Stacey's Emergency

  “I guess I am, a little. I’ve got a lot of schoolwork.” I almost said to Dad then, “Couldn’t we cancel this weekend so I could stay at home and rest and catch up on things?” But I knew I’d hurt his feelings if I did that.

  “Well, try to get some extra sleep,” said Dad matter-of-factly. “We’ve got a big weekend ahead of us.”

  Tell me about it, I thought. “Okay,” I said.

  “So I’ll meet you at Grand Central at a little after six.”

  “Right.” I stifled another yawn.

  There was a pause. Then Dad said, “Is your mother there?”

  “No.” I didn’t mean to sound evasive. I was thinking about the weekend that lay ahead, mentally trying to conjure up some energy.

  “Where is she?” asked Dad suspiciously.

  Uh-oh. He was going to do it again.

  “She’s at the Pikes’.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Dad, it’s eight-thirty.”

  “Well, what’s she doing over there? And why are you at home alone?”

  Oh, brother. I tried to sidestep what was coming by saying, “I’ve been able to stay at home alone for several years now. Sometimes I even baby-sit.”

  “Anastasia,” said Dad. (Yikes, my full name.) “You know what I mean. Why is your mother at the Pikes’ on a weeknight without you?”

  “Because she and Mrs. Pike are friends.” Why did I always end up defending my parents to each other? And what if Mom were out on a date? She’s allowed to date. She and my father are divorced, for heaven’s sake.

  “What does that mean?” asked Dad.

  “It means that Mrs. Pike got a new dress and she wants Mom’s opinion.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she wants to get a hat to go with it or something. I don’t know.” I felt extremely exasperated.

  “You’re sure she’s at the Pikes’?”

  “Da-ad.”

  “Okay. Just wondering.”

  And I was wondering what would happen if one day I said to my father, “Mom’s out with someone. A man. He’s taking her to dinner. He’s really handsome, he has a very important job, and he’s never been married. He’s saving himself for the perfect woman, and that perfect woman is Mom.” Or what would happen if I said to my mother some Sunday night when she was grilling me about my weekend in New York with Dad, “Mom, you should see who Dad’s dating. She’s this sophisticated, beautiful, younger woman. She’s terribly wealthy, she has a penthouse apartment in the city and a horse farm in the country. And she can cook and handle a jigsaw.”

  If I ever said anything like that, would my parents be mad at me? I didn’t want to find out.

  “Stacey?” Dad was saying.

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t answer me. I asked how school was going.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.”

  “And the Baby-sitters Club?”

  “Fine.” I heard a door downstairs open and close. “Hey, Mom’s home!” I exclaimed. Now I could show Dad that I’d been telling the truth.

  “Can you put her on for a minute?” he asked.

  “Sure. Oh, and I’ll see you on Friday. ’Bye, Dad. Hold on for Mom.” I went to the head of the staircase and yelled, “Hey, Mom! Dad’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you!” Then I dashed back to her bedroom. I didn’t give my mother a chance to whisper frantically to me that she didn’t want to talk to my father. If I had to get back on the phone and make an excuse for her, Dad would be sure something was going on.

  In Mom’s bedroom, I did the first of two things that I really should not have done that night. I listened to my parents’ conversation.

  When Mom picked up the phone in the kitchen, Dad greeted her with, “Did you decide on a hat?” He thought he was being cagey. If Mom didn’t know what he was talking about, then Dad could assume she’d been out somewhere with Wonder Date.

  “A hat?” Mom repeated. “For Mrs. Pike? Yes. Why?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Dad didn’t really have anything to say after that, so he and Mom just went over the plans for my weekend in the city. I waited until they’d said good-bye. After each of them had hung up the phone, I hung up the extension I’d been listening in on. Then I crept back to my room.

  I lay down on my bed. My stomach was growling, and I desperately wanted something to drink — even though Mom and I had finished our dinner not too much earlier. I didn’t want to go to the kitchen, though. I had a feeling Mom would be mad at me for having called her to the phone. Plus, did she know, somehow, that I’d eavesdropped?

  I had to give her time to cool off.

  I also had to eat something … anything. So I tiptoed across the room, gently closed the door, and then tiptoed to my desk. Feeling like Claudia, I pulled out a drawer, lifted up a pile of papers, opened an old pencil box, and removed — a large chocolate bar.

  Ah, sugar, I thought.

  I peeled back the top of the paper and, for a second, just breathed in the incredible smell of chocolate.

  I was tired. Sick and tired, I reminded myself. And I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Nobody else I knew had to stick to a diet like mine. Dawn didn’t touch junk food, but that was her decision. My diet was not my decision.

  Oh, I had longed for the taste of chocolate again. I had not had any since the doctors first discovered that I was diabetic. Claudia’s Ring-Dings had tasted out of this world. When I’d eaten them, I’d felt as if I were tasting chocolate for the first time.

  So I ate the entire candy bar.

  Then I felt guilty.

  I just couldn’t win.

  The next day, after school, I sat for Charlotte again. Charlotte wasn’t her usual quiet self. She wanted to do something, to create something.

  “Like what?” I asked, thinking of arts and crafts and wishing I’d brought along my Kid-Kit that afternoon. “A painting?”

  “No. Something more complicated.”

  Char and I were sitting opposite each other at the Johanssen’s kitchen table. Charlotte grew thoughtful.

  “More complicated? How about a paper sculpture?” I suggested.

  Charlotte considered. Finally, she shook her head slowly and said, “I think I want to make fudge.”

  Fudge? Really? Of all things, why did Charlotte want to make fudge? I didn’t think I could stand being within a mile of something chocolate and not eating it. Fudge making would be torture.

  “Not paper sculpture?” I asked lamely.

  “No, fudge. Please, Stacey? Puh-lease? We’ve got all the ingredients. And Becca could come over and help me. We would have so much fun. We could pretend we were chefs in a famous restaurant and that people came from miles around for our special dessert — fudge.”

  How could I ignore that? “Okay. Call Becca,” I said, hiding my disappointment.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Charlotte cried. She was on the phone in an instant. “Hi, Becca, it’s me,” she said. (I smiled, thinking that only really good friends can do that.) “Stacey’s here. She’s baby-sitting me. She said I could make fudge. Do you want to come over and help? … Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  By the time Becca arrived, Charlotte was already assembling ingredients on the kitchen table. Sugar, chocolate … Ohhh.

  “Hi!” said Charlotte excitedly, as Becca entered the kitchen. “I’m Chef Charlotte and you’re Chef Becca. We work in the Grand Sparkle-Glitter Hotel. We are famous chefs.”

  “World famous?” asked Becca, tying on the apron I handed her.

  “Galaxy famous,” replied Charlotte. “Known on planets everywhere.”

  “Boy …” said Becca.

  “Fudge is our specialty,” Charlotte went on. “Isn’t it, Stacey?”

  I smiled. “Yup. And it’s a special specialty on Saturn.”

  “No, make it Mars!” cried Becca.

  “Okay, on Mars. But why?” I asked.

  “Because we could pretend to travel there and be Martian fudge makers. Or we could ma
ke Milky Ways.”

  Charlotte giggled. Then she said, “Wait! I know! Don’t start the fudge yet, anybody. I’ll be right back!”

  Char darted off. Becca and I looked at each other. What could Charlotte possibly be doing? our eyes asked.

  We found out in less than a minute. Charlotte scampered back into the kitchen, wearing a pair of waving, bobbing antennae on her head. She handed another set to Becca.

  “Put them on!” said Charlotte. “Now we’ll really look like Martian fudge makers. Isn’t this great?”

  “Yeah!” agreed Becca.

  So the two Martians set to work. At first I wished I had my camera. I’d never seen anything quite like Becca and Char, wearing antennae on their heads and oversized aprons around their middles, up to their elbows in chocolate goo. But soon my amusement faded.

  It was the chocolate smell. I could barely concentrate on anything except that sweet odor. (Torture, torture.) I hoped I didn’t look as upset as I felt. And soon I decided I didn’t. The girls weren’t paying attention to me.

  “Look! We’re flying by the moon,” said Becca.

  “Yeah. We should stop there. Did you know that moon dust is a good substitute for sugar? Let’s stock up.”

  “Oh, no! We’ve gone too far!” cried Becca.

  “Stop the rocket ship!” added Charlotte.

  This conversation was being held while the girls stood quietly at the table, stirring the fudge in a plastic bowl with wooden spoons. Then:

  “Eeeetch!” screeched Becca, imitating the sound of skidding brakes. As she did so, she flung one arm up to her head, as if to protect herself from a crash. Unfortunately, it was the arm that was stirring the fudge, so she flung the spoon up, too. The fudge mixture flew behind her and sprayed the wall over the sink.

  “Uh-oh,” said Becca. “I didn’t mean to do that. Honest.”

  “I know you didn’t. It’s okay,” I told her. I stood up wearily and headed for the sink. “You guys keep working,” I went on. “I’ll clean up.”

  “Thanks,” said Becca with a sigh of relief.

  While I wet a sponge and began to wipe off the wall, Charlotte and Becca continued their imaginary space game.

  “The famous Martian fudge makers!” cried Charlotte.

  “Have we reached Mars yet?” asked Becca.

  “Not quite. Our spaceship feels … Oh, no! We’re flying straight toward a huge meteor shower! We’re going to crash!”

  I turned around. My usually quiet Charlotte was becoming raucous. I almost told her to calm down but decided not to. Char hardly ever let go like this. Maybe it was good for her. So I kept my mouth shut, turned back to the wall, and continued scrubbing.

  “A meteor shower!” Becca exclaimed. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a — Wait a sec! We’ve hit it! … Bam, bam, bam! Our ship is being bombarded by meteors. One is heading for our windshield. Duck!”

  At that moment, I heard the thump. In their excitement, their imaginations completely runaway, the girls had dropped to the floor. And somehow their bowl of fudge had come with them.

  Chocolate, chocolate everywhere.

  “Oops,” said Charlotte.

  The girls had stood up and were looking at me. I had turned around and was looking at them. I sighed.

  “Can we start over again?” asked Charlotte in a very small voice.

  “If you two clean up this mess,” I replied. “And if, when you start the next batch, you promise to be earthling girls, cooking in a nice kitchen in Connecticut. Without antennae.”

  “We promise,” said Charlotte and Becca in unison.

  They removed their antennae. I handed them a roll of paper towels and the sponge I’d been using, and they set to work. When the kitchen was clean, they began their project again. Calmly.

  At last the fudge was finished.

  “Can we taste it?” asked Char. “I know it’s too close to dinner to have a whole piece, but can we each have a little sample?”

  I smiled. “Sure.” I cut each of the girls a tiny square of fudge.

  “Yummm,” they said, their eyes closed.

  Yummmm, I thought. What I wouldn’t give for —

  “Hey!” cried Becca. “Guess what’s on TV right now?”

  “What?” asked Charlotte.

  “That special. The one about the boy and his horse.”

  “Oh, I want to see that!” exclaimed Char. Then she added, “But we should help Stacey cut up the fudge.”

  She sounded completely unenthusiastic. And no wonder. Cutting up something you’ve just made is the boring part. So I said, “You guys go on and watch the special. I’ll cut up the fudge.” (I wouldn’t have let them cut it up anyway, since you need a sharp knife.)

  The girls ran off. I sliced the fudge into small, neat squares.

  I set aside a pile for Becca to take home with her.

  And then I wrapped two pieces in a napkin and stashed the bundle in my purse.

  * * *

  In my bedroom that night, I tried to concentrate on my homework. How had I gotten so far behind? My teachers were on my back, but at least they hadn’t told my mother yet. If I could catch up, she’d probably never have to know.

  But I was having trouble keeping my mind on my work. For one thing, I was hungry — again. I thought of the fudge in my purse. Do you know the phrase “money burning a hole in your pocket”? Well, the fudge was burning a hole in my purse. I could not stop thinking about it. At last, I reached into my purse, found the fudge, and ate both pieces. Oh, yum. I craved chocolate now. I’d bought a candy bar at school and eaten it secretly in the girls’ room that afternoon. And then there was that other candy bar … and the Ring Dings …

  What was I doing to myself? I wondered. And just then, I realized that I had not yet packed to go to Dad’s. I was supposed to leave after school the next day. So I would have to pack now. What a drag. I stood up slowly, went to my closet, and pulled out my overnight bag. I could hear the phone ringing, but Mom was home and she picked it up in her bedroom. When she didn’t shout to me that I had a call, I began packing.

  I forgot about the telephone completely until I heard Mom’s raised voice say, “You are spoiling her! I’m not kidding.”

  Dad must be the one who had called. (I couldn’t imagine Mom talking like that to anyone else.) And the “her” who was getting spoiled must be me.

  I crept into the hall and tiptoed as close to Mom’s room as I dared. I could hear her end of the conversation as clearly as a bell ringing on a quiet night. But her voice didn’t sound pleasant and magical the way I thought a nighttime bell might. In a forced whisper (Mom must have realized how loudly she’d been speaking) she said, “Don’t buy Stacey so many things this weekend. And give her a break. She’s been tired recently. She could do with a nice, quiet weekend…. What? … Well, that’s what I’m saying. She doesn’t need to eat out four or five times and go to the theater and to museums.” There was a long pause. Then Mom said harshly, “I am not jealous of what you can do for Stacey. Just give her some time off…. All ri-ight,” she went on, as if to say, “I know you’re going to do everything anyway — and it will be a bad idea.” After another, shorter pause, Mom said, “I’ll be checking with Stacey on Sunday.”

  And Dad will be grilling me about Mom, her job, and the nonexistent Wonder Date. That was just great. I couldn’t wait to be Stacey-in-the-middle again.

  I tiptoed back to my bedroom. There was my half-packed overnight bag. There was my unfinished homework.

  I finished packing. Then I put my books away. I stretched out on my bed, even though I was still dressed.

  I had a horrible headache.

  I was all packed and ready to go. But leaving for New York was the last thing I wanted to do. It wasn’t just Mom and Dad and the divorce. It was everything rolled into one: those things, plus school, plus not feeling well. To be honest, I was more concerned about my schoolwork that day than about anything else. I was so far behind. I don’t know why someone a
t school — for instance, my guidance counselor, who preferred to think of herself as my “friend” — hadn’t called Mom yet. The only grade I was keeping up was math. The others were slipping, and I was in danger of failing French.

  Late the night before, when something had been keeping me awake, I’d thought: Oh, no! What if someone at school has called my mother, and Mom just hasn’t mentioned it because she doesn’t want to worry me? What if I’m very sick and everyone knows but me? … That’s paranoid, isn’t it? I’m just thinking that way because I’m not feeling well and I haven’t told Mom, so I have a guilty conscience.

  At the end of school on Friday, I’d said to my friends when we gathered in the hall, “I’m sorry I have to miss today’s club meeting.”

  “That’s okay,” said Kristy. “We understand.”

  “Boy, I wish I were going to New York with you,” spoke up Mary Anne wistfully. “Do you think you’ll go to the Hard Rock Cafe?”

  “With Dad?” I replied. “No. We’re eating at the Sign of the Dove tonight. And at the Russian Tea Room tomorrow night.”

  “Sign of the Dove and the Russian Tea Room?” squealed Mary Anne. “You’re kidding … aren’t you?”

  “Nope.”

  “What are the Sign of the Dove and the Russian Tea Room?” asked Mallory.

  “Only two of the finest dining establishments in New York City,” Mary Anne answered. (If she sounded like a guidebook on New York, it’s probably because she’s read about a million of them. Mary Anne’s dream is to live in New York City someday.) She went on, “You are so lucky, Stacey!”

  “Dining establishments?” Mallory repeated. “You mean places to eat?”

  “Awesome, fresh, distant places to eat,” replied Mary Anne.

  “I doubt if the owners of those restaurants would describe them that way, though,” said Dawn.

  “No, of course not,” agreed Mary Anne, aghast at what she’d said. “They’d use phrases like, ‘culinary delights’ or … ‘splendiferous spreads.’”

  “Splendiferous spreads?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  “Oh, okay. Then they’re just four-star restaurants, at least in my book.”

  “Hey, Stace! There’s your mom!” cried Claudia. “Listen, have a great weekend. Call me Sunday night when you get back and tell me everything.”