Trauma Queen (11 page)

Uh-oh, next thing you know, I'll be slobbering like Beezer. “So you think Jada's mad at me?”

“Well, sure,” Ethan says, smiling a little. “You showed her up in public. And you were sitting with her archenemies. And also . . .” Now he's blushing. At least I think he is; it could just be frostbite.

“Also what?”

He kicks more ice. “Well, there was this stupid Valentine's Day dance-thing at school a couple of weeks ago. We were taking the same bus, and she asked me if I wanted to go with her, and I basically said no way.”

“Oh.” Now it's me who's blushing.

“It's probably not that big a deal, but you never know.”

We walk a little bit more, and I can tell he's finished with the topic of Jada. Which is a relief, because the truth is, if I hear any more, I'll start feeling sorry for her. He turned her down
on the bus
? That's almost as humiliating as your mom having a “public meltdown.”

Okay, not really. I guess on the Scale of Humiliations, nothing even comes close to Nu-Trisha.

Finally he stops in front of a small white house with a wooden porch all cluttered with snow shovels and beat-up-looking sleds and boots. “So here's where I live.”

“Bye,” I say quickly. “Thanks for . . . the walk.”

“Yeah, you too.” He reaches down and gives Beezer one last pet on the head. Then he looks up at me. “See you tomorrow, Marigold,” he says softly, blinking the mini-marshmallows off his eyelashes.

Beezer and I run the rest of the way home. That conversation with Ethan has my brain swirling like a snow globe, and I know that the only way to settle the snowflakes is by chatting online with Emma. As soon as humanly possible.

The second I kick off my boots at the door, Kennedy informs me that Gram's cookies arrived, and also my new bag of scraps, and that there's a note from Mom on the fridge. So I turn on my computer, go to the kitchenette, grab two giant oatmeal cookies from a shoebox Gram lined with aluminum foil, and toss the bigger one to Beezer. Then I read:

Beloved daughters,

I'm meeting Mari's principal,
afterward straight to theater
workshop. Don't worry, I've got
Beezer. Call my cell if you need
me. See you at dinner (fish).

Kisses,
Mom

P.S. Save some cookies
for me!!!

“Why is Mom meeting your principal?” Kennedy is asking, her eyes popping behind her glasses. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not with him.”

She makes a fish-mouth. “So then why is she—?”

“Kennie,” I say. “You're asking
me
?”

I take another cookie and go off to IM Emma, but she isn't logged on, probably because she's at soccer or that Anime Club or something. So I open Gram's mailer. I don't know how she comes up with all this
fabric, but this time it's a bunch of pastel-plaid flannel squares, skinny strips of fruit-colored silk, and curvy shapes of iridescent green, like mutant mermaid's fins. They're fantastically weird and random, really perfect for my Thing, but right now I'm so jumpy that if I try to sew, I'll probably just prick my fingers. So to kill time I start my homework, every ten minutes or so checking to see if Emma's online. But she never is.

At seven thirty Mom bursts in the door with an extra-large box of pizza.

“Hurry, girls, supper!” she shouts. “Big exciting news.”

“Beezer's fine,” I answer. “In case you were wondering. He's in his crate.”

She puts the pizza box on the table and tosses her jacket and her rainbow Sherpa hat on the sofa. “Thanks, Mari, I saw your note on the flagpole. Although you could have just brought him into Bob's office.”

“
Whose
office?”

“Bob's. Mr. Shamsky's. Ack, what an endless workshop. All my students were just so
tight.
I think it's the weather.”

I look at Kennedy, who shrugs back. We both know that there's no point trying to force anything out of
Mom; she'll tell us her “big exciting news” at the perfect dramatic moment. So I don't even ask anything the whole time we're setting the table, and choosing our slices, and Mom is blotting her pizza grease with a napkin.

Finally she takes a huge messy bite and fans her hand in front of her mouth, miming
hot.
“Yum,” she says. “Extra-cheesy. So tell me everything. Did you return those horrible clothes to the nurse, Mari? Did she say anything about the material?”

“Nope.”

“Well, good. I told you walking off the soap would help.”

“Uh-huh.” Then I just lose it. “Mom, will you
please
tell us what's going on?”

She looks at me like,
You've been my daughter for thirteen years now, Marigold. Do you really not understand how I work?
But I think she can tell I'm not in the mood for a performance, so she takes another extra-cheesy bite, puts down her slice, and wipes her mouth.

“All right, fine,” she says. “It all started this morning, Mari, when we were talking about Emma. Afterward I did some good hard thinking, and here's what I realized: The reason we didn't stand a chance in Aldentown
was that Trisha Hartley was part of the community and I wasn't.”

“Yes, you were,” Kennedy says loyally. “You taught classes—”

“No, angel, I stood apart from people. As an Artist. I guess I thought it kept me pure.” She looks at her hands, stretches her fingers, and sighs. “And what happened was, when I performed Nu-Trisha, people had no idea what I was about. I mean, they knew who I
was,
they had a basic idea of what I
did,
but they didn't know me as a
person
. But they knew Emma's mom, so when she went all over town bad-mouthing me, calling me a terrible mother and whatever other nasty lie she could think of, everyone naturally took her side.”

“Actually,” I say carefully, “I think the real problem—”

“Mari, I'm trying to explain my thought process.”

“Okay, sorry.”

She furrows her brow. “
Any
way. My point is that to do my art, I have to be free to take risks. I can't worry that I'm going to offend somebody, and I can't promise that audiences are going to love every performance. But what I
can
promise is that from now on I'll do a better job of PR.”

“What's that?” Kennedy asks, wrinkling her nose.

“Public relations,” Mom explains. “Mixing it up with the townfolk. Being a part of the whole”—she waves one arm toward the window—“community.”

Okay, now I'm starting to freak. “Mom? Why exactly were you at my school today?”

“Exactly? To talk to your principal.”

Stay calm.
“I know. You wrote that in Beezer's note. What about?”

“Well, I was coming to that.” She takes another bite of pizza. Then she says, “In the interest of community outreach, and also to introduce our family to the neighborhood, I decided to give a free performance at your school. I was proposing Friday night in the gym.”

“MOM. NO.”

“Unfortunately that's what Bob said. Apparently they need the space for some kind of depressing basketball tournament or something.”

“I hate basketball,” Kennedy says. “We're doing it in gym and I haven't made one single basket yet. Dexter called me a spaz.”

Mom frowns. “Who's Dexter?”

“A horrid girl in my class.”

“Well, ignore her, then. And just repeat to yourself:
Swish. Swish.
”

“Why?”

“It's the sound of the net when the ball sails through. Just keep hearing that sound—
swish! swish!
—and you'll make the basket.”

“Swish. Swish.”

“Say it like you mean it, Kennie.
SWISH, SWISH.
Can you hear the air vibrating?”

“Mom?” I say loudly. “So that's your big news? You asked if you could perform on Friday night and Mr. Shamsky said no?”

“Of course not,” she answers, smiling. “What's so exciting about that? My news is that I'm doing a club.”

“A what?”

“An after-school Improv Club, starting right after spring break. It was Bob who suggested it, actually. Apparently they offer all kinds of fun things—cooking, chess, pottery—”

Jousting with greasy fingers.
“Yeah, I heard about the clubs. So what does this mean? You're planning to teach—”

“Oh, no, baby, you can't
teach
what I do. I'll just be encouraging kids to stand up in front of an audience and have fun.” She pushes away her plate. “Oh, Marigold, kids your age can be so painfully self-conscious. I want
to loosen them up, get them to really enjoy performing. Because you know, precious daughters, when it all comes down to it, life is really just one big improv act.”

That sounds like a line she's practiced. Which is kind of ironic, actually.

“But why at
my
school?” I say, tearing off a tiny bit of crust. “I mean, can't you just keep doing your workshop at the college?”

“Sure. I plan to. But it's only three hours a week.”

“Well, then, do the club at Kennie's school.”

“Oh, could you?” Kennedy pleads. “That would be ever so splendid!”

Mom smiles. “The sad truth, Kennie, is that kids your age don't get what I do. Mari, you remember all that fuss in second grade, don't you?”

I shrug, even though obviously I remember perfectly. “Listen, nobody at my school will get it either. Plus they all hate each other, they're paranoid, and they overreact about
everything
.”

“Oh, come on. I'm sure it's not so bad.”

“That's because you don't go there. It's like a giant war zone.”

She laughs, but it's not a ha-ha laugh. “Okay, now you're being slightly overdramatic.”

I stare at her. “
I'm
overdramatic?”

She folds her arms across her chest and pushes her chair back from the table. “All right, Marigold. Is there something you want to say here?”

“Marigold,” Kennie says softly. “I truly think you should hush.”

I look at Mom. Her eyes are glowing, like she's in the middle of a big dramatic scene, and she's waiting for me to say my line.

So fine, I say it. “I don't want you teaching at my school.”

“Why not?”

“Because your stuff embarrasses me.”

She does a gasping laugh. “It does? What stuff are you referring to, exactly?”

“Basically all of it. The whole performance thing.”

“
The whole performance thing.
You're referring to what? Everything I do onstage?”

“Just about.”

“Whew. Wow. You never told me you felt this way.”

“You never asked.”

She sits there, blinking, for once speechless and obviously shocked. Obviously hurt, too, and I'm thinking,
Why did I say all that?
Should I take it back? Act like it was a dumb joke? Apologize?

But then she looks me right in the retinas and announces, “For your information, Marigold, I happen to know the difference between performing and teaching. And if I
do
teach improv at your school, I'm sure your classmates would absolutely love it.”

“That isn't the point,” I say, my voice coming out squawky. “I'm asking you
not
to do it. For
me.
”

“Oh, but it
is
for you! For our whole family! That's what I was trying to explain before. And it's not up to the two of us, anyway. I still have to write a proposal, and the PTA head has to approve it.” Suddenly she does this big fake cheery smile. “Oh, Mari, it'll be fabulous, you'll see. Come on, have a little faith in me, all right?”

She messes my hair and kisses Kennedy on the forehead. Then she springs up from the table and does a yoga stretch so complicated I'm sure she made it up herself. “And now, beloved daughters, I need to round up my Evening Walkers. Are there any cookies left? I think I'll take some for the road.”

The second Mom and Beezer are out the door, I run to my computer to IM Emma. But she's still logged off, even though it's 8:25, prime homework time, when we usually chat. What's going on? Where is she?

The phone rings. I snatch the receiver from the kitchenette wall.