Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret

by Judy Blume

  FAVORITES BY JUDY BLUME

  Picture and Story Books

  The Pain and the Great One

  The One in the Middle Is the Green Kangaroo

  Freckle Juice

  The Pain and the Great One Chapter Books

  Soupy Saturdays with the Pain and the Great One

  Cool Zone with the Pain and the Great One

  Going, Going, Gone! with the Pain and the Great One

  Friend or Fiend? with the Pain and the Great One

  The Fudge Books

  Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing

  Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great

  Superfudge

  Fudge-a-Mania

  Double Fudge

  For Middle-Grade Readers

  Iggie’s House

  Blubber

  Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself

  It’s Not the End of the World

  Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

  Then Again, Maybe I Won’t

  Deenie

  Just As Long As We’re Together

  Here’s to You, Rachel Robinson

  For Young Adults

  Tiger Eyes

  Forever …

  Letters to Judy: What Kids Wish They Could Tell You

  Places I Never Meant to Be: Original Stories by Censored Writers

  (edited by Judy Blume)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1970, copyright renewed 1998 by Judy Blume

  Cover art copyright © 2013 by Malivan/Shutterstock, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Bradbury Press, Scarsdale, New York, in 1970. Reprinted by arrangement with Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows:

  Blume, Judy.

  Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret / Judy Blume.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Faced with the difficulties of growing up and choosing a religion, a twelve-year-old girl talks over her problems with her own private God.

  [1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Religions—Fiction. 3. Conduct of life—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.B6265 Ar 1990

  [Fic]—dc22

  90044484

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81774-7

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1_r3

  TO MY MOTHER

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  1

  Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret. We’re moving today. I’m so scared God. I’ve never lived anywhere but here. Suppose I hate my new school? Suppose everybody there hates me? Please help me God. Don’t let New Jersey be too horrible. Thank you.

  We moved on the Tuesday before Labor Day. I knew what the weather was like the second I got up. I knew because I caught my mother sniffing under her arms. She always does that when it’s hot and humid, to make sure her deodorant’s working. I don’t use deodorant yet. I don’t think people start to smell bad until they’re at least twelve. So I’ve still got a few months to go.

  I was really surprised when I came home from camp and found out our New York apartment had been rented to another family and that we owned a house in Farbrook, New Jersey. First of all I never even heard of Farbrook. And second of all, I’m not usually left out of important family decisions.

  But when I groaned, “Why New Jersey?” I was told, “Long Island is too social—Westchester is too expensive—and Connecticut is too inconvenient.”

  So Farbrook, New Jersey it was, where my father could commute to his job in Manhattan, where I could go to public school, and where my mother could have all the grass, trees and flowers she ever wanted. Except I never knew she wanted that stuff in the first place.

  The new house is on Morningbird Lane. It isn’t bad. It’s part brick, part wood. The shutters and front door are painted black. Also, there is a very nice brass knocker. Every house on our new street looks a lot the same. They are all seven years old. So are the trees.

  I think we left the city because of my grandmother, Sylvia Simon. I can’t figure out any other reason for the move. Especially since my mother says Grandma is too much of an influence on me. It’s no big secret in our family that Grandma sends me to summer camp in New Hampshire. And that she enjoys paying my private school tuition (which she won’t be able to do any more because now I’ll be going to public school). She even knits me sweaters that have labels sewed inside saying MADE EXPRESSLY FOR YOU … BY GRANDMA.

  And she doesn’t do all that because we’re poor. I know for a fact that we’re not. I mean, we aren’t rich but we certainly have enough. Especially since I’m an only child. That cuts way down on food and clothes. I know this family that has seven kids and every time they go to the shoe store it costs a bundle. My mother and father didn’t plan for me to be an only child, but that’s the way it worked out, which is fine with me because this way I don’t have anybody around to fight.

  Anyhow, I figure this house-in-New-Jersey business is my parents’ way of getting me away from Grandma. She doesn’t have a car, she hates buses and she thinks all trains are dirty. So unless Grandma plans to walk, which is unlikely, I won’t be seeing much of her. Now some kids might think, who cares about seeing a grandmother? But Sylvia Simon is a lot of fun, considering her age, which I happen to know is sixty. The only problem is she’s always asking me if I have boyfriends and if they’re Jewish. Now that is ridiculous because number one I don’t have boyfriends. And number two what would I care if they’re Jewish or not?

  2

  We hadn’t been in the new house more than an hour when the doorbell rang. I answered. It was this girl in a bathing suit.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Nancy Wheeler. The real estate agent sent out a sheet on you. So I know you’re Margaret and you’re in sixth grade. So am I.”

  I wondered what else she knew.

  “It’s plenty hot, isn’t it?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes,” I agreed. She was taller than me and had bouncy hair. The kind I’m hoping to grow. Her nose turned up so much I could look right into her nostrils.

  Nancy leaned against the door. “Well, you want to come over and go under the sprinklers?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask.”


  “Okay. I’ll wait.”

  I found my mother with her rear end sticking out of a bottom kitchen cabinet. She was arranging her pots and pans.

  “Hey Mom. There’s a girl here who wants to know if I can go under her sprinklers?”

  “If you want to,” my mother said.

  “I need my bathing suit,” I said.

  “Gads, Margaret! I don’t know where a bathing suit is in this mess.”

  I walked back to the front door and told Nancy, “I can’t find my bathing suit.”

  “You can borrow one of mine,” she said.

  “Wait a second,” I said, running back to the kitchen. “Hey Mom. She says I can wear one of hers. Okay?”

  “Okay,” my mother mumbled from inside the cabinet. Then she backed out. She spit her hair out of her face. “What did you say her name was?”

  “Umm … Wheeler. Nancy Wheeler.”

  “Okay. Have a good time,” my mother said.

  Nancy lives six houses away, also on Morningbird Lane. Her house looks like mine but the brick is painted white and the front door and shutters are red.

  “Come on in,” Nancy said.

  I followed her into the foyer, then up the four stairs leading to the bedrooms. The first thing I noticed about Nancy’s room was the dressing table with the heartshaped mirror over it. Also, everything was very neat.

  When I was little I wanted a dressing table like that. The kind that’s wrapped up in a fluffy organdy skirt. I never got one though, because my mother likes tailored things.

  Nancy opened her bottom dresser drawer. “When’s your birthday?” she asked.

  “March,” I told her.

  “Great! We’ll be in the same class. There are three sixth grades and they arrange us by age. I’m April.”

  “Well, I don’t know what class I’m in but I know it’s Room Eighteen. They sent me a lot of forms to fill out last week and that was printed on all of them.”

  “I told you we’d be together. I’m in Room Eighteen too.” Nancy handed me a yellow bathing suit. “It’s clean,” she said. “My mother always washes them after a wearing.”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the suit. “Where should I change?”

  Nancy looked around the room. “What’s wrong with here?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I mind?”

  “I don’t know.” I worked the suit on from the bottom. I knew it was going to be too big. Nancy gave me the creeps the way she sat on her bed and watched me. I left my polo on until the last possible second. I wasn’t about to let her see I wasn’t growing yet. That was my business.

  “Oh, you’re still flat.” Nancy laughed.

  “Not exactly,” I said, pretending to be very cool. “I’m small boned, is all.”

  “I’m growing already,” Nancy said, sticking her chest way out. “In a few years I’m going to look like one of those girls in Playboy.”

  Well, I didn’t think so, but I didn’t say anything. My father gets Playboy and I’ve seen those girls in the middle. Nancy looked like she had a long way to go. Almost as far as me.

  “Want me to do up your straps?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  “I figured you’d be real grown up coming from New York. City girls are supposed to grow up a lot faster. Did you ever kiss a boy?”

  “You mean really kiss? On the lips?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Nancy said impatiently. “Did you?”

  “Not really,” I admitted.

  Nancy breathed a sigh of relief. “Neither did I.”

  I was overjoyed. Before she said that I was beginning to feel like some kind of underdeveloped little kid.

  “I practice a lot though,” Nancy said. “Practice what?” I asked.

  “Kissing! Isn’t that what we were talking about? Kissing!”

  “How can you practice that?” I asked.

  “Watch this.” Nancy grabbed her bed pillow and embraced it. She gave it a long kiss. When she was done she threw the pillow back on the bed. “It’s important to experiment, so when the time comes you’re all ready. I’m going to be a great kisser some day. Want to see something else?”

  I just stood there with my mouth half open. Nancy sat down at her dressing table and opened a drawer. “Look at this,” she said.

  I looked. There were a million little bottles, jars and tubes. There were more cosmetics in that drawer than my mother had all together. I asked, “What do you do with all that stuff?”

  “It’s another one of my experiments. To see how I look best. So when the time comes I’ll be ready.” She opened a lipstick and painted on a bright pink mouth. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Umm … I don’t know. It’s kind of bright, isn’t it?”

  Nancy studied herself in the heartshaped mirror. She rubbed her lips together. “Well, maybe you’re right.” She wiped off the lipstick with a tissue. “My mother would kill me if I came out like this anyway. I can’t wait till eighth grade. That’s when I’ll be allowed to wear lipstick every day.”

  Then she whipped out a hairbrush and started to brush her long, brown hair. She parted it in the middle and caught it at the back with a barrette. “Do you always wear your hair like that?” she asked me.

  My hand went up to the back of my neck. I felt all the bobby pins I’d used to pin my hair up so my neck wouldn’t sweat. I knew it looked terrible. “I’m letting it grow,” I said. “It’s at that in-between stage now. My mother thinks I should wear it over my ears though. My ears stick out a little.”

  “I noticed,” Nancy said.

  I got the feeling that Nancy noticed everything!

  “Ready to go?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She opened a linen closet in the hall and handed me a purple towel. I followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she grabbed two peaches out of the refrigerator and handed one to me. “Want to meet my mom?” she asked.

  “Okay,” I said, taking a bite of my peach.

  “She’s thirty-eight, but tells us she’s twenty-five. Isn’t that a scream!” Nancy snorted.

  Mrs. Wheeler was on the porch with her legs tucked under her and a book on her lap. I couldn’t tell what book it was. She was suntanned and had the same nose as Nancy.

  “Mom, this is Margaret Simon who just moved in down the street.”

  Mrs. Wheeler took off her glasses and smiled at me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello, Margaret. I’m very glad to meet you. You’re from New York, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “East side or West?”

  “We lived on West Sixty-seventh. Near Lincoln Center.”

  “How nice. Does your father still work in the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “He’s in insurance.” I sounded like a computer.

  “How nice. Please tell your mother I’m looking forward to meeting her. We’ve got a Morningbird Lane bowling team on Mondays and a bridge game every other Thursday afternoon and a …”

  “Oh, I don’t think my mother knows how to bowl and she wouldn’t be interested in bridge. She paints most of the day,” I explained.

  “She paints?” Mrs. Wheeler asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How interesting. What does she paint?”

  “Mostly pictures of fruits and vegetables. Sometimes flowers too.”

  Mrs. Wheeler laughed. “Oh, you mean pictures! I thought you meant walls! Tell your mother we’re making our car pools early this year. We’d be happy to help her arrange hers … especially Sunday school. That’s always the biggest problem.”

  “I don’t go to Sunday school.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Lucky!” Nancy shouted.

  “Nancy, please!” Mrs. Wheeler said.

  “Hey Mom … Margaret came to go under the sprinkler with me, n
ot to go through the third degree.”

  “All right. If you see Evan tell him I want to talk to him.”

  Nancy grabbed me by the hand and pulled me outside. “I’m sorry my mother’s so nosey.”

  “I didn’t mind,” I said. “Who’s Evan?”

  “He’s my brother. He’s disgusting!”

  “Disgusting how?” I asked.

  “Because he’s fourteen. All boys of fourteen are disgusting. They’re only interested in two things—pictures of naked girls and dirty books!”

  Nancy really seemed to know a lot. Since I didn’t know any boys of fourteen I took her word for it.

  Nancy turned on the outside faucet and adjusted it so that the water sprayed lightly from the sprinkler. “Follow the leader!” she called, running through the water. I guessed Nancy was the leader.

  She jumped through the spray. I followed. She turned cartwheels. I tried but didn’t make it. She did leaps through the air. I did too. She stood straight under the spray. I did the same. That’s when the water came on full blast. We both got drenched, including our hair.

  “Evan, you stinker!” Nancy shrieked. “I’m telling!” She ran off to the house and left me alone with two boys.

  “Who’re you?” Evan asked.

  “I’m Margaret. We just moved in.”

  “Oh. This is Moose,” he said, pointing to the other boy.

  I nodded.

  “Hey,” Moose said. “If you just moved in, ask your father if he’s interested in having me cut his lawn. Five bucks a week and I trim too. What’d you say your last name was?”

  “I didn’t. But it’s Simon.” I couldn’t help thinking about what Nancy said—that all they were interested in was dirty books and naked girls. I held my towel tight around me in case they were trying to sneak a look down my bathing suit.

  “Evan! Come in here this instant!” Mrs. Wheeler hollered from the porch.

  “I’m coming … I’m coming,” Evan muttered.

  After Evan went inside Moose said, “Don’t forget to tell your father. Moose Freed. I’m in the phone book.”

  “I won’t forget,” I promised.

  Moose nibbled a piece of grass. Then the back door slammed and Nancy came out, red-eyed and sniffling.

  “Hey, Nancy baby! Can’t you take a joke?” Moose asked.

 
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