California Girls!

  “Okay,” replied Dawn.

  I ran to the car and squeezed myself into the backseat with Rosemary, Carter, and the surfboards.

  “Hi, Stacey!” said Alana, turning around. “This is Beau.”

  “Bo?” I repeated.

  “As in B-E-A-U,” spelled Beau. “You know, a real romantic guy.”

  Well, Beau was named all wrong. He should have been named Wild. I’m sure glad Carol couldn’t see our drive to the beach. Beau would gun the accelerator every time we approached a yellow light. I almost said, “I thought a yellow light meant slow down, not speed through the intersection before the light changes to red.” But I kept my mouth shut. No one likes a backseat driver.

  We took turns that felt as if the car had tipped over onto two wheels. Once, we were in the righthand lane at an intersection and Beau needed to turn left. So he swerved in front of all the cars to our left. One of them almost ran into us, and an oncoming car had to turn sharply to get out of our way. That car almost (but didn’t) hit a truck.

  Beau, Carter, Alana, Rosemary, and Paul laughed hysterically.

  I joined in. This was sort of exciting. No. It was very exciting.

  By the time we reached the beach I felt as if I could do anything. I felt powerful. I decided not even to take a surfing lesson. I just rented a board and paddled into the ocean. The first wave that came along looked huge. But I rode it in anyway.

  I was standing on the shore, shaking the water from my hair, when I heard someone call my name. I turned around and faced the ocean, where Rosemary and everyone were. But they weren’t paying attention to anything but the waves.

  “Stacey!” the voice called again. “Over here.”

  It was Claudia. She and the others had just arrived.

  I ran to my friends. “Did you see that ride? It was awesome. I’m going out again. Watch me, okay?”

  “Okay,” agreed the others as they began arranging their gear, and Mary Anne set up the umbrella.

  I paddled out into the ocean for a second time. And a wave bigger than I’d ever seen swelled up behind me. “Oh, boy,” I said under my breath.

  I stood up on the surfboard and prepared for the ride. The tunnel of water roared over and around me. I could scarcely keep my balance.

  And then it happened. Suddenly I wasn’t in the wave, I was under it. Water crashed over me, my surfboard was swept out from under my feet, and I felt myself tumbling over and over until finally I came to a stop near the water’s edge.

  “Stacey! Stacey!” my friends were screaming. “Are you hurt?”

  But all I could think was, I hope my bathing suit is still on.

  I staggered to the sand and was surrounded by Claud, Dawn, Mal, Mary Anne, Kristy, and Jessi.

  “You could have killed yourself!” shouted Dawn. “I’m really worried about you, Stacey. You don’t know what you’re doing. You are not an expert surfer.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I replied. “And I do too know what I’m doing. I’m having a great time. Honest.”

  “Okay,” said Dawn. “Just be careful.” (I was glad she didn’t know about the drive to the beach.)

  “See you!” I called, and I left to retrieve my surfboard.

  Hmm. I may have forgotten to mention that I kind of have a boyfriend. His name is Bart, and he coaches a team of little kids who like to play softball. The team is Bart’s Bashers. I coach a team called Kristy’s Krushers. Our teams are rivals and Bart and I used to be rivals, too. But now we’re, well … we’re very, very good friends. Sometimes I think he’s my boyfriend, but I’m not sure. Anyway, it was nice to hear from him.

  I was sorry that Bart wasn’t having such a good vacation, especially when I was. I’d been to the beach, to some malls, and I’d had plenty of time to hang around with my friends. Even when we were just gabbing, we were having fun. However, this was before the sleepover that we had with the members of the We Kids Club on Thursday. That evening was not exactly a high point of the vacation for me.

  At about six o’clock, Sunny, Jill, and Maggie showed up at Dawn’s house with their sleeping bags. All ten of us were going to sleep on the floor in the rec room. We were wall-to-wall girls.

  “Disgusting,” said Jeff. “I’m sleeping over at Rob’s.”

  “I thought you guys were mad at each other,” said Dawn.

  “We were. But our fight’s over.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s the bigger Deadhead?” I asked.

  “Neither one of us. We decided that Rob’s brother is. Anyway, I know lots more about hockey than they do. If I still lived on the East Coast, I would be the biggest Islanders fan in the world.”

  With that, Jeff left.

  The members of the BSC and the We Kids Club looked at each other. Then we all began to laugh.

  “So what’s to eat?” Sunny asked Dawn.

  Oh, gross, I thought. Probably eggplant and celery pizza.

  But Dawn said, “Whatever we want.” So we raided the refrigerator and I actually got to have a peanut butter-and-honey sandwich. We took our food to the rec room and ate on our laps on the floor.

  I had eaten exactly one bite of my sandwich when Dawn blurted out, “I cannot stand Carol! She’s such a busybody. And she thinks she’s one of us. Or anyway, she acts like she’s one of us.”

  “But Dawn,” said Jessi, “she’s just trying to make sure we have fun while your father’s working. She’s been a chauffeur and a tour guide—”

  “And she let Mallory dye her hair blonde,” said Dawn sarcastically.

  “She did not let me. She didn’t know what I was going to do,” spoke up Mal.

  “Well, she should have.”

  Mal sighed. There was no arguing with Dawn when it came to Carol.

  “I’m having a great time,” said Stacey enthusiastically. “California is awesome.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Sunny.

  “Yeah. I learned how to surf. I took a couple of lessons and now I can ride the waves.” Stacey made “ride the waves” sound like floating through the sky on cotton clouds.

  “You learned how to surf after just a couple of lessons?” asked Maggie incredulously. “Gosh. It took me forever.”

  “I’ve found new friends here, too,” Stacey went on. “They’re great. We drive to the beach almost every day.”

  “I went to a TV studio and watched them filming P.S. 162. I know Derek — you know, the kid who plays Waldo — personally,” said Jessi.

  “You do?” squeaked Jill. “I mean, he’s much too young for me, of course, but I don’t know any real TV stars.”

  “Derek’s a neat kid,” said Jessi. “I watched the filming and rehearsing all day, and Derek’s a pro…. Oh, and guess what I got to do late in the afternoon.” (Jessi didn’t give anyone a chance to guess.) “I got to be in a crowd scene. I’m going to be on one of the episodes that’s coming up!”

  “You’re kidding!” cried Sunny.

  “Nope.” Jessi looked pleased with herself. “And Derek said I should try to get into a picture or something out here. The director of P.S. 162 said he likes my looks. Can you believe it? Maybe I’ll get an agent.”

  “Gosh,” said Mary Anne, even though she’d heard the story about a hundred times.

  There was a moment of silence. Then Stacey said, “Claud found a boyfriend.”

  “I did not!” cried Claud.

  “Well, what do you call Terry?” asked Dawn.

  “I call him … for dinner!” joked Claud.

  “Seriously. You and Terry have gone out—”

  “And that’s another thing,” interrupted Dawn loudly. “I don’t think you should change your personality just for Terry.”

  “But Carol said that—”

  At that moment, Carol, who was spending the evening at Dawn’s, stuck her head into the rec room. “Everything all right in here?” she asked.

  “Just ducky,” said Dawn.

  “Okay.” Carol left.

  “Dawn! She probably heard us talking about her,” exclai
med Mary Anne.

  “I don’t care,” replied Dawn sulkily. She threw down her fork. “Carol makes me lose my appetite. She should act her age and butt out.”

  Maggie changed the subject, although it was not a subject I wanted to hear about. “Hey, Kristy,” she said. “Don’t forget that you’re sitting for Erick and Ryan on Saturday.”

  I was insulted. “How could I forget a thing like that?” I asked.

  “Uh-oh,” said Dawn. “I just thought of something.”

  “Not Carol again,” said Mallory, who was examining her hair in a hand mirror.

  “No. Not Carol again,” replied Dawn testily. “Dad told me last night that he’s taking us all to the Universal Studios tour on Saturday.”

  “Awesome!” shrieked Jessi. “That’s great!”

  “Oh, my lord. I’ve been dying to go there,” cried Claud.

  “Yeah. You get to see all these neat sets from real movies and TV shows,” added Stacey.

  “And you learn how special effects are done,” said Mary Anne. “Plus you experience an earthquake and a collapsing bridge. And Woody Woodpecker walks around …” Our talking guide book must really have read up on Universal Studios.

  “So what’s the problem?” asked Mal.

  “Kristy’s baby-sitting on Saturday, that’s what,” replied Dawn.

  “So I’ll bring Erick and Ryan with us,” I said. “That’s no problem — as long as your dad and their parents agree. It’ll be a nice outing for them.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Sunny, holding up her hands. “Are you crazy? Take Erick and Ryan to a place as big as Universal Studios? You have no idea what you’ll be in for. They’ll be all over the place. They’ll—”

  “I,” I interrupted Sunny, “can handle children, thank you. I’m president of the first baby-sitting club. I know what I’m doing.”

  “But you don’t know Erick and Ryan.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I muttered.

  “Gosh,” said Mary Anne wistfully, “if we do make an outing of Saturday, it’s too bad Stephie couldn’t come with us. She and I have so much in common.”

  “Why can’t she come?” asked Jill.

  “Because of her asthma,” said Mary Anne matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Maggie. She must have seen the horrified look on my face because she added, “Stephie can be active. She really can. She has to be a little careful, of course, but she’d have her inhalator and her pills with her. She always does. I think she’d love to go with you guys.”

  So who was Maggie anyway? The Queen of Baby-sitters?

  “I don’t know—” I started to say.

  But Mary Anne cut in. “I’m going to call Stephie’s father tomorrow,” she said. “I mean, if it’s okay with you guys, and with your father, Dawn.”

  “Fine with me,” answered Dawn.

  “And I’m going to call Erick and Ryan’s parents,” I said. “The boys would probably love all that earthquake stuff.”

  Sunny, Maggie, and Jill looked at each other. Their look plainly said, “Kristy does not know what she’s doing.”

  So what? I thought. They’re the irresponsible members of the club with the stupidest name I’ve ever heard of.

  Luckily — I mean, before a fight broke out — Mary Anne said, “What else will we do next week, Dawn? Go to Magic Mountain? Knott’s Berry Farm? The Los Angeles Zoo? Tour stars’ homes?”

  “Anything we want,” replied Dawn. And then she added, “Ms. Tour Guide,” and threw a pillow at Mary Anne, which started a dibbly fresh pillow fight.

  Boy, was I getting good at not telling my family what was really going on out in California,. I mean, we were going to Universal Studios on Saturday, and Erick, Ryan, and Stephie had all been given permission to go with us, but the important thing that was happening to me was that I had another date with Terry.

  This time, I’d been given plenty of advice by my friends about how to handle the date. And I tried to take it. After all, I wanted Terry to like me.

  “Just be yourself,” said Dawn on Friday morning.

  “And don’t worry so much about what you think Terry thinks of you,” added Stacey, who was already wearing her bathing suit.

  “But he talks about all this stuff like world affairs … and French,” I said. “How am I supposed to answer him? Say, ‘Hmm. Sounds like a Nancy Drew book I read once.’”

  Mallory giggled. “Don’t say anything, then,” she advised. “Maybe he’ll think you understand him. After that, change the subject.”

  “I go back to what I said before. Be yourself,” said Dawn emphatically.

  “Honestly,” added Jessi. “No matter what you think, you’re not inferior to Terry. You’re just very different from him. I’m sure you guys can have a good time together. A very good time. Think positive.”

  “Positively,” corrected Mary Anne.

  “Whatever,” said Jessi.

  * * *

  Terry and his mom were coming by for me late Friday afternoon.

  “Is a French restaurant all right with you?” Terry asked as we stopped at an intersection and waited for the light to change.

  “Oh, sure.” I checked my outfit, wondering how fancy the restaurant was. I decided I looked fine. For one thing, despite what Dawn had said about “being myself,” I hadn’t dressed like myself at all. Ordinarily I would have worn some wild combination of pants and high-topped sneakers and large jewelry. But for this evening I had borrowed a very tame dress from Dawn. I think it might have been a Laura Ashley dress. It was simple — a small-flowered print with half sleeves, a regular old waistline, and a nice lace collar. Then I had borrowed a pair of flat pink shoes from Mary Anne.

  I looked like a nine-year-old. Or maybe a grandmother.

  Terry’s mom soon pulled into a parking lot and said, “Okay. Here you are. I’ll be back for you at seven-thirty.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Mom!” said Terry. He climbed out of the car and held the door open for me.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I added as Terry closed the door.

  As soon as we were inside the restaurant, I was glad I was dressed the way I was. My outfit looked as tame as the others I saw. And Terry, who was wearing a suit, just blended in with the rest of the guys. The only difference between us and everyone else in the restaurant was that we were about thirty years younger than they were.

  Terry stepped up to a man wearing a tux, standing behind a little desk. “Reservation for Liang for two, six o’clock,” Terry said expertly.

  “Ah,” replied the man. “Mademoiselle? Monsieur? Right this way, s’il vous plaît.”

  (S’il vous plaît? I had a feeling I was in for a rough evening.)

  The man wearing the tuxedo led us to a small table by a window overlooking a little pond. I hadn’t been sure of the meaning of the word intimate until then — but suddenly it hit home. Intimate is a small table for two, set so that the diners sit next to each other, not across from each other. It’s a table covered with a pink cloth, and it’s a vase with a single rose in it. It’s a candle burning in a low glass holder that sends patterns of light across the table. And it’s sitting so that your hand is about a quarter of an inch away from the hand of the boy you’re with. Your hands are not touching, but they feel as if they are.

  Terry and I had been sitting and just sort of looking out at the duck pond (I noticed that neither of us moved our hands), when a waiter appeared at our table and handed menus to Terry and me.

  “Voilà,” he said. “Les menus. Aujourd’hui les spécialités de la maison sont …” (Whoa. I was in big trouble.)

  As soon as the waiter left, Terry said, “Boy, that chicken special sounds good. I think I’ll have that.”

  Oh. So those were the specials.

  I picked up my menu. “The chicken does sound good,” I agreed, “but I want to see what’s on the menu.”

  “Do you want any help?” Terry asked me.

  Did I want help? No. I mean, I can read, after all
.

  I opened the menu. The entire thing was in French.

  Oh, my lord, I thought.

  But I kept my composure. I’m not a picky eater. There aren’t too many things I won’t at least try to eat. So I picked out something on the menu that looked easy to pronounce. It was just one word. Escargots.

  When the waiter returned to the table, he said, “Êtes-vous prêtes?”

  “Yes, we’re ready.” (At least Terry was speaking in English. That meant I could, too.) “I’ll have the chicken special,” he said.

  “Très bien,” replied the waiter. “Et vous, mademoiselle?”

  I opened the menu, pointed to my choice, and said “And I’ll have the—”

  “Ah. Escargots. Bien.” The waiter left.

  I glanced at Terry and found him looking at me — wide-eyed. “You like escargots?” he said. (I noticed that neither he nor the waiter had pronounced the “t” or the “s” at the end of the word, and I was glad I hadn’t tried to pronounce it.)

  “Oh, yes. We often have … have escargots at home.”

  “Wow,” said Terry.

  “So,” I said, as another waiter placed glasses of water in front of us, “what do you think about the situation in, um, the Soviet Union?”

  “Glasnost?” was Terry’s reply.

  Glasnost? What was that? “Uh, yeah. Glasnost,” I said.

  “Well, I’m not sure yet. I think the countries that are gaining their independence are going to be in for a tough time, don’t you?”

  “Oh, definitely,” I replied. Terry waited for me to go on, but of course I had nothing to say. Luckily, I was saved by Terry.

  “Personally I’m worried about the greenhouse effect.”

  Terry was worried about problems with greenhouses? What could be wrong with greenhouses? Maybe I didn’t have as much to be upset about as I thought.

  Wrong.

  Dinner arrived. And guess what the waiter put down in front of me. A whole plate of snails. I am not kidding. You know those slugs that slime around in gardens? Well, that was what was on the plate, except that they were in shells and smothered by some kind of sauce.