So I did. I unlocked my door and walked into the kitchen.
“Good morning!” said my parents.
Mom was setting the table. Dad was standing over the stove, turning bacon and stirring a pan of scrambled eggs.
I took my glass from the table, filled it with orange juice, got a bagel out of the refrigerator and a banana from the fruit bowl, and sat down to my own version of breakfast.
“No eggs?” said Dad at the same moment that Mom said, “No bacon?”
I pulled an old trick. I reached over to the counter and picked up The New York Times. I opened it and pretended to read, but mostly I just concentrated on eating fast.
Mom and Dad tried several more times to talk to me.
“We know you’re mad,” said Mom. (No kidding.)
“We understand,” said Dad. (Do you? Do you really?)
After that, they lapsed into silence.
As soon as possible, I left the table, gave my teeth another brushing, gathered up my schoolbooks, put on my blue-jean jacket, and walked out the door. For once in her life, my mother didn’t call after me to have fun and be careful.
Even though I didn’t have any time to spare, I dawdled on the way to school. I wanted to think about things. I hadn’t done my homework the night before, so what did it matter if I got to school late, anyway? Besides, knowing Mom and Dad, one of them was calling my guidance counselor right now to tell her what was going on. I would probably get some special treatment for awhile, I thought, as I left our block and made a right onto a busy avenue.
Caitlin did. Keith did. Shayla did.
Who are Caitlin, Keith, and Shayla? They’re kids in my grade whose parents got divorced earlier in the year. Think of it. Three other divorces right in the eighth grade. I sure wasn’t the only divorced kid around. (That’s what Caitlin and Shayla call themselves — divorced kids, meaning kids with divorced parents.) But that didn’t make me any less angry. In fact, it made me more angry.
What was wrong with parents these days? Why couldn’t they get married and stay married like parents did in olden times? Whatever happened to commitment? What happened to “forever”? To “till death do us part”? Really, someone ought to rewrite the wedding vows so that the bride and groom say, “Till divorce do us part.”
Even while I was thinking those things, though, I was remembering something I’d heard Caitlin say at the beginning of the year. She’d said, “I’m glad my parents are getting divorced. Now I won’t have to listen to their fights.”
I’d thought she’d just been saying that, that she hadn’t meant it. But now I wasn’t so sure. I wouldn’t mind an end to the arguing.
But I still didn’t want Mom and Dad to get divorced.
* * *
I entered my homeroom five minutes after the first bell had rung.
Mrs. Kaufman, my homeroom teacher, looked up at me, smiled, then continued reading the morning announcements.
So one of my parents had called the school. Mrs. Kaufman knew. If she hadn’t known, she would have stopped reading the announcements and asked why I was late. She always does that. And if a kid doesn’t have a written excuse, she cooks up some sort of punishment. She never just smiles and continues with what she’s doing.
I spent that day in a fog. I barely spoke to anyone. And I was constantly dreaming up ways not to have to see my friends. I just couldn’t face telling them the news yet. I took different routes to my classes and to my locker. When I had to use the bathroom, I went to this old one on the first floor that’s used mostly by teachers. I even hit on a way to avoid Laine in the cafeteria at lunchtime. See, we have sixth period lunch. So at the beginning of fifth period, I asked my science teacher if I could go to the library to work on a project. Then, instead of going to the library, I went to the cafeteria and ate a very fast lunch. As soon as I was done I really did go to the library. I stayed there right through sixth period, holed up at a desk in a remote corner behind shelves of books about sociology.
I did a lot of thinking and absolutely no work. This is what I was thinking:
When Caitlin’s parents got divorced, her father moved out and her mother stayed in their apartment.
When Keith’s parents got divorced, his father moved out and his mother stayed in their apartment.
And when Shayla’s parents got divorced, her father moved out and her mother stayed in their apartment.
Where, I wondered, would Dad go?
Then I thought of something else. I’d heard Mom say the day before that she wanted to leave the city. Had she meant that she wanted our whole family to move, maybe as a way of trying to save the marriage? Or did she still want to move, without Dad? If she moved, would I have to go with her? Did kids ever get to stay with their fathers? Would Dad keep our apartment or find another one?
Other thoughts crowded into my head. I thought of the Trip-Man. The Trip-Man is this awful guy that Dawn Schafer’s mother dated a lot. And he wasn’t the only man she’d dated since she moved back to Stoneybrook. There was Mary Anne’s father, and there were some other men.
What if I were living with my mom and she married someone I hated? I’d have a wicked stepfather. What if he had kids I hated? I’d have wicked stepsisters and stepbrothers.
Suddenly, I felt lost. No one had died or left me, but I felt as if I were on a lake in a boat and had fallen overboard with no life vest, and didn’t know how to swim.
I knew divorce was pretty common. Look at Caitlin, Keith, and Shayla. Look at all the other kids in my grade whose parents had already gotten divorced. Look at Dawn. Look at Kristy. The divorce rate is fifty percent. I read that somewhere. That means that about half of all couples who get married will eventually get divorced.
And still, I felt embarrassed.
I knew that was why I’d avoided Laine. I was embarrassed — and angry. I couldn’t face telling her the awful news yet. Besides, I had too many unanswered questions such as, Where will I live? Whom will I live with? What happens if I wind up with a stepparent I don’t like?
I was truly miserable. All I wanted was to turn the clock back twenty-four hours to the day before and let things go on as they’d been going on, fights and all. I decided I would rather have fights than a divorce.
I did not want any changes.
Somehow, I managed to avoid Laine all day. It wasn’t easy, considering we have the last class of the afternoon together. But I made sure I got to class late (of course, my teacher didn’t care), and then when the bell rang, I gathered up my things and raced to Mr. Berlenbach’s desk. I pretended I didn’t understand what we’d covered in class that day. We got into a long discussion. When it looked like Laine might wait for me, since she was hovering around the door, I waved her on.
Five minutes later, I left Mr. Berlenbach’s room and walked toward our apartment building in peace. Well, in as much peace as you can find on busy New York streets. I took my time. I didn’t have a baby-sitting job that afternoon, but that didn’t mean I had to go right home.
Suddenly an idea came to me. I found some change in my purse, headed for a pay phone, and called home.
Mom answered.
In a rush, I informed her that I was going to spend the afternoon at the library, but that I’d be home for dinner. I didn’t give her a chance to say much. She got as far as, “All right, but, Stacey —”
And I said, “See you later. ’Bye,” and hung up.
Of course I didn’t go to the library. Instead I just dawdled around. I walked over to Columbus Avenue and browsed through some of the kitschy stores there. I looked in The Last Wound-Up and in this store that sells big everything — pencils the size of baseball bats, paper clips that an elephant could use, golf balls that look more like beach balls, that sort of thing. I wandered through clothing stores and card stores. I bought a diet soda from a street vendor.
When at last it was near dinnertime, I headed for home. I reached my block and right away I saw Judy. Judy is the street person who lives in our neighborhood ?
?? outdoors. She’s homeless. She literally lives on the street. When it gets super cold, she goes to a shelter for awhile, but she always comes back. The people around here sometimes give her money. The restaurant owners and grocery-store owners give her food.
Judy and I have been friends (sort of) ever since Mom and Dad and I moved to this apartment after we left Stoneybrook.
“Hi, Judy,” I said listlessly as I approached her.
Judy was sitting right on the cement, surrounded by tattered shopping bags full of … I don’t know what. It always looked like trash to me. But I knew the things were Judy’s personal treasures.
Judy was wearing about seventeen layers of clothes, and was rubbing lotion onto her poor chapped hands and face. I wondered where she’d gotten it.
“Hi, Missy,” replied Judy cheerfully. (Missy is what she calls me when she’s in a good mood. When she’s in a bad mood, she won’t answer. Or else she screams out senseless things for hours.)
I looked in my book bag to see if I had anything Judy might want. I handed her a pencil and after several moments, Judy selected a particular shopping bag and poked it inside.
“Thanks,” she said when she was finished. “How are you today, Missy?”
“My parents are getting a divorce,” I told her.
“Crying shame.”
I couldn’t tell just what Judy meant by that. Was she being sarcastic?
“That’s what’s wrong with the world today,” Judy went on, sounding wise. “Too much divorce. Too much thieving and pillaging, too. End of civilization.”
Whoa. Time to go.
“ ’Bye, Judy,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
I walked into my building, sailed up to the 12th floor, and crept down our hallway as if I were approaching a firing squad.
It was almost six o’clock. I entered our apartment and, just like the night before, found both of my parents sitting in the living room.
“Hi, Stacey,” said Dad at the same time that Mom said, “Hello, honey.”
I ignored them and headed for my bedroom. But to my surprise, the door was closed. A sign had been taped to it. It read: DO NOT ENTER. GO BACK TO THE LIVING ROOM AND TALK TO YOUR PARENTS.
With a huge sigh, I dropped my book bag and purse on the floor in the hallway and returned to the living room. I did have to talk to my parents. I knew that. I couldn’t ignore them forever.
I plopped into an armchair and looked from Mom to Dad. “What?” I said.
“We have some unfinished business,” my father informed me.
“What?” I said again, as if I didn’t care at all.
“Aren’t you curious about anything?” asked Mom. “Aren’t you wondering what’s going to happen now? Where we’re going to live? Whom you’re going to live with? I would be, if I were you.”
I shrugged, even though I was dying of curiosity.
“Stacey, you must talk to us,” said Dad. “We’re very sorry about what’s happening, but you’ve had twenty-four hours to absorb the shock. Now we have to go on with things. There are a lot of arrangements to be made, and we’d like your thoughts about some of them.”
“Okay, okay.” I settled down, putting my feet up on our coffee table, which I am not allowed to do. I just wanted to see what would happen; to see if I’d get any more special treatment.
But Dad said immediately, “Feet on the floor, Anastasia.”
Whoa. Anastasia.
I put my feet down in an instant.
“All right,” said Mom. “I’ll begin.” She sent my father a message with her eyes that plainly said, “Okay?”
Dad nodded.
“Well,” said Mom. “First of all, the marriage counselor —”
“Divorce counselor,” I corrected her.
“Anastasia Elizabeth McGill,” said Dad warningly.
I shut my mouth.
“The marriage counselor,” Mom repeated pointedly, “advised us both to leave the apartment. Your father and I will each be moving.”
“You will? Why?” I exclaimed.
“Because the counselor said that if one stays here and the other leaves, you might feel that the parent who left had deserted you. So we’re both moving.”
“Where to?” I asked. And then I blurted out (because I just had to know), “Which one of you will I live with?”
“We’re leaving that up to you,” Dad replied. “That will be your decision entirely. You won’t have any say over where we move to, but you may decide whom to live with.”
“Or how to divide your time between us,” added Mom.
“Divide my —?” I started to say. And then I remembered Shayla. I remembered something about “joint custody.” Shayla’s parents live about ten blocks from each other, and Shayla and her sisters live with their mother from Wednesday afternoons (after school) until Saturday night. Then on Saturday night they go to their father’s and stay there until they leave for school on Wednesday. The girls have everything they need at both places, so they hardly have to pack up anything on Wednesdays and Saturdays except schoolbooks. Keith has a different arrangement. His parents also live pretty near each other, but he and his brother spend a month with one, a month with the other, all year long. Caitlin has a third kind of arrangement. Her father moved to a suburb of Chicago after the divorce. Caitlin and her brother live with their mom during the school year, but spend vacations and summers with their dad.
“Are you going to have joint custody of me?” I asked my parents.
“Yes,” they replied, looking surprised.
And Dad asked, “How do you know about joint custody?”
“I just do.” I paused. “So I can live with either one of you or go back and forth between you — however I want?”
My parents nodded.
“Well, I guess my decision will depend on where you’re going to move to,” I said, thinking of Caitlin.
“I’ll be staying in the city,” said Dad, “because of my job.”
I looked at Mom, knowing now that she wanted to move. But where to? Long Island? New Jersey? Or maybe as close by as one of the nice neighborhoods in the Bronx. Now that wouldn’t be bad at all. She’d still be in the city — technically — but she’d feel almost as if she were in the country.
“I’d kind of like to go back to Stoneybrook,” said Mom.
I opened my eyes so wide my eyebrows nearly rose right off the top of my head. “Back to Stoneybrook?” I squeaked.
Mom nodded. “I really loved that area. I was very sorry when we left.”
“But — but what would you do there?” I asked.
“Find a job. It’s high time I went back to work. But not here in the city. Somewhere with a slower pace.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was all confused. I’d thought that Dad would move out and I’d live in our apartment with Mom half the time and with Dad the rest of the time. That seemed like the best arrangement. Now I had to choose between New York City and Stoneybrook. I also had to choose between my parents. Obviously, I couldn’t do what Shayla and Keith do. My arrangement would have to be more like Caitlin’s.
“I — I can’t make a decision until I know where you’re going to live,” I said to my parents.
“Fair enough,” replied Dad.
“One thing we can assure you,” Mom said, “is that we’ll both buy or rent places that will be big enough for you. You’ll have your own bedroom wherever you go.”
“Okay,” I said. Thoughts were whirling around in my head. Go back to Stoneybrook? To the Baby-sitters Club and all my friends there? Leave New York again? I had no idea what to do.
“May I go to my room?” I asked. “I need to think.”
“After dinner,” said Dad. “You need to eat, too.”
I gave in quickly. The faster I ate, the faster I could escape.
* * *
As soon as dinner was over, I retreated to my room — and the telephone. I didn’t have my own phone number, like Claudia does, but at least I had an extension in my room, s
o I could make private calls.
I phoned Laine first. I told her the news flatout, pretty much like this: “Hi, Laine. It’s me, Stace. My parents are getting a divorce.” That was the second time I’d said those awful words out loud, and they were becoming easier to say.
I think Laine nearly dropped the phone. “They’re what?” she cried. “Oh, Stacey, I’m so sorry.” (No wonder she was surprised. We’d been friends for an awfully long time.)
I told her about Mom and Dad’s moving plans, and right away I could hear her growing fearful. “Oh, please don’t go away again, Stace,” she said. “Stay here with your father, okay? It’ll be easier anyway.”
I didn’t know what to say, except that I wouldn’t be making a decision for awhile.
Then I called Claudia. Her reaction was a little different. “You’re coming back? You’re coming back?” she shrieked. “Oh, Stace. Oh, I mean — I mean, I’m sorry. About the divorce. Really. But you’re coming back? I can’t believe it! Oh, please, please, please come back!”
“Pretty please? With a cherry on top?” I teased her.
Claudia laughed.
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet. You know how much I love New York. Besides, Mom isn’t positive she wants to go back to Stoneybrook. She’s just thinking about it.”
At long last I called Dawn for advice. She would be more understanding, I decided. And she wouldn’t get all hung up about where I lived. She’d want me to come back to Stoneybrook, but not as badly as Claud did. And she’s be a little more sympathetic about the rest of my problems.
“The thing about divorce,” she told me, “is waiting. You have to wait for a awful lot — for decisions, lawyers, even movers.” (I giggled.) “The best way to look at the situation is to realize that the worst part is over. You know your parents are splitting up. Now it’s just a matter of dealing with each new step that comes along.”
That was sound advice from practical Dawn. I decided to take the advice and wait — for each of my parents to find a new place to live. Then I would decide what to do next.