Just as Long as We're Together

Just as Long as We're Together - Blume, Judy.

1.

Hunks.

"Stephanie is into hunks," my mother said to my aunt on Sunday afternoon. They were in the kitchen making potato salad and I was stretched out on the grass in our yard, reading. But the kitchen window was wide open so I could hear every word my mother and aunt were saying. I wasn't paying much attention though, until I heard my name.

At first I wasn't sure what my mother meant by Stephanie is into hunks, but I got the message when she added, "She's taped a poster of Richard Gere on the ceiling above her bed. She says she likes to look up at him while she's trying to fall asleep at night."

"Oh-oh," Aunt Denise said. "You'd better have a talk with her."

"She already knows about the birds and the bees," Mom said.

"Yes, but what does she know about boys?" Aunt Denise asked.

It so happens I know plenty about boys. As for hunks, I've never known one personally. Most boys my age-and I'm starting seventh grade in two weeks-are babies. As for my Richard Gere poster, I didn't even know he was famous when I bought it. I got it on sale. The picture must have been taken a long time ago because he looks young, around seventeen. He was really cute back then. I love the expression on his face, kind of a half-smile, as if he's sharing a secret with me.

Actually, I don't call him Richard Gere. I call him Benjamin but my mother doesn't know that. To her he's some famous actor. To me, he's Benjamin Moore, he's seventeen and he's my first boyfriend. I love that name-Benjamin Moore. I got it off a paint can. We moved over the summer and for weeks our new house reeked of paint. While my room was being done I slept in my brother's room. His name is Bruce and he's ten. I didn't get a good night's sleep all that week because Bruce has nightmares.

Anyway, as soon as the painters were out of

my room I moved back in and taped up my posters. I have nineteen of them, not counting Benjamin Moore. And he's the only one on the ceiling. It took me all day to arrange my posters in just the right way and that night, as soon as my mother got home from work, I called her up to see them.

"Oh, Stephanie!" she said. "You should have used tacks, not tape. Tape pulls the paint off the walls."

"No, it doesn't," I said.

"Yes, it does."

"Look . . . I'll prove it to you," I said, taking down a poster of a lion with her cubs. But my mother was right. The tape did pull chips of paint off the wall. "I guess I better not move my posters around," I said.

"I guess not," Mom said. "We'll have to ask the painters to touch up that wall."

I felt kind of bad then and I guess Mom could tell because she said, "Your posters do look nice though. You've arranged them very artistically. Especially the one over your bed."

2.

Rachel

"I can't believe this room!" my best friend, Rachel Robinson, said. She came over the second she got home from music camp. We shrieked when we saw each other. Dad says he doesn't understand why girls have to shriek like that. There's no way I can explain it to him.

Rachel must have grown another two inches over the summer because when Mom hugged her, Rachel was taller. She'll probably be the tallest girl in seventh grade.

"I've never seen so many posters!" Rachel stood in the middle of my room, shaking her head. When she noticed Benjamin Moore she asked, "How come that one's on your ceiling?"

"Lie down," I said.

"Not now."

"Yes, now. . ." I pushed her toward the bed. "It's the only way you can really see him."

Rachel shoved an armload of stuffed animals out of the way and lay down.

I flopped beside her. "Isn't he cute?" "Yeah . . . he is."

"My mother calls him a hunk." Rachel laughed.

"You know what I call him?" "What?"

"Benjamin Moore."

"Benjamin Moore. . ." Rachel said, propping herself up on one elbow. "Isn't that a brand of paint?"

"Yes, but I love the name."

Rachel tossed a stuffed monkey at me. "You are so bizarre, Steph!"

I knew she meant that as a compliment. "Is that the bee-sting necklace?" Rachel asked, reaching over to touch the locket around my neck. As she did, her hair, which is curly and reddish-brown, brushed against my arm. "Can 1 see how it works?"

"Sure."

I stepped on a bee in July while I was at Girl Scout camp and had an allergic reaction to its

sting. The camp nurse had to revive me because I went into shock. The doctor said from now on I've got to carry pills with me in case I get stung again. They're small and blue. I hope I never have to take them. I'm not the greatest at swallowing pills. When I got back from camp, Gran Lola, my grandmother, gave me this necklace. I'd written all about it to Rachel.

I opened the small gold heart. "See. . ." I said, showing it to her, "instead of a place for a picture inside there's room for three pills."

Rachel touched them. "What did it feel like to be in shock?"

"I don't remember. I think I felt dizzy . then everything went black."

"Promise you'll always wear the necklace," Rachel said, "just in case."

"I promise."

"Good." She closed the heart. "Now. . . what about those cartons?" she asked, pointing across the room. "When are you going to unpack them?"

"Soon."

"I'll help you do it now."

"That's okay," I told her.

"You've got to get organized before school starts, Steph." She crossed the room and kneeled in front of the biggest carton. "Books!" she said. "You want to arrange them by subject or author?"

"This isn't a library," 1 said, "it's a bedroom."

"I know.. . but as long as we're doing it we might as well do it right."

"1 don't need to have my books arranged in any special order," I said.

"But how will you find them?"

"I recognize them by their color."

Rachel laughed. "You're hopeless!"

Later, I walked Rachel home. It's funny, because when I first heard we were going to move I cried my eyes out. Then, when my parents told me we were moving to Paifrey's Pond, I couldn't believe how lucky I was, since that's where Rachel lives. Now, besides being best friends we'll also be neighbors. And moving just a few blocks away really isn't like moving at all. I think the only reason we moved is that our house needed a new roof and Mom and Dad just about passed out when they learned what it would cost.

The houses at Palfrey's Pond are scattered all around, not lined up in a row like on a regular street. They're supposed to look old, like the houses in a colonial village. Rachel's is on the other side of the pond. When we got there she said, "Now I'll walk you home."

I looked at her and we both laughed.

When we got back to my house I said, "Now I'll walk you."

Then Rachel walked me home.

Then I walked her.

Then she walked me.

We managed to walk each other home nine times before Mom called me inside.

3.

Alison

The day before school started was hot and still. I was hanging out by the pond, dipping my feet into the water. That's when I first saw the girl. She was crouching by the tree with the big hole in it. I figured she was trying to get a look at the raccoon family that lives inside. I've never seen them myself, but my brother has.

I shook the water off my feet, put on my sandals, and walked over to her. She looked about Bruce's age. Her red and white striped T-shirt came down to her knees. Probably it belonged to her father. Her hair was long. She hadn't brushed it that day. I could tell by her crooked part and the tangles at the ends. I guess

she wasn't worried about stepping on a bee because she was barefoot.

She had a small dog with her, the kind that has fur hanging over its eyes. As soon as I came close the dog started to bark.

"Be quiet, Maizie," the girl said. Then she turned to me. "Hi. . . I'm Alison. We just moved in. You probably didn't notice because we didn't have a moving van. We're renting Number 25."

"I'm Stephanie," I said. "I live here, too. Number 9."

Alison stood up and brushed off her hands. She reached under her T-shirt, into the pocket of her shorts, and pulled out a card. I was really surprised because I got one just like it last week. On the front it said, Looking forward . . . And inside it said, to meeting you next Thursday. It was signed Natalie Remo, seventh grade homeroom teacher, Room 203.

"What do you know about Mrs. Remo?" Alison asked. "Because that's who I've got for homeroom."

I guess she could tell I was surprised. She said, "You probably thought I was younger. Everyone does since I'm so small. But I'm going to be thirteen in April."

I didn't tell her I'd thought she was Bruce's age. Instead I said, "I'll be thirteen in February." I didn't mention the date either-February 2-

Ground Hog Day. "I'm in Mrs. Remo's homeroom, too. She sent me the same card."

"Oh," Alison said. "I thought she sent it to me because I'm new. I'm from Los Angeles."

"My father's there now, on business," I told her. He's been there since the beginning of August, ever since we moved. I don't know how long he's going to be away this time. Once he had to go to Japan for six weeks.

Maizie, the dog, barked. Alison kneeled next to her. "What'd you say, Maizie?" she asked, pressing her ear right up to Maizie's mouth.

Maizie made a couple of sounds and Alison nodded, then giggled. "Oh, come on, Maizie," she said, as if she were talking to her dog. Then Alison looked up at me. "Maizie is such a character! She told me to tell you she's glad we're in the same homeroom because she was worried about me not knowing anyone in my new school."

"Your dog told you that?"

"Yes," Alison said. "But look . . . I'd really appreciate it if you didn't say anything about it. Once people find out your dog can talk, forget

it.
  
In L.A. there were always reporters and photographers following us around. We're trying to avoid the same kind of publicity here."

"You mean," I said, "that your dog actually talks. . . like Mr. Ed, that talking horse who used to be on TV?"

"That horse didn't really talk," Alison said, as if I didn't know.

"Well," I said, scratching the mosquito bite on my leg, "exactly how does Maizie talk? I mean, does she talk in human words or what?"

"Of course she talks in words," Alison said. "But she doesn't speak perfect English because English isn't her first language. It's hard for a dog to learn other languages."

"What's her first language?" I asked.

"French."

"Oh," I said, "French." Now this was getting really good. "I'm taking Introduction to French this year."

"I'm taking Introduction to Spanish," Alison said. "I already speak French. I lived outside of Paris until I was six."

"I thought you were Chinese or something," I said.

"I'm Vietnamese," Alison said. "I'm adopted. My mother's American but she was married to Pierre Monceau when they adopted me. He's French. Mom came to the States after they got divorced. That's when she met Leon. He's my stepfather."

I absolutely love to hear the details of other peoples' lives! So I sat down beside Alison, hoping she would tell me more. Bruce says I'm nosey.

But that's not true. I've discovered, though, that you can't ask too many questions when you first meet people or they'll get the wrong idea. They may not understand that you're just very curious and accuse you of butting into their private business instead.

Alison fiddled with a twig, running it across Maizie's back. I didn't ask her any of the questions that were already forming in my mind. Instead I said, "Would your dog talk to me?"

"Maybe . . . if she's in the mood."

I cleared my throat. "Hi, Maizie," I said, as if I were talking to a little kid. "I'm your new neighbor, Stephanie Hirsch."

Maizie cocked her head at me as if she were actually listening. Her tiny bottom teeth stuck out, the opposite of mine. My top teeth stuck out before I got my braces. The orthodontist says I have an overbite. That would mean Maizie has an underbite.

"What kind of dog are you," I asked, patting her back. Her fur felt sticky, as if she'd been rolling in syrup.

"She's a mixture," Alison said. "We don't know anything about her parents so we don't know if they could talk or not. Probably not. Only one in seventeen million dogs can talk."

"One in seventeen million?"

"Yes. That's what the vet told us. It's extremely rare. Maizie is probably the only talking dog in all of Connecticut."

"Well," I said. "I can't wait for Rachel to meet Maizie."

"Who's Rachel?" Alison asked.

"She's my best friend."

"Oh, you have a best friend."

"She lives here, too. Number 16. She's really smart. She's never had less than an A in school." I stood up. "I have to go home now. But I'll see you tomorrow. The junior high bus stops in front of the lodge. That's the building down by the road. It's supposed to come at ten to eight."

"I know," Alison said. "I got a notice in the mail." She stood up too. "Do you wear jeans or skirts to school here?"

"Either," I said.

"What about shoes?"

I looked at Alison's bare feet. "Yes," I said, "you have to wear them."

"I mean what kind of shoes. . . running shoes or sandals or what?"

"Most of the kids here wear topsiders."

"Topsiders are so preppy," Alison said.

"You don't have to wear them," I told her. "You can wear whatever you want."

"Good," Alison said. "I will."

Rachel's Room.

"Dogs can't talk," Rachel said that night, when I told her about Alison and Maizie.

I was sitting on Rachel's bed. Her cats, Burt and Harry, were nestled against my legs, purring. They're named after some beer commercial from Rachel's parents' youth.

Rachel was going through her closet, pulling out clothes that don't fit anymore. In her closet everything faces the same way and hangs on white plastic hangers.

In my closet nothing is in order. Last year Rachel tried to organize it for me. But a week later it was all a mess again and she was disappointed.