by Judy Blume
“Tell me more about Charles,” Alison said.
It was Saturday morning and the three of us—Stephanie, Alison and me—were walking along the water’s edge at the town beach. It’s not an ocean beach. It’s on the Sound. In fourth grade we had to memorize the difference between a sound and a bay. It’s funny how you remember things like that.
The weather was still balmy but more humid than yesterday, and we wore shorts and T-shirts for the first time since last September. A few people on the beach were in bathing suits, working on an early tan. I hate baking in the sun. My skin gets freckled, my eyes sting and sometimes I get sneezing fits.
I’ve decided Alison’s fascination with my brother has to do with the fact that until now she’s been the only child in her family. Actually she’s still the only child. Her mother is pregnant but the baby isn’t due until July.
“Well, for one thing, Charles has a great sense of humor,” Steph told Alison. “That is, when he wants to.” She paused for a minute. “And he’s extremely cute.”
“Really?” Alison asked me. “I didn’t know he was cute.”
“I refuse to participate in this conversation!” I told them both.
Maizie, Alison’s small, furry-faced dog, was digging up a bone buried in the sand. When we first met Alison, she told us her dog could talk and Stephanie believed her. Steph is incredibly gullible. She believes anything you tell her. She even believed her father was away on a business trip when it was painfully obvious to the rest of us her parents had separated.
Alison turned to Steph. “If Charles comes home from boarding school, will he finish ninth grade at Fox?” She acted as if Steph had all the answers. I never should have told them my parents went to Vermont. I never should have told them anything. My mother was right. This is family business. You can’t expect anyone else to understand.
“Maybe he’ll be in Jeremy Dragon’s class,” Alison said to Steph. I loved the way they were carrying on this conversation as if I weren’t there.
“Oh, that’d be perfect!” Stephanie said, jabbing me in the side. “Right, Rachel?”
“I find that a totally revolting idea!” I said. Jeremy Dragon is our name for the best-looking boy in ninth grade. He wears a chartreuse satin team jacket with a black dragon on the back. I’m the only seventh grader in his math class.
“But it is possible,” Alison said.
“Anything’s possible!” I admitted. My mind was filling with what ifs. What if Charles comes home today? What if he does have to do ninth grade again, and at my junior high? What if he makes friends with Jeremy Dragon and Jeremy Dragon starts hanging out at our house and Charles humiliates me in front of him and my parents won’t listen and …
“Rachel …” Stephanie sang, waving a hand in front of my face. “Where are you?”
I don’t know why but as soon as Stephanie said that, I took off. I ran as fast as I could, with Maizie at my heels, barking.
I could hear Alison and Stephanie laughing and shouting, “Rachel … what are you doing? Rachel … wait! Ra … chel!”
There was no way they could catch me. My legs are twice as long as Alison’s. And Steph isn’t fast enough. Only Maizie could keep up with me. I kept running, from one end of the beach to the other. Finally I collapsed on the sand, totally out of breath, with a stitch in my side.
We went to Alison’s house for lunch. Leon, her stepfather, made us grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches.
Alison’s mother, Gena Farrell, was at the counter squeezing lemons. Suddenly she put her hands on her belly and said, “Ooh … Matthew’s playing soccer this morning.” Gena is a famous TV actress with her own series. But at home she acts like a regular parent. Alison says her pregnancy is a surprise to everyone since she’s forty years old and the doctors told her long ago she’d never be able to have biological children. That’s why she adopted Alison.
“Let me feel,” Leon said. He put his hands on Gena’s belly. “Good going, Matthew. That’s a goal!”
They talk about the baby as if he were already born. Gena’s had tests to make sure he’s okay. That’s how they know it’s a boy. His full name will be Matthew Farrell Wishnik.
Before we finished lunch there was a rumble of thunder. Maizie whimpered and hid under the table. After lunch, while the rain poured down, the three of us watched a movie. Alison’s family has a great collection of tapes. By the time it was over, it was close to four and the rain had stopped. I looked out the window and saw Dad’s Explorer parked outside our house.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Promise to call right away and tell us what’s happening,” Alison said.
But I wasn’t making any promises.
The front door to our house was open. I called hello but no one answered. I ran upstairs, looking for Mom or Dad. Instead I found my worst fears coming true. Charles was in my room, at my desk!
I stood in my doorway, frozen. For just a minute I saw Charles the way Steph does—as a boy with dark hair, dreamy hazel eyes and a scar on his forehead. The scar makes him look interesting, not just handsome. Suddenly Grandpa Robinson’s voice popped into my head. “Too bad the boy got all the looks in your family, Victor,” he once told Dad. I was incredibly hurt when he said that, even though I was only eight.
Charles began to read aloud from my biography. “Rachel is credited with having discovered the vaccine, now widely used, to prevent hair balls in lions.”
“Put that down!” My heart was pounding but I spoke slowly and quietly.
“Hair balls in lions?” Charles asked, acknowledging my presence. He didn’t seem concerned that I’d caught him red-handed. “Hair balls in lions?” he repeated, laughing.
“I said put that down!” I sounded just like my mother when she turns on her lawyer voice. But that wasn’t enough to stop Charles. He kept right on reading from Part Two of my biography, the part I call “Rachel, The Later Years.” I’d handwritten it on one of Mom’s legal pads early this morning. I’d enjoyed inventing my three brilliant careers—first as a veterinarian doing research on large cats in Africa, then as a musician with the New York Philharmonic, and finally as a great stage actress specializing in Shakespeare. I’d also given myself a husband and two children, all wildly successful.
“Her son, Toledo …” Charles paused, looking at me. “You named your son for a town in Ohio?”
“Spain, you idiot!” I tore across the room and reached for my biography. “Toledo, Spain!” I’m taller than Charles, but he’s fast and he held the pages high above his head. Every time I grabbed for them, he’d transfer them to his other hand and dance around the room.
I felt so desperate I kicked, catching him on the shin. Then I dug my nails into his arm. I’ve never had a physical fight in my entire life. But I would have kept it up if he hadn’t yelled, “Cut it out, Rachel … or kiss your biography good-bye.” He had both hands on my paper now, ready to rip it in half.
I didn’t doubt that he’d do it. And there was no other copy. Even though I’d meant to enter it in my computer, I’d been rushing to meet Stephanie and Alison and figured I’d do it later. Tears stung my eyes but I would never cry in front of him. I would never give him that satisfaction!
I backed away and stood at the foot of my bed, my hands grasping the white iron rail. “You mess that up and you’re dead!” I told him.
“Then you’ll have to rewrite your biography,” he said. “At thirteen Rachel Lowilla Robinson murdered her brother, Charles. She spent the rest of her life in jail. All eighty-four years of it.”
“No,” I said. “It would go more like, Since the judge and jury agreed that her brother provoked her, Rachel was acquitted and lived happily ever after.”
“You won’t get off that easy,” he said. “They’ll get you for manslaughter, at the very least.”
“I’m a juvenile,” I told him. “At the most I’ll get probation.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Really,” I said. “Well,
let’s go and ask Mom, since she’s just been nominated as a judge.”
I could tell by the expression on his face I’d caught him by surprise. Good! He laid my biography on the desk. “Isn’t that something!” he said. “Another milestone for our extraordinary family.” He flopped in my favorite chair and draped his legs over the arm. “So … are you surprised to see me, little sister?”
“I’m never surprised by you,” I said, which was a big lie. His moods can switch so fast you never know what to expect, which is the single worst thing about him. “When are you going back to school?” I asked, trying to sound as if I didn’t care. “Or were you actually kicked out this time?”
“Expelled, Rachel. The expression is expelled.”
“Were you expelled on purpose?” I asked, wondering what exactly this would mean.
“Yeah. I missed you so much I couldn’t wait to come home.” He inspected his arm where I’d dug in my nails. He could have smashed me. But that’s not Charles’s style. Instead he gave me his best, dimpled smile. “You’ve done a real job on your room. What color do you call this?”
“Peach,” I answered.
“Peach,” he repeated, looking around. “Maybe I’ll switch rooms with you. This one is bigger than mine. And since I’m older, I should have the bigger room, don’t you think?”
Was he serious? I couldn’t tell. This used to be his room. When we were younger, Jess and I shared her room. But then Charles campaigned for the small room on the first floor, and when Mom and Dad finally agreed, I got this one.
Aunt Joan sent my bed and the wicker furniture from her antique shop in New Hampshire. And Tarren gave me the rag rug for my birthday. I’m not about to give up my room! But Mom and Dad wouldn’t ask me to, would they?
Now I felt totally confused, the way I always do around him. I wanted to scream, Go back to school! Go anywhere! But leave us alone! Except in our family we don’t scream. We swallow hard, instead.
Charles stood up and stretched. “I think I’ll go down and unpack. My room has several advantages over yours.…” He walked in front of the bed, where I was sitting. He put his face close to mine and I could smell onions on his breath.
“Besides,” he said, “if I had to sleep in a room with peach walls, I’d puke.” He made a disgusting retching sound, and as I jumped back, he laughed.
When he was gone, I closed the bedroom door, lay down on my bed and cried.
Mom and Dad tried to make Charles’s first supper at home a festive occasion, even though being expelled from school isn’t normally an event to celebrate. Charles came to the table wearing a T-shirt that said I DON’T NEED YOUR ATTITUDE … I HAVE MY OWN. None of us commented. Dad grilled chicken with mustard sauce and Mom made Charles’s favorite coleslaw, so full of vinegar it choked me. But Charles loved it. The sour taste agreed with him.
In the middle of dinner he said, “So I think I’ll drop out for a while … maybe get a job or something.”
“That’s not an option,” Dad said.
“You have to be sixteen to drop out, don’t you?” I asked. “And your birthday’s not until November.”
“Aha …” Charles said. “The child prodigy speaks.”
I hate it when he calls me that. It makes me feel as if I’ve done something wrong, something to be ashamed of.
“It’s just a matter of finding the right school,” Mom said to Charles softly.
Charles exploded. “There is no right school for me! Don’t you get it by now? I’m allergic to school!”
“Excuse me,” Jessica said. “I’ve got to pick up my prom pictures before Fotomat closes.”
“Excuse me, too,” I said, shoving back my chair. “I have a ton of homework.”
Charles shook his head. “Those daughters of yours need to be taught some manners,” he told Mom and Dad. “They shouldn’t be allowed to leave the table when the rest of us are still eating. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it has something to do with me. I’d think they’re not really as glad to see me as they pretend.”
“They might be if it wasn’t for your attitude,” Mom said.
“Attitude?” Charles said, looking down at his T-shirt. “If we’re talking attitude here—”
But Mom didn’t wait for him to finish. “Just stop it, Charles!”
“Nell …” Dad said, quietly. “Let it go.”
“Right,” Charles said snidely. “Let it go, Mom. We don’t want to upset Dad, do we?”
Later, I think we all regretted how badly dinner had gone and we gathered in the living room. “What’s this?” Mom asked, examining the red marks on Charles’s arm where I’d dug my nails into his skin. They were sitting next to each other on the small sofa.
“Harry,” Charles said, using the cat as an excuse.
“I don’t like the way it looks,” Mom told him. “Put some peroxide on it.”
“Yeah … yeah …”
“I’m serious, Charles. It could get infected.”
Charles smiled at me.
Dad perched on the sofa arm, next to Mom, and Jess passed around her prom pictures. As she did, she gave me a private look, letting me know she’d already removed the group shot showing her in Mom’s slinky black dress.
“Oh, Jess …” Mom said, studying the pictures. “That shade of pink is perfect on you.”
“Magenta,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
“Well, it’s more magenta than pink, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Magenta,” Charles said, making me wish I’d never heard the word. “Glad to know you’re keeping up with your Crayola colors, Rachel.”
Before I could think of something to say back, Dad held out one of Jessica’s pictures and said, “Brings back memories, doesn’t it, Nell?”
Mom said, “In my day you had to be asked.”
Dad put his arm around Mom’s shoulder and nuzzled her. “If they could see you now, those guys would be eating their hearts out.”
“Good,” Mom said, smiling at him.
Mom isn’t beautiful like Alison’s mother but she is very put together. She wears classic clothes and her hair is always perfect, whether it’s loose or tied back. She says grooming is more important than looks. I hope that’s true because when Mom was young she was awkward—too tall like me—and had a serious case of acne, like Jess.
“So, Jessica …” Charles said, studying one prom picture after the other. “Do they still call you Pizza Face, or is it mostly Jess the Mess?”
Jessica grabbed the pictures out of his hand. “Asshole,” she hissed. “I wish you’d never been born!” She started from the room in tears, then turned back to face him. “And I hope you get the worst zits ever. I hope they swell and ooze and hurt so bad you go to bed crying every night!”
“Thanks, Jess …” Charles called, as if Jess had given him a compliment. “I appreciate that.”
Mom ran after Jessica, and Dad said, “Dammit, Charles … we’re a family. Could we please try to act like one?”
“I am trying,” Charles said. “It’s just that my sisters are so sensitive they can’t even take a joke.”
I lay in bed for a long time that night, stroking Burt and Harry, as I listened to Jess crying in her room. I don’t understand Charles. I don’t understand how he can be so cruel and hateful.
Unfortunately cystic acne runs in our family. Mom and Dad actually met at a drugstore, buying the same medicated skin cream, when they were first-year law students at Columbia. They started going together right away and were married the week they graduated. Mom says Dad is the first person who ever talked to her about acne. Everyone else shied away from the subject. It made them too uncomfortable.
Until then, Mom never even went out with a guy. Looking back, she says her acne was a blessing in disguise. It freed her to concentrate on schoolwork. She won a scholarship to college and another to law school, and she always graduated with honors. But she never kissed a guy until she met Dad and she was twenty-two at the time! I’m glad I
’ve already had my first kiss. Not that I’m proud of having kissed Max Wilson, but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do.
There are a lot of things in life I consider unfair and cystic acne is one of them. I’m not talking about your basic teenage acne. I’m talking about painful lumps and bumps that swell and distort your face. I don’t know what I’ll do if I get it. Jess has tried antibiotics but they haven’t helped much. Mom is always saying, “It cleared up before my thirtieth birthday,” as if that will help Jess feel better. Imagine waking up every day with your problem right there on your face for the whole world to see! And having to deal with stupid guys calling you Pizza Face and Jess the Mess.
I consider Jess one of the bravest people I know. She gets up and goes to school five days a week. She has friends. She even manages to have a sense of humor.
When I finally did fall asleep, I tossed and turned and had bizarre dreams. I woke at dawn, sweaty and anxious, so I crept down to the kitchen and made myself a bowl of Cream of Wheat, with just a drop of brown sugar and milk. Whenever I feel my stomach tying up in knots, I eat comfort food—bananas, mashed potatoes, cooked cereal.
I was thumbing through the Sunday paper and feeling better when Charles waltzed in, humming to himself. “Good morning, little sister,” he sang, as if we were old friends. “Did you get your beauty sleep?” He looked at me, then answered his own question. “I guess not.”
I mumbled a few choice words under my breath.
“What was that?” he said.
“Never mind.”
He began pulling out baking pans, mixing bowls and ingredients from the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s Mother’s Day, Rachel.”
“I know it’s Mother’s Day.”
“So … I’m going to bake something special for our dear old mom.”
“Since when do you know how to bake?”
He shook his head. “There’s so much you don’t know about me.”
