Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 028

The doors opened on my floor. I stepped into the hallway and paused, listening. The only sound was the TV blaring in 12C.

I walked to my apartment on tiptoe, stopping every few feet.

Still I heard nothing but the sounds of Z Love Lucy.

At 12E I listened especially carefully. Nothing.

I found my key, slipped it in the lock, and let myself inside. A tiny part of me was afraid that something had happened, that Mom or Dad had stormed off. But, no. They were sitting in the living room. They didn't look like they were doing much of anything, so they must have been talking.

Whew. If they were talking, that meant they weren't fighting.

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," I said casually, as if I'd just left the Walkers' apartment, hadn't heard the fight, and hadn't been to Laine's.

"Hi, honey," they replied at the same time.

Another good sign. Speaking in unison.

But then Mom said, "Stacey, we need to talk to you." Whoa, bad sign.

"You do?" I desperately hoped that they were going to accuse me of not sticking to my diet. I even hoped that my English teacher had called up personally to tell my parents about the D I'd gotten on a quiz.

No such luck. I sat down on the edge of a couch and looked at Mom and Dad, who were glancing at each other as if to say, "You go first." "No, you go first." Finally, Mom went first. "I guess it's no secret," she said, "that your dad and I have been having some problems." No secret? The whole building probably knew.

"Well, I have heard you, um, arguing a lot lately," I admitted.

Mom nodded. "And we've decided to do something about it. Stacey, your father and I are getting a divorce." "What?" I whispered.

"We're getting a divorce," Dad spoke up.

I felt as if someone had slapped me across the face. I actually put my hand up to my cheek. Mom must have thought I was going to cry, because she rushed to my side and started to put her arms around me. I pushed her away, though. I was angry, not upset.

"Why?" I demanded. "You don't need a divorce." But I think I knew that they did.

Otherwise, I wouldn't have shouted, "Can't you work things out like two adults? That's what you always say to me when I'm having a fight with a friend." I was protesting too much. Isn't that how the saying goes?

"Honey, we are working things out," Mom told me. "The divorce is our solution." "We've been having trouble for a long time now," Dad added. "Ever since I got the news that I was being transferred to Stoneybrook." For that long? Why hadn't I noticed earlier? Because I'd been too busy baby-sitting and making friends and taking vacations and going to camp and shopping and doing homework, I guessed.

"My job has been on shaky territory since the first transfer," said Dad.

That much I knew.

"I guess the shakiness spread to our marriage," he went on. "I feel as if I've got to work harder than ever just to keep from being fired. Your mother thinks I should look for a new job." I thought she thought Dad was a workaholic.

"There are other problems," added Mom. "Money, that sort of thing." They were being vague to protect me, I decided. If only they knew what I already knew, but this wasn't the time to admit I'd been eavesdropping.

"Those problems sound big, but not - not unworkable," I said hopefully. "Can't you reach some compromises? I know! You could see a marriage counselor!" "We have seen one," said Mom.

"And?" "And she was very helpful. We've been seeing her for three months. She was the one who suggested we get the divorce." "Oh. So you saw a divorce counselor," I snapped.

"Stacey, don't be difficult," said Dad. "This doctor is well respected and we liked her very much." "I haven't even met her and already I hate her," I told my father.

He ignored my comment. "She knows about our problems, our lives, you, even our finances. After she suggested that a divorce was probably the best solution to our problems, she helped us arrange as amicable a divorce as possible." "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"It means splitting up with as little trouble as we can, and making things as easy on you as we can." "Could we please backtrack for a second?" I said.

But Mom changed the subject. "Stacey, have you given yourself your insulin today?" "Of course I have." "Just checking." Mom looked at her watch. "It's dinnertime," she added.

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"You have to eat anyway." Mom was losing her patience.

She was right, though. I did have to eat. With my kind of diabetes, I can't skip meals. I have to eat regularly, eat what the doctor says, and take in a certain number of calories every day. It's such a drag. If I don't do those things, my blood sugar gets out of whack and I'm in trouble.

"Come on," said Mom. "We can continue this discussion over dinner. I ordered in from the deli." "Unnecessary expense," muttered Dad, but neither Mom nor I said anything.

Mom had ordered several different kinds of salad and some plain sandwiches - lean meats on whole wheat bread. Healthy stuff that I could eat. She'd set a bowl of fruit out, too, and I knew I was supposed to eat an apple or a banana with dinner. So I filled up my plate, even though I had no appetite at all.

The three of us sat around the kitchen table with the remains of the deli food in a jumble on a nearby counter. Actually, I don't think any of us was hungry, but we all began to eat.

"Now, what was it you wanted to ask?" said Mom.

"I wanted to know more about your problems," I replied. "I mean, if you can tell me. I want to know just what it is that's so big you can't work it out." "Stacey, it's a lot of things," said my father.

"And," added Mom, "some of them you probably wouldn't - " "Wouldn't understand?" I interrupted. "Listen, I'm not a baby anymore. I'm thirteen years old." "It's not that," said my mother. "I don't think anyone except your father and I could understand some of these things. They're personal. They have to do with our feelings toward each other. And those feelings have changed." "Are you in love anymore?" I asked suddenly. "Are you?" Mom and Dad glanced at each other.

There was a pause.

At last Dad said, "Your mother and I will always care about each other. We'll always love each other - and we'll love you, of course. But no, we're not in love anymore." I felt stung. I looked down at my plate. It was mostly full, so I began shoveling in the food. The faster I ate, the faster I could leave the table. While I was eating (and listening to myself chew, since no one was talking), I realized that my parents hadn't really answered my original question.

"Please tell me more about your problems," I said firmly. I didn't look at my parents, just at my plate, which was growing cleaner by the moment.

I heard Dad say, "Mostly we just have differences, Stace." "Irreconcilable ones," added Mom. "We are not meant to be living together any longer." That did it. I was pretty much finished with my dinner by then, so I banged my fork onto the table, stood up, threw down my napkin, and stalked away without excusing myself.

I stalked right into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. I slammed it so hard I could feel my walls shake. The china figures on my dresser rattled.

I locked my door.

Then I switched on my stereo. I put my loudest tape in the tape deck, turned the volume up as high as it would go, and blasted out my eardrums for a minute or two. But I turned the volume down before any of the neighbors could complain.

Mom and Dad knocked on my door five times that night. I wouldn't answer them. I wouldn't leave my room, either. At ten-thirty, I fell asleep with my clothes on. I didn't wake up until seven o'clock the next morning.

Chapter 6.

Thursday was the most awful morning of my life. My body felt grungy because I'd spent the night in my clothes, and my mouth felt like an old sock. It tasted the way I imagined an old sock would taste, too.