Ballads of Suburbia Read Online Free Page A

that out of the way, we moved on to our favorite cartoon (ThunderCats), color (blue), and food (peanut butter), marveling that we shared all of these common interests along with our non-Oak Park origin and ethnicity (Irish).
    Stacey also said, “Wow, you have cool eyes. Are they orange in the middle?”
    â€œThey’re hazel. Mostly green and brown, but they change colors sometimes.”
    â€œOooh, like a mood ring!”
    I nodded, beaming. Her words melted the feeling of insecurity that had been lodged in my gut since Maggie mocked my clothes.
    Maybe if I’d begged my mom for a new wardrobe and a perm, I could’ve joined Maggie Young’s elite crowd of Keds-sneakered, Gap-cardigan-wearing, boy-crazy girls with perfectly coiffed bangs. But once I aligned myself with Stacey, I was branded uncool for life and I didn’t care. Stacey was a genuinely nice person; I was relieved to have a real friend, and so was she.
    Stacey’s low position on the social totem pole at school-justabove the girl who smelled like pee and tried to blame it on her cats-stemmed from her undesirable family situation. She lived in a tiny apartment, not the prime locale for elaborate sleepovers, and all the other parents looked down on her mom. Beth had Stacey at sixteen and Stacey’s dad had been thirty. Beth had scrimped and saved to move Stacey to the “burbs for that mythic “better life.” After that, Stacey rarely saw her dad.
    Two years into our friendship, in fourth grade, I went with Stacey to visit him. We waited anxiously in the backseat while Beth went in to talk to him first. Five minutes later, Beth stormed out, red-cheeked, and started the car again, announcing, “He can’t pay child support, he can’t see his kid.”
    On the drive back to Oak Park, I stared out my window, feeling sick to my stomach for Stacey, who chewed on the ends of her dark hair, trying not to cry. Beth played the radio as loud as it could go, Led Zeppelin making the windows rattle, Stacey and I learning to find solace in a blaring rock song.
    My friendship with Stacey was never supposed to change. It was supposed to stay frozen in time like the photograph on the mantel in my living room: me and Stacey, ten years old, eyes bright, our forefingers pulling our mouths into goofy, jack-o’lantern grins. It would be okay if our hair and clothes changed with the times, but we were supposed to be standing side by side with wacky smiles on our faces until the day we died.
    A week after eighth grade graduation, Beth broke the news that she and Stacey were moving to the neighboring town-and different school district—of Berwyn.
    She tried to butter us up first, ordering pizza for dinner. We ate in front of the TV as usual, but after The Real World ended, Beth turned it off.
    â€œWe need to talk about something.” Beth took a deep breath before blurting, “We’re moving in August when the lease is up. I can’t afford Oak Park rent anymore.”
    Stacey and I both sobbed and begged and pleaded, but it had no effect on Beth. She scowled, one hand on her hip, the other palm outstretched, sliding back and forth between us. “You girls wanna get jobs? Wanna see if I can get you dishwashing positions at the restaurant?” She jerked her hand away. “Didn’t think so.”
    I wrapped my arms around myself and cried harder. Stacey screeched until she was blue in the face, calling Beth things she’d never dared, like “motherfucking bitch.”
    Finally, Beth roared, “Get to your room before I ground your ass for the entire summer!”
    Stacey grabbed my hand and yanked me down the hall. She slammed her door and blasted a Black Sabbath album. Beth shouted at her to play it louder. Stacey changed the music to Nine Inch Nails, but Beth said she could turn that up, too.
    After fifty similar arguments, Stacey didn’t want to talk about it anymore. But I kept scheming to