Just as Long as We're Together

by Judy Blume

  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 Klaff 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.

  Sadie Wishnik’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.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be doing the rumba at the seventh grade dance,” Alison said.

  “You never know,” Sadie told her. “This way you’ll be prepared.”

  First, Sadie taught us the basic box step. Forward, to the side, together … backward, to the side, together. Once we had that she taught us the rumba. She was about to teach us the samba when the timer on the oven went off. Sadie stuck a toothpick into the center of each pan to make sure the brownies were done. Then we set them on racks on the counter to cool.

  “Now …” Sadie said, “if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my siesta.”

  “Your siesta?” I said.

  “Grandma never says nap,” Alison explained. “Naps are for babies … right, Grandma?”

  “Right.”

  While Sadie was taking her siesta Alison and I went to the beach with Leon and Gena. Leon held Maizie on a leash until we got there. Then he turned her loose and she took off, running first in one direction, then the other.

  Leon and Gena sat on a jetty to watch the waves. Alison and I took off our shoes and socks. “What about your rash?” I asked. “I thought you have to wear a sock on that foot.”

  “I’m sure the salt water is good for it,” Alison said.

  It was windy on the beach, but sunny and warm for October. We rolled up our jeans and ran along the water’s edge, laughing. Alison’s long, black hair whipped across her face, making me wish mine would hurry and grow. Maizie ran alongside us, looking up, as if to say, How much longer are we going to play this game?

  I was having the best time. I like being with Alison. I like being her friend.

  Maizie barked.

 
“Are you having fun, too?” I asked her.

  She barked again.

  “What’s she saying?” I called to Alison, who was ahead of me.

  “Nothing,” Alison called back. “She’s a dog.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, catching up with her.

  Alison flopped down. Maizie rolled over and over in the sand. “Do you really believe that dogs can talk?” Alison asked.

  “Only one in seventeen million,” I said, sitting beside her.

  Alison laughed and lay back. Maizie jumped on her.

  “You mean she can’t talk?”

  Alison shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at me. “You didn’t really believe me, did you?”

  “Of course not,” I said, drawing a face in the sand with my finger. “I was just playing along with you.”

  Alison sat up. Sand fell from her hair. “You did believe me!”

  “I suppose now you think I’m gullible,” I said.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Alison said.

  “It means when a person is easily tricked … when a person believes anything. I know because I looked it up one time.”

  “I don’t think you’re like that,” Alison said. “I think you’re a lot like me.” She wrestled with Maizie for a minute. When Maizie escaped she said, “I only told you she could talk because I wanted you to like me. I wanted us to be friends.”

  “We are friends,” I said.

  “Best friends?”

  I picked up a handful of sand. “Rachel and I have been best friends since second grade,” I said, letting the sand trickle through my fingers.

  “You mean you’ve never had more than one best friend at a time?” Alison asked.

  “No … have you?”

  “Sure … almost every year.”

  I looked at her. “So you’re saying the three of us can be best friends?”

  “Sure,” Alison said.

  “Great!”

  “But don’t tell Rachel about Maizie, okay? I’ll tell her myself … when the time is right.”

  “Okay.” I looked down the beach at the jetty. Leon and Gena were kissing.

  La Crème De La Crème

  Sadie’s brownies were a big hit. Kids kept asking, “Who baked these? They’re great!” We saved one for Rachel. She was too worried about her speech to get to the bake sale.

  Jeremy Dragon came back for a second brownie, then a third. Alison handed him the brownies and I took his money. That way we each got to touch him three times. It’s good the brownies were individually wrapped because his hands were dirty.

  Even Mrs. Remo bought one and when she tasted it she said, “These are incredible … they’re so moist. Do you have the recipe?”

  “It’s in my grandmother’s head,” Alison told her.

  “See if you can get her to write it down,” Mrs. Remo said, licking her lips. “These are definitely la crème de la crème.”

  Alison smiled. Ever since Mrs. Remo mispronounced her name on the first day of school she’s been trying French phrases on her.

  “What’s la crème de la crème mean?” I asked Alison when Mrs. Remo was gone.

  “It means the best of the best.”

  At the end of the day we had the debate assembly. Five kids from seventh grade were trying out. The only one I knew, besides Rachel, was this boy, Toad. His name is really Todd but everyone calls him Toad, including his family. He went to my elementary school but he wasn’t in my sixth grade class.

  Toad spoke first, then two girls I didn’t know, then a boy who’s in my social studies class, then Rachel. She had brushed her hair away from her face, making her look younger than usual, and prettier. I know her so well I never think about her looks. I forget about the way her lower lip twitches when she’s scared.

  That morning, when I’d called for Rachel, her mother had been giving her a last minute lecture about the debate. “Wear your height as if you’re proud of it … shoulders back, head high.”

  “Yeah … yeah …” Rachel had said. She’d heard it all before.

  Mrs. Robinson had planted a kiss on Rachel’s cheek. “I know you’ll be the best. You always are.”

  Now, as Rachel walked across the stage, my heart started to beat very fast. I could tell she was trying to take her mother’s advice but somehow she wound up walking as if she were in pain.

  When she got to the lectern she tapped the microphone to make sure it was still working, then cleared her throat twice. Her voice trembled as she began to speak but once she got going her body relaxed and her voice changed into that grown-up one she uses when she wants to get attention. A hush fell over the audience. You could tell everyone was listening to what she had to say. She was definitely la crème de la crème of debaters.

  When she finished the audience applauded the same way they had for the others. Then Mr. Diamond, my English teacher, stepped up to the microphone to make some announcements. The first was that we had made $316 at the bake sale that morning. Everyone cheered, especially Alison and me because Sadie’s brownies had brought in close to a fifth of the total! Next, Mr. Diamond told us we’d be able to donate food baskets to the needy on both Thanksgiving and Christmas. Everybody cheered again. And then he said we’d earned enough to have a winter dance on Ground Hog Day, February 2. The cheering grew louder.

  “That’s my birthday,” I whispered to Alison, who was sitting next to me.

  “You’re so lucky!” she said.

  Another teacher handed Mr. Diamond a slip of paper. “Okay …” he said, “here are the results of this afternoon’s competition. The two newest members of the debating team are …” He hesitated for a minute, making my stomach turn over, “Todd Scrudato and Rachel Robinson.”

  Toad and Rachel came forward to shake Mr. Diamond’s hand. Rachel was smiling and she walked more like herself. I felt myself choke up. I reached over and squeezed Alison’s hand. She squeezed mine back.

  The Alison Monceau Story

  I have never understood what makes some kids so popular. I’ve been trying to figure it out for years. Almost from the first week of school you could tell Alison was going to be the most popular girl in our homeroom and it’s not because her mother is Gena Farrell. Nobody knows about that but Rachel and me and we are sworn to secrecy. The funny thing is, Alison doesn’t even try to be popular. It’s just that everyone wants to be her friend. I’ve made a list with reasons why.

  1. She is very friendly.

  2. She never has anything bad to say about anyone.

  3. She doesn’t have bad moods.

  4. She laughs a lot.

  5. She is funny.

  6. She has nice hair.

  7. She looks different than the rest of us because she is Vietnamese. Looking different can either work for you or against you. In Alison’s case it works for her.

  Alison knows how to be popular without being snobby, which is more than I can say for Amber Ackbourne. She’s the leader of the snobbiest group of girls in seventh grade. And now she wants to be Alison’s friend. She’s always coming up to her in homeroom. But Alison can see right through her.

  The boys like Alison, too. They just have different ways of showing it. They like to tease her, the way Eric Macaulay does, calling her Thumbelina and shooting rubber bands in her direction. Rachel says it’s demeaning to be called Thumbelina. She says Alison should put a stop to it right now, before it gets out of hand.

  “He only calls me that because I’m small,” Alison said the other day at my house. “You know that fairy tale about the girl who’s smaller than a thumb … there’s even a song about her.” Alison began to sing and dance around my room. She’s a very good dancer. She must take after Sadie Wishnik. When she finished she fell back on my bed, laughing. I laughed too. Finally, so did Rachel. Alison has a way of making people feel good.

  Soon all three of us were singing the Thumbelina song and by the time Rachel went home she said, “Well … maybe it’s not so demeaning.”

  Alison
also knows how to flirt. I’ve been watching to see how she does it. She kind of teases the boys and giggles. You can learn a lot by watching a popular person in action. You can learn how to act and how not to act. Mom is always telling me to be myself but there are times when I don’t know what being myself means. Sometimes I feel grown up and other times I feel like a little kid. I seem to be more than one person.

  That’s exactly how I felt last Wednesday. It was raining really hard. Alison came to my house after school. Rachel couldn’t come because she had a music lesson. We were sitting in the kitchen, eating doughnuts and playing Spit, when we got to talking about the games we used to play when we were little. It turned out we’d both collected Barbies. So I got the idea to go down to the basement and dig out my old Barbie dolls, which I haven’t seen since fourth grade. I found them in a carton marked Steph’s Old Toys. I carried the Barbie case up to my room, closed the door and Alison and I played all afternoon, dressing and undressing my three Barbies, while we made up silly stories for them to act out.

  One of the stories was Barbie Is Adopted. After we’d finished, I asked Alison how it feels to be adopted for real.

  “How would I know?” she asked. “I was adopted when I was four months old. I don’t know what it feels like not to be adopted.”

  “But do you ever think about your biological mother?” I asked. I had seen this movie on TV about an adopted girl and when she was eighteen she decided to search for her biological mother.

  “Sometimes I think about her,” Alison said, “about how young and poor she was. She was just fifteen when she had me. But I’m happy with Gena and Leon. If I had to choose parents I’d choose them.”

  “I’d choose mine, too,” I said, “except I’d make sure my father got a job where he didn’t have to travel.”

  “What does he do anyway?”

  “He’s in public relations.”

  “When’s he coming home?” Alison asked.

  “Not until Thanksgiving.”

  “You must really miss him.”

  “Yeah … I do.”