Just as Long as We're Together (6 page)

"My mother wears contacts," Eric said. "Whenever she thinks she's lost one it's always stuck to her clothes."

"Thank you, Eric," Mrs. Remo said.

The class applauded and Eric took a bow.

Alison leaned across the aisle and whispered, "He's so cute!"

I made a face. Eric is too impossible to be cute. On his way back to his desk Eric stopped next to Alison's. "Do you wear contacts, Thumbelina?"

He's been calling her Thumbelina since the second week of school but she doesn't seem to mind.

"No," Alison told him. "My eyes are as perfect as yours."

"Too bad . . ." Eric said, "because I wouldn't mind finding your lost lenses."

Alison started to giggle and once she gets started she can't stop.

As soon as Mrs. Remo had her lens back in place she held up a flyer and said, "I've got an announcement, class. The seventh grade bake sale will be held a week from Monday. The first

." She stopped and shook her head. "All right, Alison . . . either calm down or share the joke with the rest of us."

Alison covered her mouth with both hands to keep from laughing out loud but I could tell she still had the giggles.

Mrs. Remo continued with her announcement. "The first $150 will be used to donate food baskets to the needy. Anything over that will go to the seventh grade activity fund. Last year's

seventh grade class earned enough to hold a winter dance."

A winter dance, I thought. Now that sounds interesting.

"So . . ." Mrs. Remo went on, "we need to appoint a bake sale chairperson . . . someone to keep track of who's baking what."

"Mrs. Remo. . ." Eric called, waving his arm.

"Yes, Eric?"

"I nominate Peter Kiaff as chairperson. He's very organized. When I run for President he's going to be my campaign manager."

Was Eric planning to run for President of Fox Junior High, I wondered, or President of the United States?

"Peter . . ." Mrs. Remo said, "would you like to be chairperson of the bake sale?"

Everyone looked at Peter Kiaff. He's shorter than me and much thinner. He has pale blond hair and eyebrows and lashes to match. Also, his ears stick out. I think it must run in the family because his mother and sister have the same kind of ears. You could see the red creeping up Peter's neck to his face. And you could see him gulping hard, as if he couldn't get enough air to breathe. He's so shy! But he managed to answer Mrs. Remo's question. He said, "Yes."

"Fine," Mrs. Remo said, "then it's all settled."

As Alison and I walked through the hall on

our way to first period class she began to sing a song she'd made up about a boy with remarkable eyes. "Well?" she said, when she'd finished.

I pretended to stick my finger down my throat.

"That bad?"

"No . . ." I said. "Worse!"

She bumped hips with me and we both laughed. But the next time she sang her song I found myself humming along.

14.

Debate.

Rachel says she has more important things on her mind than baking. She's trying out for the school debating team. Only two seventh graders will make it. She has to prepare a five-minute speech and present it at assembly on the afternoon of the bake sale.

"What's the subject of your speech?" I asked.

"Should wearing a seat belt be law or should it be up to the individual to decide?"

"That's easy," I said. "It should be law."

"I have to be able to argue both sides of the issue," Rachel explained, "even if I disagree with it.,'

"That's stupid."

"No . . . that's what debating is all about."

A few days later I went to Rachel's house after school. I couldn't stay long because I had an appointment at the orthodontist at four-thirty. Alison couldn't come over at all because she's got a rash on her foot and Leon took her to see Dr. Klaff.

Rachel was a wreck over her speech. "Look at my notes," she said, holding up a stack of 3x5 cards. "I've been working every night till ten."

"Don't worry so much," I told her. "After all, it's just five minutes."

"Do you have any idea how long five minutes really is?"

"Five minutes is five minutes," I said.

"Imean," she said, "do you know how it feels?"

"How it feels?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Look, I'll show you. Stand right there . . . right where you are . . ."

I was standing in the middle of her bedroom.

"Don't move," Rachel said.

"Okay."

"Now. . . tell me when you think five minutes is up. And don't look at your watch," she said. "Ready, set, go. . ."

I stood very still. I didn't move, except to scratch my leg. Burt and Harry were asleep on Rachel's bed. Rachel sat at her desk, shuffling

her note cards. I wondered how Alison was doing at Dr. Kiaff's. Alison says Peter Kiaff likes me. She says he's always looking at me and that's how you can tell. But I'm not sure she's right. When Peter asked what I was bringing to the bake sale I told him I was partners with Alison and that we were baking brownies from an old family recipe. He didn't seem impressed.

I looked over at Rachel again. She was still at her desk, making more note cards. "Okay," I said. "Five minutes is up."

Rachel checked her watch. "Hal It's only been one minute, twenty-four seconds."

"I can't believe it!"

"I told you five minutes feels like a long time!"

Mom made me puree of carrot and a baked potato for dinner that night, because after my

• braces are tightened I can't eat anything but soft, mushy foods. "Rachel's trying out for the debating team," I said, as I mashed my potato with butter. "She's got to make a five minute speech about seat belts."

"I'm sure she'll do fine," Mom said.

"I'm sure, too, but Rachel's worried. She wants to be the best."

"She's such a perfectionist," Mom said.

"I wouldn't mind being perfect," Bruce said.

"You mean you're not?" I asked.

"Very funny," he said.

"Be glad you're not," Mom said. "It's a hard way to go through life."

I tasted the carrot puree. Even though it looked like baby food it was delicious. Bruce watched me eat it. "I hope I never need braces," he said.

"It's temporary," I told him. "Some day I'll have a beautiful smile."

"Yeah . . . but what about the rest of your face?"

"Bruce!" Mom said.

"It's just a joke, Mom," he told her.

"He really wishes he looked like me," I said.

Bruce chuckled to himself.

We had vanilla pudding for dessert. "I'm thinking of trying out for symphonic band," I announced, as the pudding slid around in my mouth.

"Since when do you play an instrument?" Bruce asked.

"I'm trying out for percussion."

"Since when do you play drums?" Bruce asked.

"Ms. Lopez says I can learn . . . as long as I have a good sense of rhythm." I finished my pudding. "Do you think I have a good sense of rhythm?" I asked Mom.

"When you were little I'd give you a pot and a wooden spoon and you were happy for hours. If that's an indication I'd say yes."

"A pot and a wooden spoon," Bruce repeated, shaking his head and chuckling again.

The next time Dad called I asked him if he thought I had a good sense of rhythm.

He said, "You used to have a great time with a pot and a wooden spoon."

"That's exactly what Mom said."

"I guess we remember the same things."

I told him about the seventh grade bake sale and that Alison and I are going to bake Sadie Wishnik's brownies.

"Who's Sadie Wishnik?" Dad asked.

"Leon's mother."

"Who's Leon?"

"Alison's stepfather. And you know who Alison is," I told him, "she's my new friend."

"So Sadie Wishnik is her stepgrandmother?" Dad asked.

"I guess so," I said. "Anyway, we're going to Sadie's house to bake, on Sunday. She lives in New Jersey, near the ocean. And speaking of oceans . . . thanks for the box of shells from Hawaii. I've never seen such pretty ones. Did you find them yourself?"

Dad hesitated. "The truth?"

"Yes."

"I never did get to the beach. I bought them at a gift shop."

I knew it! I could tell by the way they were wrapped. But I didn't want Dad to feel bad so I said, "Maybe next time you'll get to the beach."

"Maybe so."

"Anyway . . . I love the shells!"

"I'm glad," Dad said. "So. . . what else is new at school?"

Dad is always asking what's new at school. I tell him what I think he wants to hear. What I don't tell him about is boys. I don't think he'd understand. If I told him that Peter Kiaff stares at me he'd probably say, Doesn't he know it's bad manners to stare? And I certainly don't tell him about watching Jeremy Dragon at soccer. Dad would never understand that.

"What about your grades?" Dad asked.

 
"We haven't gotten any yet."

If Mom and Dad were in a debate and the subject was grades, Mom would say that what you actually learn is more important than the grades you get. Dad would argue that grades are an indication of what you've learned and how you handle responsibility. If I had to choose sides I'd choose Mom's.

15.

Sadie Wishni/i's Brownies.

The rash on Alison's foot is called contact dermatitis. That means Alison's foot came into contact with something that caused the rash. What I don't get is, how can one foot come into contact with something the other foot doesn't? Dr. Klaff gave her a cream and told her to wear white cotton socks until the rash was gone.

Sunday morning, when I got to Alison's, she was waiting on her front steps. She had invited Rachel to come to Sadie Wishnik's, too. But Rachel said she had to stay home to work on her speech. I think the real reason Rachel wouldn't come is she gets carsick.

Gena Farrell came out of the house carrying

Maizie and a straw bag. She was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Her hair was tied back and she didn't have on any makeup. You couldn't tell she was famous. Leon followed, locking the door behind him. He carried the Sunday newspaper tucked under his arm.

As soon as we got going Gena pulled a needlepoint canvas out of her bag and began to stitch

it.

"That's pretty," I said, trying to get a better look from the back seat. "What's it going to be?"

Gena took off her mirrored glasses, turned around, and faced me. She has big eyes-deep blue; like the color of the sky on a beautiful spring day. She held the needlepoint out, studied it for a minute and said, "A pillow, I think."

"Mom gave away twenty pillows last Christmas," Alison said.

Gena laughed. "I spend a lot of time sitting around and waiting on the set," she said. "So I do a lot of needlepointing. It relaxes me."

I couldn't believe Gena Farrell was talking to me as if we were both just regular people.

It took two and a half hours to get to Sadie's. Alison and I played Spit the whole time. Sadie lives in a place called Deal, in a big, old white house with a wraparound porch. She belongs to a group that brings food to people who are too

old or sick to cook for themselves. It's called Meals on Wheels. When Leon told me about her, he sounded very proud.

Hearing about Sadie made me think of my grandparents. Gran Lola, who gave me my bee-sting locket, isn't the cooking kind of grandmother. She's a stockbroker in New York. She wears suits and carries handbags that match her shoes. I once counted the handbags in her closet. She had twenty-seven of them. Mom says that's because Gran Lola never throws anything away. Papa Jack is a stockbroker, too. He has an ulcer.

My father's parents are both dead. They died a week apart. I hate to think of Mom and Dad getting old and dying. It scares me. So I put it out of my mind.

Sadie was waiting for us on her porch. When she saw the car pull into the driveway she came down the stairs to greet us. She was very small, with white hair and dark eyes, like Leon's. She was wearing a pink sweat suit. She hugged Alison first. "My favorite granddaughter," she said, kissing both her cheeks.

"Your only granddaughter," Alison said. Then she introduced me. "This is Stephanie, my best friend in Connecticut."

I smiled, surprised by Alison's introduction.

Sadie shook my hand. "Any friend of Alison's is a friend of mine."

You could smell the ocean from Sadie's front porch. I took a few deep breaths. Sadie must have noticed because she said, "It's just three blocks away. You'll see for yourself this afternoon."

Inside, the table was set for lunch. As soon as Leon walked Maizie we sat down to eat. Everything tasted great. There's something about salt air that makes me really hungry.

After lunch Alison and I helped Sadie do the dishes. Then Sadie pushed up her sleeves and said, "Okay . . . now it's time to get down to business."

I love to bake. I especially love to separate eggs. Aunt Denise taught me how to do it without breaking the yolks, but for brownies you don't need to separate eggs.

"Grandma," Alison said, after we'd measured, mixed and divided the batter into six large baking pans, "don't you think we should write down the recipe for next time?"

"It's better to keep it up here," Sadie said, tapping her head. "That way, if you find yourself in Tahiti and you want to bake brownies, you won't have to worry."

We slid the pans into the ovens. "So. . ." Sadie said, "you'll have one hundred twenty full sized brownies or, if you cut them in half. . ."

"Two hundred forty," I said.

"I don't think we should cut them in half," Alison said, "because we want to sell each one for fifty cents. And that way we'll make .

uh..."

"Sixty dollars," I said.

Sadie looked at me. "A mathematician!" she said. "A regular Einstein!"

"Not really," I told her, feeling my face flush. "Rachel's the mathematician. She couldn't come today because she gets car-" I caught myself just in time. "She couldn't come because she had to work on her speech."

"If we earn enough at this bake sale," Alison told Sadie, "the seventh grade will be able to have a winter dance."

"A dance!" Sadie said. "I used to love to go dancing. Nobody could hold a candle to my rumba. I could wiggle with the best of them. And you should see my mambo and samba and cha cha. . ." She began to sing and dance around the kitchen. "Come on. . ." she said, holding her hands out to us. "I'll teach you."