen dinner. While it was in the oven, I made phone calls. I needed to line up Mom-sitters. This evening was my only chance to do it. I’d be leaving for New York right after school the next day. I searched around for the Mom-sitter chart, but I couldn’t find it. I’d thought it was on my desk with the mess that was homework, but it must have become part of some other mess. I hadn’t realized how much time my mother probably devoted to tidying up the house each day. I thought I was a relatively neat person, but now that I took a good look around, I realized that … well, that the sink was piled high with dirty dishes, the laundry basket was overflowing, and the house was a visual history of everything that had gone on in it since Monday. My school things were flung around the foyer. A trail of mail led from the living room upstairs to Mom’s bedroom. Empty soup cans and cereal boxes littered the kitchen. How did Mom keep up with the house and do her temp work and look for a full-time job? No wonder she had pneumonia.

  I gave up looking for the list and just started phoning people. I had called Mrs. Kishi, Mrs. Barrett, and Mrs. Prezzioso when I realized my frozen dinner was more than done. I’d forgotten to set the timer.

  I sniffed the air. Whew! “Mrs Prezzioso,” I said, “I have to go! I have to turn off the oven…. What? … Sure, you can call back later. I still need people to fill in from midnight until eight A.M.”

  When I got off the phone I made a dash for the oven, and hauled that dinner out of there. It wasn’t exactly charred, but it certainly wasn’t tender. Oh, well. It was edible.

  I wolfed down the dinner and was trying to decide whether to attempt my homework again or whether to telephone Mrs. Braddock about Mom-sitting when our bell rang. Then Mal’s mom opened the back door.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Hi, Mrs. Pike!” I replied. “Come on in.”

  Mrs. Pike looked around the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose.

  “I know! Don’t say anything,” I exclaimed. “I burned my dinner. And the kitchen was already a mess. I haven’t done a bit of housework, I’m behind on my homework, and now I’m going to New York tomorrow for the night and I’m not sure who’s staying with Mom and I haven’t even finished packing. Plus —”

  “Stacey! Relax,” said Mrs. Pike. “You need a break. I have a suggestion. How about if you finish packing while I line up help for your mom. After that, why don’t you do your homework over at our house. That would be a change of scenery, and the kids would love to see you.”

  “Well …”

  “Go on, honey. I’m happy to stay with your mother for awhile.”

  So I caved in. I ran to my room and finished packing. I told Mom I was going to be at the Pikes’ for not more than two hours. Then I gathered up my books and dashed through the yards to Mal’s.

  Vanessa let me in the back door. “Hi! You came!” she cried. “Mom said you might. I’m glad you did.” She paused. “I know you have to do your homework,” she went on, eyeing my books, “because you are here as a guest, not as our baby-sitter. So go on upstairs. I’ll try to keep the little kids from bothering you.”

  “Thanks, Vanessa,” I said. I headed for Mallory and Vanessa’s bedroom. Halfway there, I met Mal coming downstairs.

  “Hi,” she greeted me. “Are you here to work?” (I nodded.) “Well, the upstairs is too noisy. Let’s go to the rec room.”

  Mal and I tried to arrange the rec room like a study hall at school. That took nearly twenty minutes. As soon as we were finished, and had prudently seated ourselves back to back so we couldn’t be distracted by looking at each other, Margo bounced into the room.

  “This is a study hall,” Mal informed her sister.

  “A what?”

  “A study hall. We are working very hard here. We cannot be disturbed.”

  “You already are disturbed,” said Adam, following his sister into the room.

  “Very funny,” replied Mal.

  Adam grinned. “I thought so.”

  “Well, anyway, we are trying to study.”

  “But I just want to show Stacey one thing,” said Margo.

  Mal sighed. “What is it?”

  “My necktie-knotter. It came in the mail today.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Oh … awesome. I guess you’re going to give it to your dad? Or to one of your brothers?”

  “Hey,” said Adam, “Margo, I’ll trade you the necktie-knotter for my slice ’n’ dice. How’s that? I could use a necktie-knotter.”

  Margo considered the offer. “What does the slice ’n’ dice do?”

  Adam snorted. “It slices and dices.”

  “It slices and dices what?”

  “Oh, vegetables, eggs, meat, almost anything. You could make an entire salad in two and a half minutes.”

  “All right. Let’s trade.”

  “Good. Hand over the necktie-knotter.”

  Margo and Adam exchanged gadgets. They left us alone to work.

  I attacked a math problem. If x = 3.2, then 3x —

  “Guys? Guys?” Claire was hesitating at the entrance to our study hall.

  “We’re working,” Mal told her. “Whatever it is, go ask Daddy.”

  “I can’t. I want to show Stacey something.”

  Mal looked at me sympathetically. “They haven’t seen you in awhile,” she explained. “Sorry about this.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t really mind.”

  Claire had been looking hopefully at us. Now she smiled. She produced something from behind her back and handed it to me. “This is Vanessa’s bust-developer thing,” she whispered.

  “Why are you showing it to me?” I whispered back.

  “Because Vanessa is too embarrassed. I’m not sure why.”

  Mallory giggled. She tried to hide her giggle, but she wasn’t successful.

  Claire eyed her. “What is this thing?” she asked.

  “Um,” said Mal and I.

  “Well, what’s a bust?”

  “Um.”

  “Well?” said Claire.

  “Go ask Daddy,” suggested Mal.

  “I already did. He said to ask Mommy, but she isn’t here.”

  Mal tried to change the subject. “Does Vanessa know you have her bust-developer?”

  Claire shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I think you ought to return it to her.”

  “Okay, I will. As soon as you tell me what it is.”

  At that moment, Vanessa stomped into the room. “There it is!” she declared. She snatched the bust-developer from Claire, stuffed it under her shirt, and ran upstairs.

  Claire followed her, calling, “But what is it? What is it?”

  Mal and I grinned at each other. We hadn’t even tried to resume our studying when we heard a frustrated cry from the kitchen. It was Margo bellowing, “This thing doesn’t slice or dice! You scammed me, Adam!”

  “I did not!” Adam’s
voice came from some other part of the house. “You scammed me! This necktie-knotter makes knots all right, but they aren’t necktie knots. They’re just knots you can’t undo!”

  Before Mal and I knew what had hit us, we were surrounded by kids and gadgets — Margo with the slice ’n’ dice, Adam with the necktie-knotter, Claire and Vanessa struggling over the bust-developer, and Nicky, Byron, and Jordan standing around watching.

  Mal put her hand over her ears. “WE ARE TRYING TO WORK!” she bellowed. “Take these things to Dad!”

  Silence fell. Several moments passed. Then Jordan said, as if he hadn’t heard Mal at all, “I ordered four things through the mail. Two of them don’t work. The other two work, but I don’t need them.”

  “The necktie-knotter doesn’t work,” commented Adam.

  “The slice ’n’ dice doesn’t work,” said Margo.

  “Vanessa? Does the bust-developer work?” asked Claire.

  “I DON’T KNOW!”

  “You know what I really wish I had?” said Jordan. “A yo-yo. Everyone in my class has one.”

  “Same here,” said Adam and Byron.

  “In my class, too,” agreed Vanessa.

  Nicky nodded. “Yo-yos are cool. They come in fluorescent colors. David Michael Thomas even has one that lights up.”

  “Maybe you can find an offer for mail-order yo-yos,” said Mal.

  Byron was shaking his head. “I haven’t seen any. But even if I had, it wouldn’t matter. I don’t have any money left for a yo-yo. I’m all out.”

  Mal’s other brothers and sisters agreed. They had spent their money on bust-developers and necktie-knotters. They were broke. Mal made one final suggestion: “Maybe Dad will give you advances on your allowances,” she said.

  At that, the kids flew from the room and stampeded upstairs.

  Mallory and I returned to our work. When I left for home later that evening, my assignments were not exactly finished, but I was in a much better frame of mind. I kept imagining Claire chasing after Vanessa and the bust-developer, crying, “But what is it? What is it?” And I did feel bad that the Pike kids were out of money, but they had brought it on themselves, and the situation was sort of funny.

  When I went to bed that night, I actually — for the first time since Monday — relaxed and fell into a deep sleep.

  “Stacey! Hey, Stacey!”

  I was standing on the steps at the front entrance to Stoneybrook Middle School. Kids streamed around me, shouting and calling to one another, eager to leave school and start their weekends. I was looking for Mrs. Pike, who was going to drive me to the train station, so I wasn’t expecting to hear a male voice calling my name.

  “Stacey!” the voice called again.

  I became aware of frantic movement somewhere to my left. I turned my head — and there was Sam, waving to me from across the lawn.

  “Hi!” I called back excitedly. Sam had never stopped by my school before. I think he was embarrassed to be seen at SMS, since he is a mighty high school student. I trotted over to him.

  “Walk you home?” asked Sam.

  “I wish you could, but I’m not going home,” I had to reply.

  Darn, darn, darn. Or as Karen Brewer would say, boo. Double boo. This was the one day I couldn’t go with Sam, because of stupid old New York.

  “Oh.” Sam looked crestfallen.

  “I’m going to New York to see my dad,” I explained.

  “I thought your mom was sick.”

  “She is, but … oh, never mind. It’s too hard to explain. I’ll be back tomorrow,” I added hopefully.

  But all Sam said was, “Well, have fun. See you around.”

  Darn, darn, DARN.

  “Stacey!”

  This time I recognized Mrs. Pike’s voice. She was calling to me from the parking lot. I waved sadly to Sam, then ran to the Pikes’ car, where I nearly crashed into Mal and Jessi who were running from another direction. They were coming along for the ride to the station. Mrs. Pike leaned over and opened the front door for me.

  “Thank you for picking me up,” I said breathlessly as Mal and Jessi climbed into the backseat with Claire. “Is my suitcase here?”

  “I have it!” said Claire proudly. It was sitting in her lap. My suitcase was actually just an overnight bag. Basically all I had ended up packing was my new outfit, a nightgown, and clean underwear. I was traveling light. I planned to wear the same outfit tomorrow that I was wearing now.

  “Thanks, Claire,” I replied. I turned to Mrs. Pike. “How’s Mom?”

  “Just fine, honey. Nothing to worry about. Mrs. Arnold is with her, and she plans to stay until dinnertime. Then Mrs. Braddock will take over.”

  “Okay.”

  At the station, everyone piled out of the car. Mal, Jessi, and Claire pretended they were seeing me off on a long trip.

  “Don’t forget to write!” called Jessi.

  “I’ll think of you every day!” called Mal.

  “Have fun in Spain!” called Claire.

  Mrs. Pike rolled her eyes.

  The ride to New York was long enough to allow me to finish my math homework and start an English assignment. I was halfway into the English assignment when I realized the train wasn’t moving. I looked at my watch. Uh-oh.

  I don’t know what caused the train delay, but we rolled into Grand Central Station in New York City a full half an hour late.

  “Stacey!” exclaimed Dad when we found each other at the information booth. “I thought you’d never get here.”

  I groaned. “Me, too. We just sat on the tracks — right outside Grand Central — for half an hour.”

  Dad gave me a bear hug. Then he said, “We better get a move-on.” (I have never known just what a “move-on” is.) “We’re cutting this close.”

  My father and I hurried out of the station and caught a cab on 42nd Street. Unfortunately, it was now rush hour, so the ride to Dad’s apartment that should have taken about twelve minutes took nearly forty-five. I know Dad wanted to grumble to our cab driver, but he didn’t, because the driver had posted this really defensive sign on the back of his seat, right in front of Dad’s knees. It read:

  Please be aware that:

  — I know where I am going.

  — I know how to drive.

  — I have a complete grasp of the English language.

  I pointed to the sign and giggled, which made Dad smile, but didn’t get us to his apartment any faster.

  When we did get there, we raced inside and I hurried to my bedroom. (Well, Dad and I call it my bedroom, but somehow it doesn’t feel like mine. I don’t stay in it often enough. It feels like a motel room.)

  “What time does the dinner start?” I called to Dad.

  “We’re supposed to be there at six-thirty.”

  “Six-thirty? Yikes!” I yelped as I opened my overnight bag.

  “I know. We’re running late. We didn’t allow time for delays.”

  I paused. “Um, did we allow time for ironing?”

  “What?” said Dad, poking his head into my room.

  “Well, it’s just that I had to do my packing yesterday, and now my outfit is sort of smushed. I need to iron it. Badly.”

  Dad sighed. He did not say a word, but he set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron for me.

  I think the extra delay was worth it. When I finally emerged from my room, wearing the new, ironed outfit (with tasteful Dad-type jewelry), my hair combed and shining, my father just stared at me. After a few moments, he managed to say, “You look … like your mother.” Then he added hurriedly, “You look beautiful, sweetie. Absolutely perfect.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered. Then, hating to break the spell, I said, “Um, it’s already six-twenty-five, Dad.”

  We caught another cab. This one rushed us to a very fancy hotel on Madison Avenue. And I mean, it rushed us. We squealed around corners, jerked to stops, then jerked into motion again. I have never made such good use of that strap that hangs by the window as I did that evening.
When we screeched to a halt in front of the hotel, I said, “Dad? Do I still have all my teeth? I think I can hear them rattling around in my head.”

  The cabbie shot me a dirty look in the rear-view mirror then, but he didn’t say anything because Dad was in the middle of trying to figure out how much to tip him.

  We stepped out of the taxi, and Dad took my arm and led me into the hotel. We followed the signs to the MCGILL PARTY.

  “They made signs for this?” I whispered to Dad.

  He just smiled at me.

  When we reached the MCGILL PARTY, I glanced at a clock on the wall. Six-forty-three. Not too bad.

  We walked through a pair of plain wooden double doors and into … a ballroom. I was awed. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The floor was carpeted in gold — except for a large bare area in the center of the room. (I would have to ask Dad about that later.) The tables were covered with white cloths. At every place setting was gleaming silverware and a crystal bud vase holding a single red rose; in the middle of each table was a large arrangement of red and yellow roses.

  “Whoa. All this for you, Dad?” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer the question, but simply replied, “I’m so glad you’re here to share the evening with me.”

  So was I. When Dad had talked about a fancy dinner, I never imagined he meant this fancy … or important. My father must mean an awful lot to his company.

  I was gazing at those chandeliers again when I realized Dad was talking to some people. “Stacey?” he said, and I dragged my eyes away from the glitter of the crystal. “I want you to meet Mr. Davis, the president.” The president? I thought wildly…. Oh, the president of the company. “And this is Mrs. Barnes, the executive vice-president.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Stacey,” said Mr. Davis.

  “You must be very proud of your father,” said Mrs. Barnes.

  “Oh, I am.” I was absolutely awestruck.

  “Well, we better get this affair underway,” added Mr. Davis.