BFF* (40 page)

All through dinner Charles didn't make one rude remark.
Not one
. He ate heartily, complimenting us on the food, telling Dad he didn't look a day older than forty-five. He told charming stories about birthday parties he remembered. But I couldn't help noticing there were just three wrapped gifts on the table, not four. And I wondered how Charles would feel when Dad opened something from each of us, but not from him.

After the main course Charles insisted on helping
Jess and me clear the dishes. He even scraped the bread crumbs off the table like a waiter in an elegant restaurant. He asked if there was anything else he could do.

Jessica almost fainted. “I think that's about it,” she said, lighting the candles on the cake.

“Wait!” Charles called, as we were about to carry it in. “This is the stuff family memories are made of.” While he ran out of the room, trying to find the camera, Jess and I looked at each other. We didn't know what to think.

Charles snapped away on our Polaroid as we sang “Happy Birthday.” It took three tries for Dad to get all forty-eight candles out. Then Jess moved the cake to the center of the table and we took our seats to watch Dad open his presents.

Jess gave him a book. She'd showed it to me earlier.

“What do you think?” she'd asked.

“The Pencil?”
I said, leafing through it, amazed that anyone had written such a book. It was four hundred pages long.

“Look at the subtitle,” she said.
“A History of Design and Circumstance
. You know Dad loves anything having to do with history.”

And now, as Dad opened it, he seemed really pleased. “I've been meaning to check this out of the library,” he told Jess. “Thank you, honey.”

I gave Dad a snow globe. Inside is a tiny skier perched on a hill. Dad loves to ski. The second it snows, he straps on his cross-country skis and off he goes, around Palfrey's Pond, through the woods, even on the roads before they're plowed. One winter he got a pair of snowshoes and tried walking to school in them.

Dad turned the snow globe upside down and shook, then watched as snow fell on the little skier. “Thank you, Rachel,” Dad said quietly. “I love it. It'll keep me going till next winter.”

I knew he really meant it. With Mom it's a lot harder. She doesn't like most things that other people choose for her. That's why Jess and I always decide on something from the two of us. Like the Mother's Day subscription to that magazine. The sample copy is still on her bedside table. I wonder if she's ever actually looked at the pictures inside.

Then Dad opened the final box, from Mom, which held an envelope with two tickets to a concert at Carnegie Hall this coming Saturday night. Music is Dad's thing, not Mom's, but she tries for him. They smiled across the table at each other.

“Well,” Mom said, “shall we cut the cake?”

“Wait!” Charles pushed back his chair. “I haven't given Dad my gift yet.” He stood up and cleared his throat. “Dad …” he began, then paused to clear his
throat again. “Dad … on this night, on the anniversary of your forty-seventh birthday, I give to you the gift of living history.” He paused and looked at each of us. “I give you back your roots.” He paused again. “From this night and forevermore …”

What was he up to this time?

“From this night,” he continued, “I will proudly carry forth the name of our ancestors … from this night I will be known as Charles Stefan
Rybczynski.”

There was a deadly silence at the table. And then Jessica blurted out exactly what I was thinking. “You mean you're changing your last name from Robinson to Ryb-something?”

“I'm not changing it, Jess,” Charles explained. “I'm reclaiming my true name … 
our
true name.”

Dad had a false smile on his face. “Well …” he began.

But Mom interrupted. “Are you contemplating a legal name change?” she asked Charles.

“Mom … Mom …” Charles shook his head. “Ever the lawyer. Does it really matter whether or not I go through the formalities of changing my name?”

“Yes,” Mom said, “it does.”

Charles pulled a document out of his back pocket and unfolded it carefully. He spread it out in front of Dad. “I'll need your signature,” he said, “since I'm under eighteen. But I told my lawyer that wouldn't be a problem.”

“Your lawyer?” Mom asked.

“Yes,” Charles said. “My lawyer … Henry Simon.”

“You went to see Henry without discussing it with us?” Henry Simon is an old family friend. He went to law school with Mom and Dad. He practices in town.

“Don't worry,” Charles said. “I set up an appointment. I wore a nice shirt.”

“You had no—” Mom began.

“I explained it was a surprise,” Charles said. “And Henry … Mr. Simon, that is … promised he wouldn't say anything. He didn't, did he?”

“No,” Mom said. “I wish he had.”

“Poor Mom,” Charles said. “You're feeling left out, aren't you? But you can do it, too. You can become
Judge Rybczynski
. It's easy.” He looked around the table. “You can all become
Rybczynskis.”

“No thanks!” Jess said. “Can you imagine your children trying to print that name in first grade?”

I laughed. I couldn't help myself.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Charles said, which made Dad laugh, too.

“Well, Charles …” Dad finally said, “it's a mouthful to say and a bitch to spell ….”

Charles handed him a pen, but before Dad could sign his name Mom said, “Victor … don't you think you should sleep on it?”

“What for?” Dad asked. “If Charles wants the family name, it's his.” Dad signed his name to the documents,
then sat back in his seat. “You know … I remember my grandfather telling me a story about the day he got to Ellis Island. The officials couldn't say his name, let alone spell it. My grandparents didn't speak a word of English but they understood what was happening. And they were all for it. A new country. A new life. A new name. I wonder what they'd think if they were here tonight?”

“I think they'd be honored,” Charles said.

“You could be right,” Dad told him.

Mom picked up the cake knife. “I guess it's time for dessert,” she said, cutting into the cake as if she were trying to kill it.

L
ater I overheard Mom and Dad in the kitchen. “We're talking about a name that's going to follow him the rest of his life,” Mom said.

“Maybe … maybe not,” Dad told her. “And either way I still think it was better to sign, without making it into a production.”

“You actually
like
the idea, don't you?”

“There's a certain strength to a name like that,” Dad admitted.

“Well, I hate the whole thing! It's just one more way for him to separate himself from the rest of the family.”

“He's testing us … you know that.”

“I'm tired of being tested!” Mom said. “I'm tired
of him manipulating us. And I hate what this is doing to the girls.”

I stood with my back against the wall right outside the kitchen. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure they could hear it.

“Sometimes I feel …” Mom continued. “Sometimes I feel such anger toward him I scare myself. Then I remember what a sweet, clever baby he was.” Her voice broke. “If I didn't have those memories to fall back on, I don't think I could tolerate another day of his mischief.”

“Nell … honey …”

I sneaked a look into the kitchen. Dad was holding Mom in his arms. I backed away as quietly as possible, right into Charles, who jabbed me in the sides with his fingers, making me cry out.

“What?” Dad asked, rushing into the hall.

“Nothing,” I said.

Charles laughed. “Rachel's very edgy,” he said. “She's worried she won't be able to spell my last name.”

“H
ow do you
spell
that name?” Stephanie said. She and Alison had come over to spend Saturday night.

“R-y-b-c-z-y-n-s-k-i.”

“How do you pronounce it again?” Alison asked, unrolling her sleeping bag and placing it next to Steph's.

“Rib-jin-ski,” I told her.

“That's an incredible name,” Alison said.

“Why would anyone
want
such a long last name?” Steph said. She pulled a stuffed coyote out of her overnight bag. She's slept with that coyote since her father won it for her at a carnival. She says she plans to take it to college with her. She says she plans to take it on her honeymoon if and when she decides to get married.

“You'd have to ask Charles,” I told her.

“Where is he?”

“Stephanie!” I said. “Don't you dare ask him!”

“But you said …”

“She was just kidding,” Alison told Steph. “Right, Rachel?”

“I was definitely not serious!” I said.

“Is Charles home?” Alison asked.

“I believe he's in his room.”

Mom and Dad had left for New York on the 4:30 train. They planned to have dinner at their favorite restaurant before the birthday concert at Carnegie Hall. Mom wore her slinky black dress, the one Jessica
borrowed
for her junior prom. Jess got home from work before they left. “How come you're so dressed up?” she'd asked when she saw Mom.

“It's a benefit,” Mom told her, “for the Legal Defense Fund. There's a party after the concert.”

Jess seemed nervous, especially when Mom looked in the mirror and said, “I don't know. There's something about this dress. Does it look odd to you, Victor?”

“It looks great!” Dad said. Obviously no one had told him what Jess wore to the prom.

Mom sniffed herself. “It doesn't smell like my perfume,” she said.

“Whose could it possibly be?” Jessica asked, sounding defensive.

“I've no idea,” Mom said. “Something just doesn't feel right.”

“It shouldn't feel any different than it always feels,” Jessica said. I shot her a look, hoping she'd shut up about Mom's dress, but she didn't. “It shouldn't feel any different than when you wore it to that benefit for the homeless.”

“Maybe I've gained weight,” Mom said, adjusting the straps.

“You never gain weight,” Jess told her. “It's probably that you're not wearing those dangling earrings.” Jess was talking about the earrings
she
wore to the prom.

“They'd be too much for tonight,” Mom said.

When Mom and Dad finally left, Jessica let out a long sigh. “Do you think she guessed?” Jess asked.

“No, but you were acting so guilty she would have in another minute.”

“I couldn't help myself,” she said. “I didn't mean to say anything but the words just kept pouring out. I should have taken the dress to the cleaners.”

“Mom'll probably send it after tonight. Stop worrying.”

Jess looked at me and laughed. “This must be a first
… you
telling
me
not to worry!”

Later Jess went out with Kristen and Richie. Ed and Marcy have the flu.

A
few minutes before seven, the three of us took our positions at the windows in my room facing Steph's
house. Even though Steph refuses to meet the StairMaster, she is very curious about him.

At five after seven, a red pickup truck pulled up to Steph's. A guy in jeans and a leather jacket got out. A guy with a ponytail. Stephanie inhaled sharply.

“It's probably just a delivery,” Alison told her.

We watched him swagger up to the front door. He wasn't carrying a package. In fact, his hands were in his pockets until he rang the bell. Mrs. Hirsch answered.

“He's probably selling magazines,” Alison said.

Steph didn't say anything.

Mrs. Hirsch was wearing jeans, western boots and a fringed jacket. She linked her arm through his. They laughed as they got into his truck.

“I guess he's not selling magazines,” Alison said.

“I can't believe this!” Steph finally said. “How old do you think he is?”

“Over eighteen,” Alison said.

“Probably thirty,” I said.

“Right,” Alison said, glancing at me. “And they're probably just friends. Younger men and older women make good friends for each other. I read about it in
People
magazine.”

But Stephanie wasn't listening. “And with a ponytail!” she said. “This is so embarrassing!”

If I were a Natural Helper right now, what would I do? I reminded myself of the first steps we learned
at the introductory meeting.
Listen, not just to the spoken but to the unspoken. Be aware of body language
. Right now Steph had her arms folded across her chest. An angry pose, a defiant one.
Be on her side. Offer encouragement and support, but not advice …