Slam Book

by Ann M. Martin

  Anna followed Paige through the cafeteria. And at last she caught sight of Jessie. She ran to her. “Boy, am I glad to see you … Oh, you got lipsticked!” she exclaimed.

  “So did you!”

  “Yeah. Where’s Randy?”

  “On the lunch line,” said Jessie. “Let’s sit over there. See that empty table? Go put your stuff down, and we’ll get on the line before it’s too long.”

  When the girls were settled at their table and had begun their lunches, they compared notes on the morning’s injustices.

  “I didn’t get lipsticked,” said Paige, “but a bunch of boys blocked my way and made me late for algebra.”

  “I got lipsticked twice,” said a morose Randy, who sported one F in the middle of her forehead and another over her left eye. “It’s not fair.”

  Anna listened to their stories. She looked around at her friends isolated at the small table in the middle of the bustling cafeteria. In their junior high, where they had known almost everyone in their class, the four of them were the center of attention at lunchtime. Here they didn’t know two-thirds of the kids, and their former classmates were busy simply trying to recover from the morning and find niches for themselves in the strange environment.

  Suddenly, Peggy’s words came back to Anna. The key to popularity. Anna was holding it in her lap. She peeked down and could see the black-and-white blotches looking back at her. They were practically calling to her.

  When she couldn’t stand it any longer, Anna shoved her lunch tray aside and opened the slam book in front of her.

  “What’s that?” asked Paige.

  Anna explained.

  Her friends were fascinated, and Paige was the first to suggest a name to go in the book. “Casey Reade,” she said, with a look of great satisfaction.

  And that was how the slam book was started.

  Chapter Four

  THE FIRST DAY OF school began no differently for Cheryl Sutphin than any other day. It barely mattered to her that she would be going to Calvin High School instead of junior high. And it certainly didn’t matter to her father.

  Bud Sutphin was snoring away in the other bedroom. The house was tiny enough and the walls thin enough so that Cheryl, still lying in bed, could tell that Bud had tied a really good one on the night before. She knew because booze snoring is different from regular snoring.

  Cheryl rolled over. No alarm clock had awakened her. Her body could tell somehow when it was six-thirty, and signaled her every morning—weekday, weekend—without fail. She sat up and got heavily to her feet.

  Cheryl felt nothing, absolutely nothing, about starting at CHS. She wasn’t nervous, wasn’t excited. She merely figured that her status at school wouldn’t change substantially. She’d been fat, friendless, and unaccepted in elementary school and junior high. She didn’t see why high school should be any different.

  Cheryl put on her green dress. It had once been a housecoat belonging to her mother. After her mother had died and Cheryl had gained even more weight, she had remodeled the housecoat to make it suitable for school. It hung limply, straight from her shoulders, but Cheryl managed to spruce it up a little by pinning on her mother’s peacock brooch and tying a bathrobe sash around her waist as a belt. It was the best she could do, but she couldn’t really tell how she looked since the only mirror in the Sutphin home was on the medicine chest in the bathroom, and it had cracked ages ago. Bud would never scrape together the money to replace it.

  Cheryl put on a pair of sneakers, forgot to brush her hair, and tiptoed into the dark kitchen. The light was busted in the refrigerator, but it didn’t matter. Cheryl knew the contents: half a quart of milk, a package of baloney, a package of Wonder Bread, a six-pack of orange soda, two six-packs of beer, and an apple. In the kitchen cabinets were marshmallows, Oreos, Jell-O mix, and some cereal.

  Cheryl added milk to a bowl of Captain Crunch and helped herself to two Oreos. When her breakfast was eaten, she listened at her father’s door. The booze snoring had stopped, but he wasn’t stirring.

  Cheryl crept outside to wait for the school bus. She steeled herself for the jeers that would begin as soon as the driver opened the door.

  Chapter Five

  SOMEHOW, ANNA SURVIVED THE rest of the week at CHS. The lipsticking stopped after the first day, and the maze of hallways began to make sense. She was still uneasy about the sea of unfamiliar faces, freshmen or otherwise, but at least a few more of last year’s big group had joined her lunch table—and Peggy had been right. The slam book did attract kids. Anna told a few people about it, and they told a few people, and they told a few people …

  Nevertheless, that first week was tough. Everything at CHS was new; nothing was familiar. So when Paige suggested a slumber party at her house on Friday night, Anna jumped at the idea.

  “Oh, great!” she exclaimed. “You, me, Jessie, and Randy? Perfect!”

  “Well … yeah,” agreed Paige, and Anna knew that she hadn’t intended to ask Randy. But Anna would never leave Randy out.

  Anna had to do some fast talking to get permission to go to Paige’s, though, and her mother didn’t give in until Friday morning.

  After school that day, Anna threw together a bag of things to take to Paige’s—a Lanz nightgown, her makeup case, her hairbrush, her toothbrush, and a bottle of shampoo. Then she packed one last item.

  The slam book.

  She laid it reverently on top of her nightgown.

  The slam book was beginning to look used. One corner had been bent. Some of the white splotches had been doodled in. Anna looked at it fondly before zipping her duffel bag closed.

  Mrs. Wallace pulled into the circular drive in front of the Beaulacs’ just before five-thirty. Anna kissed her mother goodbye, then ran to the double front doors and lifted the brass knocker. She watched her mother swing out along the drive and, as Paige answered the door, realized that Mrs. Wallace was glancing in the rear-view mirror, watching the house swallow her daughter up.

  Paige had asked Anna to come over early to help her with the party, but by the time Anna showed up, nearly everything was ready. Two spectacular pizzas had been ordered, the refrigerator was stocked with every soft drink anyone could ask for, music was playing on the compact disk player in Paige’s bedroom, Paige had selected a stack of movies for the VCR—and Mrs. Beaulac was working on her third martini.

  “Mother,” said Paige, “don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink? At least for now?”

  The elegant Mrs. Beaulac, seated stiffly in the formal living room of the big house, crossed her legs and set her glass down with a clunk on the antique end table. “Please do not start with me, Paige,” she said. “It was a long flight home. I have jet lag. I need to unwind.”

  This did not make a bit of sense to Anna. Having jet lag meant you were tired. And alcohol relaxed you, slowed you down. Drinking seemed to be exactly the wrong thing to do for jet lag. Besides, it wasn’t as if Mrs. Beaulac’s plane had just landed.

  Apparently, Paige was having similar thoughts. “But Mother, you got home yesterday,” she pointed out.

  “I still have jet lag.”

  Anna shifted from one foot to the other, wondering if she should wait in Paige’s room. Mrs. Beaulac had acknowledged Anna’s presence with a tiny wave and had then seemed to forget about her. Anna finally decided it would be rude to leave.

  “Mother, if you’re tired, why don’t you go to your room?” suggested Paige, trying a different tactic. “Savanna left dinner. I could bring you yours on a tray later. You could eat in bed with your TV on or something.”

  Mrs. Beaulac smiled thinly. “Don’t think I can’t see through you, Paigie. You’re afraid I’m going to embarrass you. You’re afraid I’m going to say something in front of your friends.”

  Paige squirmed. She glanced at Anna, who took a step backward. “Mother, just please—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m going to be on my best behavior, okay? Scout’s honor.” Mrs. Beaulac raised two fingers.
She giggled giddily.

  Paige shook her head. “Come on,” she said to Anna. “Let’s put your stuff upst—No, wait. I have an idea.”

  “What?” asked Anna, but Paige didn’t reply. She ran back to the kitchen. Anna followed, watching as Paige found a bar guide and looked up “martini.”

  “Gin and vermouth,” Paige muttered.

  “Hey,” said Anna. “I’m not going to drink—”

  “Fine,” said Paige. “More important, neither is Mother.”

  Paige snapped the book shut, replaced it, and went to the liquor cabinet. She removed several bottles of gin and vermouth and stashed them under the utility sink in the pantry.

  “There,” said Paige. “That should do it.”

  Randy was the next to arrive at the Beaulacs’.

  “Did you bring the slam book?” was the first thing she asked, even before she had set her gear in the hallway.

  “I’ve got it right here.” Anna patted her duffel bag, which she had left in the lavish foyer. “Hey, I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starved,” replied Randy.

  “Great. Because Paige ordered two super-size Pizza Giants.”

  “Pizza Giants!” exclaimed Randy. “You ordered from Pizza Giant? All right!”

  Paige managed a small smile. “They’re supposed to be delivered at seven. Where’s Jessie?”

  “She’ll be here soon. She stayed after school for a meeting of The Tower. She’s decided she wants to write for the paper,” Randy said.

  Anna shook her head. “In a few weeks she’ll be playing lacrosse, singing in the choir, working on scenery for the drama club. Anything to stay out of her house. We’ll never see her.”

  “She’s crazy,” Paige muttered.

  “She is n—” Randy began hotly, but was silenced by a look from Anna. The look meant Don’t start anything.

  “Let’s go to your room, Paige,” Anna suggested. “We need to dump our stuff somewhere.”

  Paige’s room was spectacular. That was the only word for it. Like the rest of the house, it was huge. At one end was a working fireplace. Nearby was a brass canopy bed. The wall-to-wall carpet was so deep and fluffy, Anna was sure she could sink right through it into the kitchen below. A wall of shelves held Paige’s books and videos, her television set, VCR, the compact disk player, and rows of stuffed animals and collector’s dolls that Paige hadn’t looked at in years.

  It was a dream room.

  Anna flopped back and said, “Should we read the slam book now or wait for Jessie?”

  “Better wait for Jessie,” Randy replied. “She’ll kill us if we start without her.”

  “You’re right,” said Anna. “By the way, I passed it around in my biology class this afternoon. Mr. Morris was late, so everyone at my lab table was writing in it.”

  “How many names now?” asked Paige. The girls had started with nine on the first day of school—their own, plus Casey Reade, Gooz Drumfield, Dale Rice (supposedly the smartest girl in their class), Ben Cooperstein (star football player), and shlumpy Cheryl Sutphin, the loser of their class—dumpy, not too bright, and a terrible dresser.

  “Twenty-four,” Anna replied promptly. “You’ve seen how the kids flock to this thing. It’s like the slam book is honey—and they’re flies.”

  “Yoo-hoo!” a tipsy voice called up the stairs. “Yoo-hoo! Paigie, you’re little friend ish here!”

  Paige’s cheeks flushed hotly, and she leaped off the bed. Before she had reached her door, her mother appeared, leading Jessie by the hand.

  Mrs. Beaulac rattled the ice in her glass and, for no apparent reason, burst into a fit of giggles. Jessie pulled her hand away and dashed into the bedroom, shooting a pained look at Paige. “I have a meshage,” said Mrs. Beaulac, still giggling. She ran a hand through her frowzy hair. “Your peetsha ish here and your friend ish late … No, that’sh wrong. Your peetsha’sh late and your friend’sh here. Right here. Ash a fatter of mack, I mean, a matter of fack … heeeere’sh Jeshie!”

  “Oh, Mother,” murmured Paige.

  Mrs. Beaulac slumped against the doorjamb and smiled drowsily at the girls. She let her glass tip to the side, and the melting ice cubes sloshed onto the rug. “Shorry. Don’t know what the troblem is … prouble is …”

  “Mother, did Pizza Giant call?” Paige asked wearily.

  “I just shaid sho, didn’t I?”

  “Not exactly.” Paige looked apologetically at her friends. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she told them. “I better check on the pizzas.”

  Since Paige had a phone in her room (her own private line), Anna knew that what Paige really wanted to do was put her mother to bed, or do whatever it is you do for a drunk person.

  When Paige was gone, Anna, Jessie, and Randy looked at one another with raised eyebrows.

  “Mrs. Beaulac even smells drunk,” Jessie whispered.

  Randy made a face.

  “I haven’t seen her this bad in a long time,” remarked Anna.

  “We better not talk about it. Paige’ll be back any minute,” said Randy. “I’m going to put something on the VCR.”

  Randy turned off the CD player and selected a movie from the stack. By the time Paige returned, the girls were laughing hysterically over Ghostbusters.

  The slam book remained shut, waiting in Anna’s duffel bag, until Ghostbusters was over and the Pizza Giants were as eaten as they were going to get. When the empty boxes had been thrown away, the leftover slices wrapped and put in the refrigerator, and the girls settled on Paige’s bed, Anna finally opened the slam book.

  “Are you ready?” she asked the others.

  They nodded nervously.

  “Whose page should we read first?”

  “Oh, let’s just start at the beginning and go through,” said Paige.

  “Read our own?” asked Anna, her voice squeaking. “Out loud?”

  “Let’s look at our own last of all,” Jessie suggested. “Just open to any old place.”

  So Anna closed her eyes and selected a page. “Gooz Drumfield,” she announced, a little shiver running through her body, leaving goosebumps on her arms. She was glad she was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. “‘What a hunk,’” she read. “‘Gorgeous … Stuck up.’” She looked at her friends. “I don’t think he’s stuck up. Maybe a little shy. Oh, well. That’s just somebody’s opinion.” She continued with, “‘Cutest boy in the entire world.’ … Hey, Paige, is that your handwriting? It looks like it.”

  Paige blushed. “Of course not,” she replied quickly.

  “See what’s on Cheryl Sutphin’s page,” Jessie suggested, suppressing a giggle.

  Anna flipped backward through the book. “‘Cheryl Sutphin … Buys clothes at the Salvation Army.’…”

  “That’s not very nice,” Randy interjected.

  “‘She isn’t playing with a full deck,’” Anna continued. “‘Possible head lice?’” (Hysterical giggling from Paige and Jessie.) “‘Lose a ton or two, Cheryl! … Shops in “mature women’s” department … Once broke my camera just by posing.’”

  Even Randy laughed at that comment.

  “I can’t stand it any longer,” said Anna. “I’ve got to see what’s written on my page—but in private.” She carried the book into Paige’s bathroom.

  Anna took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then perched on the toilet seat. As the keeper of the slam book, she’d been tempted many times to look at her page, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.

  I could not look, she thought, and just pretend I did.

  She sat for a few more moments. Then in one decisive movement, she snapped the book open, whizzed through the pages until she came to her own, and forced herself to read:

  All-around nice girl.

  Little Miss Popularity.

  Has beautiful eyebrows.

  Anna shot up and examined her eyebrows in the mirror. They were kind of nice.

  She returned to the book.

  I wish I were more like her.
>
  Boy! thought Anna. There was nothing like that written about Peggy in her slam book.

  Anna read on, feeling pleased with herself.

  Popular, pretty, cool.

  Anna was positively glowing!

  She emerged from the bathroom, smiling. “Not bad,” she told the others. She hadn’t cared for the phrasing of “Little Miss Popularity,” but she really didn’t have anything to complain about.

  “My turn!” Paige exclaimed. She also carried the book into the bathroom. When she returned, she was not smiling.

  “Well?” said Randy.

  Paige looked thoughtful. “I don’t agree with everything, but—hey, we can add to the slam book any time we want, can’t we?”

  “Sure,” replied Anna.

  “Perfect. I’ll just show Miss Casey Reade how it feels to be insulted.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Jessie.

  “Here, look.” Paige thrust the slam book at the girls.

  They peered at Paige’s page. It started off with the usual comments about her looks (“Too perfect,” “Most beautiful girl in the class”), her money (“Share the wealth, Beaulac!”), and her personality (“Snob,” “What an ego”).

  “I can take all that,” said Paige, “especially ‘Most beautiful girl in the class.’” She grinned. “I hope a boy wrote that. This is what I’m talking about.”

  The last entry on the page was rather long and was written in shaky letters.

  “Allow me to read it for you,” said Paige. “‘What’s next, Beaulac? Reform school? Or couldn’t your mother get you in there, either? Good luck following in her footsteps. Maybe you’ll graduate from CHS with a double degree in drinking and shoplifting.’”

  “Jeez,” said Randy. “Who would write stuff like that? Hey, Paige, you don’t really drink … do you?”

  “I will not dignify your second question with an answer,” replied Paige stiffly. “As for the first, obviously Casey wrote it.”

  “Casey?” said Anna. “Why?”