BFF*

by Judy Blume

  I’m glad you mentioned that, Mom, Peter would say. From now on I’ll keep a look-out for anything red on the back of her pants.

  That’s very thoughtful of you, Peter, Dr. Klaff would say. So many boys your age act foolish about menstruation. Here, have some more bread.

  I must have had a strange expression on my face because Peter said, “What?”

  “Nothing …” I said. “I was just wondering if your mother talks about her patients at home … like when you’re sitting around the dinner table?”

  “Nah … she talks about the Mets. She’s a baseball fanatic.”

  “What about when baseball season’s over … like now?”

  “Movies,” Peter said. “She’s a movie fanatic, too.”

  “Oh …” I felt relieved. “I thought maybe she talks about diseases and stuff like that.”

  “Hardly ever,” Peter said.

  This was definitely the longest conversation we’d ever had. And I didn’t want it to end yet. So I said, “Do you use apple shampoo?”

  “Yeah … how did you know?”

  “I can smell it,” I said. “It smells nice.”

  He came even closer to me, stood on tiptoe, and sniffed my hair. “Yours smells nice, too. Like uh …”

  “Almonds,” I told him.

  “Yeah … like almonds.”

  The next morning, when I got to homeroom, I found a small plastic bottle on my desk. On the side there was a picture of an apple. I opened it and sniffed what was inside. Apple shampoo! I looked over at Peter Klaff. We smiled at each other and I put the bottle in my bag. This was the first gift I’d ever had from a boy. I was glad Alison was busy talking to Miri Levine and that neither one of them had noticed the private look Peter and I shared.

  The following morning Mrs. Remo was late getting to homeroom. While we were waiting to see if we’d have a substitute, Eric Macaulay told us a gross joke. Alison threw her shoe at him and said, “That is the sleaziest joke I’ve ever heard!”

  Just as her shoe hit Eric’s head Mrs. Remo came into the room.

  “Really!” Mrs. Remo said. “This is not the kind of behavior I expect from my homeroom when I’m late. Alison and Stephanie … you can both report to me after school this afternoon.”

  I was shocked. First of all, I hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Second of all, I’d never seen Mrs. Remo in such a bad mood.

  We told Rachel about it at lunch. She couldn’t believe it either. “Just because you threw your shoe at him?” she asked Alison.

  “Yes,” Alison said.

  Then I said, “And when Alison tried to explain that I didn’t have anything to do with it, Mrs. Remo said, Maybe next time you’ll think before you act. Now what does that have to do with anything?” I asked Rachel. “I mean, does that make any sense to you?”

  “No,” Rachel said.

  “She’s been acting that way since we came back from Thanksgiving,” Alison said.

  “Maybe she didn’t have a good holiday,” Rachel suggested.

  “Probably plenty of people didn’t have a good holiday,” Alison said.

  I didn’t say anything. I just unwrapped my lunch and started to eat.

  On Thursday night I was in the pantry with the phone, talking to Alison and finishing off a bag of oatmeal cookies. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. I picked it up, expecting Rachel or maybe Alison, who sometimes forgets to tell me something and has to call back. But it was Peter Klaff. He asked for our math assignment. I gave it to him. Then he said, “Thank you very much,” and he hung up.

  I couldn’t believe it. Peter Klaff calling me! How come he didn’t ask his sister, Kara, for the assignment? She’s also in our math class. There must have been more to his call than math.

  Later, Dad called, but I refused to speak to him. “Tell him I’m in the shower,” I said to Bruce.

  Before I went to sleep I did take a shower. And I washed my hair with Peter Klaff’s apple shampoo. When I got into bed I looked up at Benjamin Moore. Peter’s not a hunk, like Benjamin. And he’s not as sexy as Jeremy Dragon. But for a seventh grade boy, he’s okay. I think I might decide to like him.

  The Sharing Season

  The symphonic band is playing for the Christmas-Hanukkah show. It’s an original musical called The Sharing Season, about a modern couple named Mary and Joe who come from different religious backgrounds. They want their kids to understand and respect both holidays so they take turns telling them about Christmas and Hanukkah.

  Dana Carpenter is playing Mary and Jeremy Dragon is playing Joe so I’m very glad I’m in symphonic band. On the first day of rehearsals I couldn’t take my eyes off Jeremy. That’s why I missed my cue and Ms. Lopez had to stop the symphonic band. “We should have had a drum roll there,” she said. “Let’s try to stay awake on the snare drum, please.” I was so embarrassed!

  After a week of rehearsals Dana and Jeremy started acting as if they really were Mary and Joe. Instead of hanging out in the back of the school bus with his friends, Jeremy sat up front with Dana now. And in the halls at school they held hands and looked at each other like sick dogs. I wondered if she knew he had hairy legs.

  I was so busy at school I didn’t have time to think about my parents. But sometimes, when I least expected it, I’d get a gnawing pain in my stomach or my leg would start twitching. That’s what happened in the locker room today, while we were getting changed for gym. I sat down on the bench and rubbed my leg.

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Rachel stepped into her gym shorts and tucked her shirt inside. “Maybe you’re getting your period.”

  “What does my leg have to do with getting my period?”

  Alison didn’t wait for Rachel to answer. “How come you never tell me I’m getting my period?” she asked Rachel.

  “Steph is more developed than you,” Rachel said.

  “I’ve been eating a lot of bananas,” Alison said.

  “Bananas?” Rachel repeated.

  “I heard bananas put weight on you fast,” Alison said. “And if I gain weight maybe I’ll grow on top … and if I grow on top …”

  “How old was your mother when she got it?” Rachel asked.

  “Gena was twelve,” Alison said.

  “Because these things are basically inherited,” Rachel continued.

  “Oh …” Alison said. “I have no idea how old my biological mother was.”

  “But she must have had it by the time she was fifteen,” I told Alison, “because that’s when she had you … right?”

  Alison nodded.

  I stood up. My leg had stopped twitching.

  “I still think you’re getting your period,” Rachel said.

  “I promise when I do you’ll be the first to know.”

  “What about me?” Alison asked.

  “You’ll be the first two to know … okay?”

  “Okay,” they both said.

  On Saturday afternoon the three of us were at Rachel’s, discussing Dana and Jeremy.

  “It’s obvious they’re in love,” Alison said.

  “If he has to be in love with a ninth grade girl I’m glad it’s Dana,” I said.

  “Me too,” Rachel added. “At least she’s smart.”

  “Yes, but I wish she’d stop humming under her breath at the bus stop.” I stretched out on the floor with a bag of potato chips.

  “No crumbs, please,” Rachel said.

  “You’re so fusty!” I learned that word from her.

  “I think you mean fussy,” Rachel said, “because fusty means either musty or old-fashioned.”

  “Then you’re fussy,” I said, shoveling the chips into my mouth.

  “Better to be fussy than slovenly,” Rachel said.

  “I’m not exactly slovenly,” I said. “I’m just not as perfect as you.”

  “I’m not perfect,” Rachel said. “I’m just organized.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being half as organized,” Aliso
n said. She circled the room, running her hand over the row of framed pictures on Rachel’s dresser, the tray of miniature perfume bottles, the collection of painted jars and boxes.

  Sometimes, when Alison is at Rachel’s she’ll stare at the clothes in her closet, admiring the way everything faces the same direction. “I’ll bet you never have trouble finding anything,” she’ll say.

  “Never,” Rachel will answer.

  Alison ran her hand across the books on Rachel’s shelves, arranged in alphabetical order by the author’s last name. “Oh … I read this one,” she said, taking down a copy of Life With Father. “It was funny.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but if it were written today it would probably be called Life Without Father.” I forced a laugh at my own joke. Rachel and Alison looked at me. “I mean,” I said, trying to explain, “so many fathers have to travel for their jobs.”

  Alison nodded. “I’m so glad Leon doesn’t have to travel.” She put the book back on the shelf. “Speaking of travels … we’re going back to our house in California for Christmas.”

  “Really?” I said. “My father wants us to come out over Christmas, too.”

  “Maybe you can visit me in Malibu,” Alison said.

  “You’re both going to be gone over Christmas?” Rachel asked. “You’re both deserting me?”

  “Stacey Green will be around, won’t she?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rachel said. “She’s not the same kind of friend as you. She’s a music friend, that’s all.”

  “But she slept over last weekend, didn’t she?” I asked.

  “Yes, because we had rehearsals for All-State.”

  “It’s just for two weeks,” Alison told her.

  “Two weeks!” Rachel cried. “Did you know that Christmas vacation is the time when more people get seriously depressed than any other time of the year? And it’s because they have no one special to share their holidays!” Her voice broke.

  No one spoke for a minute, then Alison said, “I’m going to ask my mom if you can come to Malibu with us.”

  “I couldn’t possibly leave my family at holiday time,” Rachel told her. “They need me.” Then she made a small noise, almost like a yelp, and ran out of the room, hands over her face. We heard the door to the bathroom close and lock. Then we heard Rachel crying.

  Alison and I looked at each other. “She’s very sensitive, isn’t she?”

  “Yes … and it was really nice of you to invite her,” I said.

  “Even so … I feel bad. I shouldn’t have said anything about you visiting me in Malibu.”

  “She’ll be okay.”

  “I hope so.”

  Mom isn’t coming to L.A. with Bruce and me. She’s going to Venice, Italy. She says it will be hard to be away from us but she’s always wanted to see Venice and this is the perfect opportunity because a group of travel agents are going together. She seems excited about her trip, a lot more excited than I am about mine.

  I haven’t talked to Dad on the phone since Thanksgiving. I get tense when he calls. I always ask Bruce to make excuses for me. But when the phone rang on Sunday night I answered without thinking and it was him.

  “You’ve certainly been busy lately,” he said.

  “Yes.” My palms were sweaty. I reminded myself that this was my father. There was no reason to panic just because he was on the other end of the phone.

  “How’s the weather?” he asked.

  “Sunny but very cold.”

  “What are you doing in school?”

  “Rehearsing for the holiday show. Too bad you won’t be here to see it.”

  “I wish I could be.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Stephanie …”

  “I really have to go now,” I told him. “I’ll get Bruce.”

  Mom came to my room later. I was lying on my bed, staring up at Benjamin Moore. “I overheard part of your conversation with Dad,” she said, “and I think I should set the record straight. You’re blaming him for something that’s not entirely his fault.”

  “I thought you said it was all his idea.”

  “Going to California … yes. But I wanted this separation, too. I just wasn’t willing to initiate it. Dad forced it out into the open. Probably, in the long run, that’s good.”

  “I’m glad you both like the idea so much!”

  The next night, when Mom came home from work, she dropped a bag on my bed. “I was passing the sports store and they were having a special on Speedo bathing suits. I thought you might need one for L.A.”

  I think Mom’s noticed that I’ve gained weight. I’ve been using a safety pin to hold my jeans together and wearing big shirts over them to hide the evidence. My gym shorts are getting tight but they have an elastic waistband so I can still squeeze into them.

  I tried on the bathing suit. It was blue, with a diagonal white stripe. I looked terrible in it. I looked fat.

  The Sharing Season was a big success. Mom and Bruce came to the evening performance and after it, Rachel and Alison came back to our house. It was our last chance to exchange holiday presents before vacation began. Our gifts to each other all turned out to be purple. We hadn’t planned it that way. It just happened. I guess it’s because purple is our favorite color.

  I gave Alison and Rachel sets of barrettes, hand-painted with little purple flowers. Rachel gave us each purple T-shirts that said FRIENDS and Alison gave us purple leather picture frames. Inside was a photo of the three of us, plus Maizie, Burt and Harry. Leon had taken the picture right before Thanksgiving. We’d had to carry Burt and Harry to Alison’s in their cage, the one the Robinsons use to take them to the vet. In the picture we’re sitting on Alison’s bed, laughing our heads off. Alison is holding Maizie, Rachel is holding Burt and I’m holding Harry, who is trying to escape. It’s a great picture.

  But when Rachel looked at it she started to cry. “I’m going to die of loneliness without the two of you!” That got Alison started and a minute later, I was in tears, too.

  Finally Mom came to my room and asked if everything was all right. We explained that it was and Mom asked if we’d like a pizza. Of course we said “Yes.”

  While we were waiting I taught Rachel and Alison a song I’d learned at camp. It’s called Side by Side. The part I like best goes:

  Through all kinds of weather

  What if the sky should fall

  Just as long as we’re together

  It doesn’t matter at all

  We sang it about twenty times, until we were laughing so hard we had to stop.

  Iris

  Dear Rachel,

  Well, here I am in sunny California! It’s so weird here! It smells like summer but there are Christmas decorations everywhere. You can sit on the deck of Dad’s apartment and watch the volleyball games on the beach. And there’s a marina with hundreds of boats just a block away. Bruce likes to hang out there with his new friend, Shirley. Shirley is visiting her father, who’s divorced. She’s ten, same as Bruce. I’m glad Bruce has found a friend here because now I am free to do whatever I want and there’s just so much to do …

  I went on for three pages in my letter to Rachel but I didn’t tell her the real truth except for the description of Dad’s place. I didn’t tell her how unhappy I was feeling or how homesick, or how Bruce has been having nightmares. We were sleeping next to each other on rollaway beds in the living room. So every night I’d get up with him and comfort him until he fell back to sleep.

  I didn’t tell Rachel that it wasn’t always sunny here, that sometimes it was damp and foggy and the ocean was freezing and nobody in his right mind would get wet. I didn’t tell her that Mom wasn’t with us. And I certainly didn’t tell her about Iris.

  Iris is Dad’s friend. That’s how he’d introduced her to us on our first night in California. “Kids … this is my friend, Iris. She lives down the hall. We met in the laundry room.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Iris said.

  “I haven�
�t heard a word about you,” I answered.

  Before we went out to dinner that night Dad looked me over and said, “Wow, Steph … you’ve really been putting it on.”

  I was hoping he would add something else. Something like, But you still look great to me! When he didn’t, I said, “I haven’t gained an ounce. You’ve just forgotten what I look like.”

  Then Iris said, “Maybe you could come to exercise class with me. I go every day at four.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Dad said.

  “I have other plans,” I told them both. Right away I could tell it was going to be a long two weeks.

  I suppose it could be worse. Iris could look like one of those girls on the beach who are always playing volleyball. They’re tall and tan and skinny with long blonde hair and they say Hi as if it’s a six syllable word. But Iris is small with short dark hair and pale, creamy skin. She isn’t even young. She’s thirty-six. She’s divorced but she doesn’t have any kids. I knew from the start that Dad and Iris weren’t just friends. I knew from the way they looked at each other—the same way Dana and Jeremy do—like sick dogs.

  Iris works for an entertainment agency. Her job is finding books that would make good movies. It sounds like a really easy job to me. All she has to do is read. But over the holidays she was reading at home instead of at the office. Except home seemed to mean Dad’s place. After a couple of days I’d asked Dad, “Doesn’t Iris have any other friends?”

  “Sure,” Dad said. He was also taking time off from the office.

  “Then how come she’s always hanging around here?”

  “I think her other friends are away for the holidays.”

  “What about family?” I asked. “Doesn’t she have any family?”

  “No,” Dad said, “she doesn’t.”

  I thought about what Rachel had told us. About how people can get very depressed during the holidays if they don’t have friends or family. So I didn’t say anything else about Iris hanging around. Not then, anyway.

  I decided the only way to get through the two weeks was by telling Dad I had a lot of school work to do. “Tons of reading,” is how I put it. Dad and Iris were impressed, which meant they left me alone.