Mia the Melodramatic (16 page)

“Well, at least the ocean air hasn’t taken away any of your arrogance,” I said, my hand squeezing the phone. “And you might as well tell your grandpa to put his credit card away because there’s nothing you can ever do to make me want to take you back. You’re nothing but an egotistical, self-serving loudmouth who—”

A dial tone buzzed in my ear. I stared at the phone. How dare he hang up on me! Keeping the phone firmly in my grasp, I stormed up to my room, trying to find Tim’s grandparents’ number so I could call him back and finish my tirade. I’d barely made it up the stairs when the phone rang. I punched the talk button and screamed, “You’re so low you could crawl under a pregnant snake! No, you’re even lower than that. You’re so low—”

“Um, Mia?”

“Eric?”

“Yeah,” Eric replied. “Who did you think it was?”

“Nobody.” I sat down on the top stair, suddenly sapped from my clash with Tim. “So, what’s up?”

“So, I know this is late notice, but Zoë was asked to fill in and play with a band this afternoon at the city festival. Anyway, Henry and I are going. I thought it’d be fun to hear her and then stay for the fireworks. Want to come with us?”

“Um,” I said as I stretched my legs out in front of me and rested my head on the wall. “I don’t know if I’d be very good company today. I just got off the phone with Tim.”

“Forget about Tim. Come with Henry and me,” Eric said enticingly. “It’ll be fun. I’ll even buy you a corn dog.”

“I don’t know...”

“What about a chili cheese dog?”

“With chili cheese fries?” I asked hopefully.

“I’ll even order them with double chili.”

“All right, you got a deal,” I said. It might be good for me to get out of the house so I wouldn’t fixate on my conversation with Tim. Plus, I hadn’t eaten anything for three hours. All that chili would be just the thing to make me feel better. “What time?”

“Can you be ready in an hour?”

I looked down at my orange-encrusted fingernails. It would probably take an hour just to scrub the corn curl grit out of them. “How about an hour and a half?”

“Great,” Eric said. “See you then.”

I hung up the phone and went in search of Aunt Maeve, so I could tell her about my plans. But after looking through the whole house, I still couldn’t find her.

I pounded on the closed bathroom door. “Hey, mutant, have you seen Aunt Maeve lately?”

“She’s in the garage searching for some wood and metal to finish her sculpture,” Chris replied in a weak voice.

“Are you all right? You sound like you’re about to hurl a calf in there.”

“I told you, I feel horrible.”

“One weekend of junk food and you’re whining about how you
don’t feel good. Sometimes, you’re such a baby.” I rolled my eyes. “Just make sure you spray some deodorizer when you’re done. I’m going out with Eric and Henry to hear Zoë play at the festival and I don’t want the house reeking like a sewage dump when they pick me up.”

The toilet flushed and Chris poked his pale face out of the door. “You’re seeing Zoë tonight?”

“Yeah, and I’m not taking you. You’re ‘sick,’ remember?”

Chris quickly washed his hands and followed me. “I’m not that sick.”

With Chris at my heels, I walked out of the house and then followed the roar of the chainsaw to the garage. I waved to get Aunt Maeve’s attention and she turned off the motor. Flipping her safety goggles atop her head, she motioned to the mound of what I guess you could call “art,” which was sitting where our minivan was usually parked.

“What do you think of my latest sculpture? I call it
A Weekend in Des Moines.”

I looked at the potpourri of empty chip bags, candy wrappers, pop cans, and Ding Dong boxes she’d glued and mounted on a metal frame welded together with a blowtorch.

“Wow! Is that all ours?”

“Most of it. I dug through one of your neighbors’ garbage for the rest of the trash.” Aunt Maeve pulled a purple paisley scarf from her pocket and tied back her red hair. “You should see some of the stuff I found in there. There’s a real weirdo living around here. I’m using his stuff for a piece I’m calling
Suburbanite Secrets.”

Unsure if I wanted the details, I said, “Hey, my friend Eric called and wants to take me to the city festival to hear some bands and see the fireworks tonight. Is it all right?”

“Will you be home before your parents get back tomorrow?”

“Aunt Maeve, I’ll be home by midnight.”

“What’s the big deal, then? Of course you can go. Just don’t get
arrested.” She pulled her safety goggles back on.

“Can I go with Mia?” Chris said.

“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” Aunt Maeve replied.

“I’m doing a lot better,” Chris said, putting on his brightest smile to mask the pallor of his skin.

“Well, if that’s the case, I don’t see why not.” Aunt Maeve jerked on the chain to start the motor up again.

I screamed over the rumbling noise, “But Aunt Maeve!”

She pointed at her ears. “I can’t hear you!”

I yelled even louder. “Aunt Maeve!”

But it was no use. She was totally engrossed in her sculpture and probably forgot we were even there.

I looked at Chris. “You better not do anything to embarrass me tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” Chris said. “I’ll let you embarrass yourself on your own.”

“I
’m hot and thirsty and my stomach is really hurting again,” Chris whined as we made our way through a city park teeming with people decked out in red, white, and blue.

I followed Henry and Eric as they pushed through the crowd toward the band shell where Zoë was playing next. “You wanted to come with us,” I hissed at Chris, “so I don’t want to hear another word about your supposed stomachache.”

“I’m not faking. It really hurts.”

“Whatever. Just keep walking.”

“There she is—by the stage, tuning her guitar. Hey, Zoë!” Eric called.

I looked to where Eric was pointing and saw that Zoë was surrounded by a group of men who looked older than my great-grandpa. Zoë saw us pointing at her and waved. She set down her guitar, jumped off the stage, and walked toward us. Looking at Chris, she asked, “What’s Junior doing here?”

“I wouldn’t miss seeing you play. I’m your biggest fan,” Chris said, dropping his sick routine faster than a kid finding out it was Saturday.

I rolled my eyes. I
knew
he was faking. “So, what’s with your band?” I said to Zoë. “Don’t you think they’re kind of...”

“Ancient?” Zoë replied. “Yeah, when the Yankee Doodle Dandies guy called, asking if I could fill in for his lead singer, I thought it was
some new garage band. How was I supposed to know it was a bunch of 80-year-old men playing patriotic songs?” She shook her head. “That’s the last time I let my dad give my name out to his friends at the Elks Club.”

I spent the next few hours listening to Zoë convert every sappy patriotic song ever written into something that could be played in the London underground music scene. She ripped out the last guitar chord of her Jimi Hendrix-inspired “Star Spangled Banner” and yelled, “Have a great Independence Day, everyone, and remember—you can see the Yankee Doodle Dandies every Sunday night at the Senior Center!”

She patted the shoulder of the bald guy sitting next to her on stage—he was huffing and puffing after trying to keep up with Zoë on his harmonica—and said, “Rock on, Mr. Leitz.”

Then, grabbing her guitar, she leapt off the stage and landed next to me. She reached into the cup of lemonade I’d just paid five bucks for, pulled out an ice cube, and rubbed it on her forehead. “Those Elks guys can totally jam.”

My drink now had black fingernail paint floating in it. “Yeah, I’ve never heard ‘You’re a Grand Old Flag’ as a punk rock song before. It was interesting.”

Zoë looked over at Chris, who was propped up against a tree. “What’s wrong with Small Fry? Is he sick or something?”

“He’s only saying he’s sick so everyone will be nice to him. Eric went to find him some 7Up to make his supposed stomachache feel better.”

“Are you sure it’s just a stomachache? He looks kind of green.”

“I know Chris, and he’s faking it. This whole routine is probably just his twisted way of getting some sympathy and tender loving care
from you.” I handed her my cup of lemonade because there was no way I could drink it now. “Come on. Let’s go and find Henry and Eric.”

I went over to where Chris was sitting to tell him we were leaving, but when I saw him, I couldn’t help but notice that he did look a little on the green side. “Are you all right?”

Chris grimaced. “I told you, I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“OK, I’ll go get Eric and tell him to hurry up with your 7Up.” I knelt down beside him. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. “Why don’t you ask Zoë to come over here and hold my hand? I could use a little doctoring.”

“I swear, when I look into your eyes, I see the back of your head. But I guess that’s what I get for falling for another one of your sick stunts,” I said, totally disgusted by him. I stood up. “Zoë and I are leaving, and we’ll be back whenever I feel like it. So, if I were you, I’d quit the ‘poor me’ routine and find some friends—oh, that’s right. You don’t have any.”

“I can’t get up,” Chris said, acting weak again. “My stomach hurts too bad. Can’t we just go home now?”

“And miss the fireworks?” I scowled at him. “I told you not to come in the first place. Now, quit being so melodramatic. You’re fine.”

Henry winced as I ripped off a huge slab of turkey leg. “How can you eat that?” he asked.

I wiped the turkey juice dribbling down my chin. “It’s good.”

Eric leaned over and gnawed off a hunk of meat. “You guys don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I know I won’t miss either of you when you die of heart disease.”
Zoë wrinkled her nose. “That is, if the steroids that bird was pumped with don’t kill you first. I mean, have you ever seen legs like that on a regular turkey before?”

I took another bite. “Anyone up for a funnel cake?” I asked, figuring I’d better get my fill of every type of junk food imaginable. When my parents came back, it’d be back to fruits and vegetables.

“Where do you put it all?” Henry asked.

I shrugged. “I have a high metabolism and I run—sometimes.”

“Maybe we should check on your brother first,” Eric said. “He didn’t look so good when I brought him that 7Up.”

“He’s fine,” I said, handing Eric the rest of my turkey leg. “Now, let’s find the funnel cake cart before the fireworks start. I want to make sure we get a good spot.”

Searching for dessert, I pushed through the crowd. It’s amazing how all aspects of my timidity disappear in pursuit of good grease. Spying the row of people waiting in line at the funnel cake cart, I sprinted to get my place as a wail of ambulance sirens blasted in the distance.

I craned my head to see what the commotion was all about, and the woman in front of me turned to the lady she was with and said, “I wonder if they’re the paramedics for that poor boy. Would you believe someone just left him alone under a tree when he was so sick?”

“Are you serious?” her friend said.