Welcome Back, Stacey! (5 page)

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 1 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 school-books. 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, so I could make private calls.
I phoned Laine first. I told her the news flat-out, 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 corning 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.
Chapter 8.
"Good-bye, Mommy! Good-bye, Daddy!" called Henry cheerfully.
" 'Bye, Henry," said the Walkers as they headed for their front door. " 'Bye, Grace," they added.
" 'Bye," said Grace in a small voice. She was sniffling.
As much as Grace likes me, she never likes for her parents to leave. She usually cries.
Friday night was no exception.
I picked Grace up and whispered, "Blow a kiss to your mom and dad. Then they'll blow kisses to you in bed when they come home." "While I'm asleep?" asked Grace, her voice wobbling.
I nodded.
Grace blew noisy kisses after her parents as they closed the door behind them.
"Well," I said, setting Grace down as she dried her tears, "I better start getting supper ready." I was going to be baby-sitting at the Walkers for a long time that evening. Mr. Walker's show was opening, and it was a big event.
"Is it hot-dog night?" asked Henry excitedly. (He knows that his mother leaves only hot dogs or hamburgers for me to prepare if I have to give the kids dinner when I baby-sit.) "It certainly is," I replied.
"Oh, boy!" Henry began to jump up and down. (Grace imitated him.) "What a great night!" Henry went on. "Hot dogs for supper, a special cartoon show on TV, and Mommy bought us new pastels today." That does make for an exciting evening, when you're five.
"Okay," I said, "who's hungry?" "I am! I am!" said Henry.
"I am! I am!" said Grace.
"Good. Let's see. While I fix the hot dogs, you guys can have a table-setting race. I'll time you and tell you how long it takes to set the table." (Just so you know, you can only have a table-setting race when you're using paper plates and cups, and plastic forks and spoons, which is what the Walkers always leave out when a baby-sitter is going to feed the kids.
That way, you don't have to worry about breaking anything.) Grace grabbed some napkins.
Henry grabbed three paper plates.
"Take your marks, get set ... GO!" I shouted.
Henry and Grace scurried back and forth between the counter and the table, working frantically, while I turned the hot dogs in the skillet and got milk and applesauce from the refrigerator.
"We're done! We're done!" Grace shrieked suddenly.
I checked my watch. "What do you know?" I said. "You guys just broke your table-setting record! You beat it by three seconds." "We did?! Oh, boy!" cried Henry.
"Good timing," I added, "because supper is just about ready." I served up the hot dogs and applesauce (not my idea of a great meal, but it was easy to fix) and we sat down to eat.
"Do we have any toothpicks?" asked Henry, as he was about to bite into his hot dog.
"I think so," I replied. "Why?" "You'll see. I can make something." Henry set his hot dog back on his plate and took it out of its bun.
I got up, found a box of toothpicks, and handed it to Henry. Very carefully, he broke several of the toothpicks in half. Then he chopped one end off of his hot dog, stuck four half-toothpicks in the long part, attached the little piece with another half-toothpick, and announced, "Look! I made my hot dog into a dachshund!" "Hey, that's great!" I exclaimed.
Well, of course, Grace had to turn her hot dog into a dachshund, too, before she could eat it, so supper took a little longer than usual that night. By the time we'd finished, the cartoon show was about to begin.
Henry and Grace settled themselves at a table in front of the TV with a stack of drawing paper and their new pastels. One thing I love about the Walker kids - they almost never just park themselves in front of the TV and stare at it. When they turn it on, they work on a project at the same time.
So the kids colored while I cleaned up the kitchen. When their show was over, Grace said, "Could you please read to us, Stacey?" "Sure," I replied. "What do you want to hear?" Henry and Grace have a huge collection of books. That's because Mr. and Mrs. Walker like to read, and also because Mrs. Walker knows a lot about children's books since she illustrates them.
"We want to hear . . . The Snowy Day," said Grace.
"And The Owl and the Pussycat," added Henry.
"Great," I replied. "Pajamas first. And brush your teeth. Then I'll read to you in Grace's room, since she'll be going to bed first." When the kids were ready, we settled ourselves on Grace's bed in a row. I read The Snowy Day first and Henry said he wished New York would get more snow. Grace said she wished the snow would stay white. (In New York, the snow turns slushy gray and brown almost as soon as it falls.) Then we read The Owl and the Pussycat and Grace tried to recite the poem along with me, but she kept getting the words wrong. She called the runcible spoon a "crunchable spoon," and five-pound note a "five-pound goat." She made Henry giggle.