Contents
Title Page
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
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Also Available
Copyright
“Anchovies! Ew, no way!” I cried. I couldn’t believe Mom was actually thinking of putting those smelly little fish on our beautiful homemade pizza. “Put them away, please,” I begged her.
Mom looked down longingly at the oval tin of anchovies she held. She turned to my friend Claudia Kishi for support. “Do you like anchovies, Claudia?”
Claudia wrinkled her nose and shook her head so fiercely that her long black hair fanned out around her shoulders.
“How about putting them on just my third of the pie?” Mom suggested.
Claudia’s lips twitched as she considered this. “That’s fair,” she agreed.
I sighed. I just knew the anchovy juice was going to contaminate the rest of the pizza. Which was so unfair. We’d spent nearly two hours on this pizza, ever since Claudia and I had come in from our Friday BSC meeting.
BSC is short for Baby-sitters Club. We call it a club because all the members are friends, but it’s really more of a baby-sitting business. We meet three times a week in Claudia’s room. Clients call during meetings to hire sitters. That way they can reach a bunch of sitters with one phone call.
When we returned to my house after the meeting, Mom was already working on the pizza dough. Right away, we began helping her with it. We took turns pounding it, then letting it rise, then pounding it again. Over and over.
All the while, Mom’s special tomato sauce simmered on the stove. She doesn’t make this sauce very often. Usually she just uses the kind you buy in jars. But for this special recipe — which her grandmother had given her — she simmers real tomatoes with lots of different spices.
When the dough was finished, we’d flattened it onto a pizza pan, poured the sauce over it, then scattered slices of mozzarella and spread ricotta cheese over the whole thing.
The final touch was dotting it with pepperoni slices. Mom had bought the cheese and pepperoni at a great gourmet store in downtown Stoneybrook. (That’s the town in Connecticut where we live.)
Now the pizza lay on the kitchen table, a glistening work of art just waiting to be baked. I couldn’t bear to think of this masterpiece being ruined by anchovies.
“Stacey?” Mom said. “Is one-third anchovies okay with you?”
“I don’t know. What if they swim over to the rest of the pizza?” I asked.
“They’re dead, Stacey,” Mom reminded me, a smile forming on her lips.
“Oh, I know. It’s just all so revolting, though. Last weekend when I visited Dad he told me those cherrystone clams on the half shell you guys like are still alive.”
“You didn’t know that?” Claudia asked, as if this were common knowledge. “Really? You didn’t know?”
I shook my head. Maybe everyone else in the world had been informed that raw clams are still alive when you pop them in your mouth, but somehow I’d missed this fact. I found it nearly as disgusting as anchovies.
A fond, faraway look came into Mom’s eyes. “Your dad and I used to travel all the way to Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn to eat clams by the marina there,” she told us.
I assumed she was talking about a time when they both lived in New York City. Back when they used to be married to each other.
“That was before you were born,” she added. She smiled at me. “It’s hard to believe fifteen years have passed since that time.”
“That’s more than my whole life,” Claudia put in. (She and I are thirteen.)
“I know,” Mom said. “In fact, I remember thinking I had food poisoning because I felt so sick one night after having clams at the marina. The next day I went to the doctor and discovered I was pregnant with Stacey. After she was born we somehow never went back to Sheepshead Bay again. Life just became so busy.”
“Well, I feel sick when I even look at those anchovies,” I said. “But I suppose if I just close my eyes … Okay, I guess. You can put them on.”
“Never mind,” Mom said. “I don’t want them to ruin your appetite.”
“No, really, you can have them,” I insisted, feeling bad for making such a fuss. I hadn’t wanted to be selfish. After all, Mom had done most of the pizza making. “I’ll be fine,” I added.
Once the horrible wormlike fishies were on the pie, Mom slid it into the preheated oven.
“It’s Scrabble time!” she announced. But one look at Claudia’s pained expression stopped her. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “I thought we agreed to play a board game for Girls’ Night at Home. Don’t you like Scrabble?”
I knew exactly why Claudia didn’t want to play Scrabble. In order to play Scrabble you have to be able to spell, and Claudia can’t spell to save her life. It seemed rude to blurt that out, though.
Lately, I was pretty sensitive about what I said and did around Claudia. She and I had only recently worked things out after a huge fight. Even though we’d been best friends for a long time, our argument had been so big that at one point I doubted we’d ever be friends again.
The fight was over a boy. Both of us had liked him, but he liked me. At first. Then he started to like Claudia.
What a mess!
Neither of us was involved with him anymore.
Thank goodness our fight was over. Still, I didn’t want to say anything to make Claudia mad again. I wasn’t sure we were as close as we’d once been. The fight had left us on shaky ground. I was glad she was staying over tonight. It felt like old times.
“How about Monopoly?” I suggested.
“You just want to play that because you’re so good at math,” Mom objected.
That was true. Math is my best subject and it’s helpful when playing Monopoly. Here’s a weird thing: People sometimes tell me that I don’t look like someone who would be good at math. For some reason, if you’re pretty, with blue eyes and blonde hair (like me), some people think you’re dumb. (I’m not being conceited; people do say I’m pretty.) To be honest, I don’t see what looks have to do with who you are as a person — on the inside, I mean. But it seems important to a lot of people.
Anyway, Mom had a point. She knew I could clobber her at Monopoly. I always did.
“What about Sorry, then?” I suggested.
“Sorry is good,” Claudia agreed.
“Then Sorry it is,” Mom said. She left the room to find the game and returned with it quickly. We set up at the kitchen table.
During the game, Mom kept drifting off, not paying attention. We continually had to remind her it was her turn. Then she’d look startled and pick up her card. She didn’t make all the best moves either. Somehow, her mind wasn’t there. I wondered if she was still thinking about those evenings at Sheepshead Bay, eating clams with my father.
The oven had made the room hot and Mom opened the window over the sink. A warm spring breeze blew in and ruffled her hair. I could almost picture her sitting on the outdoor porch of a Brooklyn restaurant eating clams with Dad, a soft wind from the bay ruffling her hair in the same way.
My parents have been divorced for a while now. The marriage hadn’t been horrible. At least it never seemed that way to me (and I was there for most of it). The terrible fights had happened only toward the end. We didn’t often discuss how Mom felt about it now.
The oven timer buzze
d and the three of us jumped up. With her mitts on, Mom opened the oven door. The cheese bubbled as she slid the pizza out.
“Ohhh, yummmmm,” Claudia said, breathing in.
“Something wonderful I can actually eat,” I commented. Lots of other treats are off-limits to me because they’re too sugary. I have a medical condition called diabetes. My body can’t properly regulate the amount of sugar in my blood. To deal with it and stay healthy, I need to give myself injections of insulin each day. I also have to eat a very controlled diet, which means not letting myself get hungry and carefully balancing what I eat.
“Oh, gosh. Stacey, I suddenly have a headache,” Mom said as she laid the pan on the stovetop. Frowning, she rubbed her forehead.
“Can I get you some aspirin or something?” I asked.
“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll get some from the upstairs medicine cabinet.” She pressed her palm to her forehead. “If you girls don’t mind, I’ll take my anchovy-covered slices and eat them in my room.”
“We don’t mind,” I replied, handing her a plate.
She cut herself a large slice. Then, with a forced smile, she left.
“I hope she’s okay,” Claudia said, her eyes still on the kitchen door my mother had just gone through.
“Me too,” I agreed as I cut slices for Claud and me. “Did she seem a little weird to you tonight?” I asked.
Claud nodded.
“I thought so too. Maybe it’s because she was talking about my dad.”
“Does she miss him?” Claudia wondered.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. She’d never said she wanted to patch things up between them. She also knew he had a serious relationship with a woman named Samantha. “Maybe she just had a bad day at work.”
Mom is a buyer at Bellair’s department store in downtown Stoneybrook. Being a buyer means she’s one of the people who selects the products Bellair’s will sell to its customers. She likes her job but sometimes it’s pretty hectic.
“Maybe,” said Claud. “But she didn’t mention her job once.”
“I know. If it isn’t work, though, and it isn’t Dad, what else could it be?”
I was still worrying about my mom the next day as I rode the train from Stoneybrook down to New York City. I do this regularly, since I often spend Saturdays and Sundays with Dad, who lives there. I love Manhattan, probably because I’m a city kid at heart. I was born in the Big Apple and lived there until a few years ago when we moved to Stoneybrook.
Last night, Mom had finally come out of her room saying her headache was better. Claudia and I were watching a video and she joined us for about fifteen minutes of it. Then she excused herself at the moment in the movie when the couple was fighting. Had the movie reminded her of the fights she and my father used to have?
This morning she still seemed … off. Faraway, as if something were on her mind. In fact, she forgot to set her alarm — something she never does. I hadn’t set mine, figuring that she would wake me up as usual. As a result, we were both running around, rushing to get to the station on time for my train.
“Have fun in the city,” Claudia said that morning as she traipsed, still sleepy-eyed, to the front door, dragging her overnight bag behind her.
“Thanks. I’ll see you Sunday,” I told her, hopping on one foot as I tried to pull on my shoe.
After Claudia left, I wanted to talk to Mom, but she was rushing around so fast I couldn’t find a moment. And in the car she was so intent on her driving, trying to make time, that then didn’t seem like the right moment to talk either.
So there I was on the train, still thinking about Mom, not having a clue as to what was bothering her. As I gazed out the window, the train pulled into a tunnel. The tunnel was a familiar landmark on the train ride. It meant I was approaching Grand Central Station in New York.
I rummaged around in my backpack and found a brush. I swept it through my hair. Then I looked at my reflection in the window and applied a light coat of tinted lip gloss and brushed my cheeks with a dash of iridescent face glitter. (I wasn’t sneaking. Mom allows me to wear makeup. I just hadn’t had time to put it on at home.)
For the final touch, I slipped on two gold hoop earrings, which I’d stuck in my pocket as I’d hurried out of my bedroom. I don’t usually go through so much preparation to meet Dad, but today he wouldn’t be the first person I’d see.
I was meeting Ethan before Dad came.
The darkness of the tunnel gave way to the harsh lights of the station. Looking out the window, I spotted Ethan right away. He was leaning against one of the blue metal girders on the station platform, waiting for me.
With a hiss of brakes, the train stopped. I gathered my bags and was one of the first people off the train. “Ethan!” I called to him, waving my free arm.
He turned his head toward my voice. When he saw me, his face lit up.
What a face. Every time I see it, it’s like the first time I saw him. I’m amazed all over again by his wide smile, his high cheekbones, his expressive eyes.
When I’d met him he’d had long brown hair, but recently he cut it short. I was finally used to the new short-haired Ethan and I had to admit the cut made his face shine.
I sound like I’m in love with him, don’t I? Well, I am. And I’m not. What I mean is, I’m not sure. (I’m only thirteen.)
Ethan and I used to be a couple. But keeping up a relationship when one of us lived in Manhattan and the other in Stoneybrook became awfully difficult. So we broke up.
Then we worked on being friends. And now we were such good friends that those other “more than friends” feelings were coming back.
They were coming back to me, anyway. And I was pretty sure from some things Ethan had said lately — little hints — that they were returning to him too.
He took my overnight bag and we walked along the platform with the other passengers from the train. “We don’t have a ton of time,” he told me, checking his watch. “I have an art class in an hour.”
Ethan is a serious art student. He’s fifteen and attends an art high school in the city. He also takes extra classes at the Artists’ Studio, an art school.
“That’s perfect,” I said. “Dad’s meeting me by the information booth in an hour. We can eat here in the station.” There are lots of shops with all kinds of foods in Grand Central.
“Okay,” he agreed. So we stepped into a bakery. He bought a sticky cinnamon bun and I chose a plain muffin. When we meet like this, we call it “having coffee.” The funny part is, both of us hate coffee. He ordered a hot chocolate and I had tea.
We carried our things down the wide stairs to the dining area on the lower level. High-backed benches are set up there. They look like the pews in a church. We settled into one of them.
“How are things going with Claudia?” he asked, taking a bite of his bun.
“Better,” I told him. “She stayed over last night.”
“So things are back to normal?”
“Not exactly. There’s still a little … you know … tension. But I think things will smooth out. My mother’s the one I’m worried about.”
“Really? How come?”
I explained what was going on, and Ethan asked if she’d been to the doctor lately. That worried me until I thought about it and realized she hadn’t.
We were still talking about Mom when I spotted my dad coming down the stairs. I called to him.
“I was a little early,” he said, “so I thought I’d come down to see what they’ve done here. I haven’t been to the lower level since they renovated it.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” I said.
“Very,” he agreed, looking around. His eyes rested on Ethan.
“I came in early so we could visit,” I explained.
“Hi, Mr. McGill,” Ethan said.
“Hello, Ethan. How’s the art world these days?”
“Fine, I guess. I’m kind of busy finishing up end-of-semester projects.” He glanced at a wall clock. “In fact, I’d b
etter go or I’ll be late for the Saturday class. ’Bye, Stace. Call me.”
“Or I’ll e-mail you,” I agreed, waving.
He hurried toward the stairs and Dad turned to me. “So … are you and Ethan … ?”
“We’re just friends. We live too far away to be anything else.”
“Maybe that’s the best thing for now,” Dad said.
That made me smile. It was so Dad. When Ethan and I were dating, he was always worried that we were spending too much time together or getting too serious. I was sure “just friends” was the way Dad liked my relationship with Ethan.
It was nothing personal against Ethan. Dad likes him. It’s just that Ethan is a boy.
“Hungry?” Dad asked.
“I just ate.”
He clapped his hands together and smiled. “Okay, then. Why don’t we head back to the apartment. Samantha’s coming over later and we thought the three of us would go to the park. It’s turning into a gorgeous day.”
“Sounds good.” Samantha Young, Dad’s girlfriend, is really nice. It would be fun to go to the park with them.
He whistled a show tune as we walked up the stairs and headed across the main floor. “Why are you so happy?” I asked.
“What are you saying?” he asked. “That I’m usually an old grouch?”
I laughed. “No. You just seem especially happy, that’s all.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s the weekend. My fabulous daughter is with me. I’m going to spend a great day with my two best girls.”
My two best girls.
Of course, he meant Samantha and me. I remembered, though, a time when he’d called Mom and me his two best girls. It seemed a little weird now for him to be referring to Samantha and me in the same way. But I shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling.
We took a cab uptown to Dad’s apartment. After the divorce, he’d found a two-bedroom place so that I’d have my own room. I like it there. It’s sort of my second home.
Samantha wasn’t due to arrive until two, so I decided to get my homework out of the way. I stretched out on my bed with my science book and notebook to answer the questions we’d been assigned.
I’d left my door open. It faces out into the living room and I could see Dad seated behind his desk going over paperwork. He’s the vice-president of a big company and he’s devoted to his work.
Stacey's Problem Page 1
