Ann Martin - Stacey's Broken Heart

didn't look like anything much, but hey, maybe it was modern art. . Before noon we wandered out to the kitchen for lunch. "Hi there, Stacey," said Mr. Walker, who entered the kitchen just as we did. He's tall and wore a long, white, paint-covered apron over his jeans and shirt. "How's life in the suburbs?"

"Pretty good," I replied.

"I don't believe you," Mr. Walker said, smiling. He pulled a bottle of club soda from the refrigerator and poured himself a drink. He offered me a glass and I took it. "The suburbs are no place for a city girl like you," he continued, putting the bottle back. "You belong here where things are happening."

"I sometimes think the same thing," I admitted. "But I have good friends in Stoneybrook. I like it there."

"You'll come back," Mr. Walker predicted with a sparkle in his eyes. "I know you, Anastasia. You'll be back." It was funny to hear him call me Anastasia. Almost no one does. Sometimes if I'm in trouble one of my parents calls me that. When Mr. Walker said it, though, it sounded cool and artistic.

"Can we have Fluff, Dad?" Henry asked his father. "Peanut butter and Fluff?"

"All right," he said. "But that stuff's supposed to be for dessert."

"Yea! Fluff!" Grace cheered.

I made sandwiches for the kids. As I spread the gooey marshmallow stuff, the doorbell rang several times. The first two times messengers came to the door with things from the Fitzroy Gallery. The third time I heard a male voice in the hallway. "Come in, Ethan," I heard Mrs. Walker say. "Mr. Walker could really use your help. He wants you to hammer together another frame and stretch the canvas. And when you're done with that, I need you to take some more pieces over to the Fitzroy for me."

I couldn't see Ethan, but he had a nice voice. "Sure thing, Mrs. W,” he answered.

Then the phone began to ring. By the fourth ring, I ran to pick it up. "Don't answer," Mrs. Walker said, sticking her head into the kitchen. "We're not answering any calls except from the Fitzroy."

She cocked her head, listening to the voice coming over the answering machine. "This is Arnold from the Fitz — "

Mrs. Walker darted across the kitchen and snapped up the phone. "Hi, Arnold."

As the kids sat at the kitchen table and devoured their sticky sandwiches, the phone kept ringing. Sometimes the Walkers took the calls, sometimes they didn't. A man named Antoine showed up and started talking to Mrs.

Walker about how they were going to arrange the show. Mrs. Walker's illustrations would be in one room, Mr. Walker's paintings in another. Mrs. Walker disagreed and thought they should be mingled together.

They were still discussing this as I cleared up the table and shepherded the kids back to their rooms. I planned to take them on some outings, but it seemed best just to stay home and get reacquainted today. The three of us sat on the floor of Henry's room and played Candy Land for awhile, then Henry wanted to play funny freeze tag.

"Okay," I agreed, putting away the board game. In funny freeze tag, you run around acting goofy — hopping, jumping, walking silly. If you get tagged, you have to freeze in that silly position.

We decided to play in the hall. In minutes, the three of us were laughing breathlessly as we ran up and down the hall looking completely ridiculous. Henry had just tagged me as I walked like a chicken, bobbing my head and flapping my elbows. I was frozen in that position, with my back turned, when I heard a voice behind me. "Can anyone join this game?"

I recognized the voice. Ethan's. Slowly, totally embarrassed, I turned.

Ethan was about fifteen. And gorgeous!

Completely, totally gorgeous! He had deep blue eyes and long, almost black hair. He had high cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide mouth. A tiny gold hoop earring dangled from one ear. He was tall with broad shoulders. A Mexican print shirt was loosely tucked into his faded jeans.

Quickly I twisted out of my chicken pose.

"No fair, you were frozen!" Henry protested.

"I'm Ethan. You're Anastasia?" he said with' just a touch of adorable shyness.

"Stacey," I said. "That's what everyone calls

me."

He nodded. "I'm waiting for Mrs. W. to wrap up her work for me to bring to the gallery," he explained.

"You work there?" I asked.

"Yeah. I was helping at the gallery during the summer. I quit there last week because school is starting, but then the Walkers hired me to help get ready for the show." He smiled. "I thought I'd have this last week for vacation but I couldn't say no to the Walkers. They're so cool and talented. I'm trying to talk Mr. Walker into giving me art lessons."

"You're an artist?" I asked.

"I'd like to be," he said.

"Hey, what happened to our game?" Henry asked indignantly.

"Sorry, Henry," I apologized.

"I'll be It," Ethan volunteered.

"Okay," Henry agreed.

So Ethan joined the game. He was great with the' kids, and came up with some hilarious steps when it was his turn to run. He turned his feet in and walked with his knees knocking, his arms flapping. Like a little kid, he didn't care how silly he looked.

Ethan played with us for about twenty minutes until Mrs. Walker had her artwork ready for him. He was so funny and easy to be around that I stopped feeling nervous near him.

For the rest of the day, every time I heard the bell ring, I peeked to see if it was Ethan, but he didn't come back.

"Does Ethan come by every day?" I asked Mrs. Walker around six-thirty when I was leaving.

"Yes," Mrs. Walker said, smiling. "Are you interested?"

"Oh, no," I replied, blushing. "I have a boyfriend at home. And besides, you know, we just met. We don't even know each other. No. No."

Mrs. Walker kept smiling. She didn't look convinced. "He's so talented. Really gifted. And a nice young man,”

"He did seem nice," I said, trying to sound casual.

"Thanks so much, Stacey," Mrs. Walker said as she accompanied me to the front door. "See you tomorrow."

That night, Dad and I ate at the Lion's Lair on 70th Street. It was warm enough so that we could eat in the back on the open patio, which was next to a huge rock ledge. Around us the lights from apartment buildings lit up one by one as the sun set behind the ledge. While we ate, I told Dad about .my first day at the Walkers'.

"So, I guess you liked this guy, Ethan," Dad observed with a wry smile.

I stared at him. "Why do you say that?"

"You've mentioned him about six times so far and you've only been there one day."

"Yeah . . . well ... he was nice," I said, "but it's not what you're thinking."

"What am I thinking?" he asked.

"You know what you're thinking and it's not true," I said adamantly.

"Okay, okay." Dad waved his white cloth napkin like a surrender flag. "Let's order dessert. They've had great fresh berries here lately."

That night, as soon as we got back to the apartment, I phoned Robert.

The line was busy. I called him back every fifteen minutes for the next hour and a half.

But the line stayed busy.

Chapter 11.

I was having such a great time at the Walkers' that Tuesday and Wednesday just flew by. Both nights I came home exhausted but happy. Dad and I would eat supper, rent a video, and then go to sleep early. At night before going to bed I thought about Robert a lot, wondered what he was doing. I didn't try calling him 'again, though, because I was too tired even to talk. Still, I wondered why he hadn't called me.