Mia the Melodramatic (6 page)

I held my breath and opened the message.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Tim was still my boyfriend! He’d even fallen for my Eric ploy. Who cared if he’d made some new friends and one of them was a girl? Tim missed me and wished I was with him! I did a quick happy dance, and then typed:

I sent my e-mail and then waited a half hour for another message from Tim. When it was clear one wasn’t coming, I logged off the
computer. Where had he gone so quickly?

By Sunday afternoon, I’d sent Tim another couple of e-mails, but I still hadn’t gotten a single one back from him. How was I ever going to enjoy my summer when I was racing to the computer every five minutes checking to see if he’d written to me?

It was getting ridiculous. If I didn’t talk to him soon, I was going to lose my mind. It had been eight days since I’d heard his voice and I was simply dying to call him.

I eyed the phone in my room. And why shouldn’t I call him? It’s not like my parents would find out about it right away. By the time they got their next phone bill, I would have saved up enough money to pay for the call. Besides, how much could one little phone call cost?

I yanked open my desk drawer and dug around, searching for the piece of paper on which Tim had written his grandparents’ phone number in case of an emergency. And to me, going a whole week without talking to Tim constituted a crisis of Biblical proportions.

I finally found the paper buried under a pile of books I’d checked out at the library. Feeling a tiny tingle in my stomach when I saw Tim’s familiar scrawl, I quickly punched in the number. After three rings, a woman who I assumed was my possible future grandmother-in-law answered.

I cleared my throat and asked as politely as I could, “May I speak to Tim, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not here. May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Mia, his—um—his—uh—his—”
Oh God. What am I? Am I his girlfriend? Partner? Love Connection?
“Um, I’m Tim’s
friend
from Iowa.”

Could I sound any lamer?

“Well, Tim’s out sailing with our neighbor’s daughter right now. Would you like me to tell him you called? What did you say your name was again?”

“Um, no thanks. I’ll just call back later,” I said, placing the phone down with shaking hands.

I fell back onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling, letting the tears roll into my ears. I couldn’t believe it. Tim’s grandmother hadn’t even heard of me? How could Tim have gone a whole week without even mentioning my existence to her? And if he hadn’t told his own flesh and blood about me, who else had he forgotten to tell?

“W
hat do you think of your handiwork, Princess?” Zoë asked me on Monday morning as she showed me the scab covering the top of her mouth.

I winced. “It looks awful.”

“What are you talking about? I love it. It makes me look tough,” Zoë said, looking into the truck’s side mirror. “So, what are you all sad about? The Pope stop answering your fan mail?”

I started to walk away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me. Maybe I can help. Just think of me as
Dear Abby
with style.”

I hesitated. With Lisa gone, it would be nice to get the perspective of another female—even if this female was tougher than any guy I’d ever met. Oh, what the heck! It was worth a try.

“It’s my boyfriend,” I said with a sigh. “Or at least I think he’s still my boyfriend. See, he went to Maine to spend the summer with his grandparents.”

“So your problem is your boyfriend is in Maine living with his grandparents?”

“No.”

“What could be worse than that? That’s even more pathetic than your life.”

“Do you want to hear my problem or not?”

“I can hardly wait.”

“See, he met this girl who lives next to his grandparents, and it
looks like he’s hanging out with her all the time now. I mean, he hasn’t returned any of my e-mails, and he was out with her when I called yesterday.”

“You
called
him
?”

“Well, yeah...”

“Preppy, that is the worst thing you could’ve done. If you want to keep this guy, you have to play hard to get.”

“But I don’t want to be hard to get.”

Zoë rolled her eyes. “Look, do you want my advice?”

I nodded.

“Then don’t seem too eager,” she said. “How many times have you e-mailed him since he last wrote you?”

“A couple. But I didn’t e-mail him at all before that. He’d sent me a bunch of e-mails, but my brother erased them, and—”

Zoë held up her hand. “See? That proves my point. When you didn’t e-mail him, he wrote you a lot. But as soon as you wrote him, he stopped. Guys like a challenge. I should know. I never let guys know how I feel about them, and my phone never stops ringing.”

Tim did like a good fight. I mean, he was all over the Eric thing. Maybe Zoë was right. Maybe I
should
play a little hard to get.

I smiled at her. “Thanks.”

“Don’t get all mushy on me,” Zoë said, handing me the Playhouse Pal makeup box from the back seat of the truck. “But now that you’re your dorky self again, we can get back to work. Do you want to get your makeup on now or wait until we get to the park?”

I eyed the box warily. “What makeup?”

“Your Playhouse Pal makeup.”

“
My
Playhouse Pal makeup?” I shook my head. “I’m not going to be Playhouse Pal.”

“Sure you are. Jan’ll be too busy directing the kids onstage, and I can’t put on all that makeup with this scab on my face.”

I stammered, “What about Henry or Eric?”

“Playhouse Pal is a girl,” Zoë said. “Having a guy play the clown
would freak all the kids out. So which is it—makeup on here or there?”

I stepped back, ready to make a run for it. “There has to be a mistake. Nancy must have hired someone to be Playhouse Pal.”

“Of course Nancy hired someone to be Playhouse Pal,” Zoë said, grabbing my arm before I could escape. “And you’re it, Princess.”

The Play Wagon was set up, the music was cued, the props were laid out, the kids were ready to go, and I, in the middle of a ferocious anxiety attack, was dressed head to toe in polka dots.

Henry pressed the play button on the sound system, and happy carnival music filled the air. He pointed at me. “You’re on, Mia.”

Nausea rolled through my stomach like a rollercoaster with quadruple loops, and sweat beads formed under my pointy hat.

“Mia, the music plays for less than a minute,” Henry hissed. “You need to get out there
now
!
”

My legs were cemented into the ground. No way was I going out in front of all those people dressed like a clown.

Eric motioned for Henry to keep playing the music. “Come on, Mia! The kids are waiting for Playhouse Pal. You can do this.”

I shook my head violently. “No, I can’t.”

Henry sighed and rewound the tape.

Jan poked her head around the other side of the Play Wagon. “What’s the holdup? My actors are getting restless. Do you know how hard it is to keep a five year old in character?”

“Don’t worry. Mia will be out in just a second,” Eric said.

Sweat trickled down my cheeks like rain on a window, and I began to wipe it off before I remembered that my face was completely covered in make-up. I looked at the white, black, and red face-paint smeared on my sleeve. Oh, great! Now I probably looked
like something out of a Picasso painting.

Henry rewound the tape for a second time and the audience started chanting, “Playhouse Pal! Playhouse Pal! Playhouse Pal!”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

“Oh, get over it,” Zoë said, pushing me out in front of the stage.

The kids erupted in cheers. The music faded and I faced my audience in horror. I couldn’t even use Eric’s trick. After all, who wants to imagine a bunch of little kids in their underwear? After a moment, the cheering subsided, but I remained as still as a statue. If I stood motionless long enough, maybe they’d think I was just a really bad mime and they’d go home.

Suddenly, a soft voice came from behind the Play Wagon. “Hi, everyone, I’m Playhouse Pal!”

I looked over my shoulder, searching for the source. Not seeing anyone there, I started worrying about my sanity. Maybe the pressure was too much for me and I was starting to lose it. After all, wasn’t hearing voices the first sign of madness?

“Say it, stupid,” Zoë hissed. “Say, ‘Hi, everyone, I’m Playhouse Pal!’”

I sighed with relief. Phew! At least I wasn’t crazy.

Zoë said angrily, “Say, ‘Hi, everyone, I’m Playhouse Pal,’ or I’ll come out there and make you say it.”

I quickly said, “Hi, everyone, I’m Playhouse Pal.”

The audience immediately shouted back, “Hi, Playhouse Pal!”

Zoe whispered, “I can’t hear you.”

Out of the side of my mouth, I hissed in Zoë’s direction, “I said it as loud as I could.”

“No, you idiot,” Zoë whispered. “You’re supposed to say, ‘I can’t hear you.’”

I turned back to the kids sitting on the grass. “I can’t hear you!”

The kids shouted even louder, “Hi, Playhouse Pal!”

I was catching on. “I still can’t hear you.”

The kids yelled at the top of their lungs, “Hi, Playhouse Pal!”

“I
still
can’t hear you.”

Zoë, appearing around the side of the Play Wagon, moved a finger across her neck. Meanwhile, the kids’ faces turned an unsightly shade of purple as they yelled even louder, “Hi, Playhouse Pal!”

Zoë whispered, “Now say, ‘Our first show is
The Little Red Hen,’
and then get out of there.”

I did as directed, escaping to the safety of the backstage.

“Jeez,” Zoë said as soon as I made it around the corner. “Did you want those kids to have an aneurism, making them yell that loud?”

“I just did what you told me to do.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually on the honor roll at that school of yours. What do those nuns teach you anyway?” Zoë shook her head. “Now, fix your face and don’t make such a fool of yourself next time. I’m going to help Jan get the kids ready for the next show.”