BFF* Page 2

  “You mean,” I said, “that your dog actually talks … like Mr. Ed, that talking horse who used to be on TV?”

  “That horse didn’t really talk,” Alison said, as if I didn’t know.

  “Well,” I said, scratching the mosquito bite on my leg, “exactly how does Maizie talk? I mean, does she talk in human words or what?”

  “Of course she talks in words,” Alison said. “But she doesn’t speak perfect English because English isn’t her first language. It’s hard for a dog to learn other languages.”

  “What’s her first language?” I asked.

  “French.”

  “Oh,” I said, “French.” Now this was getting really good. “I’m taking Introduction to French this year.”

  “I’m taking Introduction to Spanish,” Alison said. “I already speak French. I lived outside of Paris until I was six.”

  “I thought you were Chinese or something,” I said.

  “I’m Vietnamese,” Alison said. “I’m adopted. My mother’s American but she was married to Pierre Monceau when they adopted me. He’s French. Mom came to the States after they got divorced. That’s when she met Leon. He’s my stepfather.”

  I absolutely love to hear the details of other people’s lives! So I sat down beside Alison, hoping she would tell me more. Bruce says I’m nosey. But that’s not true. I’ve discovered, though, that you can’t ask too many questions when you first meet people or they’ll get the wrong idea. They may not understand that you’re just very curious and accuse you of butting into their private business instead.

  Alison fiddled with a twig, running it across Maizie’s back. I didn’t ask her any of the questions that were already forming in my mind. Instead I said, “Would your dog talk to me?”

  “Maybe … if she’s in the mood.”

  I cleared my throat. “Hi, Maizie,” I said, as if I were talking to a little kid. “I’m your new neighbor, Stephanie Hirsch.”

  Maizie cocked her head at me as if she were actually listening. Her tiny bottom teeth stuck out, the opposite of mine. My top teeth stuck out before I got my braces. The orthodontist says I have an overbite. That would mean Maizie has an underbite.

  “What kind of dog are you,” I asked, patting her back. Her fur felt sticky, as if she’d been rolling in syrup.

  “She’s a mixture,” Alison said. “We don’t know anything about her parents so we don’t know if they could talk or not. Probably not. Only one in seventeen million dogs can talk.”

  “One in seventeen million?”

  “Yes. That’s what the vet told us. It’s extremely rare. Maizie is probably the only talking dog in all of Connecticut.”

  “Well,” I said. “I can’t wait for Rachel to meet Maizie.”

  “Who’s Rachel?” Alison asked.

  “She’s my best friend.”

  “Oh, you have a best friend.”

  “She lives here, too. Number 16. She’s really smart. She’s never had less than an A in school.” I stood up. “I have to go home now. But I’ll see you tomorrow. The junior high bus stops in front of the lodge. That’s the building down by the road. It’s supposed to come at ten to eight.”

  “I know,” Alison said. “I got a notice in the mail.” She stood up too. “Do you wear jeans or skirts to school here?”

  “Either,” I said.

  “What about shoes?”

  I looked at Alison’s bare feet. “Yes,” I said, “you have to wear them.”

  “I mean what kind of shoes … running shoes or sandals or what?”

  “Most of the kids here wear Top-Siders.”

  “Top-Siders are so preppy,” Alison said.

  “You don’t have to wear them,” I told her. “You can wear whatever you want.”

  “Good,” Alison said. “I will.”

  Rachel’s Room

  “Dogs can’t talk,” Rachel said that night, when I told her about Alison and Maizie.

  I was sitting on Rachel’s bed. Her cats, Burt and Harry, were nestled against my legs, purring. They’re named after some beer commercial from Rachel’s parents’ youth.

  Rachel was going through her closet, pulling out clothes that don’t fit anymore. In her closet everything faces the same way and hangs on white plastic hangers.

  In my closet nothing is in order. Last year Rachel tried to organize it for me. But a week later it was all a mess again and she was disappointed.

  “Are you giving away your Yale sweatshirt?” I asked.

  “No, that still fits.”

  “What about your red plaid shirt?”

  “Yes … do you want it?”

  “I’ll try it on and see,” I said.

  Rachel took it off a hanger and handed it to me. “I’ve got to do some back-to-school shopping.”

  I did mine last week. I got a skirt, a couple of shirts, a sweater and a pair of designer jeans. Rachel’s mother says designer jeans are an incredible rip-off and she won’t let Rachel or her sixteen-year-old sister, Jessica, buy them. Rachel also has a brother, Charles. He’s fifteen. He doesn’t get along with the rest of the family so he goes away to school. I doubt that he cares about designer jeans.

  My mother says she admires Mrs. Robinson. “Nell Robinson sticks to her guns,” is how Mom puts it. “I wish I had such strong convictions.” But she doesn’t. That’s how come I got a pair of Guess jeans. It’s not that I care about labels. It’s just that I like the way they fit.

  I pulled my T-shirt over my head.

  “Steph!” Rachel cried, lowering the window shades. “I wish you’d remember you’re going into junior high. You can’t run around like a baby anymore. Where’s your bra?”

  “At home. It was too hot to wear it.”

  I tried on Rachel’s red plaid shirt. It’s made of flannel that’s been washed so many times it’s almost as thin as regular cotton. It felt soft against my skin. I buttoned it and rolled up the sleeves. Then I jumped off the bed, waking Burt, who yawned and stretched. I looked at myself in Rachel’s mirror. “I like it,” I said.

  “It’s yours,” Rachel told me.

  “Thanks.” I took the shirt off. Even though the shades were down the breeze from the window felt cool against my skin.

  “Put your T-shirt on, Steph,” Rachel said, tossing it to me, then turning away.

  I slipped it on and flopped back onto Rachel’s bed. Burt was chasing a rubber band around on the floor. Harry was still curled in a ball, fast asleep.

  Rachel went to her desk. She held up her notebook. It was covered in wallpaper. I recognized the pattern—tiny dots and flowers in pink and green—from their bathroom. It looked great. “Do you have any extra?”

  “I think we have some blue stripes left from the dining room. Want me to take a look?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed Rachel into the hall. She opened the stepladder in the closet and climbed to the top. “Here it is,” she said, handing me the roll.

  Then we went downstairs. Mrs. Robinson was at the dining room table with stacks of papers and books spread out in front of her. She’s a trial lawyer. “Stephanie …” she said, glancing up for a minute, “good to see you!”

  “Mom’s got a big case starting tomorrow,” Rachel explained.

  Mrs. Robinson is always either starting a big case or in the middle of one.

  Mr. Robinson was at the kitchen table, also surrounded by books and papers. He teaches history at the high school. As we walked through the kitchen he popped two Pepto-Bismol tablets into his mouth. “I always get nervous before school starts,” he said, chewing them. “You’d think by now I’d be used to it, but I’m not.”

  “I never knew teachers get nervous about starting school,” I said.

  Mr. Robinson nodded. “It starts in my stomach in August and doesn’t let up until the end of September.” The Pepto-Bismol made his teeth look pink.

  “I’m going over to Steph’s,” Rachel said. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

  “Okay,” Mr. Robi
nson said.

  Rachel carried the wallpaper. As we passed Number 25 I said, “That’s Alison’s house. She’s in Mrs. Remo’s homeroom, too.”

  Rachel froze. “That is so unfair!” She has someone named Ms. Levano for homeroom. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if we’re not in the same classes.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “we will be.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The lights were on in Alison’s house but the curtains were pulled closed so we couldn’t see anything.

  “What’s she like?” Rachel asked.

  “She’s small and friendly,” I said. “She seems okay.”

  “Except for that talking-dog business.”

  “It is possible,” I said.

  “Come on, Stephanie! There’s no such thing as a talking dog. If there was we’d have heard about it.”

  “Maybe so,” I said.

  When we got to my house Mom was working at her computer. Since she got it she doesn’t have to spend such long hours at the office. “Dad called, Steph. He’s waiting for you to call him back.”

  “Okay …” I left Rachel in the den with Mom and called Dad from the kitchen phone. It’s funny talking to him in L.A. because when it’s eight o’clock here it’s only five o’clock there. He was still at the office and I was about to get ready for bed.

  “I miss you,” Dad said.

  “I miss you, too. When will you be home?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I hope it won’t be long.”

  “I’ll definitely be home for Thanksgiving.”

  “Dad … that’s more than two months away.”

  “There’s no way I can get back before then, Steph. I have to make two trips to Hawaii and one to the Orient.”

  I didn’t say anything for a minute. Neither did Dad. Then he said, “Well … have a good first day at school.”

  “Rachel and I aren’t even in the same homeroom,” I said.

  “Don’t worry … you’ll do fine without Rachel.”

  “I’m not worried. Who said I was worried? I’m just saying it’s not fair since we’re best friends.”

  “You and Rachel will still see each other after school.”

  “What do you mean after school?” I asked. “We’ll be on the same bus and we’ll probably be in all the same classes.”

  “So you’ll be together all the time … just like before.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “What’s the weather like?” Dad asked. He loves to hear about the weather.

  “Hot and humid with a chance of thunderstorms.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, then I went back to the den.

  “Rachel’s waiting upstairs,” Mom told me.

  “Surprise!” Rachel called, when I got to my room. She held up my notebook. She had covered it while I was talking to Dad. “What do you think?” she asked.

  I wanted to cover my own notebook is what I thought. But I couldn’t say that to Rachel. Her feelings would be hurt. So I said, “It looks good.”

  “It’s really hard to get perfect corners with wallpaper,” she said. “Want me to print your name and address inside?”

  “I’ll do it myself.”

  “Okay … but I’ll draw the lines so the letters are even.” She searched my desk. “Where’s your ruler?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll do it later.”

  When Rachel left I took a bath and washed my hair. It feels funny washing short hair when you’re used to having it longer. The other night, when Rachel first saw me, she’d asked, “What’d you do to your hair, Steph?”

  “I got carried away,” I’d told her. “It was so hot when I came home from camp I decided to cut it all off.”

  “Yourself?”

  “No, I went to the Final Cut.”

  “It’s kind of interesting,” Rachel had said. “Especially from the back.”

  I liked my short hair for about a week. Now I wish I’d never done it. It’ll probably take all year to grow back.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and left the steamy bathroom. I still couldn’t believe Dad wasn’t coming home until Thanksgiving. He’s never been away that long. But fall goes a lot faster than winter, I reminded myself. It’s my favorite time of year, not counting spring. I also like summer a lot. And winter is fun because of the snow … I began to feel better.

  Before I got into bed I found my ruler. It was under Wile E. Coyote, my number one stuffed animal. Dad won him for me last year at the Jaycees’ Carnival. I drew four straight lines on the inside of my notebook, then printed my name and address. There, I thought, admiring my work.

  I got into bed and looked up at Benjamin Moore. I hope I meet someone just like him at junior high.

  Homeroom

  I introduced Alison to Rachel at the bus stop the next morning. Alison was wearing baggy pants, a white shirt about ten sizes too big, and running shoes. She had sunglasses around her neck, on a leash, and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. The tangles were brushed out of her hair but her part was still crooked. All in all she looked great.

  Then Rachel introduced us to Dana Carpenter, a ninth grader who also lives at Palfrey’s Pond. I was glad we’d have company riding the bus because I’d heard rumors that some people like to give seventh graders a hard time on their first day at junior high.

  When the bus came Rachel and I found two seats together. Alison sat two rows ahead of us with Dana Carpenter. Nobody seemed interested in giving us a hard time.

  “You didn’t tell me Alison’s Chinese,” Rachel whispered when the bus got going.

  “She’s Vietnamese,” I told Rachel. “She’s adopted.”

  “Oh,” Rachel said. “She doesn’t even seem scared.”

  “I don’t think she’s the type to get scared over school,” I said.

  “I wish I weren’t,” Rachel said. “I couldn’t eat a thing this morning. I was shaking so bad I could hardly brush my teeth.”

  I tried to help Rachel calm down by offering her a chocolate chip cookie from my lunch bag. She nibbled at it, then handed it back to me. No point in wasting it, I thought, so I finished it myself.

  At the next bus stop six kids got on the bus and one of them was the best looking boy I have ever seen in person in my whole life. He looked almost as good as Benjamin Moore.

  “Hey, Jeremy!” a group of boys called. “Back here …”

  The boy, Jeremy, walked right by me on his way to the back of the bus. As he did his arm brushed against my shoulder. I turned around to get a better look at him. So did Rachel. So did most of the girls on the bus. He had brown hair, brown eyes, a great smile and he wore a chartreuse colored jacket. I learned that color from my deluxe Crayola crayon box when I was in third grade. On the back of his jacket it said Dragons and under that, 1962.

  “He has a great body,” Rachel whispered to me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s a real hunk.” We started to laugh and I could feel Rachel relax, until the bus pulled up to school. Then she stiffened. But her homeroom, 7-202, turned out to be right next to mine, 7-203.

  “Stay with me until the bell rings,” she begged. “And promise that you’ll meet me here, in the hall, before first class so we can compare schedules … okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. Alison was standing next to me. She kept putting her sunglasses on, then taking them off again.

  “Look,” I said to Rachel, “there go the Klaff twins. Kara’s in your homeroom and Peter’s in mine.” The Klaff twins were in our sixth grade class. Their mother is our doctor. I figured Rachel would feel better knowing that Kara’s in her homeroom.

  “Well … I guess this is it,” Rachel said. “I’m going to count to ten, then I’m going to go in.”

  “Okay.”

  She counted very slowly. When she got to ten she said, “If I live through this I’ll see you later.” She turned and marched into her homeroom. Sometimes Rachel is really dramatic.
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br />   Alison and I found desks next to each other. As soon as I sat down Eric Macaulay yelled, “Hey … it’s Hershey Bar!” He would have to be in my homeroom! Last year he and some other boys got the brilliant idea of calling me Hershey Bar just because my last name is Hirsch. They’re so stupid! Of course Eric had to go and take the desk right in front of mine.

  Besides Eric Macaulay and Peter Klaff there were two other boys and two girls from sixth grade in my homeroom. One of them, Amber Ackbourne, I have never liked. She has such an attitude! The other one, Miri Levine, is okay. She took the desk on the other side of mine. I set my notebook, covered in Rachel’s dining room wallpaper, on my desk. Miri Levine looked at it and said, “I like your notebook.”

  I said, “Thanks.”

  She had a plain spiral notebook on her desk.

  “How’d you get the corners so perfect?” she asked.

  “Rachel covered it for me.”

  “Oh, Rachel … everything she does is perfect.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Alison unpacked her canvas bag. She pulled out a gray-blue stone, a roll of Scotch tape, a pad decorated with stickers, a Uniball pen, cherry flavored lip gloss and a small framed photo. Then she put everything back into her bag except the stone. She passed it to me. “It’s my favorite,” she said.

  The stone was smooth and warm from Alison’s hand.

  When the bell rang a woman walked into our room. I was really surprised when she said, “Good morning, class. I’m Natalie Remo, your homeroom teacher.”

  I’d expected someone young, around twenty-four, with short brown hair … someone a little overweight, like me. But Mrs. Remo is about my mother’s age, which is thirty-eight, and she’s black. She was wearing a suit. I noticed when she took off her jacket that the lining matched her blouse. She also had on gold earrings which she pulled off and set on her desk.

  “Still pretty warm out,” she said, fanning herself with a yellow pad. “More like summer than fall.” She walked around the room opening the windows. “There … that’s better.” She stood in front of the class again. “I hope you all received my cards.”

  No one said anything.

  “Did you … receive my cards?”