California Girls! by Ann M. Martin
My next big decision was when to give Carol the letter. I decided to mail it to her after I was back in Stoneybrook. I mean, if I couldn’t tell her these things, how could I give her the letter before I left? We might have to talk, and I wasn’t ready for that.
But I was ready to accept Carol.
On Thursday, two days before we would have to return to the East Coast, I baby-sat for Stephie one last time. Lisa Meri was at Stephie’s (as the morning baby-sitter), and Stephie ran to greet me. No more hiding in her room.
“Hi, Mary Anne!” she cried.
“Hiya!” I replied. (Lisa and I smiled at each other over Stephie’s head.)
Ten minutes later, Lisa had left, and Stephie and I were wondering what to do. We were sitting in the kitchen and I was starting to fix lunch.
“Wait!” said Stephie. “I know what we can do.”
“What?” I asked.
“Let’s go to the park and have another picnic lunch, just like we did the first time you baby-sat me.”
“Great,” I replied. What did I have to worry about now? Stephie had survived Frankenstein, King Kong, an earthquake, a collapsing bridge, and an avalanche that had fooled me, but not her. This time we could really do the park. We could eat — and then Stephie could play on anything she wanted.
My fears about her were gone.
So we packed a picnic basket with sandwiches, pears, cookies, and boxes of fruit juice. I remembered to put Stephie’s inhalator and pills in my pocket, and we were off. As soon as we stepped out the front door, Stephie looked up at me, smiled, and took my hand.
As we walked down her driveway, though, her smile faded. “I wish you didn’t have to go back to where you live,” she said.
“I know. But I do have to go back. My dad and stepmother and kitten are there. They miss me and I miss them.”
“I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” said Stephie, her voice trembling.
“And I’ll miss you.”
Stephie tightened her grip on my hand as we reached the sidewalk. Was she going to cry? She’d seemed so happy a few moments earlier.
I soon had my answer. Tears were rolling down Stephie’s cheeks.
“Oh, Stephie,” I said. I put the picnic basket on the ground, knelt down, and hugged her while she cried silently. I didn’t say, “Don’t cry,” because everyone has a right to cry when they’re feeling bad. And I didn’t say, “It’s okay,” because it wasn’t. And I couldn’t make it okay.
So I just held Stephie for as long as she needed to be held. If I had a mother, that’s what I would have wanted her to do for me.
Just as I was thinking that, Stephie sniffled and said, “I wish you were my mother. I really do.”
I smiled. “I’d be an awfully young mother,” I pointed out. “I’m only thirteen. I would have had you when I was five.”
I’d thought Stephie would laugh at that, but instead I heard her gasp.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, pulling away from her. I thought she’d seen something scary, like a large dog or a spider.
But Stephie just gasped again. She began trying to breathe in big gulps of air. “I’m — I’m having an asthma attack!” she managed to say. She sounded panicky. (Well, of course she sounds panicky, dummy, I said to myself. She can’t breathe. She must be scared to death.)
I fumbled for Stephie’s inhalator. Why was she having an attack now? We weren’t doing anything. And then I remembered what I’d learned about asthma. In Stephie’s case, it was usually brought on by emotional stress. I guessed my leaving was too much for her. I felt horrible.
But my feelings were not the problem.
The problem was that Stephie couldn’t breathe.
I handed Stephie her inhalator. With one hand, she shook it. I held on to her other hand for comfort. Then I began to coach Stephie as I’d been coached. “Breathe out,” I told her. (Stephie did so.) “Now put the short end of the inhalator into your mouth, push down, and breathe in deeply. Hold your breath for as long as you can…. Good girl,” I added, even though Stephie was gagging. (Lisa Meri had told me that the inhalator works, but it isn’t very pleasant.) “Now let your breath out slowly.”
Stephie did, and she looked less panicky. I stroked her hair.
“Okay, now do that once more.”
And Stephie followed my instructions, gagging again. But when she let her breath out for the second time, she seemed fairly calm. And she was breathing again. But she was so weak that I had to pick her up and carry her back into her house, leaving the picnic basket on the sidewalk.
When we reached her front door, I opened it (with great difficulty) and laid Stephie on the living room couch. Then I dashed into the kitchen, got a glass of water, and handed it to Stephie, along with one of her pills.
“Here,” I said. “Take this. It’ll relax you and you’ll breathe even better.” I held out the glass and the pill.
Stephie shook her head with tear-filled eyes.
“No?” I said. “But Stephie you have to. You know that. And I trust you to take it. So I’m going to leave you here with the pill while I go outside and bring the picnic basket in. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I retrieved the basket. When I returned, the pill was gone, and the glass of water was only half full.
“Good girl,” I told her.
“Thanks,” said Stephie. She looked awfully pale and weak, but her breathing seemed normal.
“I’m going to make a quick phone call,” I told her. “I’ll be right back.”
“You’re not calling the hospital, are you?” cried Stephie, and I could hear a wheeze in her breathing.
“No. Calm down. Of course not. I just want to let your father know what happened. I don’t want to surprise him when he comes home from work.”
“Okay.”
“Now relax.”
“Okay.” Stephie closed her eyes. The wheezing had stopped.
I dialed Mr. Robertson at work. His phone number was posted on the refrigerator with the emergency numbers. I reached his office and luckily Mr. Robertson was available.
“Hi, this is Mary Anne Spier, Stephie’s afternoon sitter.”
“Oh! Yes. Is there a problem?” Mr. Robertson sounded concerned.
“Stephie just had an asthma attack,” I told him. “But she’s breathing fine now. She’s resting on the couch. She used her inhalator and she took a pill. I thought you’d want to know, even though there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” said Mr. Robertson. “Listen, make Stephie rest this afternoon — keep her on the couch — and I’ll try to come home early today. If she has any more trouble, call me right away.” He paused. Then he added stiffly, “Tell Stephie I love her.”
“I will,” I replied.
When I returned to the living room, Stephie’s eyes were closed, so I sat down quietly and picked up a magazine. But right away, Stephie said, “I’m awake,” and opened her eyes.
I smiled. “Your dad says to tell you he loves you. He’s going to try to come home early from the office today.”
“Okay,” said Stephie.
“So how are you feeling?”
“All right. Just tired.”
“Yeah. Your dad also said you have to rest all afternoon.”
“Can we talk, though?” asked Stephie.
“Of course,” I replied. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” said Stephie in a tone that I was sure meant she did know. I waited while Stephie gathered her thoughts. At last she said, “Tell me more about your father, Mary Anne.”
“My father? Well, like I said, he used to be strict. And he treated me like a baby. Also, he was really overprotective. He wanted me to be perfect. I guess so that he could show everyone that he could raise me just fine on his own.”
“But something must have changed,” said Stephie. “I mean, you’re here. He let you fly all the way to California.”
“Well, actually two things
“I wish I could show my dad that I’m grown up. But each time I have an asthma attack, it ruins everything. Then he thinks I’m someone who needs to be taken care of.”
“That is a problem,” I agreed. “But I bet you’ll find some other way to show your dad that you’re not a baby. It might take awhile, though. You’ll just have to be patient. After all, I had to wait until I was twelve.”
Stephie sighed. Then she said, “You know what? I understand that you have to leave. I don’t want you to go, but I know you have to.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But just because I’m leaving and we’re going to say good-bye today doesn’t mean we can’t keep in touch. It doesn’t even mean I won’t see you again. I might come out to visit the Schafers some more. Don’t forget. Dawn and I are stepsisters.”
“Can we be pen pals?” asked Stephie.
“Sure,” I replied. “I love having pen pals. We can send each other letters and photos and stickers and postcards.”
“Okay.” Stephie smiled. “I’d like that.”
Later in the day, Mr. Robertson came home, and I left. Stephie and I hugged, but we didn’t cry.
We had already said our good-byes.
Well. Things certainly changed toward the end of vacation. For one thing, the BSC seemed more like the BSC again. By that I mean that we were back to normal and we were hanging around as a group again. We didn’t split up so often — and Stacey had not seen nor heard from the surfers.
Mallory’s hair was back to its original color. At least, we thought it was the original color. If it looked any different to her parents the next day, she could just tell them she had spent a lot of time in the sun. (The only problem would be when the dyed part started to grow out. We just had to hope it wouldn’t be too different from her natural color.)
Mal and Jessi were best friends again, thank goodness. (I hate when the members of the BSC get mad at each other.) They apologized, plus Mal only owed Jessi a little money, since Claud and Stacey bought all of Mal’s makeup from her. Of course, poor Mal didn’t have an actual souvenir of California, unless you count her hair. Also, Jessi had gotten the acting bug out of her system (again). Derek always seems to make her think of acting or modeling, Jessi gets excited, and then she realizes that ballet is her true calling.
Oh. Here’s big news: Claudia and Terry went out again. They went out last night (their final date) and Claud wasn’t a bit nervous. She had her self-confidence back, at least with Terry. They went to see an old movie (one Claud wanted to see), and then instead of going out for snails or fancy food, they went to Captain Rooster’s Chicken Ranch for fried chicken, French fries, and stuff like that. Claudia practically floated through the Schafers’ front door when Terry’s mom dropped her off after the date.
“I’m in love,” she said, and headed for her sleeping bag, even though it wasn’t very late.
“Does love make you tired?” asked Mal innocently.
“No. I just want to dream about Terry all night.”
Jessi and Mal looked perplexed. The rest of us exchanged smiles.
Kristy and Mary Anne’s baby-sitting woes were over. I think Kristy learned a lesson: She’s not the baby-sitting expert of the galaxy. And Mary Anne will miss Stephie, of course, but they promised to write to each other. Mary Anne admitted that she was relieved not to have to sit for Stephie again (the asthma attack was scary, even though both she and Stephie handled it well). It’s too bad, since Mary Anne likes her so much, but that’s the way things go.
As for me, I felt better about Carol. You might even have said I was feeling friendly toward her. Or at least friendlier. You’ll see this as I tell you about our last (great!) day together in California. As I had written to my grandparents, we went to Magic Mountain, and then out for a really spectacular dinner.
This time, we didn’t take any “extras” along on our trip, except for Carol, and I didn’t think of her as an extra anymore. It was just the BSC members, Dad, Carol, and Jeff. Boy, were we excited about going to Magic Mountain! (Well, except for Mary Anne, who had read the brochure from cover to cover and was nervous about nearly every good ride.) At least she came along with us. I was afraid she might decide to stay home.
“All those roller coasters!” she exclaimed that morning as we were getting dressed. Then she saw the rest of us packing our bathing suits. “What are those for?” she asked suspiciously.
“Water rides!” said Kristy gleefully.
Mary Anne looked so concerned that I couldn’t help saying to her, “We can leave you in Bugs Bunny World, and you can go on the baby rides.”
“I am not a baby,” Mary Anne replied indignantly.
“Come on, you guys. No fighting. It’s our last day here,” said Claud.
So we quit picking on Mary Anne, packed up our stuff, climbed into the van, and were off.
“Ah, I just love amusement parks,” said Jessi, as we drove along. And when she first glimpsed Magic Mountain, she shrieked, “There it is!”
Dad parked the van, we paid our way into the park (Mal borrowed from Jessi), and …
“Oh, my lord. What should we do first?” exclaimed Claud.
“The Tidal Wave!” shrieked Jeff, jumping up and down. The Tidal Wave is a water ride (obviously) and it’s a new attraction at the park. You go barreling down this chute (in a roller coaster car) and hit a twenty-foot wall of water, which of course makes a huge, drenching splash.
“Let’s save the water rides for later,” said Dad, but he was outvoted.
“We should do them first so we’ll be dry by the time we go to dinner,” I pointed out sensibly.
“Okay,” said Dad.
Off we went. We tore down the Tidal Wave first. (Mary Anne wouldn’t go.) Then we took the Roaring Rapids, which is like shooting the rapids. (Mary Anne decided that was safe, and actually enjoyed herself.) After that, we tried the Log Jammer, which Mary Anne informed us is the longest water flume ride in the entire country. She put her foot down (and so did Dad) at the Jet Stream, though. That’s another flume ride, but it ends with a 52-foot drop (according to Mary Anne’s brochure). So Dad and Mary Anne drank sodas and dried off while the rest of us braved the ride. At the end, I actually found myself grabbing Carol (even though she was sitting in front of me, and we were supposed to be holding on to the safety bar).
When the ride was over, Carol smiled at me and put her arm across my shoulders, but she didn’t say anything about what had happened. I decided that Carol was a kid and an adult at the same time, and that was nice. She would do kooky things with us, but she knew when to open her mouth and when not to.
After the water rides, we took a break for lunch (which made Stacey nervous because she was afraid that someone would get sick on the next ride, and Stacey can’t stand to see anyone blow cookies, as Mal’s brother Adam would say). But Stacey was safe. We went on five rides. (Well, some of us did. Mary Anne sat out on three of them.) And nobody got sick. Here’s what we went on: a gigantic roller coaster called the Colossus; Freefall, which makes you feel weightless; Ninja, the most incredible roller coaster I’ve ever been on; Revolution, on which you make a complete circle (in other words, you speed along upside down for awhile); and finally Condor. Now, the Condor is really something. It raises you way up in the air, spins you around, and you keep spinning until you touch the ground again.
At that point, we were all sort of shaken up, so we decided to leave the park. (Shaken up or not, we’d had a great time.) Then we drove to this place that Jeff and Dad and I love, called Medieval Times. You pretend the year is 1093 and that you are guests of a royal family. You eat at these tables surrounding an arena wh
Since there were so many of us, we had to split into groups, and I wound up sitting next to Carol. She and I cheered for the same knight in the jousting contest, and Carol let me eat her soup, since I didn’t like some of the things we were served for dinner. (You don’t have a choice about what to eat.)
When dinner was over, we were exhausted and drove home. On the way, though, I got to thinking about something, and when we reached our house, I said, “Carol, can you stay for a second? I have something for you.”
I had decided to give Carol the letter in person.
Carol and I went into the family room and shut the door.
“Here,” I said to Carol as we sat down. “This is for you.”
Carol took the letter questioningly. Then she opened it and read it. When she was finished, she said, “Dawn, I want you to know that this means a lot to me. It really does.”
“Well, everything I said is true.”
I could tell Carol was really flattered, but she didn’t make a big mushy scene. She didn’t cry or anything like that. We just hugged quickly, and then Carol said she was tired and should go. I felt relieved — and proud of myself.
Our trip was almost over. A lot of good-byes had been said (but a lot of hellos were yet to come). Last night, Claud and Terry said good-bye. Unfortunately they couldn’t do this in person, since we got back from the medieval feast sort of late. They had to say good-bye over the phone.
Kristy, Stacey, Mary Anne, Jessi, Mal, and I wanted to listen in on Claud’s end of the conversation, but we knew better. This was really personal. Besides, we figured Claud would tell us about the conversation (or at least about parts of it) when she got off the phone.