The Truth About Stacey (10 page)

We settled the score first thing the next morning. We marched off to school and planted ourselves outside Liz and Michelle's homeroom.

The girls arrived early.

“Well,” said Liz. “Like, look who it is. The Baby Club.”

“Like, ha-ha,” Kristy replied.

I giggled. Michelle scowled.

“Have you finally come crawling?” Liz asked. “When your club fails, you can
al
ways work for us, you know.”

“No way,” said Kristy. “We're here to talk to you about an important business matter.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“And what is so important?”

“What is so important,” said Kristy, “is that yesterday Cathy Morris was baby-sitting for a three-year-old boy and she let him go outdoors by himself.”

“So?”

“So?! We found him playing near the street—with no hat or mittens. We had to send him inside. If we hadn't come along, he might have been hit by a car. Three-year-olds cannot play outside by themselves. And good baby-sitters ought to know that.”

“So we won't give Cathy any more jobs,” Michelle spoke up. “She doesn't really like babysitting anyway.”

“That's no surprise,” said Claudia.

“What do you mean by that?” snapped Liz.

“I mean,” said Claudia, “that the kids
we
know don't like the sitters
you
find.”

“Are you saying we're not good baby-sitters?” asked Michelle.

“Well,” I said, “a good baby-sitter spends time with the children she sits for. She doesn't ignore them and talk on the phone or just watch TV all the time.”

“Oh, we
al
ways play with the kids we take care of. We tell the other sitters to do that, too. Right, Michelle?”

“Oh,
right.”

“Then,” said Kristy, “you must know the kids pretty well by now. A good baby-sitter knows a lot about the children she takes care of. Do you
know what Jamie Newton's favorite kind of sandwich is?”

Liz paused. “I only baby-sat for him once,” she said.

“It's peanut butter and honey, toasted,” said Mary Anne, finding her voice.

“What's Charlotte Johanssen's favorite game?” asked Kristy.

Liz and Michelle glanced at each other. “Candyland?” Michelle said.

“Charlotte's really smart. Her favorite game is Scrabble.”

“Have you ever sat for the Marshalls?” asked Claudia.

“
I
have,” said Liz. “Two girls: Nina, three, and Eleanor, one.” (I really thought she was going to add “So there.”)

“Right,” said Claudia. “And do you know what it means when Eleanor rubs her ears?”

“That she has an earache?”

“No, it means she's getting hungry.”

“Do you remember what Nina is allergic to?” asked Mary Anne.

“For heaven's sake, what is this—Twenty Questions?”

“Come on,” said Kristy. “You sat for her. I'll give you a hint. It's a food. What could you have
fed her that would have made her break out in hives?”

“I don't know, okay?” Liz said angrily, at the same time that Mary Anne said, “Strawberries.”

“What are you trying to prove?” asked Michelle. But she answered her own question. “That you're better baby-sitters than we are?”

“You said it, I didn't,” replied Kristy.

“Okay, so you proved it,” said Liz. “Now go away and leave us alone.”

We did. We gathered in the girls' room. “What do you think that meant?” I asked.

The other club members shook their heads. It had felt like some sort of victory, but we weren't sure. We wondered what had happened when Mrs. Newton called Cathy. We wondered what was going to happen when the parents heard the news about the agency and began talking to their children. We figured we'd hear something over the weekend.

Unfortunately, I was spending that important weekend in New York. My parents picked me up after school on Friday. I was all set. I had packed my bag the night before, and it was in the backseat along with a pillow, a Judy Blume book, an apple, and homework assignments for the
following week. More important, I had seen Dr. Johanssen the night before and a special doctor's appointment had been arranged for late Saturday afternoon. Before I left, she had handed me an official-looking envelope with my parents' names typed on the front.

I waved to Claudia, Mary Anne, and Kristy from the car window. “See you on Wednesday!” I called.

My father pulled away from the curb and we began the two-hour drive to New York City. When we reached the highway, I said, “So who are we staying with this time—Aunt Beverly and Uncle Lou or Aunt Carla and Uncle Eric?” I hoped it was Aunt Beverly and Uncle Lou. I liked my cousins Jonathan and Kirsten a lot better than my cousin Cheryl.

Mom and Dad looked at each other and smiled. Then Mom turned around and faced me. “We were going to surprise you when we got to the city, but we might as well tell you now. We're not staying with the Spencers
or
the McGills.”

“Yippeee! You mean we're staying in a hotel?” I adore hotels.

“No … We're staying with the
Cum
mingses. You can see Laine again.”

“With the Cummingses!” I exclaimed. “Do
they know what's wrong with me, then? Did you tell them?”

“Yes, we finally told them. It's funny—now that you're so much better, there doesn't seem to be any reason for them
not
to know.”

“Does Laine know?”

“Yes. Her parents have told her.”

“But, Mom, how could you do that to me? You know Laine hates me. And I hate her.”

“Oh, Stacey,” said Mom, “that was months ago. I'm sure you and Laine are over that fight, especially now that Laine knows the truth about you.”

I slumped down in my seat. “No, we're not,” I replied.

“Well, I'm sure you'll feel differently when you see her.”

“No, I won't.”

Laine didn't, either. When Mrs. Cummings opened the door to their apartment and let Mom and Dad and me in, Laine wasn't in sight. Mrs. Cummings greeted us warmly and showed Mom and Dad into the guest room, where they would be staying. Then she told me to go on into Laine's room. I walked slowly down the hall to her bedroom. Being in the Cummingses' apartment felt strange after such a long time.

Laine's door was closed. A big sign said:
KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING.

I knocked.

“Who is it?” Laine called.

“It's Stacey.”

No answer.

“Can I come in?”

No answer.

I went in anyway. I threw my duffel bag down on one of the twin beds. Laine was lying on the other bed, reading a book. She didn't look up.

I walked back to the door. “I just want you to know,” I said as I started to close the door, “that I'm not any happier to be here than you are to have me. I wanted to stay in a hotel. In fact, staying with Cheryl would have been a picnic compared to this.”

Laine finally looked up from her book. “Stacey—”

But I stepped into the hall, slamming the door behind me. I could hear the adults in the living room, so I went into the guest room. It was the only place I could be alone.

Laine and I didn't speak all evening. I noticed, though, that she watched me very carefully, especially at dinner. But there wasn't much for her to see. I cleaned my plate. Dessert was fruit, which
I could eat. I kept my insulin pump out of sight. I'm not sure what Laine was expecting that night, but I didn't faint or throw up, I was neither overweight nor underweight, and nobody gave me any special attention, food, or favors.

I was as normal as she was, except that I had diabetes.

The next morning, my parents and I left for Dr. Barnes's clinic around eleven o'clock. We wanted to enjoy the city, so we decided to walk. We walked down Central Park West, with the park on our left, and then we turned onto West Sixty-third Street.

The clinic was not far away. It occupied a suite of rooms on the ground floor of a tall, modern apartment building. Mom gave our names to a receptionist in the waiting room and we sat down on a hard couch. We were the only people there.

Fifteen minutes later, a nurse entered the room. She told my parents that Dr. Barnes would be with them shortly. Then she led me down a hall and into an examining cubicle.

And the tests began.

I was examined, poked, and prodded. Blood was drawn. I was fed a specially prepared lunch and more blood was drawn. Then this woman
holding a sheaf of papers asked me to do weird things like draw a picture of my family, make up stories about inkblots, and build towers of blocks. I ran on a treadmill and tried to do sit-ups and push-ups. I rode an exercise bicycle. At last, I was given a written test. It might have been an IQ test, but I wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it looked long. My appointment with the other doctor was at five o'clock, and I still hadn't even told my parents about it. At 3:10, I began to feel nervous. At 3:20, I began to perspire. But at 3:30, a nurse came to take the paper away. Whew! Just in time.

I was sent back to the waiting room. I had been at the clinic for four hours and I had not laid eyes on Dr. Barnes.

My parents had, though, and they looked a little confused. I took advantage of that. I spotted a coffee shop across the street from the building the clinic was in. “Let's go get something to drink,” I suggested.

When we were seated in a booth, Dad said, “Well, tell us about your day, honey.”

I did—briefly.

The waitress brought our order.

As Mom and Dad sipped their coffee, I said carefully, “You know, you guys were right about something.”

“What's that?” asked Mom.

“That it's important to learn about diabetes and how to live with it. And so … I've been looking into it myself.”

“You have?” said Dad. “Good for you.”

“Yeah. And I heard about this doctor, Dr. Graham. He's a big authority on childhood diseases, especially diabetes. He's done lots of research and he even started some organization to study diabetes.”

Dad raised his eyebrows and nodded his head.

“The thing is,” I said, “I have an appointment with him today. It's sort of a … surprise. We're supposed to be at his office at five o'clock.” I held out the letter from Charlotte's mother. “This is from Dr. Johanssen. I think you better read it now.”

“What?” my mother started to say. “Honey, I—”

“Just read it,” I said. Dr. Johanssen had shown me the letter before she sealed it in the envelope, so I knew what it said. It explained that we had discussed this new doctor and that I had expressed an interest in seeing him and had asked Dr. Johanssen to help me get an appointment. It said that I had gone to her confidentially, which was why she hadn't contacted my parents
personally. She wound up by praising the doctor's work, apologizing to Mom and Dad for any inconvenience, and offering to talk with them when we returned to Stoneybrook.

My parents read the letter together, frowning.

“Stacey, I'm not quite sure what to think of all this,” said Dad when the letter had been returned to the envelope.

“I thought you'd be pleased,” I said, although that wasn't quite true.

“Well, we are,” said Dad. “We're just—we weren't expecting this. We don't know how expensive he's going to be. We don't know anything about him. I wish you'd discussed this with us before you made an appointment.”

“You make appointments for me without asking me first,” I pointed out.

“True …” said Mom. “Dr. Graham. His name sounds familiar…. Philip Graham. I think I've heard about him or read about him.” She began to look impressed. “He's supposed to be excellent, but very busy and almost impossible to see. You were lucky to get an appointment, Stacey.”

“Listen,” I said hastily, since Mom seemed so impressed, “his office is way across town at East Seventy-seventh Street and York Avenue. We better get going.”

Dad looked at his watch. “We certainly better.” He paid the man at the cash register, and we hurried outside and hailed a cab.

I scrambled into the backseat between Mom and Dad. I crossed my fingers. So far, so good.

Dr. Graham's office looked just the way I thought the office of a children's doctor should look. The waiting room was small and cozy, with two big, dumpy couches and lots of child-size chairs. On a little table by a window were some puzzles, a stack of picture books, and several copies of
Cricket
magazine. In a big bin were trucks, cars, dolls, and other toys. I sat down with the latest issue of
Seventeen
and began to read while Mom spoke to the receptionist. In a moment, Dr. Graham himself came out. He was a tall black man with sparkling eyes and a deep voice. I liked him right away.

“Well, Stacey,” he said, shaking my hand, “I'm glad to see you. You're my last patient today. These must be your parents.”