Mia the Melodramatic (4 page)

L
ater that afternoon, I heaved open the back door to my house and, too exhausted to make it to the living room couch, sank into a kitchen chair. I gently flexed my fingers, trying to get the cramps out after sewing up 15 mermaid fins, 7 fish heads, 11 crab costumes, and an 8-legged sea monster suit.

My mom called from upstairs, “Mia, is that you?”

I croaked, “Yeah.”

“I’ll be down in a second. I’m just checking on Chris. He’s got some weird virus.”

I felt a flicker of guilt but quickly doused it for the sake of self-preservation. I needed to get rid of the evidence linking me to Chris’s bathroom bonanza. Summoning all the energy I had left, I reached into the cupboard, grabbed the box of Sugar Snaps, and poured them down the drain.

Just then, Mom walked into the kitchen. “What are you doing with that cereal? I only bought it a couple days ago.”

I flipped the switch, hoping the sound of the disposal would drown out the quiver I always got in my voice when I lied. “Um, I read somewhere that high sugar content can cause diarrhea. I didn’t want Chris to get sick again tomorrow.”

Mom frowned. “How did you know Chris had diarrhea? I only said he had a virus.”

Avoiding her all-knowing teacher stare, I mumbled “Lucky guess” as I busied myself with the faucet.

Her silence told me she was still debating whether to pursue the
issue, so I tried a different tactic—the rare compliment. “Hey, I wanted to thank you again for getting me the job at Little Tyke’s—I really appreciate it.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” Mom said, beaming. “Did you get a chance to see Eric?”

Phew, the Sugar Snaps trial had ended before it even began. I collapsed into my chair. “Yeah, he showed me around today. I can’t believe how much he’s changed.”

“I know. Nancy told me he was the lead in his high school’s musical last year and he was only a sophomore. Who would have looked at that nice, shy little boy and guessed he’d turn out to be an actor?” She picked up a stray Sugar Snap that landed on the counter and popped it into her mouth. “So, what did you think of the rest of the kids you’ll be working with?”

I chewed on my lip, wondering how much damage one laxative-laced Sugar Snap could cause. “Uh, they’re all right.”

“Ugh! This cereal is disgusting.” My mom spit the half-chewed cereal into the sink. “No wonder Chris got sick. What’s in this, anyway?” She picked up the box and started scanning the ingredients.

A thin layer of sweat broke out on my upper lip. Clearly, I was not cut out for a life of crime—I couldn’t take the pressure. I had to change the subject before I ended up confessing to everything I’d ever done wrong in my whole life. “Um, I was wondering if it was all right if I went out for some pizza tonight with Eric and the other people I work with.”

“I guess so.” Mom flattened the empty box to get it ready for recycling. “I was just making meatloaf tonight.”

I snapped my finger. “Darn, I’d hate to miss that.”

“Very funny.” She got out a pound of ground beef. “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s an e-mail for you from Tim.”

“It’s about time,” I said as I instantly forgot my exhaustion and ran into the living room, which is where we keep the computer. Because my parents won’t let me get my own e-mail account, I
logged in using the asinine name my parents came up with and clicked on Tim’s message:

That’s it?
He hadn’t seen me in two whole days, and that’s all he had to say? No “I miss how your eyes shine like two gossamer pools?” Or “Mia, you are the love of my life and I am dying a slow death here without you?” Not that Tim ever spoke to me like that when we were together, or that I knew what a gossamer pool was. But still...

And what was with this Felicity? It seemed pretty fishy to me that she just
happened
to be having a party three nights after Tim arrived in her neighborhood. I bet she took one look at Tim and immediately invited all her friends over for this
supposed
party just so she could get him all revved up on Pepsi and Doritos and take advantage of him.

Well, there was no way I was going to let Tim be seduced by some chick with a stupid soap opera name. After all, two can play at this game, and I had the advantage of knowing Tim better than Felicity did. And if there was one thing I knew for certain about Tim, it was
that he loved a challenge.

Then, I hit send.

“So, what do you want on your pizza, Preppy?” Zoë asked after recovering from another one of her coughing fits.

Hiding behind my menu, I rolled my eyes. Zoë should really consider cutting her habit down to a pack a day. I grumbled under my breath, “My name’s Mia.”

“What did you say,
Princess
?”

I glanced at Zoë’s 15 hoops glittering under the fluorescent lighting and decided to let it pass. I guess if I’d lived with “Mia the Meek” for 14 years, I could live with “Preppy” and “Princess” for the summer. “I said I like Nick’s Special: a meat-lover’s Chicago-style pizza.”

“That’s my favorite, too,” Eric said as he looked at Zoë and Henry sitting on the opposite side of the booth. “Finally, there’s someone to share a real pizza with.”

“I thought Catholics weren’t supposed to eat pork because it’s not kosher,” Zoë said.

“That’s Jewish people,” Henry replied. “Catholics can’t eat meat on Fridays.”

“That’s only during Lent,” I explained.

Henry took a gigantic slurp of his Mountain Dew. “Sounds too complicated to me. That’s why I’m a vegetarian year-round.”

“For religious reasons?” I asked.

“God, no,” Henry replied. “I don’t eat meat for health reasons. Did you know meat rots in your stomach for a week before it’s totally digested?”

I winced, picturing the pot roast I’d eaten last night for supper. “Really?”

“Don’t listen to them, Mia,” Eric said. “They’re just trying to get you to go in on their vegetable pizza.”

“Goody two-shoes here is too much of a priss to be a vegan.”

“What does that mean?” Eric asked.

“It means you’ve got to have guts to stand up for something,” Zoë said as she reached into her purse and pulled out something long and white. “And I can tell that Princess is a gutless wonder.”

“Now, how can you possibly say that?” Eric said. “You’ve only known Mia for a few hours.”

“Believe me, I’m an expert at sizing people up. And I bet the one issue Preppy ever made a stand on is that people should only wear white between Memorial Day and Labor Day.”

I scowled at her from behind my menu. “That’s not true.”

“Quit mumbling,” Zoë said. “I can’t hear you.”

I set my menu down, and said in as clear a voice as my terrified state would allow, “I said that I stand up for a lot of issues I believe in.”

“Oh yeah? Name one.”

Oh, crud. Now I had to say something profound. What
did
I believe in? I certainly believed I should have kept my mouth shut. I
looked around, then focused on Zoë’s hand. Aha! Now I had her.

“I believe that smoking is bad for your health.”

“Who doesn’t?” Zoë scoffed.

“You
don’t. All day long you’ve totally grossed me out, sounding like you’re going to hack up a lung, and now you’ve got a cigarette in your hand. Don’t you know that smoking can kill you?”

“I have bronchitis. Do you want to see my prescription for antibiotics?” Zoë popped a piece of gum into her mouth. “And for your information, I know from personal experience that smoking can kill you. My dad died of lung cancer last year.”

“Oh.” My heart skipped a beat or two. “Sorry.”

“Get off it, Zoë,” Eric said. “Your dad is sitting home munching on a bag of chips right now watching the Cubs lose another game.”

“Yeah, but did you see the stiff’s face when I said that? She about wet her pants.” Zoë started laughing so hard she launched into another coughing fit.

After she finished, she took a swig of water and I said a silent prayer that her lip hoop would rust, giving her a nasty case of lockjaw.

Henry patted me on the hand. “Don’t mind Zoë. She just has a very deviant sense of humor. Even her band’s name is weird. What do you call yourselves again?”

“The Barf Bags,” Zoë replied. “And you should come see us. We’re way better than the last time you heard us. We even have a gig at a coffeehouse my brother’s band used to play at before he went to Iraq.”

“Yeah, right. Iraq,” I said, rolling my eyes. I wasn’t going to fall for her sick sense of humor again.

“You got a problem with that, Preppy?”

“What? Is he playing lead guitar for the National Guard?”

Eric and Henry shifted uncomfortably in their seats while Zoë glared at me. “My brother’s a Marine and he’s been gone for almost a year. It’s nothing to joke about.”

I looked at Eric, who quickly nodded. I swallowed hard. “Oh.”

Zoë sighed. “Anyway, the Barf Bags are playing at the Flying Squirrel the last Saturday in June. We’re opening for Der Flingers.”

Henry pulled out his iPhone and punched in the date. “I’ll be there.”

“Me too,” Eric replied.

“What about you, Princess?” Zoë raised her eyebrow. “Want to come and hear some real music?”

“I’ll be there.” I flipped my hair over my shoulder, exuding an air of confidence while secretly trying to figure out how I was ever going to convince my parents to let me go, unsupervised, to listen to a band at a coffeehouse. I mean, they barely let me cross the street by myself.

B
y Friday morning, I felt devastated. Since Monday, I hadn’t received a single e-mail from Tim. At first, I thought he hadn’t written because his grandparents wouldn’t let him use the computer. But after four days of no e-mail, I was certain he had dumped me for Felicity. My head was filled with thoughts of Tim and Felicity feeding lobster to each other, the butter dribbling down their entwined fingers. We’d been together for seven months, but it had taken less than seven days of us being apart for Tim to drop me. How lame was that? I mean, he hadn’t even risen to the challenge of my “supposed” date with Eric. How could I have so misjudged Tim?

I walked into the kitchen and slammed open a cupboard door. Chris looked up from a plate stacked with waffles. “Jeez, what’s wrong with you? You just try to sign up for an ugly contest, but found out they don’t accept professionals?”

“Leave me alone,” I snarled.

I grabbed a granola bar from the box and checked to see if it was still sealed. Though my parents hadn’t discovered my part in Chris’s Montezuma’s Revenge, I’m pretty sure
he
had. And knowing Chris, it would only be a matter of time before he got even.

Chris dumped a pool of syrup on his waffles. “I thought you had to work today.”

“Wow, a thought crossed your mind? It must have been a long and lonely journey.”

“Aren’t you a little touchy this morning?” Chris asked. “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Yeah, right,” I said, tucking the granola bar in my pocket and opening the back door. “Like I’d ever tell you anything.”