Ann Martin: The Truth About Stacey

"Well."

"Kristy, we'll make it. We're good babysitters."

"I know," she said. But that was all she said. I kind of expected Kristy to be a little more

positive. I mean, the club was really more hers than anybody else's. I thought she'd do anything for the club. I would.

But maybe that was because the club was more than just a project or a business to me. It was my friends. It was the only good thing that had happened to me in the last horrible year.

I ran home.

Somehow, I managed to eat dinner that night. It wasn't easy. For one thing, ever since I developed the diabetes and I've had to watch what I eat so carefully, food simply isn't much fun anymore. Often, when I'm hungry, I don't care what I eat. I eat just to fill up. And since I was upset about the Baby-sitters Agency that night, I wasn't even hungry. But Mom watches my food intake like a hawk, particularly since I've lost a little weight recently. So I forced down what I thought was a reasonable dinner.

As soon as I could, I escaped to my room. I dosed my door and sat down in my armchair to think. It had been just a year earlier that I had started to show the symptoms of diabetes. At first, we didn't think anything was wrong. I was hungry all the time — I mean, really hungry, nothing could fill me up — and thirsty, too. "Well, you're a growing girl," Mom had

said. "I expect this is the beginning of a growth spurt. Let's measure you." Sure enough, I'd grown an inch and a half. But then, even though I was eating and eating, I began to lose weight. I didn't feel well, either. I grew tired easily and sometimes I felt weak all over. Twice, I wet my bed. (The second time, I happened to be sharing a double bed with my former best friend,Laine Cummings, at a sleep-over.) When that happened, Mom forgot about my growth spurt and decided I was having a psychological problem. She took me to a fancyNew York psychiatrist. During my first session with him, he asked me about the bed-wetting, heard that I was losing weight, and watched me drink three sodas. He was the one who realized what was going on and told Mom to make an appointment with mypediatrician . Mom did. Two weeks later I was learning how to give injections, practicing on poordefenseless oranges, thinking that, very shortly, those oranges were going to be me.

Diabetes is a problem with a gland in your body called the pancreas. The pancreas1 makes insulin, which is a hormone. What insulin does is use the sugar and starch that your body takes in when you eat, to give you heat and energy and to break down other foods. When the pancreas doesn't make enough insulin to

dothe job, then glucose from the sugars and starches builds up in your blood and makes you sick.And not just a little sick. If you don't treat diabetes properly, you could die.

Well, I practically died when I first heard that. But then the doctor explained that you can give yourself injections of insulin every day to keep the right amount in your body. When you take insulin and control your diet, you can lead a normal life. That was why I was learning how to give injections — so that I could inject myself with insulin every day.

Tell methat's not weird. I used to be one of those kids who cried at the very thought of a flu shot. I never even learned how to sew, for fear of pricking my fingers. And then I discover that not only am I going to need shots every day for the rest of my life, but I'm going to have to give them to myself. It was almost too much to bear. But what could I do? Mom or Dad could give me the shots, but then I'd be dependent on them. And what about sleep-oversor field trips — was I supposed to bring one of my parents along? No way. I had to learn to give myself injections. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now, but it's better than being tied to my parents — or dying. The one thing I will never do, though, is let my new friends inStoneybrook see me give myself

aninjection. It's just too gross. And the truth is, every time I give myself one, I feel like a very sick person — just for a few moments. And I never want my friends to think the same thing, whether it's the truth or not.

Before I got diabetes, I really had it pretty easy. I'm an only child. For as long as I could remember, I'd lived in a large apartment in a nice, safe building with a doorman on theUpper West Side inNew York City . I had my own bedroom with windows that looked out overCentral Park . I went to a private school. I didn't have any pets, and, of course, no brothers or sisters, but I wasn't lonely. I had lots of friends at school and in my building, and my parents let me invite them over whenever I wanted. Mom and Dad seemed to be pretty cool parents — a little pushy, maybe, and more involved in my life than I liked, but that was it. They let me dress the way I wanted, go out with my friends after school, and play my stereo at top volume as long as theneighbors didn't complain.

Then, right before I began to get sick, Mom found out that she and Dad couldn't have any more children. They'd been trying for a long time, but they hadn't been able to have a brother or sister for me. It was unfortunate that they got that news just before I got the

diabetes. What if I died? I'd be gone and they wouldn't be able to have another child. Suddenly they were faced with the possibility of no children — no children of their own, anyway.

That was sad, but the upshot of it was that, practically overnight, Mom and Dad became the world's two most overprotective parents — and not just where food and insulin were concerned. Suddenly, they began to worry about me when I wasn't home. Mom would call me at my friends' apartments after school to make sure I was all right. She even called me at school everynoon until the headmistress suggested that it wasn't very healthy for me, and reminded Mom about the nice, qualified school nurse.

Then began the business with the doctors.My parents became convinced that they could find either a miracle cure or a better treatment for me. They never doubted that I had diabetes; they just couldn't leave it alone. They made Helping Stacey their new goal in life.

Unfortunately, they weren't helping me at all. I was losing friends fast, and being yanked out of school to see some new doctor every time I turned around didn't make things any better.Laine Cummings began to hate me the night I wet the bed we were sharing. I didn't

blameher for being mad, but why did she have to be mad for so long? We'd been best friends since we were five.Laine said that the real reason she was mad was that I had spent a lot of time at the slumber party that night talking to Allison Ritz, a new girl. But I don't know.Laine acted strange after I wet the bed, stranger still the first time I had to stay in the hospital, and even stranger after I started going to all those doctors. Maybe I should have told her about the diabetes, but for some reason, my parents kept the truth a secret from their friends, so I did the same. In fact, I didn't tell anyone the truth until we leftNew York and started over again inConnecticut . I finally told Claudia, Kristy, and Mary Anne my secret. ButLaine still doesn't know, and even though her parents are my parents' best friends, they don't know, either. I don't see what the big deal is, but I guess it doesn't matter now.

At the beginning of my illness hospital visits couldn't be avoided. I needed tests, I had to have mydiet and insulin regulated, and once I fainted at school and went into insulin shock and the ambulance came and took me to St. Luke's. If one of my friends got that sick, I would have called her in the hospital and sent her cards and visited her when she went home.But notLaine . She seemed almost afraid of me

(althoughshe tried to cover up by acting cool and snooty). And my other friends did whatLaine did, because she was the leader.Their leader.My leader. And we were her followers.