BFF*

by Judy Blume

  Everyone mumbled, “Yes.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Remo said. “Welcome to J. E. Fox Junior High.”

  I happen to know that our school is named for John Edward Fox. He was supposed to be the first principal here but he died right before the school opened.

  “I teach math,” Mrs. Remo said. “So eventually most of you will wind up in one of my classes.”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Well …” Mrs. Remo continued, “either you’re all still asleep or you’re feeling pretty unsure about junior high. I think by the end of the day you’re going to feel much better. Once you get used to changing classes you’ll all relax.”

  Nobody said anything.

  Mrs. Remo smiled at us. “All right … let’s see who’s here today.” She called our names in alphabetical order. Amber Ackbourne was first. She always is.

  When Mrs. Remo called my name I raised my hand and said, “Here …” As I did, Eric Macaulay turned around and whispered, “Hershey Bar.” I tried to kick him but I missed and kicked the leg of the chair instead. I hurt my foot so bad I groaned.

  “Yes, Stephanie? Did you have something to say?” Mrs. Remo asked.

  “No,” I said, and Eric Macaulay laughed.

  When she got to Alison Mrs. Remo pronounced her last name Mon See U.

  Alison corrected her. “It’s spelled M-o-n-c-e-a-u,” she said. “But it’s pronounced Mon So. It’s French.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Remo said. “I should have known.”

  Everyone turned and looked at Alison. Alison just sat there as if she didn’t notice but I could see her clutching her favorite stone.

  After that we got our locker assignments and our class schedules. Then Mrs. Remo told us when the bell rang we should proceed to our first class in an orderly way. We waited for the bell, then we all jumped up and raced for the door.

  “Orderly …” Mrs. Remo reminded us.

  Rachel was already in the hall, waiting. “Well,” she said, “let’s see your schedule.”

  I handed it to her. I knew from the expression on her face that the news wasn’t good before she said, “I can’t believe this. We don’t have one class together. Not one!”

  “Let me see,” I said, reaching for her schedule and mine. I compared them. “Look at this,” I said. “We both have first lunch period. And we’re in the same gym class.”

  “Gym,” Rachel sniffed. “Big deal.”

  I felt bad for Rachel because Alison, Miri Levine and I are in the same English, math and social studies classes. Rachel has math first period, with Mrs. Remo. I said, “You’re lucky. She’s nice.”

  “Out of my way, Hershey Bar!” Eric Macaulay said, shoving me.

  “Watch it,” I told him.

  “Watch it yourself,” he said. “I’ve got to get to my math class. If I can only find room 203.”

  “This is room 203,” Alison told him.

  He looked up at the number on the door. “Hey, you’re right. I’ve got math right here. Right in my own homeroom.”

  “Oh no!” Rachel groaned. “I’m in his math class. It couldn’t be worse.”

  “Yes it could,” I told her.

  “You know your problem, Stephanie?” Rachel said.

  “No, what?”

  “You’re an eternal optimist!”

  “What’s an optimist?”

  “Look it up!”

  As soon as I got to English class I looked up optimist in the dictionary. Optimist: One who has a disposition or tendency to look on the more favorable side of happenings and to anticipate the most favorable result. Well, I thought, what’s wrong with that?

  Maizie’s Story

  That afternoon, on our way to the school bus, Rachel admitted school hadn’t been that bad. She knew some kids in her classes from last year and one, Stacey Green, she knew from music camp.

  “You see? I told you it would all work out. The Eternal Optimist strikes again.”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows at me.

  “‘Optimist,’” I said, “‘one who has a tendency to look on the more favorable side of happenings.’”

  “I’m impressed,” Rachel said.

  The boy in the chartreuse dragon jacket sat behind us on the bus. I heard him say something about a left wing to the boy next to him. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about a bird or a plane.

  When we got off the bus Alison asked us both to come over to her house.

  Rachel said, “I have a flute lesson at four-thirty.”

  “You play the flute?” Alison asked.

  “Yes,” Rachel said.

  “Are you any good?” Alison asked.

  I laughed. Alison didn’t know yet that Rachel is good at everything. “She’s practically a professional,” I told Alison.

  “I’m not that good,” Rachel said.

  Alison checked her watch. “Look, it’s only three-thirty … so why don’t you come over for a little while? My dog can talk.”

  Rachel glanced at me. I wasn’t supposed to have told anyone about Maizie so I hoped she wouldn’t give me away.

  “Your dog can talk?” Rachel asked.

  “Uh huh,” Alison said.

  “Well …” Rachel said, “I guess I could come over for a little while.”

  Maizie met us at Alison’s kitchen door, shaking her little rear end from side to side, then leaping into the air. Alison put her books on the kitchen table and scooped Maizie up into her arms. She put her face right up close to Maizie’s. It looked like they were talking—in French, I think. It was hard to tell because Alison spoke very softly. But Maizie nodded, made small sounds and sometimes let out a bark.

  Rachel looked skeptical as she watched the two of them. I learned that word—skeptical—from her. It means to question or doubt.

  “What’s new with Maizie?” I asked Alison.

  Alison put Maizie down and giggled. “She told me the silliest story.”

  “What story?” Rachel asked.

  “I’m not sure it’s true,” Alison said as she poured three glasses of grape juice and set a box of pretzels on the table.

  “Tell it to us anyway,” Rachel said, taking a handful of pretzels.

  “Well …” Alison began. She told us this story about her stepfather, Leon, who took Maizie for a walk in the woods. While they were walking Leon tripped over a branch and fell into the brook. He got soaked, which Maizie thought was a big joke.

  “That’s the whole story?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes.” Alison looked at me. “Of course, Maizie might have made it up. Sometimes when she’s bored she sits around making up stories.”

  Rachel still wasn’t convinced and Alison could tell. “I suppose we could ask Leon if it’s true,” she said.

  Alison pressed the button on the intercom. Every house in Palfrey’s Pond has an intercom. Ours doesn’t work but probably when Dad comes home he’ll fix it.

  “Hi, Leon …” Alison said. “I’m home.”

  “Be right down,” a man’s voice answered.

  In a minute Leon came down the stairs and into the kitchen. He was tall and mostly bald.

  “Hello, Pumpkin,” Leon said to Alison, ruffling her hair.

  Pumpkin? I thought.

  “This is my stepfather, Leon Wishnik,” Alison said, introducing us.

  Leon smiled. He had very nice teeth. I notice everybody’s teeth. Mom says it’s because I wear braces. She says once they come off I won’t be so interested in teeth. But Dad says my interest in teeth could mean that I want to be a dentist.

  “Glad to meet you, Rachel,” Leon said to me.

  “I’m Stephanie,” I told him.

  He laughed. “Well, glad to meet you, Stephanie. And glad to meet you, too, Rachel.” Leon lifted the lid off the pot on the stove and stirred. It smelled great.

  “Maizie told me about your walk,” Alison said to Leon. “Is it true … did you really trip and fall into the brook?”

  Leon turned away from the stove and wagged his fing
er at Maizie. “I asked you not to tell anyone about that,” he said to her.

  Maizie ran under the kitchen table to hide.

  “Then it’s true?” Alison asked.

  “Yes,” Leon said. “My shoes will never be the same.”

  “Are you saying that your dog really talks?” Rachel asked Leon. I stared at her. She’d lowered her voice by an octave and sounded exactly like her mother. I could tell Leon was impressed. Tonight, while they were eating dinner, he would probably say to Alison, That Rachel … she’s certainly mature for her age. He wouldn’t know that this morning she was shaking with fear over the idea of junior high.

  “Yes,” Leon said, sighing, “Maizie talks … usually too much.” He rested the wooden spoon on a saucer. “I’ve got to get back to work now. Nice to meet you, Stephanie and Rachel.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” we said.

  Rachel still had a handful of pretzels and was licking the salt off them one at a time. She always licks pretzels until they’re soggy.

  Alison asked if we wanted to see her room. “But I’m warning you … it’s incredibly ugly.”

  “So what’d you think?” I asked Rachel, as I walked her home from Alison’s house.

  “Obviously she’s very insecure,” Rachel said. “That’s why she uses that talking dog story.”

  “But Maizie can talk,” I said. “You heard what Leon said.”

  “You’re so gullible, Steph!” Rachel said. “But I suppose that’s part of your charm.”

  I had no idea what gullible meant and I wasn’t about to ask so I just nodded and said, “It runs in my family.”

  Rachel gave me one of her skeptical looks, then said, “Well … I think we should try to help her get adjusted here. I think we should try to be her friends.”

  “I think so, too,” I said.

  Bruce

  Bruce’s fifth grade teacher is Mrs. Stein. I also had her. But she taught fourth grade then. “She remembers you, Steph …” Bruce said at breakfast the following Friday. “She said you came in second in the reading contest.” He reached across the table for the box of Cheerios.

  “Rachel came in first,” I told him, as I buttered my toast. I like my toast very dark. I try to catch it just before it burns and is ruined.

  “Mrs. Stein says she remembers Rachel, too,” Bruce said.

  “Rachel’s teachers always remember her,” I said. In fourth grade Rachel started reading the kinds of books her sister, Jessica, was reading for eighth grade English. When we gave book talks in class Rachel never reported on those books, though. She’d choose a book she thought a normal fourth grader would like instead.

  By sixth grade everybody knew Rachel was smart but she didn’t like it if the teacher made a big thing out of it. During math she’d go around helping kids who didn’t understand. Our sixth grade teacher called Rachel his teaching assistant.

  I was still sitting at the kitchen table, finishing my toast and thinking about Rachel, when Mom opened a kitchen drawer and said, “Oh, no!”

  “Did you get a mouse?” I asked.

  Mom slammed the drawer. “I give up!” she said. “They ate the peanut butter right off the traps. I’m going to have to call Mr. Kravitz.”

  “Who’s he?” Bruce asked.

  “The exterminator,” Mom said. “He’s the one who bought the yellow house from us.”

  “I never knew we sold our house to an exterminator,” I said. “I thought Mr. and Mrs. Kravitz owned a shoe store.”

  Mom laughed. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, Mr. Kravitz is an exterminator,” Mom said.

  That night Aunt Denise asked Mom to go to the movies with her. Besides being sisters, Mom and Aunt Denise are also best friends. I wish I had a sister, even though Rachel says she and Jessica don’t get along that well. Mom has two sisters, Robin and Denise. Mom is the middle one. Her name is Rowena.

  “Maybe I should call Mrs. Greco,” Mom said at dinner.

  “I’m too old for a sitter,” I told her. Mrs. Greco sat for us when we lived in the yellow house. “I could be a sitter myself.”

  “You’re not too old for companionship,” Mom said.

  “I have Bruce.”

  Bruce smiled. “She has me,” he said, as if it were his idea. “And the mice.”

  “Very funny.” Mom poured her tea. She took a few sips, then said, “Tell you what … if I’m going to be home by midnight you two can stay by yourselves … that is, if it works out tonight. But if I’m staying out later than that, you’ll have a companion.”

  “You mean someone like Rachel?” I asked. “That kind of companion?”

  “We’ll see,” Mom said.

  We’ll see is what Mom says when she wants to change the subject.

  As soon as Mom left I took the phone into the pantry and called Rachel. The pantry is small, like a closet, but it’s the only place in this house where I can talk on the phone in private. There’s a light inside and enough room to sit on the floor, as long as I don’t try to stretch out my legs. There’s a nice spicy smell, too, which makes me hungry, even if I’ve just finished dinner.

  While I was talking to Rachel I munched on the macadamia peanut brittle one of Mom’s clients brought her from Hawaii. I tried Alison’s number after I’d talked to Rachel, but her line was busy so I went into the den to watch TV with Bruce.

  Next year, when we get cable, we’ll have MTV. Aunt Denise’s neighborhood already has cable, and my cousin, Howard, watches MTV all the time, even while he’s doing his homework. Mom says I’ll never be allowed to do my homework in front of the tube. I say, We’ll see.

  Bruce went to bed at ten. One thing about Bruce, he falls asleep really fast, as soon as his head hits the pillow. Same as me.

  I went to the bathroom and used the Water Pik. Then I scrubbed my face. Some nights I don’t bother washing my face at all. I keep forgetting to ask Mom if scrubbing your face will keep you from getting acne. I scrubbed mine until it turned very pink, to make up for all the nights I’m too lazy to do anything.

  Next, I decided to call Dad. I went down the hall to Mom’s room and looked up Dad’s number in the little phone book she keeps in her night table. There was also a flashlight in her drawer, and some lip goo.

  I dialed the number of Dad’s apartment. The phone rang three times before Dad’s answering machine clicked on with Dad’s voice saying, “This is Steve Hirsch. I’m not home right now but if you leave a message …”

  “Hi Dad,” I said at the sound of the beep. “It’s Stephanie. I just wanted to say hello.”

  I went back to my room. The house was so quiet. There was a half moon outside my window and it lit up Benjamin Moore’s poster. Well, Benjamin, I thought, as I got into bed. It’s just you and me tonight. I wish you were real. I wish you could come down off the ceiling and kiss me goodnight. You look like you’d be a great kisser.

  I rolled over and fell asleep. I slept until a frightening sound woke me. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. Then I raced down the hall to Mom’s room. But Mom wasn’t home yet. I grabbed the baseball bat from under her bed. She keeps it there when Dad is away, just in case. I glanced at the clock—11:20—not even an hour since I’d gone to bed. I listened for other sounds, trying to decide if I should call the police or a neighbor, but all I heard was Bruce, crying and calling for Mom. I ran to his room, clutching the baseball bat, and that’s when I realized nothing was wrong in the house. It was just Bruce, having one of his nightmares.

  I sat down at the edge of his bed. He threw his arms around me, sobbing. I held him tight. I would never put my arms around him during the day. Not that he’d let me. His face felt hot and wet with tears. He smelled like a puppy.

  “The usual?” I asked.

  “Yes … I saw it,” he said, gulping for air. “I saw the bomb … it was silver … shaped like a football … rolling around in the sky. When it got to our house it started to fall … straight down … and
then there was a flash of light … and I heard the explosion …”

  “It’s all right,” I told him. “It was just a bad dream.”

  “It’s coming,” Bruce said, “the bomb is coming ….”

  “But it’s not coming tonight,” I told him, stroking his hair. His hair was soft and damp around the edges.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. So there’s no point in worrying about it now.”

  “It could be the end of the world,” Bruce said, shuddering.

  “Look,” I told him, “if it happens, it happens.” I don’t like to think about the end of the world or the bomb so I don’t. I’m good at putting bad things out of my mind. That’s why I’m an optimist.

  I lay down on Bruce’s bed and held him until he fell back asleep. The good thing about his nightmares is that he never has more than one a night. It’s as if he just needs to be reassured that the end of the world isn’t coming yet.

  I guess I fell asleep holding Bruce because soon my mother was gently shaking me and whispering, “Come on, Steph … let’s go back to bed.”

  She walked me down the hall to my room. “He had a nightmare,” I said, groggily.

  Mom tucked me into bed and kissed both my cheeks.

  The next morning, when I came into the kitchen, Bruce was sitting at the table, writing a letter.

  I poured myself a glass of orange juice. “Who are you writing to today?” I asked.

  “The President,” Bruce said.

  “Oh, the President.” I set out a bowl for my cereal.

  “You should write, too,” Bruce said. “If everybody writes to the President he’ll have to listen. Here …” Bruce shoved a piece of notebook paper at me.

  “Not while I’m eating,” I said. I finished my cereal, rinsed the bowl, then brought the box of doughnuts to the table. Mom is a doughnut addict but since we moved she’s buying only the plain or the whole wheat kind. No artificial flavors or colors, no preservatives. Mom will eat only one a day now, at the most two, because she’s trying to lose weight. I miss glazed doughnuts. I miss chocolate and jelly filled too.

  “Mom is going to kill you,” Bruce said.