It was two weeks after I’d made my decision. The three of us would be moving in just one week. I felt as if all I’d done during the past two years was pack. And it wasn’t over. When Mom and I reached Stoneybrook, we’d have to unpack.
I thought about that as I put on my jacket and left our apartment, heading for Gristede’s.
“Have fun and be careful!” called Mom.
“You, too!” I replied.
The elevator and I plummeted to the lobby, and I walked outside. I’d given Laine the news about our move not long after I’d told Dad. Laine had cried, too, which had made me start crying again.
“You can’t move,” she’d wailed. “What’ll I do without you?”
“The same things you did when I moved to Stoneybrook the first time. Write to me. Call me. We’ll run up huge phone bills.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“I know. But you have Allison and Jean and everyone.”
“They’re not you.”
I sighed. “I’m going to miss you, too,” I said, “in case you’d forgotten.”
That was when the tears started.
So I decided to give myself a break. I called someone who would be happy to hear the news. Claudia.
“Oh, my lord. Oh, my lord!” she shrieked. “You’re really coming back?” And then Claud began to cry.
They were tears of happiness, of course, but nevertheless, they were more tears, and I couldn’t help crying again, too. At that rate, I thought, my whole head would dry up.
At Gristede’s, I stepped up to the manager’s office and peered through her little window. I’d been in the store so often looking for boxes that the manager, Miss Antonio, and I knew each other, although we did not like each other. I found Miss Antonio trying on a new hat. Three of the cashiers were crowded into the booth with her, giving her advice on how to wear it.
“Ahem.” I drummed my fingers on the ledge under the window.
“Turn it around a little,” one of the cashiers suggested to Miss Antonio. (Her name tag read “Anita.”)
“Like this?” Miss Antonio swung the brim around.
“No, more like this,” said Anita, adjusting the hat.
“Ahem,” I said again.
“And tilt it up,” added Anita.
Miss Antonio tilted it.
I banged my fist on the bell at the window. DING, DING, DING!
Miss Antonio and her friends looked up in annoyance.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Miss Antonio. “There are some boxes in the back. You can go get ’em yourself.”
“Thank you so much for your attention and courtesy,” I replied.
The next time we needed cartons, Mom could get them.
I found five cartons (without lids, unfortunately), nested them inside one another, and walked them home. On the way, I passed Judy. I could see that she was not in one of her good moods, but I stopped and said, “Hey, Judy, next week I’m moving to Connecticut with my mom.”
Judy stared at me for a moment. Then she shrieked, “The heads of corporations are liars! Do you hear me?” (They could hear her in Toledo.) “They’re corrupting our country with their plastic and their Campbell’s soup and …”
Judy’s voice trailed after me as I headed for home.
When I reached my apartment, I could hear Mom and Dad arguing. Even so, I yelled over their noise, “I was careful and I had a ton of fun. Next time one of you can go have fun with Miss Antonio. Be sure to admire her hat.”
Mom and Dad probably thought I was crazy, but they went right back to their arguing without asking me what I was talking about. So I left three of the cartons in the living room and took the others to my bedroom.
I closed the door.
But I could still hear Mom say, “The crystal vase? You can’t have the crystal vase. That was a present from Donna and Stewart. Donna’s one of my best friends.”
“And Stew is one of my best friends,” Dad countered loudly.
It wasn’t easy dividing up a houseful of furniture and memories. Mom and Dad had been fighting constantly over who got what. The biggest fights were over items of sentimental value, such as photograph albums and wedding gifts. Naturally, they both wanted all those things.
I turned on my tape deck and put the headphones on to drown out the arguing. I concentrated on my own packing. Most of my things were going to Connecticut, of course, but I was sending a few things to Dad’s apartment. I didn’t want a totally bare room there, and besides, the less I had to pack when I visited him, the better. Some clothes, some makeup, some books, some tapes, my Walkman, some posters, and a few other things were going to Dad’s. The rest was going to our new house in Stoneybrook.
I looked around my half-empty room.
I lifted the headphones tentatively — just in time to hear Mom say, “You may not have that painting. I bought it myself!”
“With my money!” shouted Dad.
I put the headphones back on in a hurry.
Then I burst into tears for about the zillionth time.
* * *
Thursday night. I was baby-sitting for Henry and Grace. It would be my last time. Forty-eight hours from then I would be back in Stoneybrook.
I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Walker had explained to Henry and Grace that I was moving, but I wasn’t sure that they understood what that meant.
Sure enough, as soon as the Walkers left and Grace had stopped crying, Henry said, “Mommy and Daddy said you can’t baby-sit us anymore.”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“How come?”
It was seven-thirty. Henry and Grace were in their pajamas (Grace’s had feet, Henry’s didn’t), and they were ready for bed. I sat the kids down on the living room couch, one on either side of me, and tried to explain. “See,” I began, putting an arm around each of them, “my mom and dad don’t want to live together anymore, so they’re each moving to a new home. I decided to live with my mom, and she’s going to live in a faraway place called Connecticut.”
“Why don’t your mommy and daddy want to live together anymore?” asked Grace.
“Because they fight all the time,” I told her. “They stopped being in love with each other.”
Henry looked alarmed. “Tonight our mommy and daddy had a fight,” he said. “Mommy went, ‘Where on earth are our keys? You never put them away in the same place.’ And Daddy went, ‘I just told you they’re on the bookshelf.’ And Mommy went, ‘Well, I guess I didn’t hear you.’”
“Oh, but Henry, that was just a little argument,” I assured him. “People argue all the time. My parents’ fights were big. They were huge. Mom and Dad didn’t even want to be in the same room together. So they’re getting a divorce. Your parents are not getting a divorce.”
“Yeah,” said Grace. “This morning Mommy said to Daddy, ‘I love you,’ and Daddy said, ‘I love you, too.’ Then they kissed.”
I smiled. “That’s nice. You guys don’t have a thing to worry about.”
I walked the kids into Grace’s bedroom, where we read Millions of Cats. Then I tucked her in, said good night to her, and walked Henry to his bedroom, where we read Outside Over There.
“I’ll see you on Saturday before we leave,” I told him. “Your family’s coming to my apartment to say good-bye. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“ ’Night, Henry.”
“ ’Night, Stacey. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I sat in the Walkers’ living room with my math book open in front of me. Would Henry and Grace find a new sitter that they liked? Would they find one they liked as much as me? Part of me hoped so — and part of me didn’t, because I wanted to be somebody’s special baby-sitter. But I knew I’d be sitting for Charlotte Johanssen soon again anyway. So I felt better.
On Saturday morning I woke up with a jolt. Usually I only wake up with a jolt when the alarm clock rings. This time, no alarm went off — except for the one in my brain, which was shouting, “MOVING DAY!
”
Oh, no. Please. Not that, I thought. I turned onto my stomach, put the pillow over my head, and tried to drown out reality. Moving was bad enough, but that day was also the true beginning of my parents’ divorce. I would officially become a divorced kid. I would join the ranks of Dawn and Kristy, of Keith, Shayla, and Caitlin.
“Stace!” called my father from the hallway. “Up and at ’em!”
When had he come over? What time was it? Later than I thought, apparently. Dad had been sleeping at his new pad ever since his new bed had arrived. But he’d promised to come over early that last morning to help with the movers and to see me off. (I noticed he’d said see me off, not us off. I guessed Mom didn’t count too much anymore.)
“Okay!” I called to Dad.
I removed the pillow from my head, rolled over, and peered at my alarm clock. It, some clothes, and my furniture were the only things in my room. Everything else had been packed into cartons. Even the rug had been rolled up.
“Eight forty-five!” I said aloud. “Yikes!”
The movers were supposed to arrive at ten. And before that, Laine and the Walkers were coming over. I leaped out of bed.
I bet I set a showering and dressing record that morning. By five after nine I was heading to the kitchen for breakfast.
That was when one of the doormen buzzed from downstairs.
“Oh, no! The movers can’t be here already!” I cried.
“Don’t worry,” said Dad, who was sorting out cartons in the living room, making a His pile and a Hers pile. “Movers are never early. It’s a law. It may even be written in the Constitution.”
I laughed. My father often makes me laugh. I would miss that.
I pressed the Talk button on our intercom. “Yes?” I said.
“Laine’s on her way up,” Isaac told me. He would always let Laine come up without bothering to ask me if she could. It saved time. Usually he didn’t even call to let me know she was coming.
“Thanks,” I replied, just as the doorbell rang.
I ran to answer it. When I opened the door, there stood Laine, her arms full. She was carrying a big grocery bag.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I hope that’s not something we have to pack.”
Laine grinned as she stepped inside and I closed the door behind her. “You can pack it into yourselves. It’s breakfast,” she told me.
“Breakfast?”
“One last famous New York breakfast — bagels, lox, cream cheese, and orange juice. Oh, and coffee for your parents. I figured the coffee maker and everything would be packed.”
“Laine, I love you!” I cried. “This is terrific.” I sniffled.
“You aren’t going to cry again, are you?” asked Laine.
“No,” I said, even though I’d been ready to really let loose. I still couldn’t believe what was happening to me that day.
Laine handed me the bag and we took it into the kitchen. I peeked inside.
“Oh! Paper plates! And plastic spoons and knives! You thought of everything,” I exclaimed. “Dad! Mom! Come here and see what Laine brought!”
My parents appeared in the kitchen a few moments later. They took a look at the spread, including the cups of steaming coffee, and the little packages of sugar and the containers of cream.
I leaned over to Laine and whispered, “I bet Mom’s going to say, ‘Laine, you shouldn’t have!’”
“Laine, you shouldn’t have!” cried Mom.
Laine and I burst into giggles.
Mom and Dad smiled. “What is it?” asked Dad. “A private joke?”
“Yeah,” I said. I gave Laine a sideways glance and we started laughing again. Boy, am I going to miss you, I thought.
To keep from crying, I handed out paper plates, and the four of us set to work slicing bagels in half, spreading cream cheese on them, and layering the lox on top of the cream cheese.
“Mmm,” I said, relishing the first bite. “This is heaven.”
We sat down at the table. I looked around at Mom and Dad and Laine. We could be a family, I thought. Mom and Dad could be my non-divorced parents and Laine could be my sister. Then I thought, Maybe we are a family anyway. Maybe you don’t have to be blood relatives to be family.
“This was awfully nice of you, Laine,” said my father.
“Well,” Laine replied, “I thought Stacey and Mrs. McGill should have one final, authentic, New York breakfast before they left for the wilderness.”
“The wilderness!” I started laughing again.
“We can get bagels in Connecticut,” Mom pointed out, smiling.
“But they’re kind of like hockey pucks, remember?” I said.
Mom nodded. Then she looked at her watch. “Oh, goodness! Just half an hour until the movers are supposed to be here! We better get —”
“— cracking,” my father finished for her.
And I thought, How can they get divorced? They still finish each other’s sentences. Then something awful occurred to me. Actually, several things. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of them before.
“Dad!” I cried. “You don’t know how to cook … do you? And Mom, how are we going to take care of our lawn? Neither one of us has ever mowed one before. And Dad, do you know that you’re supposed to wash white clothes in hot water and colored clothes in —”
“Honey, calm down,” said Dad. “Everything will be okay.”
I was about to protest when the doorbell rang.
“I can’t believe Isaac didn’t announce the movers,” exclaimed Mom, flying out of her chair.
“Relax,” I told her. “I think it’s the Walkers. They want to say good-bye.” I ran to the door. Before I opened it, I called, “Hello?” (In New York, you can’t be too careful.)
“It’s us! It’s us!” shouted Henry’s voice.
I let the Walkers inside while Laine and my parents gathered in the living room.
“Stacey?” Grace whispered. She was hugging my legs and leaning back to look up at me.
“Yes?” I whispered back.
“Henry and I brought you presents.”
Henry handed me a gift-wrapped package and so did Grace.
“Gosh,” I said, sitting down on the couch between the kids, “I feel like it’s my birthday or something. Which one should I open first?”
“Mine!” said Henry and Grace at the same time.
Everyone laughed. Then Mom asked Mr. and Mrs. Walker to sit down and she brought the lox and bagels out from the kitchen. While the adults ate, I tried to open both packages at the same time. I managed to do so by taking the ribbon off one, then the ribbon off the other, peeling the tape off one, then the tape off the other, and so on, until both presents were open.
Before me lay two pictures, one by Grace, one by Henry, only they had been professionally matted and framed.
“The framing is Mrs. Walker’s and my gift to you,” spoke up Mr. Walker.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll put these up in my new bedroom.”
The Walkers stayed until the movers arrived, and then it was time to say good-bye. “Oh, I am going to miss you so much,” I told Henry and Grace. “You, too,” I said to their parents. Then we began hugging. (I cried, of course, and so did Grace, but only because she tripped over Henry’s sneaker.)
The next couple of hours were chaos. The Walkers and the movers ran into each other in the hallway, and Grace tripped again. There was one moving company, but two moving vans — one for Dad, one for Mom and me. I was sure our stuff would get mixed up. (It didn’t.)
All morning, the only words I heard were, “Van one,” and “Van two,” as the head mover told his men where to put our furniture and boxes.
Mom and Dad had three fights, all over matters I thought they’d already settled. The first was over who got the leather couch. (Mom won.) The second was over who got this pathetic old footstool that both my parents seem to love. (Dad won.) The third was over who got the cordless phone. (Mom won again. This was because Mom had also gotten the car, and
to make up for it, Dad had gotten the microwave, the stereo, and two valuable paintings. But this did not seem like a fair trade, considering the poor condition of our station wagon. However, Mom and Dad didn’t fight fair anymore, so I was the one who made the decision about the cordless phone.)
At long last, the vans and our car were loaded up. Laine had stayed for the whole morning, through the fights and everything. She was with us when Dad locked up our empty apartment, when we whizzed down to the lobby for the last time, when Dad handed our keys to Isaac, and when the vans pulled into the traffic. She waited (but stood at a discreet distance) while I said good-bye to Dad. Which, I might add, was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.
Dad and I didn’t cry, though. We’d already cried enough. We just held each other for a long time. Finally my father patted my back and said, “I’ll see you in two weeks, honey.” (I was going to visit him for the weekend.) Then he turned away from me, hailed a cab, called “Good-bye!” and was gone.
Mom climbed into our car.
Laine and I were left facing each other on the sidewalk.
“I’m not sure I made the right decision,” I said.
“I am,” Laine replied. “I saw your list.”
I nodded. “I guess I’ll see you in two weeks, too.”
“Are you kidding? Of course you will. You better see me every time you come to New York.”
Laine sounded very cheerful, but her lower lip was trembling, so we just hugged quickly, and then I climbed into the car next to Mom.
“ ’Bye, Mrs. McGill,” said Laine.
“ ’Bye, Laine,” Mom replied.
We drove off.
Neither Mom nor I said a word until we’d left the city.
The drive to Stoneybrook takes about two hours. It was at least an hour and a half before I began to feel even a smidge like a human again. For one thing, Mom said then, “Open my purse, Stacey. There’s something in there for you from Laine.”
“There is?” I replied. I reached into Mom’s pocketbook and pulled out an envelope.
I held it for so long that Mom finally said, “Open it before I have an accident. I’m dying of curiosity!”