Stacey's Emergency Part 2

"Yeah!" agreed Becca.

So the two Martians set to work. At first I wished I had my camera. I'd never seen anything quite like Becca and Char, wearing antennae on their heads and oversized ap.r.o.ns around their middles, up to their elbows in chocolate goo. But soon my amus.e.m.e.nt faded.

It was the chocolate smell. I could barely concentrate on anything except that sweet odor. (Torture, torture.) I hoped I didn't look as upset as I felt. And soon I decided I didn't. The girls weren't paying attention to me.

"Look! We're flying by the moon," said Becca.

"Yeah. We should stop there. Did you know that moon dust is a good subst.i.tute for sugar? Let's stock up."

"Oh, no! We've gone too far!" cried Becca.

"Stop the rocket s.h.i.+p!" added Charlotte.

This conversation was being held while the girls stood quietly at the table, stirring the fudge in a plastic bowl with wooden spoons. Then: "Eeeetch!" screeched Becca, imitating the sound of skidding brakes. As she did so, she flung one arm up to her head, as if to protect herself from a crash. Unfortunately, it was the arm that was stirring the fudge, so she flung the spoon up, too. The fudge mixture flew behind her and sprayed the wall over the sink.

"Uh-oh," said Becca. "I didn't mean to do that. Honest."

"I know you didn't. It's okay," I told her. I stood up wearily and headed for the sink. "You guys keep working," I went on. "I'll clean up."

"Thanks," said Becca with a sigh of relief.

While I wet a sponge and began to wipe off the wall, Charlotte and Becca continued their imaginary s.p.a.ce game.

"The famous Martian fudge makers!" cried Charlotte.

"Have we reached Mars yet?" asked Becca.

"Not quite. Our s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p feels . . . Oh, no! We're flying straight toward a huge meteor shower! We're going to cras.h.!.+"

I turned around. My usually quiet Charlotte was becoming raucous. I almost told her to calm down but decided not to. Char hardly ever let go like this. Maybe it was good for her. So I kept my mouth shut, turned back to the wall, and continued scrubbing.

"A meteor shower!" Becca exclaimed. "What's that?"

"It's a - Wait a sec! We've hit it! ... Bam, bam, bam! Our s.h.i.+p is being bombarded by meteors. One is heading for our winds.h.i.+eld. Duck!"

At that moment, I heard the thump. In their excitement, their imaginations completely runaway, the girls had dropped to the floor. And somehow their bowl of fudge had come with them.

Chocolate, chocolate everywhere.

"Oops," said Charlotte.

The girls had stood up and were looking at me. I had turned around and was looking at them. I sighed.

"Can we start over again?" asked Charlotte in a very small voice.

"If you two clean up this mess," I replied. "And if, when you start the next batch, you promise to be earthling girls, cooking in a nice kitchen in Connecticut. Without antennae."

"We promise," said Charlotte and Becca in unison.

They removed their antennae. I handed them a roll of paper towels and the sponge I'd been using, and they set to work. When the kitchen was clean, they began their project again. Calmly.

At last the fudge was finished.

"Can we taste it?" asked Char. "I know it's too close to dinner to have a whole piece, but can we each have a little sample?"

I smiled. "Sure." I cut each of the girls a tiny square of fudge.

"Yummm," they said, their eyes closed.

Yummmm, I thought. What I wouldn't give for - "Hey!" cried Becca. "Guess what's on TV right now?"

"What?" asked Charlotte.

"That special. The one about the boy and his horse."

"Oh, I want to see that!" exclaimed Char.

Then she added, "But we should help Stacey cut up the fudge."

She sounded completely unenthusiastic. And no wonder. Cutting up something you've just made is the boring part. So I said, "You guys go on and watch the special. I'll cut up the fudge." (I wouldn't have let them cut it up anyway, since you need a sharp knife.) The girls ran off. I sliced the fudge into small, neat squares.

I set aside a pile for Becca to take home with her.

And then I wrapped two pieces in a napkin and stashed the bundle in my purse.

In my bedroom that night, I tried to concentrate on my homework. How had I gotten so far behind? My teachers were on my back, but at least they hadn't told my mother yet. If I could catch up, she'd probably never have to know.

But I was having trouble keeping my mind on my work. For one thing, I was hungry - again. I thought of the fudge in my purse. Do you know the phrase "money burning a hole in your pocket"? Well, the fudge was burning a hole in my purse. I could not stop thinking about it. At last, I reached into my purse, found the fudge, and ate both pieces. Oh, yum. I craved chocolate now. I'd bought a candy bar at school and eaten it secretly in the girls' room that afternoon. And then there was that other candy bar . . . and the Ring-Dings . . .

What was I doing to myself? I wondered. And just then, I realized that I had not yet packed to go to Dad's. I was supposed to leave after school the next day. So I would have to pack now. What a drag. I stood up slowly, went to my closet, and pulled out my overnight bag. I could hear the phone ringing, but Mom was home and she picked it up in her bedroom. When she didn't shout to me that I had a call, I began packing.

I forgot about the telephone completely until I heard Mom's raised voice say, "You are spoiling her! I'm not kidding."

Dad must be the one who had called. (I couldn't imagine Mom talking like that to anyone else.) And the "her" who was getting spoiled must be me.

I crept into the hall and tiptoed as close to Mom's room as I dared. I could hear her end of the conversation as clearly as a bell ringing on a quiet night. But her voice didn't sound pleasant and magical the way I thought a nighttime bell might. In a forced whisper (Mom must have realized how loudly she'd been speaking) she said, "Don't buy Stacey so many things this weekend. And give her a break. She's been tired recently. She could do with a nice, quiet weekend. . . . What? . . . Well, that's what I'm saying. She doesn't need to eat out four or five times and go to the theater and to museums." There was a long pause. Then Mom said harshly, "I am not jealous of what you can do for Stacey. Just give her some time off. . . . All ri-ight," she went on, as if to say, "I know you're going to do everything anyway - and it will be a bad idea." After another, shorter pause, Mom said, "I'll be checking with Stacey on Sunday."

And Dad will be grilling me about Mom, her job, and the nonexistent Wonder Date. That was just great. I couldn't wait to be Stacey-in-the-middle again.

I tiptoed back to my bedroom. There was my half-packed overnight bag. There was my unfinished homework.

I finished packing. Then I put my books away. I stretched out on my bed, even though I was still dressed.

I had a horrible headache.

I.

Chapter 6.

I was all packed and ready to go. But leaving for New York was the last thing I wanted to do. It wasn't just Mom and Dad and the divorce. It was everything rolled into one: those things, plus school, plus not feeling well. To be honest, I was more concerned about my school work that day than about anything else. I was so far behind. I don't know why someone at school - for instance, my guidance counselor, who preferred to think of herself as my "friend" - hadn't called Mom yet. The only grade I was keeping up was math. The others were slipping, and I was in danger of failing French.

Late the night before, when something had been keeping me awake, I'd thought: Oh, no! What if someone at school has called my mother, and Mom just hasn't mentioned it because she doesn't want to worry me? What if I'm very sick and everyone knows but me?

. . , That's paranoid, isn't it? I'm just thinking that way because I'm not feeling well and I haven't told Mom, so I have a guilty conscience.

At the end of school on Friday, I'd said to my friends when we gathered in the hall, "I'm sorry I have to miss today's club meeting."

"That's okay," said Kristy. "We understand."

"Boy, I wish 7 were going to New York with you," spoke up Mary Anne wistfully. "Do you think you'U go to the Hard Rock Cafe?"

"With Dad?" I replied. "No. We're eating at the Sign of the Dove tonight. And at the Russian Tea Room tomorrow night."

"Sign of the Dove and the Russian Tea Room?" squealed Mary Anne. "You're kidding . . . aren't you?"

"Nope."

"What are the Sign of the Dove and the Russian Tea Room?" asked Mallory.

"Only two of the finest dining establishments in New York City," Mary Anne answered. (If she sounded like a guidebook on New York, it's probably because she's read about a million of them. Mary Anne's dream is to live in New York City someday.) She went on, "You are so lucky, Stacey!"

"Dining establishments?" Mallory repeated. "You mean places to eat?"

"Awesome, fresh, distant places to eat," replied Mary Anne.

"I doubt if the owners of those restaurants would describe them that way, though," said Dawn.

"No, of course not," agreed Mary Anne, aghast at what she'd said. "They'd use phrases like, 'culinary delights' or ... 'splendiferous spreads.' "

"Splendiferous spreads?" I laughed. I couldn't help it.

"Oh, okay. Then they're just four-star restaurants, at least in my book."

"Hey, Stace! There's your mom!" cried Claudia. "Listen, have a great weekend. Call me Sunday night when you get back and tell me everything."

"No, wait until Monday!" exclaimed Mary Anne. "Tell all of us about your weekend while we're holding our meeting. We'll want every detail."

"No, you will," whispered Kristy, but Mary Anne didn't hear her.

"What you ate, how it was prepared, who you saw in the restaurants. You're bound to spot celebrities," Mary Anne continued excitedly. "If you see anyone really famous, try to bring me back a personal souvenir, like a table sc.r.a.p."

"You mean like a half-eaten piece of bread?"

"Yeah!"

"Mary Anne, that is so disgusting/' said Jessi.

And Kristy added, "If, for whatever wild reason, I ever wind up as a celebrity, don't let Mary Anne near me."

Mom honked the horn twice then. "I better go," I said. "We're going to be early for the train, but I hate to keep Mom waiting. I'll see you guys on Monday."

We called good-bye to each other, and as my friends walked off, I headed toward Mom and our car. I was carrying a pile of books, hoping to get caught up over the weekend.

"Hi!" I said to Mom as I opened the front door. "Did you bring my bag?"

"It's right there in the backseat," Mom answered. "Are you ready for the weekend?" She glanced sideways at me. "You look a little pale."

"Just tired I guess. I didn't sleep much last night. How are you? You didn't have any trouble getting off work early today?"

"Not a bit." Mom smiled.

A half an hour or so later, the train pulled into the Stoneybrook station, where Mom and I had been waiting. She was sipping coffee, and I was finis.h.i.+ng up a diet soda.

"Have fun, sweetie!" called Mom, after I'd kissed her good-bye and was stepping onto the train.

"I will," I answered. I found a seat by a window and waved to Mom as the train ground into motion and my mother and the platform slipped away from me. I looked around. The train wasn't too crowded. In fact, my car was only about half full. Good. Things would be quiet. Maybe I could finally get some work done. I stowed my overnight bag on the floor by my feet, stuck my purse protectively between me and the side of the train, and set my book bag on the empty seat next to me. I reached inside, pulled out my French text, and turned to the chapter in which I'd been goofing up. (That was a number of chapters before the one we were already working on.) "The pluperfect," I muttered, and began to read.

The next thing I knew, an announcement was coming over the loudspeaker. "Station stop, Pennington. This is Pennington!"

Pennington! That was more than halfway to New York! I'd fallen asleep and had just wasted over an hour's worth of studying time.

I yawned and stretched. Yechh. I felt awful. No wonder I'd fallen asleep. Maybe I was coming down with something again. Boy, was I thirsty. Did I have a fever? I didn't care. All I knew was that I needed something to drink - desperately. I was opening my change purse when I remembered that the train didn't have a snack car. Now what was I going to do? Well, I don't need to have a soda, I told myself. Water will do just fine.

I looked behind me. Thank goodness there was a bathroom on my car. A bathroom would have running water and little paper cups, wouldn't it?

Sort of. I mean, I was half right. The bathroom, which, by the way, didn't smell so hot, had a sink with nice, cold running water. It even had a bar of dirty pink soap and a stack of paper towels. But there were no cups.

I thought of this silly fold-up plastic cup that Mom used to bring along on vacations - for situations just like this. I used to tease her about that cup. Now I would have paid her for it.

I stood in the bathroom and thought. The idea of not drinking some water didn't even occur to me. It was just a question of how to drink it. Finally I decided that there was only one thing to do. Wrinkling my nose, I washed my hands with the dirty soap. I figured that was.h.i.+ng my hands with dirty soap was cleaner than not was.h.i.+ng them at all. When I finished, I turned off the hot water, cupped my hands under the cold water, and drank . . . and drank . . . and drank. Ooh. At that moment, nothing - not even chocolate - would have tasted as good as that water did.

I went back to my seat.

Five minutes later I was thirsty again.

By the time I reached Grand Central Station, I had gotten up for drinks of water six more times. (And I had been to the bathroom twice.) When I saw Dad at the information booth, the first thing I said to him was, "Can I buy a soda?" My thirst was raging. I could not make it go away.

Dad looked closely at me as he took my bag. "Sweetie?" he said. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Not really," I had to admit. I didn't think I could hide it any longer.

"What about dinner?" asked Dad.