B, My Name Is Bunny

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “We could be mysterious and just sign our initials,” I said. “E. and B. Let him guess. Or maybe our last names. Larrabee and Boots. I like that. It has a ring to it. Do you like it?”

  Emily didn’t answer. I snapped my fingers in her face. “Hello, in there. Don’t mind me. I love talking to myself.”

  Emily frowned. “Sorry, Bunny. I was thinking—”

  “Is that what you call it?” Just another funny, or not so funny, remark. I didn’t mean anything by it. But Emily flushed, her freckles suddenly stood out all over her face, and she got up and took her tray over to the trash bin.

  I went after her. I couldn’t figure out why, all of a sudden, Emily was mad at me. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Why are you mad?”

  She pushed past me toward the door. “I’m not mad, Bunny.”

  “Well, you’re doing a pretty good imitation. What did I do?”

  She looked me right in the face. “Nothing, Bunny. You didn’t do anything. You’re just being yourself. Joke, joke, joke. Ha, ha, ha. Everything is so funny.”

  “Oh, I see. You didn’t like my jokes. Wait, I’ll tell you a few new ones. Did you hear about the half-size aspirin for people with splitting headaches? Or how about the horse at the racetrack who had an itch? When he came up to the post, guess what? He got scratched.”

  “There you go again. Everything is a joke. I don’t know, maybe it’s me. Forget I said anything. It’s just that sometimes your joking gets on my nerves. You know, people can have serious things on their minds and they don’t want to hear jokes all the time.”

  My face must have been as red as my shirt. My neck was hot and my hands got damp. We were standing in the doorway. I just stopped myself from giving the wall a good hard kick. “You make me feel so stupid!” I whispered. I walked out of the cafeteria, down the corridor.

  “Bunny.” Emily was right behind me. “You want to know—”

  “I don’t want to know anything. Just go away. Just stay away from me, so I don’t get on your nerves. Go find somebody serious to be your friend.”

  “Bunny!”

  Ms. Linsley, the science teacher, came toward us. “Hello, girls.”

  “Hello, Ms. Linsley.” We both said it and smiled, as if everything was perfect. We watched her go down the corridor. Neither of us said anything until she was out of earshot.

  Then Emily looked at me and shrugged. “I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she said. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

  “I really noticed that, Emily.”

  “Well, I just lost my temper. Aren’t I allowed to lose my temper?”

  “Lose it as much as you want. Who cares? I don’t!”

  “You don’t mean that, Bunny.”

  “Yes, I do. I guess our friendship has gone on too long. You feel you can be mean to me, say anything you want. You know something? I think you enjoy being mean to me.”

  “No, I don’t! I’m not like that.” Her eyes got big.

  I could tell I had made a direct hit. I was glad. She wasn’t the only one whose feelings could be hurt.

  “Am I like that?” she said. “I’m mean to you? You sound like you hate me. Can we talk about this, Bunny?”

  “Go ahead. Talk. Say anything you want to. You want me to listen? I’ll listen. I listen to you when you talk. I don’t just go off into my own thoughts, because I don’t find you boring! But I can understand that you don’t want to hear anything I have to say, because with me it’s all jokes. Not serious stuff.”

  “Will you shut up for a moment,” Emily said in her quietest voice, “and listen. I’m sorry, Bunny! I just—” She broke off, her lips pressed together, shaking her head. “I don’t know—I don’t know what got into me. I took it out on you. I have something on my mind—” She broke off again. Her face got a watery look.

  I know Emily. She never cries, she holds everything in. Even when her parents told her they were getting a divorce, she didn’t cry. If my parents divorced, I know I’d bawl a bucket of tears. But Emily only gets that watery look on her face. And every time, it gets to me. Did I say the first time I ever saw Emily was in kindergarten and she was crying? I sat down next to her and I thought, Well, I just have to take care of her. I don’t know why I thought that, but ever since then we’ve been best friends.

  “Emily?” I touched her shoulder.

  She bent over the water fountain and took a long drink. “It’s my father, he called last night.”

  We walked down the corridor and went up the stairs. We stopped under the window looking out over the playing field. It’s where we like to go to talk.

  “Remember he promised that I could visit over spring vacation?” Emily said. “And he was going to pay for my ticket and send Mom money so she could hire a baby-sitter for Wilma and Chris? So I could spend time alone with him and Marcia and the baby?”

  “Of course I remember.” I was going to Toronto to visit my grandmother at the same time. We had planned to call each other from Toronto and Chicago. “What happened? He’s not going to do it? He broke his promises? That’s ratty!”

  “No, don’t say that. You don’t know, Bunny.” She bit her lip. “He really wants me to come, but he doesn’t have the money right now. He explained it all to me. They’ve got a lot of expenses. Marcia just had a huge dentist bill. And the baby had to have some kind of surgery to correct something about her feet. And then their car broke down, the engine or something.”

  “So what?” I said. “Does that mean you can’t come visit? Why doesn’t he borrow the money?”

  “He doesn’t like to borrow. He doesn’t like to be in debt. He says it’s hard enough now, with us and Mom. Bunny, sometimes I wish—” She stopped.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing, just—I know Mom and Dad didn’t get along and all that. I’m glad they didn’t stay together and go on being miserable. I really am. But I miss him. I miss him so much. And I don’t think he misses me.”

  “Oh, Emily. He does. He does miss you!”

  Her lips tightened. “If he missed me so much, wouldn’t he do something to get me out to visit him? Why did he have to move to Chicago, anyway? Why couldn’t he stay right here where he could see me and the twins?”

  “You told me yourself that he had a great new job out there. Anyway, Emily, I know your father. He loves you a lot. Remember when he took us both up in the balloon?”

  Every year, a town near us, Jamesville, has a Balloon Festival in June. Not the kind of balloon you blow up, but the kind you go around the world in eighty days in. If the weather is good that weekend, you can look up into the sky and see dozens of huge, colored, striped, and flowered balloons floating over the countryside.

  Emily always wanted to go up in one, and two years ago, Mr. Boots treated us both to a balloon ride. We loved it from the moment we stepped into the basket. And once we lifted into the air, we were so excited and so awed that we held hands and didn’t say a word.

  It wasn’t anything like being in an airplane. That’s like being in a room. In the balloon, you never forget where you are. You’re in the air. You’re in this big basket in the air. You’re floating. You can look down and see people below you, and houses, trees, everything.

  We went over a farm. A kid on a tractor looked up and waved. Some birds flew by. “Did you see that? Did you see that?” Mr. Boots said. He was as excited as we were. “I never saw birds so close!” All you could hear was the wind and then the hiss of the burners heating up the air in the balloon.

  “I haven’t thought of the balloon ride in ages,” Emily said. “That was so great.”

  I rubbed her shoulder. “Are you okay now?”

  She nodded.

  “If you’re still sad, I could tell you another joke. Hello, this is Dial-a-joke. What can I do for you? Elephant joke? Sick joke? Gross joke? Little moron joke? Green pickle joke?”

  “No, no, no, no,” Emily said, but she was smiling.

  April 18

  Dear Mr. Diment,r />
  Hi again! I wrote you a letter a while ago about your wonderful book, Paris Plus, which my girl friend and I have both read. I also asked you for the name of the guy on the cover of the book. No, I haven’t changed my mind! I still want it! I hope you’ll send me the information soon.

  I was just wondering if you got my first letter. I hope so! Sometimes the mail is not so reliable. For instance, my grandmother writes me about once a month, and last year two of her letters got lost. One had my birthday check in it, too. (Groan!)

  I’d like to ask you a question. I was wondering how you write your books. I mean, is it inspiration? Do you suddenly get the idea and sit down and write it?

  I’ve noticed something about trying to be funny (which made me wonder if that’s like writing a book). Sometimes, I can be funny right off the top of my head. But sometimes (for instance, right now I’m working on a clown routine for a party), I have to figure out what I’m going to do, and then I have to do it in my room in front of the mirror and then I have to practice it to get it right.

  This sort of worries me. Is it still funny if I practice it? That’s why I asked you about inspiration.

  Well, thanks for reading my letter. I’m sorry to take up your time, because I know someone like you must be pretty busy.

  Your friend,

  B. Larrabee

  P.S. I don’t mean to be a pest, so please excuse me, if you did get my first letter. If you did, you can just throw this one in the wastebasket. You won’t hurt my feelings.

  Chapter 6

  Friday, the weather suddenly got hot. It was like a summer day. Mr. Cooper took our gym class outside. “Okay, let’s get a little spirit into this group.”

  Emily and I agree that around Mr. Cooper, we always feel like slobs. One thing is the way he dresses. His shorts and T-shirts are always knock-your-eye-out white. He could do an ad on tv. “I use Drift for all my sweaty shorts and musty T-shirts.” Another thing is his muscles. They’re everywhere.

  First he had us doing sit-ups and push-ups, then sprints around the track. Emily and I ran together. “You sure you don’t want to go to the concert with me tonight?” I said.

  “Lulu Belle Smith? No way.”

  “You might like it. Don’t be so prejudiced.”

  She shook her head. She was huffing and puffing more than usual.

  “You sound like an old rusty engine.” I gave her a little bump.

  “Don’t.”

  I took a good look at her. Her face was kind of white and sweaty. “Are you feeling sick?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Emily never likes to make a fuss. I kept looking at her. Gradually she went from white and sweaty to green and sweaty. “Emily, you look like an abused chicken.”

  She didn’t even try to smile.

  I got off the track and ran over to Mr. Cooper. “Emily’s sick, Mr. C. She ought to go to the nurse. I can take her.”

  He stood there thinking about it, combing his fingers through his blond hair. “What’s her problem?”

  “I don’t know. She looks like she’s going to throw up.” Just as I said it, Emily stumbled off the track and sat down with her head drooping.

  Mr. Cooper went over to her. “Bunny’s going to take you to the nurse.”

  When we got into the dispensary, Mrs. Voynis took one look at Em and stuck a thermometer in her mouth. “Hundred and one,” she said, when she pulled it out. “Just enough to earn you a day or two in bed.”

  “I can’t be sick tomorrow,” Emily said. “That’s my sister’s and brother’s birthday.”

  “Sorry, dear, bad timing. Can your mother come get you now?”

  “No. She’s working until six o’clock tonight.”

  “Well, come on, lie down for a while.”

  I went to the office and called my mom at work. The dispatcher got her on the beeper. Mom said she’d be at school in about an hour and drive Emily home. So that was okay.

  I went back to the dispensary and sat down on the edge of the cot and talked to Emily. Nothing much. Just stuff to keep her from thinking about how crummy she felt.

  “You have to go back to your class, Bunny,” Mrs. Voynis said.

  “It’s just gym.” I stayed until Emily fell asleep.

  That night, after supper, I called Emily. Mrs. Boots said she was sleeping. “When she wakes up, I’ll tell her you.… And oh! Your mother, Bunny. Thank you. Thank her.” Mrs. Boots always talks in sort of half sentences. Since I’ve known her practically my whole life, I can usually understand what she’s getting at.

  “How does Emily feel, Mrs. Boots?”

  “Not so.… But that’s okay. It’s going around, and by tomorrow.…”

  When I hung up, I went upstairs and showered and got dressed for the concert. “I borrowed your bird earrings,” I said to Mom when I came downstairs. She was waiting for me in the hall. She was driving me downtown. “Is that okay?” I had my hair in two braids. I was wearing a new purple blouse, a grape-colored vest, and a bunch of necklaces.

  Dad came out of his study with his coffee cup in his hand. He stopped and looked at me. “Where’re you going?”

  “I told you at supper. To the concert.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “You look very nice. Is Mom picking you up afterward?”

  “No, Dad, I’m going to hitch a ride home.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Bill, you’re such an easy target,” Mom said. “Shad, where are you?” she yelled. “You want to drive downtown with us?”

  We went out to the garage. “How come Emily’s not going with you?” Shad said, as we got in the car.

  “She hates this kind of music. Anyway, she got sick in school today.”

  “Anything catching?” Shad asked. He sounded hopeful.

  “Not for me. I’m so healthy, I never get anything.”

  At the Civic Center, Mom said, “Okay, I’ll see you right out here at ten-thirty, Bunny. Right?”

  “Right.” I started to get out of the car.

  “Bunny.” Mom held up her face. I kissed her on the cheek. Shad stuck out his hand. I shook his hand. Then Mom took my face between her hands and smacked me on the lips. “Have fun.”

  I got out of the car and walked away fast, before Mom could yell after me to blow my nose and not talk to strangers. People were milling around all over the plaza outside, and inside it was even more jammed. Everybody seemed to be with somebody else. I wished Emily was with me.

  The theater was so packed, I almost didn’t get a seat. I saw an empty place and started to slide in toward it. A woman shook her head. “I’m saving this seat.” The next empty seat I found, it was the same thing. “Taken. She’s coming right back.”

  Finally I found a seat about halfway down, over on the left side. It was the last one in the row, right behind a post.

  When Lulu Belle’s band came out on the stage, everybody started clapping and yelling and whistling, even though Lulu Belle wasn’t even in sight yet. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled. The piano player (male), two electric guitar players (male and female), and a drummer (female) started tuning their instruments. They were all wearing loose white pants, jewelry around their necks, and sparkling purple shirts. Purple and white are Lulu Belle’s colors.

  The person next to me said something. I turned to answer him and then I just stared. He looked like the guy on the cover of Paris Plus. I don’t mean he looked exactly like him, but enough so you could think he was at least Paris’s brother. The same wavy, dark hair, the same long eyelashes, the same drop-dead eyes.

  He was leaning way back in his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. Everything about him was like Paris, including the way he was dressed, as if it was summer and hot, instead of early spring and cool. He was wearing khaki shorts, a shirt open at the neck, and a pair of beat-up sneakers.

  “Have you been to a Lulu Belle concert before?” he asked.

  I shook my head. He was so good-looking I just wanted to stare.


  “My first time, too.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you wonder what we’re in for?”

  “Really,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  He was looking at me the way I wanted to look at him. I mean, he just looked at me, without turning away, sort of smiling and looking, as if he was interested in me. My whole face got hot. I could tell he was much older than I was. Would he be interested in me?

  Suddenly I thought, Did I clean my ears when I took my shower? I got really anxious, and at the same time, I had this terrific impulse to laugh. It was a feeling like a sneeze coming. I tried to think of something to say, something good. Maybe something funny.

  “How long have you been a Lulu Belle fan?” he said.

  “About five years. How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m just here on a fluke. I’m filling in for a friend who writes a column for our school paper.”

  “A music column?” A stupid joke popped into my mind. You know what the weather report is from South America? Chile today.

  “No, just general stuff on the teen scene. My friend couldn’t come tonight, so she asked me to sub for her. Which means I have to write the column.” He looked around the theater. “I’m supposed to interview typical fans. Teens, like us.”

  Like us? I wondered how old he thought I was. Another stupid joke came into my head. What did one cigarette say to the other? Take me to your lighter. I almost said it. He was looking at me again. I almost said, Want to hear a joke? But just then, lucky for me, the lights dimmed, and Lulu Belle came out on the stage.

  She looked beautiful. Her hair was down all around her shoulders, swinging loose. She was all in white, except for a crown of purple flowers on her head.

  The first song she sang was my favorite of all her songs, “Don’t Wait Up for Me Another Night.” All the time she was singing, I couldn’t think of anything else. Well, that’s not totally true. Every once in a while, I’d turn just a little and focus on the guy next to me (in my mind I called him Paris’s brother); I’d catch him out of the corner of my eye, and every time I’d be surprised at how good-looking he was. A couple of times, just when I did it, he was looking at me, too.