The Best Friend (13 page)

“But, wait. You can't!” Becka cried.

“Oh, yes, I can,” Mrs. Norwood said firmly. “I can and I will. You cannot have the car. You cannot see
your friends. You cannot go out at night—until further notice.”

“But, Mom, it's Christmas vacation,” Becka wailed. “What about Trish's party Saturday night?”

“You'll have to miss it,” Mrs. Norwood said. She pushed off from the kitchen table and strode quickly from the room.

B
ecka ran upstairs and threw herself face down on her bed.

She was prepared to cry. She expected the loud sobs to shake her chest and hot tears to fall down her face.

But the tears didn't come. She lay there, her face buried in the bedspread. Too angry to cry. Angry at her mother. Angry at herself. Angry at Bill. She had risked so much by going to see him. And he hadn't been helpful at all.

He hadn't made her feel better. In fact, he had upset her even more by admitting that he thought Honey was “kind of cute” and that “maybe” Honey had come on to him.

Thanks, Bill. Thanks a bunch, Becka thought bitterly.

Now she was angry at Bill too.

Angry at the world.

But still the tears wouldn't come.

She turned her head, pressed the side of her face
against the smooth bedspread, and stared into the darkness.

Now what am I going to do? she thought bitterly.

Some great vacation this is going to be.

She had already laid out her clothes for Trish's party. The short, silver skirt from that little shop in the Old Village. The sleek black catsuit to wear under it.

It was all waiting, ready, set out on the chair in front of her dressing table.

Merry Christmas to me, she thought miserably.

And to all, a good night.

Still the tears wouldn't come.

There was a chill in the room. A sudden waft of cold air.

Had someone left her bedroom window open?

Becka sat up and turned toward the window.

And realized there was someone in the room with her.

T
he closet door inched open.

A dark figure moved toward the bed.

Silently. Slowly. As if floating.

I'm imagining this, Becka thought, staring into the darkness.

She pulled herself up and started to reach across the bed to click on the lamp.

But a hand shot out and stopped Becka's arm.

“Hey!” Becka cried.

“Ssshhhh. It's me,” a voice whispered.

A familiar voice.

Becka squirmed away and fumbled with the lamp.

Finally the light flickered on.

“Honey!” Becka cried.

Leaning out of the shadows, Honey grinned at her mischievously, one finger raised to her lips, a gesture for silence.

“Honey, how did you get in? What are you doing here?” Becka demanded in a loud whisper.

This can't be happening, Becka thought. Honey hasn't moved in? Has she? Has she moved into my room? Is she taking over my entire life?

“Sssshhhhh,” Honey repeated.

Becka scooted back across the bedspread until her back was pressed against the headboard. Honey stepped forward until she was inches from the bed.

Her gray eyes sparkled in the harsh lamplight. Her features were twisted in excitement. She was breathing hard.

How did you get in?” Becka repeated. She stared warily into Honey's glowing eyes, unable to decide if she should be angry or afraid.

“I came to see you earlier,” Honey whispered. “Your mother said you were out.” Her smile widened.

Becka waited impatiently for her to continue.

“Your mother thought I went home,” Honey confided. “I slammed the back door so she'd think I'd left. Then I came up here to wait for you.”

“But, Honey,” Becka started.

“Just like when we were kids,” Honey interrupted. “Remember that time our parents were searching and searching for us? They thought we were outside, but all the time we were hiding in your attic closet?”

“I don't have an attic closet,” Becka whispered wearily.

Honey didn't seem to hear her. “I've been waiting a long time for you to get home,” she said, assuming a scolding tone.

“But why?” Becka demanded. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to apologize in person,” Honey said, her eyes locked on Becka's, her smile fading.

“Huh? Apologize?”

“Yeah.” Honey nodded, her short auburn hair
catching the light. “I felt really bad. It just slipped out, Becka. I'm really sorry.”

“Slipped out?”

“About Bill,” Honey said, staring intently at Becka, not blinking.

Becka groaned. “I get it. Now, I get it.” She slapped both hands against the bedspread.

“Becka, I really—”

“You
told my mom about Bill,” Becka said, forgetting to whisper. “You were the one.”

Honey swallowed hard. “It just slipped out.”

Now I get it, Becka thought angrily, turning her head to the window. Now I understand. This was Honey's way of paying me back. This was how she paid me back for the scene in the girls' room this afternoon.

She told my mom about Bill.

“I see,” Becka muttered keeping her eyes on the window.

“Really,” Honey insisted. “It wasn't intentional. Your mother and I were talking, and it just slipped out.”

Yeah. Sure, Becka thought, feeling her anger tighten her throat.

“I'm so sorry, Becka. Really. I'm so sorry.” She reached forward and tried to wrap Becka in a hug. But Becka pulled back out of her reach.

Honey straightened up stiffly, breathing hard. “Please say you'll forgive me,” she begged. “Please.”

Becka remained silent, avoiding Honey's eyes.

“Please,” Honey pleaded with growing desperation. “Forgive me. You can forgive your best friend, right?”

Becka turned to Honey, her expression hard and
cold. “You're not my friend, Honey,” she said through clenched teeth.

Honey jumped back as if she had been slapped. “Huh?”

“You're not my best friend,” Becka said, her voice trembling with rage. “You're not my best friend and you're not my friend. Trish and Lilah are my friends. Trish and Lilah are my best friends. My
only
friends.”

Honey stared at Becka thoughtfully, as if she were weighing Becka's words carefully.

But her face revealed no emotion at all.

And when she finally spoke, her tone was bright and cheerful, as if she hadn't heard Becka's hurtful words.

“Oh. By the way,” Honey said, winking at Becka. “I broke up with Eric today. Just like you did.”

B
ecka , you're here!”

Trish came hurrying across the crowded living room, pushing her way past groups of chattering, laughing kids.

“Hi, the place looks great!” Becka gazed around the room. A glowing fire cast soft orange light from the fireplace. Large stockings filled with candy canes hung down from the mantel beneath a beautiful Christmas wreath of pine boughs and cones.

An enormous Christmas tree, which touched the ceiling, shimmered in the corner. Its red and white lights twinkled on and off. Dozens of red ribbon bows were tied all along the branches. Silver tinsel made the tree glitter as if it were draped with thousands of sparkling diamonds.

Gazing quickly around the room, Becka recognized many of the smiling, talking faces. What a mob scene! Trish really had invited half the school!

“I really didn't think you'd be able to come,” Trish said, shouting over the roar of voices and the blare of music from the stereo, some sort of old school Christmas album.

“My dad gave in at the last minute,” Becka told her, grinning. “He talked my mom into letting me come. You look great!”

Trish was wearing a scoop-necked green wool sweater over velvety black pants.

“Great sweater,” Becka told her.

“Did you finish yours?” Trish asked. “You know. The one you were knitting for your cousin.”

“Oh, sure,” Becka said, making a face. “I've had plenty of time to knit since I'm not allowed to go anywhere.”

Becka slipped out of her jacket. Trish took it from her, admiring her outfit. Becka was wearing the silver skirt over the black catsuit.

“You look awesome,” Trish exclaimed.

Becka smiled and thanked her.

“I'm just throwing all the coats on my parents' bed,” Trish said, shouting.

“What is this music?” Becka shouted back. “I really don't believe it!”

“I think it's the Guns ‘n Roses Christmas album,” Trish replied, laughing. “Gary Brandt brought it. It isn't mine.”

Becka took a deep breath. “Mmmmm. What smells so good?”

Hot apple cider,” Trish said. “Go get some.” She pointed to the table near the dining room. “It's such a cold, nasty night.”

“It's nice and warm in here,” Becka said, glancing around the room. “Is Bill here yet?”

“Yeah. I think I saw him in the den. With David Metcalf and some guys.”

Trish hurried off with Becka's jacket.

Becka made her way through the room. She poured herself a cup of hot cider, then stopped to talk with Lisa Blume, who was clinging cozily to a red-haired boy Becka didn't know.

Someone changed the CD on the stereo. Suddenly Bruce Springsteen was singing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

Becka heard Ricky Schorr complaining to Trish that there was no beer. “How can you have a Christmas party without beer?” he kept asking.

Someone asked Trish where the mistletoe was hung. Trish pointed to the top of the doorframe over the dining room. Ricky told a crude joke about kissing that made everyone groan.

Eager to see Bill, Becka headed to the den. Deena Martinson stopped her just outside the door. “I love that skirt, Becka,” she said, taking Becka by the shoulders and making her turn around. “So sexy. I've never seen one like it.”

Becka thanked her.

“It looks like wrapping paper almost. Have you seen Jade?” Deena asked, gazing over Becka's shoulder. Jade was Deena's best friend. “I have her keys.”

“I don't think she's here yet,” Becka replied.

“You look great,” Deena repeated. “I heard you were—uh, sick or something.”

“No. I'm fine,” Becka said.

Bill poked his head out of the den.

“Talk to you later,” Becka told Deena.

She hurried to Bill. “Looking for me?”

“No. Looking for some more cider,” Bill teased. “But you'll do.”

Becka leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “This is our big night,” she said. “Our only night. So don't blow it.

His expression turned serious. “I'm sorry, Becka. But I brought a date.”

She believed him for a second.

But he couldn't keep a straight face. He started to laugh.