“I gotta go,” I tell Jocelyn. “And don’t worry. I don’t care about that kind of thing.” I nod toward her house. Okay, the sad truth is, this is a little unsettling. I mean, I may be in frantic need of a friend, but I just wish I’d found someone with a little more money. Not that I can afford to be picky. But right now, Jocelyn is barely adding up to a class-B friend.
“And you won’t tell the others?”
“Why should I?”
She smiles and waves, and I drive off wondering what kind of a trap I am laying for myself here.
four
I’M RELIEVED TO SEE THAT I MADE IT HOME BEFORE MOM. SHE’S BEEN PUTTING in late hours at the bank, and her car’s not in the garage yet. I hurry into the house to run damage control on Nana. But what I see when I get to the kitchen makes me want to turn around and run the other way.
“Nana?” I call out as I survey a mess of what appears to be baking ingredients and pans and all sorts of things spread all over the granite countertops. “Where are you?”
“Oh, there you are,” says Nana as she emerges from the hallway. She has a messy apron over a pink sweatshirt, but her legs are bare, and from what I can see her bottom is bare as well.
“Nana!” I say in a shocked tone. “Where are your pants?”
She grins. “In the bathroom.”
“Why aren’t you wearing them?” I want to ask her if she’s gone out of the house like this but I don’t know if I can handle the answer.
She waves her hand. “Oh, I’m going to wear them. But I can’t find those … those things.”
“Those things?”
She frowns as if trying to think of something, then reaches around and slaps her bare bottom. “You know, those papery things that I — ”
“Depends?”
“Depends on what, dear?”
“I mean those things, Nana — Depends, the granny diapers.”
She looks embarrassed by this and I realize I don’t usually call them granny diapers around her, but I’m feeling desperate. Mom could be home any moment and —
“Yes! That’s it. Depends.” She looks puzzled. “Where did they go, Reagan?”
I head for the downstairs bathroom, the one she and I are supposed to share, although I’ve been keeping most of my personal things in the powder room, which I lock during the day. I only use the full bath to shower in, and if Mom’s not home, I sneak up and use hers instead. When I go into the bathroom now, it’s even messier than usual. Most of the drawers are pulled open, and some of the contents are strewn about the counter and on the floor. If a person didn’t know better, they might think a burglar had been through here.
“They’re in the bottom drawer,” I tell her as I pull open the extra deep drawer only to find it’s empty
“I don’t see any, Reagan,” she says sadly.
“Are you out?” I turn and look at her and she still looks puzzled. Then I look at the trash can and see that it’s nearly full. I want to ask her if she really used all those, but it seems pointless. And I am not about to go digging in there. “Is there any other place where you keep them?” I ask her, but she just shrugs. “How about your dresser in your bedroom?” I suggest. I had helped her put clean clothes away this weekend and I thought I saw a pair or two in there. “Let’s go see, okay?”
Unfortunately, her bedroom looks much like the bathroom — as if she’d been foraging, and I suppose she was. But, fortunately, there are two pairs of Depends in the top drawer of her dresser, one of the few drawers that’s still closed. I hand a pair to her and then find her pink sweatpants crumpled up on the floor by the bed. “Put these on,” I instruct as I shake them out. “Then come help me clean the kitchen.”
She smiles. “You’re a good girl, Reagan.” I nod. “Yes, I know.”
I hurry to clean up the kitchen and after a while, Nana joins me. If I tell her exactly what to do, she can do it. But it seems she can’t decide what to do on her own. “What were you making in here?” I ask as I put away the muffin tin.
“Angel cake,” she says.
“But you’re not supposed to use the oven,” I point out.
“I didn’t use the oven.” She happily swipes flour off the counter and into the sink.
“But how were you going to bake a cake without an oven?”
She smiles and points to the microwave. “That thing.”
“You’re not supposed to use the microwave either.” She frowns. “Oh.”
“If you want to bake a cake, you need to wait until I get home,
Nana.”
“Oh.”
Now I can hear Mom coming in the back door and the kitchen is still pretty messy.
“What’s going on?” she asks as she sets her briefcase down.
“We’re making dinner,” I tell her, winking at Nana, who grins like she wants to play this game.
Mom scowls at her kitchen. “It looks more like you’re making a mess.”
“Why don’t you go in the other room and relax,” I tell her. “Nana and I have everything under control.”
Mom doesn’t look convinced.
“Really,” I say. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.”
She just shakes her head, then walks away. Normally, I wouldn’t be this accommodating to my mom. But the check I wrote today was more than even I expected. And I figure it won’t hurt to keep up the appearance of being helpful and having things under control. I turn on the oven, then dig through the freezer until I find three Lean Cuisine dinners. I tell Nana to set the table, although I know I’ll have to redo it. Still, it keeps her busy. Then I make a salad and manage to put together a meal that appeases my mom. We actually have a somewhat pleasant time around the table too. This isn’t so bad. Maybe I can handle this after all.
“How much was the check for?” Mom asks as I’m cleaning up after dinner. I tell her the amount and she lets out a dramatic gasp. “I thought the uniform was just for football season.”
“It is,” I explain. “But we needed tops for both cool and warm weather. It’s not like in Boston where we had only one top for cool weather. And then I had to get new name emblems in blue and white, since I can’t very well use my old brown and gold ones — same thing with pompoms.”
She shakes her head as she writes the amount in her checkbook. “Your cheerleading is going to put us in the poorhouse.”
“Yeah, right, Mom.”
“Have you ever considered getting a job, Reagan?”
I want to yell at her and tell her that taking care of Nana is like a job, but I know that won’t go over too well. Especially since I was the one who insisted on keeping Nana home, insisted I could handle it, promised I would deal with it … which reminds me of something.
“Nana is out of Depends,” I tell Mom in an even voice.
“You said you would take care of those,” she says as she closes her checkbook with a snap. “Deal with it, Reagan.”
“You want me to go to the store?” I ask. “You want me to buy them?”
She nods. “You said you’d do that, Reagan.”
“But I was going to get them online.”
“And did you?”
“Not yet. I thought she had a lot. Yesterday that drawer was full.”
“But she’s out of them now?”
“She has one more pair.”
“You need to go to the store, Reagan. Tonight.” She opens her purse and pulls out a twenty.
“What if someone sees me?”
She smiles an evil sort of smile. “Deal with it, Reagan.”
Sometimes I think my mother hates me. I shove the twenty into my jeans pocket, then grab my bag and keys and head for ShopMart. But as soon as I park, off to the side and away from the lights, I wish I’d thought to put on some sort of disguise. I could’ve worn a ball cap and dark glasses — sort of like an incognito celebrity. But then, I ask myself, who is going to see me here? This is ShopMart, for Pete’s sake. It’s not like Kendra or her snobby cohorts shop here. In fact, if
I did see one of them, we would simply be faced with a case of mutual blackmail. I’d make a confused face, like, “How did I get to this store when I was looking for the mall?” Then I’d leave and come back and get the granny diapers later — much later. Even so, I peer all around the parking lot before I go inside. And, once inside, I walk around and make sure there’s no one I know here. Fat chance. Most of the people I see look like ShopMart types. Older, not that well dressed, buying things like sponge mops and giant bags of chips.
After I’m absolutely positive that no one I know is anywhere in this store and that no one — well, besides the geeky security guard — is watching me, I cautiously make my way over to the feminine hygiene area. I assume that’s a good place to start. Now, the truth is, I don’t even like buying things like tampons for myself, and I usually talk Mom into picking them up for me when she goes to Sam’s, since they’re cheaper there. But buying Depends — this is a whole new arena of embarrassment for me. As I peruse the aisle, looking for the bright green package, I promise myself to order at least a case online tonight. Maybe they’ll even be cheaper that way. That should make Mom happy. I finally spot the familiar package, pick one up, and put it under my arm. Then, still scanning for familiar faces, I make my way to the cash register.
I’m fully aware that this is where it could totally fall apart on me. Kendra and Sally could suddenly burst through the front door — maybe on an emergency lip-gloss run — and they could see me just as I’m approaching the cash register. I make a quick emergency plan to simply toss the Depends aside, grab whatever item is handy, and pretend like I don’t even see them. Even so, my heart is pounding and I feel my cheeks growing hot. I imagine the two red flushed spots, like someone has slapped me on both sides of my face, as I hurry toward the cash registers.
As fate would have it, everyone else has decided to check out at the same time, but I quickly evaluate the various lines and checkers. I do not want a guy to ring this purchase up. I get into the line where a middle-aged cashier is handing change to a man. There’s only one woman behind him, and she has only three items to purchase. It seems my best bet. I step into line and pretend to be looking at the magazines.
Naturally, one of the woman’s three items won’t scan and it doesn’t have a price on it. The cashier has to call on the phone for a price, and it takes forever. Then the customer remembers she has a coupon for Tide, and it takes at least five minutes for her to dig it out of her purse. Then, after the cashier deducts the coupon, she notices it’s expired. The customer tries to talk her into using it anyway, and they nearly get into a fight. Finally, like an hour later, they are done.
I feel myself sweating as I take my turn at the checkout. I glance toward the door, fearing that Kendra and Sally will emerge at any moment, but I don’t see them. Then I force a smile as I slide the green package onto the counter.
“It’s about time you relieved me,” says the cashier to a young blond guy who is hurrying toward her register. “My break should’ve started more than twenty minutes ago.”
“Sorry,” he says as he slips in to replace her. “I was unloading some stuff back there.”
I think I’m about to have a heart attack. I don’t know this guy’s name, but I know that he goes to Belmont. And I wish I could just disappear right now.
“These are for my Nana,” I blurt out. “I mean my grandma.” Oh, can this get any worse? I shove the crumpled twenty toward him and look over my shoulder, certain that Kendra and Sally will appear now.
He smiles as he scans the package, but then, instead of taking my money and slowly counting out my change, he slips the Depends into a plastic bag. I want to thank him for this small gesture of kindness, but I’m afraid my vocal cords have given out on me. I simply hold out my hand for my change, then nod and make a hasty exit. My legs are actually shaking as I walk across the parking lot to my car, and I tell myself that this is crazy, that I’m being totally ridiculous, and that I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. But I never want to go through something like that again.
As soon as I’m home, after I put Nana’s Depends in the bottom drawer in the downstairs bathroom, I get Mom’s Visa card and go to an online drugstore. The case price is cheaper and even if it wasn’t, I think it’d be well worth it.
By the time I’m done cleaning up after Nana and finally go to my room, I am so stressed that I just really, really want to talk to someone — someone who understands. But who? I consider calling Jocelyn, but I don’t even know her number. I remember Andrea Lynch, my class-C summer friend, and how she was a good listener. But really, how dumb would that be? Not to mention pathetic. Besides, she might hang up on me. That would be pretty embarrassing, to have someone like her snubbing me.
Then it occurs to me that I can call my old best friend, Geneva. I haven’t had an e-mail from her in days. And it’s only an hour later in Boston, and she never goes to bed before ten anyway. I just hope she has her cell phone on.
“Hey,” she says in that old familiar way that tells me she checked her caller ID and knows it’s me. I immediately feel comforted. “Reagan, how’s it going?”
“Absolutely horribly,” I confess. Then I pour out my horror story, starting with Kendra, the alternate, then my new impoverished friend, Jocelyn.
“Poor Reagan,” she says sympathetically.
“That’s not all,” I say dramatically, thinking I’ll even spill the beans about Nana and the Depends, although I’ve never told Geneva about any of this before.
“Hang on, will you?” she says suddenly. “I’ve got another call coming in.”
So I wait while she takes the intruder’s call. I’m sure she’ll get right back to me, but, even so, I feel slightly offended to be bumped like that. After several minutes, which feel like an hour, she’s back.
“Sorry, Reagan,” she says, “but that’s Keith Martin.”
“Keith Martin?” I say in surprise. Geneva’s had a crush on Keith since sophomore year. What’s he doing calling her?
“We just started going out last week,” she says happily. “Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’d love to take his call.” She sort of giggles. “Of course, I know you’ll understand.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say. “Tell Keith hey for me.”
“Of course!”
And, just like that, I’m cut off. She doesn’t even say good-bye or, “I’ll call you back,” or anything. And suddenly I feel very, very lonely. I also feel very, very sorry for myself. Usually I’m a pretty feisty girl. I’m what you might even call a fighter — well, in a peaceful way. And I usually work hard to get my way. But tonight, I feel tired and slightly beat up. Tonight, I wonder if it’s really worth the struggle.
Still, I tell myself as I launch into my homework, tomorrow is a new day. And Jocelyn may not be a perfect class-A sort of friend, but she’s a beginning. Besides, I can’t let someone like Kendra Farnsworth get the best of me!
five
SOMEHOW I MANAGE TO MAKE IT TO THE END OF THE WEEK WITHOUT FALLING totally apart. Even so, it isn’t easy. For one thing, Nana takes a lot more time and energy than I ever imagined. And although she hasn’t attempted any more cooking projects, she constantly loses things. Then she looks for them everywhere and leaves this horrible trail of messes behind. Messes that I get to clean up. I’m almost willing to admit that maybe Mom is right about her. Still, I don’t like to give in so easily. And I know it will hurt Nana deeply to be forced into the nursing home. I feel like it’s up to me to hold things together.
Besides the Nana dilemma, there’s Jocelyn. Oh, she’s okay for a friend and she’s maybe even a class B-plus. She’s actually sort of fun when it’s just the two of us, and she appreciates me giving her rides and even takes my fashion tips and wardrobe suggestions. But when we’re with others, she can be pretty high maintenance. For one thing, there’s her big, fat mouth. I’m not sure if it’s her redhead temperament or what, but the girl does like to voice her opinion. And that can be extremely dangerous. Now, the
upside of this is that she makes a good decoy for me. It almost seems that Kendra is changing her focus from me to Jocelyn. Still, it’s not easy being with Jocelyn, especially when she steps on Kendra’s toes.
Like today, while we were practicing for tonight’s game. As usual, Kendra the Alternate was there and, as usual, she was being Miss Know-It-All.
“That’s not how we ended the fight song last year,” she called out to no one in particular after we’d already gone through the routine about four times and were, in my opinion, looking pretty good.
“What?” Falon put her hands on her hips and frowned at Kendra.
Then Kendra went into this detailed explanation of how they did a mock pyramid with the bottom row of girls doing splits, the next row of girls hunched over, and one girl on top.
“Which was thoroughly unimpressive,” said Jocelyn, patting her mouth as if to suppress a yawn.
Kendra walked over to face off with Jocelyn. “Says who, little Miss Junior Varsity?”
“I just happen to remember that it wasn’t a very lively ending to the fight song, that’s all.” Jocelyn stepped back. “I think Falon’s ending is way better.”
I was tempted to agree with her, but then I’d never seen the old routine, plus I wasn’t eager to remind Kendra I was on her hate list. But I felt like our current ending — a full pyramid with me on top doing a flip to dismount and the others doing handsprings — was pretty dynamic.
“It’s the fight song,” said Falon. “We need it to end with a real wow factor, Kendra. Last year’s was so, you know, ho-hum. I came up with this ending last summer at cheerleading camp and I think it’s good.”
“I do too,” I chimed in, hoping to sound more in support of Falon than in opposition of Kendra.
“Besides,” said Jocelyn, “I don’t see why an alternate gets to have a say in any of this. I mean, it’s not like you’re even on the squad, Kendra.”
Harsh Pink with Bonus Content Page 4
