U
NFORTUNATELY, MY
newfound kind-of popularity at school didn't do a thing to change my bizarre home life.
“Hi, Margot!” Kathy Malloyâone of my mom's clientsâwas stepping out of the tarot reading room when I got home. “I haven't seen you in a while. How's school going?”
“Great.” I smiled. For once it was true. “How was your reading?”
“The Ace of Wands came up today,” she said. “It's a good sign. Your mom thinks I'm on the right track with my idea to start a feng shui landscaping and shrubbery business.” She swept her hand in front of her so I could picture the words.
“I'm thinking of calling it Yin Yang Yard.”
I had no idea who in Darling, Ontario, was going to buy feng shui shrubs, but still, I was honestly very happy for herâ¦at least until I showed her out, and my mom opened the reading room door and totally ruined my good mood.
“Oh, Margot,” she said, “while you're babysitting, could you help the girls pack some toys to bring in the van for the trip to the Finklemans'?”
“We're going to the Finklemans'?”
“Yes,” she said, like she was surprised I didn't know. “For the reunion tomorrow.”
“That's not tomorrow!” I couldn't even hide the horror in my voice.
“It's always two weekends after Labor Day,” she answered. “I reminded you yesterday.”
“You didn't remind me!” I whined. “You
so
did not.”
“Well,” she answered apologetically, “I meant to, then. I'm reminding you now.”
“What if I have plans?” I didn't, actually, unless you counted window shopping online for new pants and high-heeled boots. But I still didn't want to go.
Every year Bald Boring Bryan's family has this big reunion picnic in Blumeford. They roast an entire pig with the head still on. It makes me feel sick just thinking about it. Also, Bryan's mom, Dotty, has T-shirts or ball caps specially made for everyone, and we
have
to wear them so we don't hurt her feelings. Last year's T-shirt said “It's Fantastic Being a Finkleman.” I almost died. Plus, everyone just spends the whole time going ga-ga over the tripletsâ¦marveling at the way they know how to clap their hands or roll a ball, like they're the first babies on earth to attempt such feats of amazingness. And nobody ever knows what to say to me besides, “How's school, Margot?”
“Plus, I have
so
much homework. I have a five-hundredword essay due on Monday. And anyway, remember how much fun we had last year?”
Dotty had basically forced us to eat pieces of pig by saying it was a delicacy and that she'd bought it fresh from a hog farmer she went to high school with.â¦And, since we hardly ever eat meat, and also because it was disgusting, it was enough to make my mom and me both throw up in the Porta Potties.
Mom's forehead wrinkled. I held my breath, waiting for it. This would, of course, be the part where she'd tell me we had to try our best to be good sports about it, because it meant a lot to Bryan. For some reason, though, she didn't bother.
“Okay, Margot,” she said. “If you really feel you'd rather stay home and do your homework, I understand. You don't have to come with us.” The doorbell rang just thenâmy mom's next tarot client.
“Really?” I said, but I didn't actually want her to answer that, so I quickly added, “Thanks,” then backed out of the room quietly. I even waited until I was safely out of her sight before doing a little victory dance.
The next morning, as Mom and Bryan got the triplets ready, I lounged around in my pajamas, window shopping online and enjoying the morning. An hour later, I heard the van pull out of the driveway. According to the clock on my computer it was only 10:15. I couldn't believe they were going already. But what I couldn't believe even more was that they hadn't said good-bye.
I muttered under my breath as I stomped to the front window to watch them pull out. Nobody even looked up or noticed me standing there. They braked just before the street while Bryan adjusted the rearview mirror, and my mom turned to say something to the triplets. She laughed, pushed a button on the radio, and they drove off.
This just went to prove my point: I wasn't part of Bryan's family. Not at all. And since the day Bryan showed up, I was barely part of my own family. No wonder Mom had been so quick to let me stay home. She didn't want me there anyway.
I sulked into the living room, where I watched an infomercial for a miraculous food dehydrator that could dehydrate anything: meat, fruit, vegetables. They even showed how you could make your own raisins out of grapes. How convenient is that? When it ended I wandered into the kitchen, ate some Organic Oaty-O's, and put the bowl in the sink. I went to the window. I looked out. I watched a bird landing on different branches. I half squashed an ant that was crawling along the windowsill, then felt terrible and tried to nurse it back to health by giving it drops of water to drink. I accidentally drowned it, then gave it a decent burial in a potted plant. I took a shower and did my ten-step hair routine. Then I bleached my mustache, holding my breath practically the entire time for the smell. When I was done, I sat on my bed, picking at one of the butterflies on my quilt and looking at the clock, waiting for the numbers to change. When I'd watched four full minutes go by, I decided this was dumb and grabbed my house keys. If there was nothing to do at home, I could at least leave, even if I wasn't exactly sure where I was going.
It was a nice day, so I walked to the park at the end of my street, thinking I'd swing on the swings. But when I got there, there were all kinds of little kids, and I would have felt too stupid, so I just kept going.
Then I thought I could go to the coffee shop. But I realized I'd only end up thinking about Erika and feeling depressed, so I kept walking. As I approached downtown Darling, the bungalows and tacky split-levels gradually gave way to nicer brick houses, until I was solidly in rich people territory. Eventually I realized I was going in the direction of Lakeshore, where I'd probably meant to go all along. Soon I was strolling past towering stone mansions with perfect lawns and three-car garages.
The turret house was the biggest of the bigâright on the corner of Lakeshore and Miles Crescent. My heart started beating a little faster as I walked up to the giant wooden door and reached for the bell. I waited for it to finish singing its elaborate doorbell song, half expecting a butler in a suit to answer, but instead it was this lady who looked about ten years younger than my mom, wearing a regular-looking white bathrobeâEm's mom, obviously. I wasn't sure what I'd been expectingâbig hair, tons of makeup, and a huge tumbler full of gin, maybe?âbut if I hadn't already known, I never would have guessed she was a soap star.
“Yes?” she said, as if my existence was inconveniencing her.
“Um. Hi,” I answered. “I'm Em's friend. Is she here?”
“Oh.” Her face got friendlier. “I thought you were a disadvantaged child selling chocolate. Come in.” She stepped aside. The hallway had marble floors, stained glass lamps, and two giant arrangements of real flowers. If I had been selling chocolate (I glanced down at my dirty discount-store shoes and frayed jeans. Did I honestly look that disadvantaged?), this would have been a good place to come. They obviously had cash.
“
Emily,” she called up the massive, curved staircase. “You've got a friend waiting.” She ran one hand lightly over her hair, then looked me up and down.
“So, you go to Emily's school?” she said. “Is she fitting in there?” It was such a strange and direct thing to ask that I wasn't sure how to answer at first. Did she want Em to fit in, considering I was the kind of kid who went there? “She's making friends,” I said. “She's definitely got a way with people.”
“Well, that's one way to put it.” Em's mom smiled coolly. “Emily!” she called again.
Em came down the stairs a few seconds later. Her hair was sticking out in about twenty different directions, and she was wearing sweatpants. She looked surprised to see me. “You just dropped by?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry.”
“No. That's cool.” She shrugged. “That's so
small town
.”
I shrugged back. “You never gave me your phone number.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right. Well.” She hiked up her sweatpants, which were falling off her hips.
“Emily, those look awful. I thought I told you to throw them out,” her mom said.
“They're comfortable,” Em shot back, returning her mom's stern look with identical green eyes.
“Give me a sec, okay?” she said to me. Her mom turned and walked into the next room without saying good-bye, and Em ran back up the stairs, leaving me in the huge hallway alone. A minute later I heard the sound of Em's feet on the stairs. The baggy sweatpants had been replaced with dark-wash jeans and a tight black sweater. Her hair was completely styled in its usual perfectly messy way. “Let's go,” she said.
“Go where?” I asked.
“Wherever that's not here.”
I glanced into the other room. “Should we tell your mom we're going out?”
Em shrugged. “She'll figure it out when we're not here.” She noticed the look of surprise on my face. “Oh, fine.” She yelled very loudly in no particular direction: “Debbie. We're going out.”
“Have fun,” her mom shouted back.
Em locked the door behind her, then looked at me. “Pick a direction.”
“Okay. North,” I answered.
“Great,” she said. “Which way is north?”
“No idea,” I admitted.
“How about this way, then?” Em turned right, and we started walking.
“So,” I said when we'd walked for a while, “your mom kind of looks like you.”
“Ew,” Em retorted.
“I mean, except that she's old.”
“She's not
that
old. And she still looks good. I mean, she has no trouble getting parts. But she barely even looks like herself anymore. Half of her is made of silicone.”
“Why do you call her Debbie?” I asked.
She shrugged. “She hates the word
mom
. It makes her feel frumpy.” We walked a few steps in silence. “You have a really nice house,” I said, for something to say.
“I can't believe you just moved there in August and you already have it decorated. When we moved we had boxes everywhere for like, a year.”
“We hired people,” Em said.
“I wish we had a bigger house,” I said miserably. “I wish we hired people. You should try getting a turn in the bathroom at my house. Or finding a sandwich container with a lid that fits.”
“I like your house,” Em said. “It's cozy and interesting.”
I shrugged. That was easy for her to say. I was sure Em would change her mind about how cozy and interesting my house was if she spent even a single day living there, tripping over sticky toys and searching for two shoes that matched in the shoe pile.
We walked along in silence again. “I forgot to have breakfast,” she said suddenly. “I'd kill for a swamp water Slurpee, wouldn't you?”
“I don't know,” I answered. “What is it?” It didn't exactly sound like a breakfast food. But then againâI glanced at my watchâit was already 11:40, so it wasn't exactly breakfast.
“Take me to the 7-Eleven,” she commanded, and so we stopped walking in whatever direction we'd been walking and went in a different direction (possibly north, but really, who knows?) toward the 7-Eleven near the high school.
When we got there, Em picked out the biggest possible Slurpee cup, which I swear was the size of the garbage can in my bedroom.
“It's important to layer.” She walked back and forth past all the Slurpee spouts, stopping at each one. The cup was see-through, and at first it looked like a messy rainbow, but then the colors started to melt together, and it looked, well, brown and disgustingâ¦like snow and mud and purple food coloring mixed together.
I picked up a cup and followed along behind. “This looks so gross,” I said. “Are we actually going to drink it?”
“Oh, you're going to drink it,” Em said. “And you're going to love it.”
I made a mini gagging noise, and the 7-Eleven guy shot us a suspicious look.
“Somebody needs to chill out.” Em glanced at him. She stuck her hand in her coat pocket. “Crap,” she said. “Forgot my wallet. Can you pay?”
“Sure,” I said, but a split second later I realized I hadn't brought any money either. Em must have seen the look of panic cross my face. I'd heard stories about people who went to restaurants and couldn't pay. They ended up washing dishes for a week. What if 7-Eleven guy made us scrape gum off the sidewalk or pick up garbage with pointy sticks in the parking lot, where everybody would see us?
“Don't worry,” she said. “Wait here. I'm going to go make friends.”
I watched as Em approached the cashier and did what she did so well. “Hi,” she said, plunking the giant Slurpee on the counter with complete confidence. “How's it going?”
“You want me to ring that in for you?” he asked.
“Ummmâ¦not yet.” She cocked her head to one side and studied the candy display. “I'm looking for a really good chocolate bar. Something sweet, but not too sweet. You know. Crunchy, but with a soft center.”
“There's Mr. Goodbar.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “You like that one?”
“It's pretty good. Lots of peanuts. Or an Oh Henry! bar. It's really fudgy. Or Mars.”
“Huh. That's a lot to think about. Come here, Margot. This guy is good. He's like a chocolate-bar genius.” She said it so sincerely that if you didn't know her you could have easily missed the fact that she was making fun of him. “Plus,” she whispered loudly, “he's kind of cute.” I had to concentrate to keep my mouth from dropping open. 7-Eleven guy was at least fifteen. Maybe sixteen. But more important, he wasn't cute. He was oily-looking and nervous, like a gerbil with acne.