But before Terry jumped out of the van, he kissed me good-bye.
Hmm. Mallory and I had not been mad at each other in all the time we’d been best friends. We’d never even had a fight. But we were definitely having problems now. (Did I write that in the postcard to my parents and Aunt Cecelia? Of course not.) However, I wanted to straighten things out with my best friend.
So on Sunday night, after our trip to Hollywood, I sat down to think about what, exactly, was wrong between Mal and me. Right away, I realized something important. Any fight takes two people, so Mal and I were both at fault. Mal was being insufferable about this business with her hair and makeup. (Everyone agreed to that.) And I was mad at her. I was mad at her for doing something she knew her parents would not allow if they were around. And I was mad at her for spending all of her money and expecting to borrow from me for the rest of the trip. I was also mad at me for not being more gracious about lending her the money. If I were out of money, Mal would let me borrow from her.
In fact, the more I looked at things, the more our problems seemed kind of like my fault. So I decided to be the one to patch up our differences.
Trying very hard to ignore Mallory’s blonde hair and seventy-five pounds of makeup, I said to her after dinner on Sunday, “Hey, Mal. Come outside with me for a minute, okay?”
“Okay, but why?”
“I just want to talk to you, that’s all.” And then I whispered, “In private.”
Mallory looked alarmed and I couldn’t blame her. She probably thought I was going to yell at her again for dyeing her hair or borrowing money. But she followed me bravely outside.
“I want to know—” I began.
“Yes?” said Mal in a trembly voice.
“If you’d like to come with me to watch Derek tomorrow.” Mallory let out just about all the breath in her body, like a balloon deflating. She must have been really nervous. “Derek invited me back to the set of P.S. 162,” I went on, “and I said I’d go. So — want to come?”
“Sure!”
“The reason I had to ask you in private is because Derek said it would be all right for one other person to come with me, but that’s all. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. We’ll just tell the others that Mr. Masters invited you and me to the set. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Mal. Then she added, “Gosh, I better look my best tomorrow.”
Uh-oh. I knew what that meant. But I kept my mouth shut. Especially since Mal glanced uncertainly at me as soon as she said that.
We were still on shaky ground.
Plus, I had to admit that I wasn’t as excited about going to the TV studio the next day as I had been the week before. I knew Derek was going to ask me whether I’d looked into agents and stuff like that, and of course I hadn’t. I hadn’t done a thing about becoming a movie star. I’d been thinking about it and remembering the crowd scene I’d been in. It had been fun — but only at first. I didn’t like shooting and then reshooting and reshooting and reshooting. Plus, I missed ballet. I missed practicing at my barre in our basement.
Anyway, how could I live in L.A. when my home is in Stoneybrook? So I wasn’t thrilled about Monday’s plans, but I couldn’t change them. I knew Mal wanted to get inside a TV studio, and I did want to say good-bye to Derek.
Early Monday morning Mr. Masters picked up Mal and me just like before. And just like before, we dropped Todd off at the day-care center on the way to the studio. This time, I had to say good-bye to Todd, and he cried a little.
“I’ll see you the next time you’re back in Stoneybrook, okay?” I said.
“Okay,” replied Todd, sniffling.
I gave him a hug before we drove off.
When we arrived at the studio, Mr. Masters dropped off Derek and Mal and me so he could park the car.
As Derek led us inside, he said, “Today should be more interesting, you guys. I mean, more interesting than when you were here before, Jessi. We’ll be doing more filming. And more rehearsing on stage.”
“Filming?” repeated Mal. She patted her hair. “Do you think they might need extras again?”
“Don’t know,” replied Derek. He opened the door to the P.S. 162 studio, and Mal and I followed him inside. It was already a beehive of activity.
“Ooh,” said Mal. “Look! Look over there! It’s the kid who plays Charlene. And there’s what’s-her-name, who plays Danielle.”
“Alison McGuire,” Derek supplied.
Mal gasped. “And there’s George Aylesworth, one of the teachers!” Mal was not keeping her voice down.
“Shh,” I reminded her quietly.
“Guess what,” said Derek. “Today we start working with a special guest star.”
Mallory’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“Elaine Stritch.”
Mal and I must have looked puzzled, because Derek said, “She used to be on Broadway all the time. And she’s been in a Woody Allen movie.” (Obviously Derek knew more about such things than we did.)
“I bet Terry would know who she is,” I said. “Do you think we could get her autograph?” I turned to Mal. “Then we could give it to Claud and she could give it to Terry. I bet he’d love it.”
“I’ll get her autograph today,” said Derek confidently.
“Wow, thanks!” I said.
Just then, Derek was called away to start rehearsing, and Mr. Masters arrived. He and Mal and I sat quietly, slightly apart from the action. But Mal could not stop talking. (At least she was whispering.)
“I can’t believe all those cameras,” she said. “I’ve never seen so much equipment in my life. And look — microphones hanging from the ceiling. Hey, what’s that guy doing on the stage?”
“It’s not called a stage,” I was able to say proudly. “It’s called a set. And that guy’s the set dresser.”
“The set dresser?”
“Yeah. He’s responsible for making sure each scene — each set — looks just the way it’s supposed to look. And see that woman over there? Well, she’s the person in charge of …”
I could have gone on forever, telling Mal all the technical things I’d learned from Derek, but suddenly someone yelled, “Quiet!”
We shut up. For the next few hours, Mr. Masters, Mal, and I watched Derek and his fellow actors and actresses, including the one named Elaine Stritch, rehearse and rehearse. The cameras were rolling, but the director kept yelling, “Cut!” Then everyone would have to start over.
“Hard work,” Mal whispered to me so quietly I could barely hear her.
I just nodded.
The day went on. Sandwiches were brought in for lunch. Derek went to school for a few hours. When he returned, early in the afternoon, guess what happened. The director said he needed extras for another crowd scene. “Oh, wow!” exclaimed Mal. “Come on, Jessi.”
I shook my head. I’d made my decision about acting.
I was a dancer.
But Mal ran to the director. “I’ll be in the scene!” she said.
The director gazed at her. At last he said, “Sorry. I’d like to let you in this scene, but your looks aren’t quite right.”
Mal just stared at him. Then she returned to me, crestfallen. “He said my looks aren’t right. How could he mean that? I’ve never looked better. I’m a California girl.”
It was not the right time to tell Mal that that phrase has absolutely no meaning, so instead, I just put my arm around her for a moment. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the shooting. When the long day was over, Mr. Masters and Derek dropped Mal and me off at Dawn’s house. I said good-bye to Derek and told him my decision about ballet. He just shrugged. Then I made him promise that he’d call the next time he was in Stoneybrook, and Mal and I thanked Mr. Masters for our wonderful day. (Well, it had been wonderful for me. I’d even gotten Elaine Stritch’s autograph to give Claud to give Terry.) Mal didn’t look too happy, though.
I walked into Dawn’s house, vowing to do stretching exercises so I’d be ready for ballet class when I got back to Connec
ticut.
Ben Hobart is my boyfriend, sort of. What I mean is, we’re just getting to be boyfriend and girlfriend. I’d written Ben a bunch of postcards and letters while I was away, so he knew about my hair and stuff. I figured he’d be understanding — but he’s a boy, so I wasn’t sure.
That evening, Jessi seemed more like the Jessi I remembered. She spent about an hour stretching and pointing her toes and stuff. I guessed it was back to ballet for her. Jessi is so smart. She’s practically got a career cut out for her, and she doesn’t do things like … well, like I’d done on the trip. She’d kept her head. She hadn’t spent every penny of her money.
Plus, she’s beautiful. She doesn’t have to worry about her looks.
I sat on the couch in the Schafers’ family room and watched Jessi work out (which, by the way, she was doing in her bathing suit, since she hadn’t brought her leotard with her).
While Jessi practiced I sat — and sighed. I sighed so many times that Jessi finally stopped what she was doing and said, “What’s wrong, Mal?”
“I — I’m sorry, Jessi,” I replied. “I know I’ve been a pain all week. It was stupid to waste my money on hair dye and makeup. And it wasn’t right to expect to borrow money from you for the rest of the trip.”
Jessi sat next to me on the couch. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “Really sorry. I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time about your hair and everything. I mean, I’m not your mother. And I could have been nicer about the money. I just thought you were getting a little carried away.”
“You know,” I said, “we’ve never had a fight before.”
“I know. I was thinking about that earlier.”
“Let’s try not to fight anymore, okay?”
“Definitely!” agreed Jessi.
“We need each other too much,” I added. “What would I do without you? What would you do without me? We’re best friends.”
“Oh,” groaned Jessi. “You sound like a bad greeting card.”
We giggled. Then Jessi said, “I’ve got to get back to my stretching. If Madame Noelle finds me out of shape when classes begin, she’ll kill me.”
So Jessi went back to stretching, and I went back to moping. I sat on the couch and hugged my knees to my chest. Every now and then, I cried a little. A tear would come to my eye and I’d let it trickle down my cheek, not even bothering to brush it away.
A while later, Stacey bounced into the family room. “Guess what!” she cried. “We just found out that there’s this new movie theater nearby that only shows old movies, and you won’t believe what’s playing tonight.”
“What?” asked Jessi, standing up straight.
“Mary Poppins!” (Mary Poppins is Stacey’s favorite movie.) “So we’re all going to go, okay? We’re leaving right now.”
“Terrific,” exclaimed Jessi. “Just let me put on some decent clothes.”
“Mal?” said Stacey questioningly.
I stayed in my curled-up position and just shook my head.
“What’s with her?” Stacey asked Jessi.
“I’ll explain on the way to the movie,” Jessi whispered.
My friends left.
All evening I moped alone. And since I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, I made sure I was in my sleeping bag by the time the other BSC members returned from the movie.
The next day, I awoke to the sound of Mary Anne saying, “Let’s go to Knott’s Berry Farm today!”
“The amusement park?” said Claud. “Sure. That might be fun. Dawn, have you already been there a million times?”
“Nope. Just twice,” she replied. “And I know there’s at least one new attraction since the last time I was there. A water ride, I think, so we should bring our bathing suits. Plus you can pan for gold — real gold — see this dolphin show, and there are tons of rides. I’m there!”
“So am I,” said Jessi.
“Me, too,” added Stacey, Claud, Kristy, and of course Mary Anne.
“Mal?” asked Dawn.
I sighed. “I think I’ll stay home and read today.”
Since I was lying on my stomach, with my head buried in my pillow, I don’t know what my friends’ reactions to this statement were, but I bet they were exchanging a lot of Looks.
* * *
So I spent Tuesday morning and most of the afternoon continuing to mope around Dawn’s house. I did read a little, but mostly I felt incredibly sorry for myself. I looked in the bathroom mirror about ninety-five times. “You’re ugly,” I said. “You’re a toad.”
“Excuse me?”
I jumped a mile. Kristy had appeared in the mirror behind me. The girls had returned, and I’d been so busy being depressed that I hadn’t heard them come in.
I whirled around. “Kristy, you scared me to death.”
“You’re pretty scary yourself, Mallory. What do you mean you’re a toad?”
I thought about listing all the things that were wrong with me. Instead, I just wandered back to the family room and sank onto the couch.
“Mal? Are you sick?” asked Dawn. The other girls were filtering inside.
“No, she’s not,” Kristy answered for me. “She’s being a jerk.”
“Kristy!” exclaimed Mary Anne.
“Well, she is,” said Kristy. “She’s been moping around for almost twenty-four hours just because some guy told her she doesn’t have the right look. Well, of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t look like herself. She’s trying to look like someone she isn’t. Tell me, Mallory, has your blonde hair or your makeup made a bit of difference in your life?”
I shook my head miserably.
“Well, then,” Kristy went on (and by now all the BSC members were in the family room, listening to Kristy and me and Kristy’s big mouth), “I am going to say here and now that I liked the old Mal a lot better.”
“Yeah?” I said.
Kristy was cringing a little, but when I didn’t blow up at her, my other friends started speaking up, too. They all agreed with Kristy. And Jessi said, “Mal? Would you go back to your regular, redheaded, makeup-free self?”
I nodded. “But it isn’t going to be easy,” I added. “This wash-out dye doesn’t just wash out. I mean, it will come out eventually, but only after a lot of washings. What am I going to do? I can’t go home as a blonde.”
To their credit, nobody said anything like, “Well, you should have thought of that before you blew all your money.” Instead, Stacey said, “Then there’s just one solution. You’ll have to dye your hair red again.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll go to a drugstore, we’ll look very carefully for the exact color that your hair really is, and then you’ll dye it red. If we match it up right, as the dyed hair grows out, nobody should be able to tell the difference between that and your natural hair. Okay?”
“Okay,” I replied. I was only just beginning to realize the trouble I was in. (Or might be in if things didn’t go well.)
* * *
There were still a couple of hours left until dinner, so the seven of us took off for this drugstore that isn’t too far from Dawn’s house. We walked inside, asked the first salesperson we saw where the hair dye was (she gave us a suspicious look), and she pointed us to aisle three.
Can you believe it? Aisle three was all hair dye. Shelves and shelves of different brands and different shades. Some of the shades appeared almost the same, at least on the box covers. How would I ever find my exact color? My friends must have been wondering the same thing because they looked awfully confused.
“Oh, my lord,” muttered Claud.
“Now just calm down, you guys,” said Stacey. “Everybody concentrate. Close your eyes, try to imagine Mallory’s hair color, and then go find a box that matches that color.”
So we did. We came back with seven different boxes. However, they were pretty close in color, and after a lot of discussion, we finally chose one box.
Jessi bought it for me.
That night I dyed my hair again. It was s
ort of a long process and everybody waited nervously to see what the final result would be. When I was finished, I unwrapped the towel from around my head.
“Well?” I said.
I heard six sighs of relief.
“It’s you again,” said Jessi simply.
“Thank goodness. I guess I’m a Connecticut girl after all.”
“What about your makeup?” asked Jessi.
“Hey!” cried Stacey. “I’ve got a great idea. Claudia and I will buy it from you. Is that okay? We use makeup.”
“Okay?! It’s great!” I exclaimed.
So I forked over my makeup, Stacey and Claud forked over some money, and I forked the money over to Jessi. “Now I only owe you a little,” I said happily.
* * *
The next day, my friends and I went off in separate directions. Dawn stayed at home with her father and Jeff; Stacey went surfing (of course); Kristy, Mary Anne, and Claudia took in a double feature at the theater they’d discovered; and Jessi and I just decided to walk around the neighborhood. We were in the park where Mary Anne had taken Stephie, when Jessi nudged me.
“That guy’s staring at you!” she whispered. “Turn very slowly to your left. Don’t be obvious.”
I turned. A cute boy about my age was staring at me. He smiled. I smiled back.
“Wow,” I said to Jessi, as we walked along.
I was flattered. A guy had noticed me — the real me — and smiled.
But Ben Hobart was waiting for me back in Stoneybrook.
I think we were all editing our postcards, some of us more than others. This particular postcard left out every single important thing that happened on Wednesday. In fact, it didn’t say much at all. And I can prove it. This is what really happened on Wednesday:
Early in the morning (well, not too early) my surfing friends dropped by to pick me up. Beau was at the wheel again, which gave me sort of a thrill. I knew the rides to and from the beach would be exciting.
And they were.
Especially the ride home. After a day of surfing we were tired — very tired.
“I just want to get home,” said Beau, as he climbed into the car. Paul and Alana sat in the front with him, and Carter, Rosemary, the surfboards, and I were crammed into the back.