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  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NORMA FOX MAZER

  “Mazer is one of the best of the practitioners writing for young people today.” —The New York Times

  “It’s not hard to see why Norma Fox Mazer has found a place among the most popular writers for young adults these days.” —The Washington Post Book World

  A, My Name Is Ami

  “A satisfying novel about the ups and downs of 12-year-old Ami’s relationship with her best friend Mia … The writing is light but consistently sensitive and realistic, as the joys and disasters of the characters flow towards a moving and memorable ending.” —School Library Journal

  “The atmosphere and the girls are right on target.… An accurate slice of teenage life.” —Publishers Weekly

  B, My Name Is Bunny

  “[Bunny] is a likeable, true-to-life character who hates her name and wants to be a professional clown. Her friendship with Emily is the source and depth of this simple story of two teenagers learning about life … [a] story of growth and acceptance with accurate and touching emotions.” —School Library Journal

  C, My Name Is Cal

  “Deftly sketched … Mazer’s skill in telling the reader more about Cal than he knows about himself, while narrating Cal’s unique, taciturn voice, is especially memorable.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Readers will recognize themselves.” —Booklist

  Dear Bill, Remember Me?

  A New York Times Notable Book and a Kirkus Choice

  “Highly accomplished short stories, variously funny and moving, about ordinary, contemporary girls and their relationships with mothers or boyfriends.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Eight short stories, powerful and poignant, about young women at critical points in their lives.” —The New York Times

  “Stories that are varied in mood and style and alike in their excellence.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Summer Girls, Love Boys

  “Featuring female protagonists, the stories mix the bitter and the sweet of life while encompassing a variety of narrative techniques, settings, themes, and tones.… Mazer writes honestly and provocatively of human emotion and circumstances while she demonstrates her versatility as a writer.” —Booklist

  Good Night, Maman

  “Mazer writers with a simplicity that personalizes the history.… Direct … honest.” —Booklist, starred review

  Babyface

  Norma Fox Mazer

  FOR

  ELEANOR CLYMER

  Feature Report

  Best Friends Reassuring Tradition by Patricia Abish

  In this day and age, when so many cherished traditions have disappeared and parents wonder what bizarre fad their kids will come home with tomorrow, this reporter found that tradition lives reassuringly on in the persons of two teen girls, Julie Jensen and Toni Chessmore. Julie and Toni live next door to each other and are best friends. “It was our destiny,” says Toni with a charming giggle.

  Fifteen years ago Julie’s and Toni’s parents each bought their first homes, modest three-bedroom houses on Oak Street. Steven and Jerrine Jensen each had a business: Steven dealt in paint supplies; Jerrine was involved with building her cosmetics line. Next door, Harold Chessmore was a dedicated fireman, while Violet Chessmore managed a drugstore. The two young couples were strangers, but their shared ideals and ambitions quickly made them friends. They had even more in common when the baby girls, Toni and Julie, were born the following year.

  Toni is a younger sister, Julie an older sister. “As you can see, otherwise we’re just alike,” quips Julie, a tall, classic blue-eyed blonde, contrasting strongly to Toni, a slight, dark-haired girl with enormous brown eyes. Their birthdays in May are only a week apart. “Big important week,” says Toni. “Right,” says Julie with a grin. “I’m older, so that makes me wiser.”

  The two girls call each other first thing in the morning (on the phone or out the window, depending on the weather), do their homework together, and spend their weekends and holidays together. Now on spring vacation, they have been helping a temporarily incapacitated neighbor, visiting her daily to clean, shop, and do small chores. Do they mind washing dishes? “No,” laughs Julie. “It’s fun to do anything, as long as we do it together.” They look at each other and nod. “We like to keep busy!”

  This reporter couldn’t help feeling that in these girls and their friendship and their families, the best of old-fashioned American traditions persist.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Toni had always thought of herself as lucky. Toni Luck, she called it. She was lucky in her parents, lucky to have Julie. Those were the big things. But what about the little things, like the way Paws had come to her, just showed up at their house one day and stayed? Pure luck. Or how about the way she was always finding money in the street? Usually it was only a quarter or a dime, but once she had found a ten-dollar bill, and another time a silver dollar. Julie said Toni was probably the only kid in the world who could take a casual walk anywhere and pick up her allowance on the way.

  Toni’s lucky feeling about herself was why she wasn’t even that surprised when a reporter from the Ridgewood Record wanted to write a story about her and Julie. Julie was the one who got excited. “This could be important. What if a Hollywood producer sees my picture—”

  “Julie, I really don’t think they read the Record in Hollywood,” Toni said.

  “But what if one did and saw me and thought, ‘By Jove, that girl is photogenic and has talent!’”

  “Don’t think they say ‘by Jove,’ either, Jul.”

  “Shut up, Toni.”

  “Whatever you say, Julie.”

  The Ridgewood Record came out once a week with news and articles about people in their town. Small-town paper, only about eight pages and filled with ads, the features squeezed in between. How the paper happened to run the article about her and Julie was, Toni thought, like a Rube Goldberg contraption. The kind of thing where you press a button and a window flies open, which hits someone in the head, who falls down and knocks over a chair, which breaks a dish, which wakes the baby, who bites the dog.

  The button in this case was Mrs. Abish, a widow who lived across the street at 92 Oak. One Sunday morning she got a yen for pancakes and noticed she didn’t have any maple syrup. She got on her three-speed bike and rode over to Paulsons’ Market, a mom-and-pop store on Poplar Avenue that was open from seven in the morning to midnight, seven days a week. Mr. Paulson happened to be in bed with a cold that day, so Mrs. Paulson was unusually busy, which was why she didn’t know someone had broken a bottle of syrup right at the end of aisle three. Which was why Mrs. Abish, coming around the corner, walked right into the sticky mess, slipped, and went flat on her back.

  “It must have been a glorious sight, me flailin’ around on the floor like a fat fish,” she said to anyone who would listen. Really she wasn’t fat so much as large, or what Toni’s mother kindly called well-padded. “Look at me. I used to be a slip of a girl. I’m this way from the grand food in this country,” Mrs. Abish would say. She had been born in Ireland and rolled her r’s wonderfully.

  She came home from the hospital with her leg in a cast. It was the beginning of spring vacation for Julie and Toni, and they didn’t have that much to do, so they started going across the street to see if they could help Mrs. Abish, run to the store for her, or whatever. (Actually it had been Toni’s mother’s idea to begin with.)

  Mrs. Abish was delighted. “Is that you, loves?” she’d call when she heard their steps on the porch. Inside, she’d be sitti
ng on the couch with her leg extended on a stool. Toni and Julie would sit down and talk to her for a while, then they’d dust or wash the dishes, whatever she wanted done. One day toward the end of vacation, when they went over, Mrs. Abish’s niece was visiting. Patricia Abish was a reporter, and Mrs. Abish had told her all about Julie and Toni. That was the beginning of the article. They were interviewed, they were photographed, everything very professional.

  The day the story appeared, Julie read the article out loud, with appropriate gestures. “In this day and age, when so many”—arms spread wide—“cherished”—hand to heart—“traditions have disappeared”—hand over eye, peering into the distance—“and parents wonder …”

  They spread the newspaper out on the floor and checked out the pictures. “You can hardly see me,” Toni said. In every picture (there were three) she was looking down, looking away, or more or less hanging out behind Julie. Not great, but she wasn’t photogenic like Julie.

  “My lips are sticking out,” Julie said. “Look at them, they poke out. Do they always stick out like that?”

  “Julie, your lips are beautiful. You’ve got full lips.”

  Julie stared at herself in the mirror, front face, then at each profile. “I might have to have my lips fixed, like that ballet dancer, Gelsey Kirkland. She got herself full lips. I’ll get mine cut down.”

  “Julie, ugh! Sick. Don’t ever do anything like that.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, anyway, it costs a huge amount of money. You have to be rich.”

  Toni’s parents bought a dozen extra copies of the newspaper. Her mother clipped the article and sent it to everyone: to Toni’s sister, Martine, in New York City; to her uncle in Paris; to her grandmother in Los Angeles. Her father framed a copy for the family room. He laminated another copy and took it with him to the fire station. The last time he’d tacked an article on the bulletin board there had been three years ago when the Record had run a feature titled “Men as Cooks.” They’d printed Toni’s father’s picture and his recipe for Pizza-in-a-Hurry.

  For a while it seemed as if Toni couldn’t go anywhere in the neighborhood without someone saying, “I saw your picture in the paper.” A kid she didn’t even know passed her and Julie on his bike and yelled, “I read about you two!” Mrs. Frankowitz, who lived in the corner house, stopped Toni to say she’d had an article written about her once, too. “I was even younger than you. I won a gymnastic competition,” she said, smiling, showing tiny gray teeth.

  What made it all even more embarrassing was that Patricia Abish had gotten so many things wrong. For instance, Toni’s mother wasn’t manager of Rite Bargain Drugs, she was assistant manager. Julie’s father was a salesman, not a businessman. And Mrs. Jensen hadn’t even started her door-to-door cosmetics business until a year ago. Little details like that.

  There were other things, too. She’d written that Toni and Julie’s parents were good friends, but really, it was more in the line of good neighbors who got together once or twice a year for a barbecue in the backyard. And Toni wished she only were slight. That sounded a lot better to her than skinny. Gaining weight was a big struggle. She had these elbows and knees—pointy, bony things. Julie said she could always use them as weapons in hand-to-hand combat.

  Patricia Abish did get Julie right, tagging her as blond and blue-eyed, except that sounded so bland, so vanilla pudding. Exactly what Julie wasn’t.

  “What bugs me,” Julie said, “is that I never said you and I were alike.”

  “I think she was being ironic, Jul,” Toni said.

  “Whatever,” Julie said. “I could list a hundred differences. Starting with cats.” Julie tolerated Paws for Toni’s sake. “But I don’t forget that he’s one of the sneaky tribe,” she always said. “He’ll lick your hand, then go out and kill an innocent bird.”

  “It’s cat nature to hunt,” Toni said. “They don’t do it to be cruel. They don’t have a concept of cruelty. That’s human beings.” Paws leaped up on Toni’s lap. He was always a little skittery around Julie, but Toni still kept trying to bring the two of them together.

  “Want to hold him, Jul?” She cuddled Paws. He was a small, cream-streaked-with-chocolate cat, some Siamese in his ancestry somewhere. “When people play with pets, their heartbeat slows down and it calms them.”

  “My heartbeat can slow down when I get old, Toni.”

  “You’re missing a lot. A cat is a friend forever.”

  “Calling Hallmark Cards! Spare me the slop. I do not need a four-legged slimeball killer for a friend, Toni.”

  Toni kissed Paws’s little heart-shaped face and whispered in his ear not to mind Julie. She was used to Julie’s harangues. It was part of the way they balanced each other: Toni was dark, Julie blond. Toni was slight, Julie not. Toni was shy, Julie outspoken. That really was their biggest difference.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  A new boy enrolled in school. Julie made it her business to find out about him, but nobody knew much. All Julie knew was his name, L.R. Faberman, and that he always wore black T-shirts and sunglasses. And he was strong. “He does the pegboard every day at lunchtime in the gym,” she told Toni. She pointed him out in the hall. “Look interesting?”

  “Cute,” Toni said.

  “I could fall in love with him,” Julie said.

  In the girls’ room, Toni sat on a sink watching Julie putting on makeup. Julie was expert. She’d been doing it for years. She dusted on blusher, outlined her lips with a pencil, and filled in with lipstick. A layer of lip gloss over that, then another layer of lipstick. The cosmetics were samples from her mother. Makeup looked good on Julie. She had the cheeks for it, and those full lips she objected to.

  Julie took a cigarette out of her purse, stuck it in the corner of her mouth, and lit up. “How does this look, Toni?”

  “It looks like if your mother knew, she’d hang you from the ceiling by your thumbs.”

  “She smokes plenty, so she should say nothing.” Julie held the cigarette in the middle of her mouth between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m doing this for professional reasons. When I have to play a character who smokes, I’ll be ready. Lots of plays and movies have smoking in them.” She switched the cigarette to the corner of her mouth again.

  “Don’t inhale,” Toni warned.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to become a smoking maniac like your father.”

  Toni held out her hand. “Let me try.”

  “Uh-uh!” Julie jumped back. “I would never let you smoke!”

  “Hey, girl, you’re doing it.”

  “You’re not me. You’re too innocent. And younger.”

  “Julie, one stupid little week doesn’t make me younger.”

  Julie puffed at the cigarette, watching herself in the mirror. “Swear you won’t tell. If Heather found out, she’d squeal to Mom like a pig.”

  “I’m insulted. I would not say a word to Heather.”

  “Do I hear my name?” Heather said, walking in.

  Julie put the cigarette behind her back. Toni palmed it and went into one of the stalls.

  “What are you two talking about now?” Heather said. She was ten months younger than Julie. She had her own friends but always seemed irritated by Julie and Toni’s closeness.

  “Nothing that would interest you,” Julie said.

  “I heard them announce your birthday this morning, Toni,” Heather called.

  “I know.” Toni flushed away the cigarette. “It was a mistake.”

  “What a bunch of jerks,” Heather said. “Two weeks early.”

  Toni came out of the stall and washed her hands. Just thinking of the announcement this morning—“And we all want to wish Toni Chessmore a wonderful Happy Birthday!”—brought heat to her cheeks. Exactly the kind of thing she hated: everyone in the class looking at her.

  Julie was bent over a sink, rinsing out her mouth.

  “They better not goof with my birthday,” Heather said. She brushed and rebraided her hair, which was th
ick and blond like Julie’s. “They either get it right or I raise hell. I wish my birthday was right now. I love hearing my name called over the PA.”

  “You love anything about yourself,” Julie said, packing away her cosmetics.

  Heather flipped her braid at her sister. “And nothing about you.” She inspected her teeth, smiled at herself approvingly, and pulled her T-shirt tight. “I’ve got more than either of you.”

  “If I stuffed my bra with socks, I’d have more, too,” Julie said.

  Heather smiled, but on the way out she turned to say, “Oh, Toni, is it true that the boys call you Toni Chessless?”

  “Witch with a B!” Julie called after her sister.

  Toni stared at herself in the mirror. Pearl earrings, blue work shirt, long full skirt, wavy crinkly hair falling around her face. That sounded okay, but how did she really look? “Am I that flat-chested?” she asked, because she couldn’t come out and say “Am I pretty?” That was just too egotistical.

  “You’re only a little on the small side,” Julie said. She gave Toni a reassuring pat on the back. “You’ll get there, you’re just slow developing.”

  Toni peered into the music room. Maybe she did it to torture herself. Chorale practice was just starting. Toni should have been in the music room, right in the front row with the other sopranos, or maybe even in the soloist’s special place, standing next to the piano. But for the second year in a row she’d chickened out on the auditions. Kay Gibbon stood up, her hands clutched in front of her, her mouth open in a perfect little red O. “How will I know, how will I know …” she sang, looking at Mrs. Sokolow, who was accompanying her on the piano, “How will I know … if he loves me?”

  “Ask him and stop moaning about it,” Julie breathed behind Toni, taking her arm. “Come on, I don’t want to be late for rehearsal.” They went on down the hall to the auditorium.