California Girls!

by Ann M. Martin

  Beau peeled out of the beach parking lot. He peeled out so fast that Paul said, “Hey, slow down.” I’d never heard Paul talk to Beau like that, especially considering that Paul does a fair amount of peeling out himself.

  Anyway, it was a good thing we had peeled out, because Beau had turned right in front of an oncoming car. If he’d been driving any slower, we would have been hit. I decided Beau was a good driver who knew what he was doing.

  I told him so.

  “I’m an offensive driver,” he replied proudly.

  I wasn’t sure what that was, but since Beau sounded so proud, I said, “That’s great. Driving with you is exciting.”

  We’d been on the freeway for a little while when Beau, who was in the middle of three lanes, said, “If we stay behind this pickup truck any longer, we won’t get home until next week. That driver must be the slowest guy in California.”

  Now, I don’t know a lot about driving, but I do know, from watching my parents, that when you want to make a turn or switch into another lane, you put on your blinker. But Beau just made that remark about being the slowest driver in California and zoomed into the left lane — the fastest one — without putting on his blinker, checking the mirrors, or anything. “Jerk,” he muttered to the guy in the pickup as he pulled out.

  The next thing I knew, I heard an amazing crunch of metal and wondered what could possibly have happened. It sounded like the time when I was living in New York and this crane fell onto a car.

  The crunch was just a distraction for a half a second. That was how long it took me to realize that our car had been crunched. After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The car in the left lane that Beau had sideswiped skidded into the guardrail. The car behind that one smashed into the back of it. And our car was bounced in the other direction like a Ping-Pong ball — right into the side of the pickup truck, and both our car and the truck skidded to the opposite side of the freeway and into the guardrail. Luckily no one behind smashed into us.

  I was aware of the sound of breaking glass (the truck’s), and of being wrenched first sideways and then forward. If I hadn’t been wearing my seat belt, I don’t know what would have happened. As it was, I thought I could feel every single bone in my body rattle.

  And then time seemed to stop. I could hear cars on the freeway either going around us, or trying to stop ahead of us — I guess to help. Then I think I might have fainted or something because the next thing I knew, Rosemary was shaking my arm and crying, “Stacey! Stacey!” over and over again. She sounded alarmed.

  “Yeah?” I replied.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” said Rosemary. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

  “Why?” I asked, feeling as if I’d just woken from a long sleep.

  “Because. We can’t stay in the car. What if someone else runs into us? Besides, the car could blow up or something.”

  I started to open the car door.

  “Unbuckle your seat belt,” said Rosemary impatiently.

  I did so. Then I tried the door again. I couldn’t budge it. My head was clearing and I looked over the edge of the car. “We’re stuck to the rail,” I announced.

  “Oh, swell,” said Beau sarcastically, and for the first time I began to wonder if everyone else was okay. And how the people in the other cars were.

  “Is anyone hurt?” I cried, and I knew I sounded hysterical.

  “Just cuts and bruises,” replied Paul from the front seat. “Stacey, are you sure you can’t open your door?”

  “Positive. What about you?”

  “I’ve tried. Beau, maybe if you could just pull up a few inches?”

  “Pull up? I can’t even start the car. We’ll just climb out.”

  It was at that moment that we heard sirens.

  “Oh,” groaned Beau. “Am I in for it now.” He paused. “Hey, listen, you guys. Will you back me up? Will you say that the truck put on its brakes suddenly and I had to swerve to go around him? That’s why I pulled into the left lane so fast.”

  “Sure,” said everyone except Paul and me.

  I wasn’t about to lie. And I was surprised to hear Paul ask, “Before we got caught behind the truck, Beau, how fast were you driving?”

  “Oh, about seventy-five, maybe eighty.”

  Paul shook his head. Carter and Rosemary exchanged a glance.

  The siren we had heard wound down behind us. The next thing I knew, a police officer was standing over Beau. “Anyone in here seriously hurt?” he asked.

  “No,” we replied.

  “Okay. Out of the car.”

  Out of the car? I couldn’t get out on my side. There was a sharp drop just beyond the guardrail. And on the other side of the car was the freeway. How would we get out with all those cars whizzing by? That was when I realized there were no cars whizzing by. The police must have put up a roadblock or created a detour or something. They sure worked fast.

  Anyway, what I saw as I slid across the seat and climbed outside I can only describe as an accident scene: three crushed cars and a crushed truck, ambulances and a fire truck screaming to a halt, and about a thousand police cars. Officers were milling around everywhere. I heard one of them say, “Amazing. No one’s badly hurt.”

  Some of the police officers were walking around with pads of paper, asking questions. When a young woman stepped up to me, wanting to know what had happened, I told her the truth.

  Beau gave me a look that could have killed a snake.

  I began to feel shaky — very frightened all of a sudden. I guess I had just realized what might have happened, how bad the accident could have been. I slumped to the pavement, leaned against Beau’s car, and began to cry. For that reason, I was the first person put into an ambulance and driven to a nearby hospital. (Eventually everyone, hurt or not, arrived at the hospital.)

  At the hospital, an emergency room doctor checked me over carefully.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I kept telling her.

  “We’re just making sure,” she replied. “Sometimes injuries don’t show up right away, and you’re pretty shaky.” But finally she pronounced me ready to leave. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” she warned me, “and you may find some bruises, but otherwise you’re okay. And you’re very lucky,” she added.

  “I know,” I replied.

  “Okay. Who are you going to call to come pick you up?”

  “My friend’s father,” I told her. “I’m just visiting out here.”

  I left to look for a pay phone. I found one in the lobby. I was glad that Carter and everyone were still in the emergency room, because they’d been giving me some pretty nasty looks. I knew I’d never see them again.

  My shakiness returned as I dialed Dawn’s number. What was her father going to say — or do? Would he make me call my parents? Would he send me back to Stoneybrook early? I knew I’d been asking for trouble ever since I arrived in California, and now the trouble was here, and I was going to have to pay for it.

  The phone rang at Dawn’s house. And rang again. And then, guess who answered it. Carol! Oh, that was perfect. Carol was just like one of us. If she picked me up at the hospital, Mr. Schafer might never even know about the accident.

  “Hi, Carol,” I said. “It’s Stacey.” When I told her where I was and what happened, she said that she and Dawn would be there as fast as they could. (Mr. Schafer had taken Jeff out for awhile.)

  I sat in the waiting room of the hospital, feeling incredibly lucky. And when Dawn and Carol walked through the big double doors, I ran to them. Dawn hugged me. Carol hugged me, too. But the first words out of her mouth were, “You know I’ll have to tell Dawn’s father about this, don’t you?”

  No. I didn’t know. Apparently Dawn hadn’t thought about it, either. She looked at me with eyes about the size of flying saucers.

  The ride home was mostly silent. And when we reached Dawn’s house, I was dismayed to see Mr. Schafer’s car in the drive. He was back from wherever he’d taken Jeff.


  “Honey?” Carol called as soon as we entered the house. “We need to talk.”

  Mr. Schafer hurried to the front door. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

  “Let’s go somewhere private,” said Carol. “Stacey has something to tell you.”

  We (Carol, Mr. Schafer, Dawn, and I) went into the family room and closed the door. My other friends were around — I’d seen Claud and Mary Anne on my way in — and I was sure they knew something was up. I wished they could be with me then, but I knew that Mr. Schafer wanted to handle this his own way.

  The four of us sat down, Dawn and I together on the couch, and Mr. Schafer and Carol in armchairs.

  “Okay, Stacey,” said Carol. “Go ahead.” (Her voice was gentle.)

  I drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

  “Mr. Schafer,” I said, “I was in a car wreck on the way home from the beach today.”

  “Dawn? Dawn?”

  Darn it. Carol was calling me. I’d come in from the warm sun, craving a glass of ice water, and now I had to face Carol.

  “Yeah?” I said. We met in the kitchen, where Carol was just hanging up the phone.

  “Dawn, sit down, but don’t worry,” she said immediately.

  Well, of course I was nearly out of my skull. No one likes to hear those words. But I sat and tried to look calm. I wasn’t about to panic in front of Carol. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That was Stacey. She was calling from the hospital. She was in a car accident on the way home from the beach,” (I gasped) “but she is absolutely fine. Just a couple of bruises. Let’s go pick her up, okay?”

  I was buckled into the front seat of Carol’s car before Carol had even left the kitchen, and we got to the hospital in record time. When I saw Stacey just sitting in the waiting room, not covered with blood or anything, I ran to her and hugged her. Then Stacey and Carol hugged, and I was about to hug Carol, too, believe it or not, just because I was so relieved and everything. But that was when Carol said to Stacey, “You know I’ll have to tell Dawn’s father about this, don’t you?” My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it. I don’t think Stacey could believe it, either. Carol had always tried so hard to be like one of us, and now she was acting like an adult.

  Stacey, Carol, and I barely said a word on the ride home. I was fuming. Why couldn’t Carol keep this a secret? Sure, Stacey had been hanging around with older kids, doing dangerous things, and now she’d been in a car accident, but she wasn’t hurt. Anyway, we only had a few more days of vacation left. Stacey could just stay away from her surfing buddies.

  But no, Carol had to tell Dad right away. When the four of us sat down in the family room, I could actually feel the tension in the air.

  Then Stacey said, “Mr. Schafer, I was in a car wreck on the way home from the beach today.” My father turned slightly pale, but he just nodded. “Four cars got smashed up,” Stacey went on. “No one was hurt — at least not badly — but the accident was caused by Beau. He was the driver of our car.”

  I was proud of Stacey. She went on to say how she’d found Beau and her other older friends and the car rides and the surfing pretty thrilling. But now she saw what danger she’d been in. Then she apologized — about thirty-six times.

  Dad was silent for a long while. This was not a bad sign. It just meant that he was thinking. At last he said, “Stacey, I’m not your parent, but while you’re staying with me, I am responsible for you. So I have to forbid you to go anywhere with those kids or to see them again.”

  “Okay,” said Stacey softly.

  “Furthermore, I think we should call your parents.”

  “My parents? No! Please!” cried Stacey.

  And Carol spoke up then. “I really think we have to,” she said to Stacey. “Your parents have a right to know. Besides, you aren’t hurt and you won’t see those friends again. If you want, Dawn’s dad and I can talk to them first, and then you can get on the phone to prove to them that you’re okay.”

  I looked at Carol with some respect. And with even more respect when she went on to say, “I do hope you’ve learned something from this, Stacey.”

  Stacey reddened. But she said, “Yeah. I have.” Although she didn’t say what.

  So my father asked, “What have you learned?”

  And Carol replied for Stacey. “I don’t think she has to tell us. She knows what she’s learned. Don’t you, Stacey?”

  “Yeah,” said Stacey, still red in the face.

  We talked for a few minutes longer, and then Dad said, “Stacey, I’m really sorry that this happened, but I’m glad you’re not hurt. Promise me you’ll tell me if you feel any pain, or anything that’s not quite right.”

  Stacey promised. Then she stayed with Dad and Carol to make the phone calls, while I left the family room.

  When I opened the door to step out in the hall, I tripped over Jessi, Kristy, Claudia, Mary Anne, Mallory, and Jeff, all of whom were crowded in the hallway. They jumped back sheepishly.

  “Come on. Let’s go talk in my room,” I said.

  We walked to my room in a bunch — including Jeff. I love my brother, but I had to tell him, as my friends filed past him into the bedroom, that he couldn’t come in. “BSC members only,” I said.

  “Rats.” Jeff walked off in a huff.

  I closed my door and we all found seats somewhere. For a few minutes, no one said anything. Then Stacey joined us and began to cry.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she managed to say.

  “It’s okay, Stace,” said Claudia soothingly. “You got carried away while you were out here. That’s all.”

  “I’ll say. My parents took the news pretty well, all things considered.”

  “You should be glad you were wearing your seat belt. Especially since you were in a convertible. Try not to be embarrassed. We’re just glad you’re here.” Claud looked a little weepy.

  There was silence for a few moments. Then Stacey burst out, “I can’t believe what Carol did. I thought she was our friend. She was always on our side, driving us places, giving us advice about boys and stuff.”

  “I know,” I said. “I was mad, too. On the way home from the hospital, all I could think about was that she was going to tell my father. I had really thought she would keep it a secret. But then I got to thinking about things. And then I listened to her when she and Dad and you and I were having our conversation. You know, it’s one thing to talk to Carol about boy problems or makeup problems. It’s another to keep something as major as the accident from my father or your parents, Stace. Carol can’t cover up something like that. My father would never trust her again.

  “And you know what else? Carol is older than we are. So she should act older. I liked her better tonight, when she was being a parent, than when she was trying to be our friend or our older sister or something. She ought to act responsibly. After all, Dad puts her in charge of Jeff and me sometimes.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Mary Anne. “It would be like if we were baby-sitting and one of the kids broke something, or did something really bad. We would have to tell the parents. That’s our responsibility as a sitter — as the person in charge.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Stacey. But she still looked as if she felt awful, and I’m sure she did. She was embarrassed, humiliated, and she was probably beginning to hurt. Already I could see a purple bruise on her arm.

  * * *

  When things died down (and after Stacey climbed painfully into my bed — I wouldn’t let her sleep in a sleeping bag that night), I found my father in the kitchen. Carol was gone and he was sitting at the table, reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Dad?” I said. “Can we talk?”

  “Of course, honey,” he replied. He folded the newspaper and set it aside.

  I had a big question on my mind, and I decided there was only one way to ask it — bluntly. “Are you going to marry Carol?” I wanted to know.

  Dad stared into his coffee cup.

  “I’m sorry
,” I said, feeling ashamed. “I guess that was too personal.”

  “No, no. That’s not it. I’m just not sure what the answer is. I like Carol — I love her,” said my father. (I blushed, not used to hearing him talk that way.) “But I don’t know if I’m ready to jump into another marriage. That means a lot of commitment. Plus, you and Jeff don’t seem crazy about Carol.”

  Now it was my turn to stare, only I didn’t have a coffee cup to look into, so I stared at my hands, which were folded in my lap.

  “Dawn?” said Dad.

  “Just thinking,” I replied. “I want to say this right.” I paused again. At last I said, “I didn’t know Carol too well before. I mean, I’ve met her, but — you know — this vacation is the most time I’ve spent with her. And at first I didn’t like her too much. She drove Mal and Jessi to that beauty museum and she talked to Claudia about Terry. It was like she was trying to be one of us. And she isn’t. She’s an adult. My friends and I are grown up, and we’re responsible and everything, but we’re not adults like you and Carol. So then, you know what? Since Carol had seemed so young, Stacey and I really thought she would keep the car accident a secret. When she said she wouldn’t, I was mad, until I heard what she had to say when we were talking with you. I was — I felt — I don’t know exactly….”

  “Did you feel respect for her?” asked Dad gently.

  “I guess so,” I replied. “Dad? If you want to marry Carol, I think it would be okay with me. I really do. Besides, it’s your decision.”

  Dad got up from the table, came around to my side, and gave me a hug. Neither of us said a word. But when I left the kitchen, I went into the family room, shut the door for privacy, found a pen and a piece of stationery, and began a letter.

  Dear Carol, it said. As soon as I’d written those words, I knew the rest were going to be tough. Tougher than an English composition. After a lot of thought, I started by saying that I was sorry I hadn’t been very nice to her. I tried (diplomatically) to explain why. Then I said that I was glad she had told Dad about Stacey’s accident, and that I understood that she’d had to do that. I even came right out and said that I liked her better when she acted like my mother than like my friend. Finally I told her I was really glad that my father had found someone he likes so much. I hoped they would be happy together. (I also hoped that last part was not too forward, since as far as I knew, Dad had not yet asked Carol to marry him.)