Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (17 page)

I stroll over to the sink. “Try the little compartment here, Mom. The one that flips out above the cabinet.”

“Thank you, honey. You're amazing. Incredible!”

She pulls away. “Did I tell you that? My daughter
is amazing!” Then she starts to cry.

“What's going on, Mom? Spill.”

“Look outside.” She gestures toward the picture window that looks out over the parking lot.

I yank on the plastic shade, and at first, I don't see anything, just the red-shingled 1970s Mission-style apartment complex, but when I look again I see it. On the balcony, there's shaving cream all over the grill and the rusty lawn furniture. Toilet paper in the live oak and palm trees. In purple Silly String on a red truck in the parking lot, I can make out the words: I'M A SOLOIST! Also on the truck, the words:

A memory needles into my head. Last year, TP'ing Olivia's apartment in Lower Sharon Heights. Totally covering her father's old Honda and all of the trees in front with pink toilet paper. It was around the time we had e-mailed Olivia pretending to be Tyler. I shake the thought away.

This is really mean—and only a few girls are capable of this kind of thing. And the worst part? I used to be one of them. And then I wonder something.
Why am I feeling like someone is using my chest as a trampoline? It's like each breath feels labored and my throat feels bent like a straw. I mean they are not even talking about me. I'm not really Ernestine. It's not my face or my hair they are REALLY commenting on. But somehow it is. Algebraically speaking, I'm a constant and not a variable. And this apartment, the one with the naked boy statue and the crumbly red-tile roof is my house where my mother and I live. My house, the big one in Menlo Park, was also my house. It was where my family lived. I thought it would go on that way forever, but it didn't. I had a life once there where I had two parents living together, and enough money that shopping was just another one of my extracurricular activities. And now I have a new life and the old one is disappearing like a dream. Am I Taffeta still, Ernestine still, or something in between?

Cleanup Crew

“What's wrong, Ernestineski?” Olivia asks. “What's going on? Tell me.”

I press my lips together, prepared to be stoic, even on the phone.

“Did Petra and her worshippers do something?”

“Yes,” I say, and she curses under her breath in
something that sounds like a cross between Russian and Martian. Before I can help it, I'm crying into the cell and spewing all of the details.

“Ninai and I will be right over,” says Olivia. “I just can't believe them. I would love to turn those brats into little pink naked mole rats. Would you like that?”

This discussion is suddenly making me uncomfortable. “They probably didn't mean it. Totally. It was giving them something to do.”

“Something to do?” yells Ninai. “Like writing evil e-mails to Olivia from Tyler professing his undying love? It's sick. I don't say this about too many people, but I hate anyone, I'm sorry to say, who would stoop so low.”

My stomach muscles are clamping together. I walk with the phone over to the window so I can get some fresh air. That was me, in another life. That was me who wrote those pseudo love letters.

“There can be NOTHING redeeming about them,” finishes Ninai.

“How soon can you come over?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“Fifteen minutes,” says Ninai.

“Twenty,” says Olivia.

“Great,” I say, feeling like a sellout. They are so uber wonderful, and I'm about to spoil everything by dancing with Winslow tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow is my birthday. I guess the toilet paper can count as decorations.

Max Heeder to the Max

I don't want to wake up, but Mom is shaking me. “It's your special day,” she says.

“Huh?” I say, bolting upright. I look outside the door in the hallway. It's clean. All the piled-up laundry is gone, and the carpet vacuumed.

She places her fingers to her lips. “Happy birthday, Ernestine.” Oh, right. It's Friday. It's the dance. It's my birthday, December 19. After an eternity, I am fourteen.

I feel SOOOO old. I think I have aged a hundred years this past week alone. “There's a very big package for you on the table. Go look. I think it's from your father.”

I pad down the hall to the kitchen, which sparkles, and is clutter-free. No more catalogs and mail stacked on the counters, no dishes in the sink, and two new gleaming pink sponges.

“I got sick of it,” says Mom. “I stayed up last
night cleaning and organizing. I haven't done that since…” Her voice trails off.

“Since Dad left,” I finish.

“I got sick of being the one holding down the fort all of the time. Your father was always happy,” she says quietly. “It drove me crazy that my getting mad at him didn't mean anything. I've never met anyone more unreliable.” Then she clamps her hand over her mouth, breathes, and unpries her fingers from her lips. She faces me and looks me directly in the eye. “I'm sorry.”

Outside, I can hear the constant drum of rain. Mom puts her arm around my shoulder, and then pushes me toward the kitchen table. “Don't just stand there. Open it up, silly.”

It's a large brown paper-covered box the size of a toaster oven. Dad usually picks out THE BEST presents. But I can't say this to Mom, who prefers to make these homemade photo collages for me and stuff. I pick up the box and shake it, hoping to get a clue. It's surprisingly light. “Not books or music from Linden Tree. It's…” I tear off the paper.

Mom races to the kitchen drawer and hands me a scissors so I can cut the packing tape. With a few snips, I'm able to wedge open one side. The tissue paper
crinkles as I pull off the gold foil tape and uncover a little black top with hot pink spaghetti straps. It's from the Max Heeder catalog. Taffeta material, of course. The top is perfect. EXCELLENT! Exactly what I would have wanted if I could have gone to the dance as me. And there's a matching clutch bag made out of leather so fresh and soft it still moos. “It's perfect.” I feel like the tissue paper is balled up in my throat.

It would look really great on me if I had thin arms, and if I were to actually go to the dance as a regular person and not wearing a very red, very ugly holiday apron stamped with a Christmas tree (Ninai will be sure to protest the lack of Kwanzaa and Hanukkah lights) and a jingle bell hat. I feel the tears coming on. “Mom, it's not fair!”

“I'm surprised. Usually, you're a little put-off by your father's extravagant designer presents. But I know how much you want to please him.” She throws her flappy arms around me and envelops me to her chest. “You can still wear it.”

She doesn't understanding anee-thing. “Helpers wear aprons. You hand out colas and take photos with a jingle hat on your head. Nobody will know or care what I'm wearing!”

I'm already dialing Dad's number and walking
into my bedroom. I'm not going to tell him about not being able to really wear the top.

Bizarrely, Dad picks up on one ring. “Daddy, I love it. I mean, the top's great and the purse to match. You didn't have to do that.”

“But I did. How often does your daughter turn fourteen? Does the top fit?”

“Yes,” I say, even though I haven't tried it on. I'm actually staring at the beautiful silver tissue wrapping paper. “It's perfect.”

My dad's not saying anything, so I'm wondering whether he wants me to gush more, or maybe I could try it on and give him a verbal fashion show.

“Sweet pea, there's something I've gotta tell you, okay?” Dad's voice is unusually saccharine, which makes me nervous.

“Sure, Dad.” My stomach clenches and I worry that Big Lips is back. I start shredding the tissue paper in the gift box.

“It's about your b-day.” He sighs into the phone. “Man, this is hard to say but I know you—my wonderful, wonderful baby girl—will understand because that's how you are. Listen, it's soooo good. I've got an interview tomorrow.”

“An interview. Tomorrow? You were supposed
to fly up. It's my birthday.” I'm, in fact, staring at his birthday card. There's a photo of a really happy, toothy teenage girl jumping on the beach. Since when does Dad EVER mail anything in time? He's always at least two days late with some excuse and, if he was coming up to visit, he would have brought a present with him.

“Is it important?” I ask, my voice unintentionally going up into a whine. I start to pace around the room. “Did your manager finally get the financing for your movie, Dad?”

“We're close on that, Ernestine. Real close. Schuyler thinks we'll know for certain in another four to eight weeks. Maybe by Valentine's Day.”

“But, Dad, isn't that what they always say?” I stop in front of the mirror, which is a big mistake because my glasses are smudgy.

“The interview,” says Dad. “It's not a film thing. A marketing job for a distribution company. I'll be helping that department look at spreadsheets.”

“But I thought you moved to L.A. so you could be an artist and get away from all that!” I can hear my voice rising an octave.

“It'll only be temporary. It'll be good for making connections, and I could really use the job right now.”

But what about all the money he made from Apple stocks? As if he can read my mind, he says, “Stock options aren't what they're cracked up to be, especially when you sell at the wrong time and then you invest in the wrong time. You understand don't ya? I'll make it up to you. Swear it, sweet pea.”

“Yeah, Dad.” I think I'm about to cry so I squeak out, “Gotta go.” I hear him spurt, “Love ya,” as I hang up the phone.

I meander into the living room, where Mom, who's working on the computer, glances at me with her stony gargoyle face. “What was that about? Is something wrong?”

I gaze out the window. The rain outside has slowed down to a couple of drips now. “Nothing,” I say.

Forever

I remember the day I found out about our forever house. It was shortly after we moved to California and I was sitting next to my dad by his desk in our rental. The sweat beads still dotted his forehead from his bike ride, and he smelled like eucalyptus and salt. Placing his blue bike helmet on the computer desk, he went onto the Remax website. “That's going to be our new home, Taf,” he had said, grabbing a bottle
of water and taking a gulp. I remember staring at the flat screen and seeing a small ranch house with a door in the middle and two windows flanking it, and a white picket fence. It looked like the kind of house I might draw myself. At the time I was eleven, and not exactly a budding da Vinci.

The next week he and Mom took me to see the actual house. We drove down Burgess Drive past the Menlo Park Civic Center where Mom would take me to the library, when she used to do that sort of thing, and then we passed these small houses. Dad narrated, “Some of these houses are old railway cabooses. At least I know that the ones down by the Stanford Golf Course are. It's where the servants used to live.” Then he blindfolded me and kept on driving up a hill for quite a while. I was imagining which one of those dollhouses was going to be ours. As we parked, Dad jumped out and took off my blindfold and placed his hands over my eyes.

“Dirk,” said Mom. “C'mon, let her see.”

“No way. It'll be more fun this way.” We bounced up to the house in Sharon Heights and it seemed like we'd been walking for a while when we stopped and Dad went, “Okay, on the count of three, open them. One. Two. Three.” He lifted his hands off my
eyes. “Ta-da!” he shouted. “What do you think?” The house that stood in front of me was enormous, sandy-colored with a tile roof, shutters, and turrets that made it look like a castle.

“This is ours?” I began. “But, Dad, you said it was a little house with three rooms and I'd sleep in the garage.”

“Dirk, you didn't.” Mom swatted him with her handbag but I could tell this time she wasn't angry.

Dad grinned so big I could see his pink gums. “I was kidding with you, sweet pea. This is our house!”

“Really?”

He hugged me tight. “Really and truly.”

“It's soooooo beautiful!”

“Wait till you go inside,” he said, swooping me off my feet as Mom opened the door with a key. As we marched into the entrance hall, a majestic curved staircase rose to the left and a giant chandelier hung from the ceiling. From the bay window and sliders beyond the sunken living room, I could see a kidney-shaped pool with a waterfall and sliding board inset into rock.

“Can we stay here forever?” I asked.

Dad's arms tightened around me. “Forever,” he
said, “and that's a promise.”

The Day

La Cambia Middle School
8th-Grade Holiday Festival

December 19

Period 6 1:15-2:47

Place C-4 C-5 E1 E2 E3 E4

Activity: All Students must be signed up for their activities on or before December 7. Any student not registered will be placed into an activity.

 

Activity

Ropes team C-4

Ornament making E-4

Art projects E-3

Bingo E-9

Holiday Card Making C-1

La Cambia Middle School

“Where Success Is Expected”

 

Yes, it's definitely Friday, the last day of school before Winter Break, the day of the dance and MY BIRTHDAY, and, in an attempt to cheer me up, I'm being forced to play Bingo against my will. It's a
party day at school in every class, even in Stuckley's English class. So far I only have B-9 covered on my little board.

Olivia keeps staring at Winslow, who's playing some scary fantasy board game with Sneed. He's still dressing like Mr. Prep and his hair is almost crew cut–short. You'd think that would freak her out a little. I mean Olivia only has nineteenth-century Russian peasant or medieval clothes in her wardrobe. Wouldn't she think that Winslow dressing so normal would be a little strange? No, apparently not. I think she believes that he's styling and grooming because of her. She actually calls over to him, “I hear you're going to be at the dance.”

Winslow, the prep, who today is in a blue polo shirt, palms a goblin action figure. “Yup, most definitely. Because
someone
I know will be there.” He gestures with his chin over at Petra. NOOOOO!

I start talking fast. “Yes, like me, Ninai, and Olivia. It'll be quite the crew.”

He's smirking. “Yup.” Olivia turns to me with a big-time happy look. She thinks he's coming because of her.

All at once, I'm thinking about how I'm going to have to dance with Winslow in front of Olivia,
even if it is just one time. Sure, I've thought about it before, but now the reality is really hitting me. My heart dives and is eaten by my gut. I must think of something to tell Olivia, to prepare her. But it's not going to be easy. She's showing me her small crooked teeth because she's actually smiling. “Soon you'll be able to see the results of my powers and see me dazzle Winslow, my own private Boris.
Da?
”

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm going as one of Santa's little helpers.”

A cluster of teachers are talking and drinking their energy drinks, which is making them a little too wired and loud. Some of the girls are wearing Santa hats with bells on them so whenever they raise their hands the hats jingle. Groups of guys, like Tyler and Justin, have brought their footballs. Sneed and Winslow keep on playing with their elf warriors and troll princess figurines.

Ms. Stuckley runs her fingers through her spiky hair and calls out I-6 in her pseudo British voice. Olivia leans into me and rolls her eyes. “I can't wait to see The Girls pulling up in their enviro-friendly limo.”

Ninai twirls her fingers in the air. “How many miles do you think the Hummer thing gets per gallon? One?” She pretends to stick a finger down
her throat and gag.

Then Ninai cups her mouth, whispering something to Olivia and both of them turn their bodies away from me.

Uh-oh. Could they know somehow that I'm planning on dancing with Winslow and hurting Olivia? NOT that I want to, but I HAVE to. I can't stand seeing them whisper. It's so un-them and so me. I sidle over, “So, what are you guys talking about?”

Ninai swats her hand in front of her face. “Oh, the usual. The administration totally ignoring everything we've worked so hard to accomplish this past year. I'm just so upset about the decorations. I've told Mrs. Barnes a thousand times that the dance should celebrate winter in a nondenominational kind of way. It's apparently oh so hard to follow the Constitution. I'm definitely cooking up a letter to write to the school board.”

Olivia bites a strand of her hair and looks disturbingly dreamy.

“Are you upset about Santa hats or is it something else?” I fish.

Ninai points to the reindeer on the bulletin board. “How about the fact that there're going to be a bazillion Christmas decorations, a couple of dreidels, but only
one symbol of Kwanzaa, and Muslims, well, they don't exist nor does any other religion or practice.”

Wow. “I thought you might have also been mad about something else. Never mind,” I say, as I see Ms. Stuckley spinning the plastic bingo ball thingie.

As if Olivia knows what I'm thinking, she puts her hand on my shoulder, and looks at me all reassuringly. I smile but my insides twist. Yes, I'm going to be the uber backstabber. It seems like a good time to give Olivia and Ninai their Christmas—I mean holiday—presents, since Olivia is agnostic but believes in the possibility of a higher power and Ninai celebrates Hanukah, Christmas, and all of the Filipino holidays. “Here,” I say, handing each of them a little robin's-egg blue tissue paper bundle. “It's not anything big but…”