Just as Long as We're Together

by Judy Blume

  “Stacey is basically neat and organized, but not like me.”

  Rachel was lining up the photos on her dresser. One of them was the picture in the purple leather frame, the one Alison had given to us for Christmas. She held it for a minute before setting it back in its place. We look so happy in that picture, I thought. If only it could be that way again. “Rachel …” I began.

  “What?”

  I wanted to ask if she liked me anymore but I couldn’t. So I just shook my head and said, “It’s almost twelve-thirty. We should get going. Alison will be waiting for us.”

  Something Wild

  All the stores in town were having mid-winter sales. I suggested that we go to Enchantment first because they don’t have three-way mirrors. I hate three-way mirrors. At Enchantment there are no mirrors in the dressing rooms. If you want to see how you look you have to come out onto the floor. In some ways that’s just as embarrassing because the sales people stand around saying how great you look even when you don’t.

  I liked the first outfit I tried—a dark green skirt and top, made of something that felt like sweatshirt material. The skirt swirled around and the top had a lacy collar and little animals marching up and down the sleeves.

  “This is it!” I announced, taking a quick look at myself in the full-length mirror. “I’m all set for the dance.”

  “But, Steph …” Rachel said, “it’s the first thing you’ve tried. Who knows what you might see someplace else?”

  “I like it,” I told her, “and it’s a good price. I’ll have enough left to buy shoes.”

  “You’re just trying to avoid having to make a decision later,” Rachel said.

  “I am not!” Actually, I’ve always been the type of shopper who buys the first thing that looks good and Rachel knows it. I save a lot of time and trouble that way, plus I don’t have to keep changing my clothes in stuffy dressing rooms.

  “She’s not going to find anything more becoming,” the dark-haired saleswoman said to Rachel, as if Rachel were my mother.

  “And that color was made for her,” the blonde saleswoman added, trying to convince her.

  I loved the way they were discussing me as if I wasn’t there. On my way back to the dressing room I said, “I’m the one who’s going to wear it and I’m completely satisfied!”

  When I came out of the dressing room Rachel was trying on some gold knitted thing and the saleswomen were raving about it. Alison and I smiled at each other. “I’m glad you’re taking that outfit,” she said to me. “It looked great on you.”

  Rachel tried on everything in the store but couldn’t find anything wild enough so we headed down the street. We went to three more stores and at each of them Rachel asked a salesperson to hold aside a skirt or a top for her. She kept a list of who was holding what, the way she had the day we’d shopped for Alison’s room.

  Alison already had her outfit for the Ground Hog Day dance. All she needed was a camisole and tights to go under the gauzy blue skirt and shirt. She found them at Underpinnings. She was so sure of her size she didn’t even bother to try them on.

  After that we had to pee. The stores in town won’t let you use their bathrooms. They claim they’re for employees only. And the restaurants also give you a hard time unless you’re eating there. Lucky for us there’s a very nice, clean bathroom at Going Places, Mom’s travel agency. It’s even got lemon scented soap and pretty paper towels to dry your hands. I felt a little funny because Mom wasn’t there, but I knew no one in the office would mind.

  The chimes rang as I opened the door. Business looked good. Three clients were talking to agents and two more were waiting. Mom says that during January and February people start dreaming about spending a week in a warm and sunny place.

  “Well … well …” Craig said, coming forward to greet us. “Look what the wind blew in. I missed you this morning, Stephanie. I had to do all the filing myself.”

  “I’m glad to know you appreciate my hard work.”

  “I do … I do … I can hardly wait until you come back next Saturday.”

  “I won’t be here next Saturday. Next weekend is my birthday.”

  “I don’t know …” he said. “You take a lot of time off. I guess when your mother owns the business you can get away with anything.”

  Alison nudged me. She really had to go. I said, “Actually, we came to use the …” I don’t know why I had trouble saying bathroom. I say it all the time.

  Rachel finished the sentence for me. “The facilities,” she said to Craig.

  As soon as Rachel said that Alison got a fit of the giggles and once she gets started, forget it! In a minute she had me laughing, too. Even Craig couldn’t keep a straight face. But Rachel was annoyed and in the bathroom she said, “Are you two ever going to act your age?”

  When we left Mom’s office we hit four stores in a row. At the last one, Class Act, we ran into Amber Ackbourne and two of her friends. “We’re shopping for the dance,” Amber told us.

  “So are we,” Alison said.

  Amber had on the same gold knitted thing Rachel had tried at Enchantment and her friends were oohing and aahing over how great she looked. Personally, I thought she looked as silly as Rachel had. “I wonder if Max will like me in this?” she said, posing in front of the mirror.

  “Max?” Rachel said.

  “Yes … he’s the new boy in our homeroom and he’s sooo cute. I may dance with him all night.”

  Rachel just stood there, with her mouth half opened.

  “Haven’t you heard?” I said, setting the record straight. “Max likes Rachel.”

  Amber turned away from the mirror and faced Rachel. “Is that true?”

  “Of course it’s true!” I said.

  “I’m asking Rachel, not you,” Amber said.

  Rachel mumbled something.

  “What?” Amber asked.

  “I said it could be true,” Rachel told her.

  “Could be isn’t the same as definitely,” one of Amber’s friends said.

  And the other one said, “Just wait until he sees you in that gold sweater, Amber.”

  “I don’t steal other people’s boyfriends,” Amber said.

  “He’s not exactly my boyfriend,” Rachel said.

  That was a really stupid thing for Rachel to admit. So I had to set the record straight again. “He may not be her boyfriend but you should see them in the cafeteria.”

  Alison nodded but she didn’t speak.

  “You have the same lunch period as Max?” Amber asked Rachel.

  “Yes,” Rachel said, “but Max is a free person. He can dance with anyone he wants.” She grabbed my sleeve. “We’ve got to go now.”

  “But we haven’t see anything here,” I said.

  “We’ve seen enough!” Rachel spoke through clenched teeth.

  “ ‘Bye …” Amber called. “See you in school on Monday.”

  Outside, Rachel walked very fast. Alison and I had to hurry to keep up with her.

  “How could you tell her that?” Rachel finally asked me.

  “Tell her what?”

  “That Max likes me.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Even if it is, you had no business blabbing it to her.”

  “I wasn’t about to let her think she can have any boy she wants,” I said.

  “Max is my business, not yours!”

  “Come on, Rachel,” Alison said, “Steph didn’t mean anything … she was just trying to help.”

  Rachel marched down the street to Ollie’s, a store that’s much too expensive for us. We never go there, even to browse. But Rachel went inside and announced to the saleswoman, “I want something really wild!”

  The saleswoman was tall and thin. She was wearing a suede skirt, a denim shirt and boots. She had about twenty strands of beads around her neck. Her hair was bright red and frizzed around her face. She looked exactly the way I imagine Rachel wants to look at the Ground Hog Day dance. The name pin on her pocket s
aid Glory.

  “I guess I’m not quite sure what you mean by wild,” Glory said to Rachel. “Because what’s wild to you might not be wild to me and vice versa … if you get my point.”

  I thought about Mom’s earrings and wondered if she was having a wild time in New York.

  “So are we talking formally wild or informally wild?” Glory asked.

  “Informally wild,” Rachel said. “It’s for a school dance.”

  “Hmmm …” Glory studied Rachel. “What size jeans … 28 long?”

  “How did you know that?” Rachel asked.

  “It’s my job,” Glory said, walking across the store to a rack of pants. She flipped through, pulled off a pair of white pants and handed them to Rachel. “While you’re trying these I’ll see what we have in wild tops. Do you want a covered or a bare look?”

  “Not too bare,” Rachel said, “but a little bare would be okay.”

  We followed Rachel into the dressing room. Alison sat on the floor, cross-legged, and I stood in the corner, trying not to block Rachel’s view of herself in the three-way mirror. She pulled on the white pants, then turned round and round, examining herself from every angle.

  That’s when I noticed the label. “Oh-oh,” I said, “they’re designer jeans.”

  “So?” Rachel asked.

  “So … your mother doesn’t let you buy designer jeans.”

  “What are you … my conscience?”

  “I’m just reminding you.”

  “I don’t need you to remind me!”

  “But your mother will see the label.”

  “If I decide to buy them,” Rachel said, “which I haven’t … I’ll cut off the label.”

  “You’d lie to your own mother?”

  “You’re a good one to talk about lying!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, I don’t want to forget it.”

  Rachel spun around. “Okay, fine …” She pointed her finger at me. “You told us your mother went to Venice on business!”

  “That’s true.”

  “No, that’s not true.”

  “What does she mean?” Alison asked me.

  But Rachel didn’t give me a chance to answer. “I mean that Stephanie has been lying to us since the beginning of the school year and I’m getting sick of it!”

  “Lying?” Alison said.

  “I haven’t been lying!” Why was Rachel doing this to me?

  “Her parents are separated,” she told Alison. “They’ve been separated since the summer. They’re probably going to get a divorce.”

  “No!” I said. “They’re not getting divorced. It’s a trial separation … that’s why I didn’t tell you!”

  “Oh, please!” Rachel’s yellow sweater had crept halfway up her middle. “You say you want to know everything about your friends’ lives but when it comes to your own you don’t see anything you don’t want to see. You don’t face reality. You live in some kind of sick fantasy world!”

  “If anybody’s sick around here it’s you!” I cried. “You and your perfect room and your perfect grades and your perfect flute and …”

  Rachel sucked in her breath. “When are you going to grow up?” she hissed.

  “When I feel like it!”

  “Stop it!” Alison covered her ears with her hands.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” Rachel yelled at her. “So just stay out of it.”

  “Don’t tell her what to do!” I shouted. “You don’t rule the world!”

  Alison began to cry.

  “Oh … you’re both such babies!” Rachel yelled. “It’s impossible to be friends with such insensitive, immature babies!”

  “And it’s just as impossible to be friends with somebody who thinks she knows everything … even when she doesn’t!”

  Rachel lunged and for a second I thought she was going to punch me. So I grabbed her first, by the arm, and I yelled, “Why don’t you take your big brain and just shove it!”

  She shook free of me and shouted, “And why don’t you stay home and play Spit for the rest of your life like the big baby you are!”

  “Girls!” Glory opened the curtain to the dressing room. “This is very unbecoming behavior. I’ll have to ask you to leave if …”

  “You don’t have to ask me,” I told her, “because I’m on my way!” I stormed out of the dressing room.

  “I’m never speaking to you again!” Rachel yelled after me.

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day!” I yelled back.

  Several customers stared at me as I ran through the store and out the glass door. Let them stare, I thought. Who cares? I had had enough of Rachel Robinson. This proved that not only wasn’t she my best friend, she wasn’t even my friend.

  I didn’t realize I’d left my jacket on the floor of the dressing room until Alison came through the door carrying it. I didn’t even know I was crying until she handed me a tissue. Then I felt the hot tears on my face and the drip from my nose freezing on my upper lip and chin.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” Alison said, softly. “I had no idea.”

  “It’s not your problem,” I told her.

  “Yes, it is,” she said, draping my jacket over my shoulders.

  At five, Alison and I went to the bank where we had arranged to meet Mr. Robinson. If I had had enough money I’d have called a cab. But I’d spent my last few dollars buying shoes for the dance.

  Rachel was already there, waiting for her father. She was carrying two packages. I wondered what she’d bought. As soon as she saw us she turned away. When her father pulled up she got into the front seat of the car and Alison and I got into the back.

  “Well,” Mr. Robinson said, eyeing our packages. “I see you’ve had a successful afternoon.”

  When we didn’t respond he said, “I guess you’re tired out. Shopping will do it to you every time.”

  When we still didn’t answer he laughed and said, “Better you than me. I’d rather do anything than shop.” After that I think he got the message and he didn’t say anything more.

  When we got to Rachel’s I whispered to Alison, “Can I stay at your house tonight?”

  “Sure,” Alison said.

  “I’ll get my things and be right over.”

  Rachel ran into the house, tore upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom.

  I tossed my things into my canvas bag, found a sheet of paper in Rachel’s desk drawer and wrote a note:

  Dear Mrs. Robinson:

  Thank you for inviting me to spend the weekend. I can’t stay over tonight for very personal reasons. I hope you understand. If you don’t, you can ask Rachel. I will be at Alison’s, if my mother calls.

  Sincerely,

  Stephanie

  Personal Stuff

  I would never forgive Rachel for the horrible things she said about me. My parents’ separation was none of her business. Besides, what did she know about how I was feeling inside? Which proved that Rachel Robinson was the one who was immature and insensitive, not me!

  Mom came back from New York on Sunday afternoon but I didn’t tell her about Rachel and me until we sat down to supper. Then, while she dished out tomato-rice soup, I said, “Rachel and I had a fight. We’re never speaking to each other again!”

  Mom said, “I’m sure you can patch it up if you try.”

  “I don’t want to try.”

  Mom covered the pot of soup and bit into a cracker. “That’s not like you, Steph. After all, you and Rachel have been best friends since second grade.”

  “Well, we’re not anymore!”

  “But you’ve got so much in common.”

  “No,” I said, “we don’t have anything in common. That’s the problem.”

  “You shared your childhoods,” Mom said. “You’ll always have that in common.”

  “That’s not enough!”

  “It’s stupid to fight with your friends,” Bruce said, slurping hi
s soup.

  “Rachel is not my friend.”

  “But she was … before you had the fight … right?”

  “Before we had the fight doesn’t count,” I told Bruce.

  “That’s how wars get started,” he said.

  “Nobody is talking about war!” I shouted.

  “Calm down, Steph …” Mom said, “and eat your soup before it gets cold.”

  When I got into bed that night I went over the fight in my mind again, trying to figure out how it had started. But all I could remember was the part about the designer jeans, and the shouting, and the tears. I had trouble falling asleep. When I finally did, I dreamed I was at the Ground Hog Day dance, naked. Baby … baby … baby, Rachel sang, taunting me. Everyone else laughed and pointed. Finally, Mrs. Remo covered me with her coat.

  When Dad called the next night I told him that Rachel and I were never speaking again.

  He said, “You two will make up in no time.”

  “We will not.”

  “Want to bet?” Dad asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, I do. I’ll bet five dollars that before your birthday you and Rachel are best friends again.”

  “My birthday’s this Friday, so you’re definitely going to lose.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  Parents always think they know so much about their kids when really, they hardly know a thing.

  “So,” Dad said, “how was Mom’s weekend in New York?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” I thrust the phone at Mom, who was relaxing at the kitchen table, sipping tea and reading the newspaper.

  “Yes, Steve …” Mom said, taking the phone, “everyone’s fine.”

  I began to peel the label off the jar of mayonnaise that was still sitting on the counter. If I’m really careful I can sometimes peel labels off in one piece, which feels almost as good as peeling sunburned skin.

  “A fling?” Mom said into the phone. “No, I did not have a fling in New York … not that it would be any of your business if I had.”

  I put the mayonnaise jar in the refrigerator and tried to sneak out of the kitchen but I didn’t make it. “Stephanie!” Mom called, as she hung up the phone. “Did you tell Dad I was going to New York to have a fling?”