Trauma Queen (14 page)

“Why did she do that?” I ask, horrified. “Was she mad at you?”

“Oh, no. It had nothing to do with me. She said she
wanted to make a new kind of costume.
‘Something different and amazing'
: Those were her exact words.”

“But that's just . . .
wrong
,” I sputter. “Destroying her favorite clothes—”

“She
meant
to make something special,” Gram interrupts. “She wanted to take all these scraps and sew them together.”

“But she can't even sew!”

“No, she can't, honey. She tried, but she couldn't get anywhere, and she just kept getting frustrated, and she refused to let me teach her. Or help her. She wanted it to be ‘
all
her own
,' she said.” Gram smiles. “You know how stubborn your mother can be. Pigheaded.”

I nod.

“And then, boom: She realized what she'd done. I'll never forget how she came to me in tears, like her heart was breaking:
‘Oh, Ma, I ruined all my best clothes, I'm so sorry, what a stupid idea that was, you must think I'm the worst daughter in the world.'
I tried to tell her I'd never think such a thing, but she wouldn't listen, and then she insisted on paying for her new clothes. I think she walked the neighbors' dog every day for a whole year. And eventually she just forgot about her costume idea. But I never did.”

I don't say anything.

Finally I let out a long, reluctant breath. “So these are her scraps?”

Gram nods.

“And you saved them all this time? Why?”

She puts her arm around my shoulders. “I knew Becca meant them to be different and amazing. And now they are.”

“But they aren't,” I protest. “I just stitched them together. They don't mean anything, Gram.”

She kisses my forehead and doesn't even wipe off the lipstick this time.

“They're just this dumb thing I do,” I say. “To pass the time.”

“Different and amazing,” she repeats, like an echo.

The whole rest of the afternoon, I keep thinking about the Thing. How it's
mine,
despite what Gram said, how it has nothing to do with Mom. How all right, so it's made out of her seventh-grade clothes, but she hasn't worn this fabric in, like, thirty years, she obviously doesn't recognize any of it, and she's totally forgotten about the crazy costume idea, anyway. And why does everybody in this family always have to turn everything into big, fat, meaningful symbols? My Thing is just a
thing
. It's not a costume. It's not even a shape.

I take a good long look at the Thing, still spread all over my bed. Then I smush it into a puffy blob and tuck it beside my pillow.

After dinner I'm watching
Access Hollywood
in the living room when I realize I can hear Mom and Gram arguing. They're not shouting or anything, but they're washing the dishes, so they have to raise their voices over the running water. With the TV on also, I can make out only a few words. So I get off the sofa and tiptoe just outside the kitchenette.

“But are you sure it's healthy?” Gram is asking. “Kennedy is so skinny.”

“She's skinny because she has Jeff's skinny genes,” Mom answers. “Not because she's vegetarian. And anyway, she's doing fine. When she had her physical last month, the doctor said.”

“But she's way too young to be choosing what she eats, Bec.”

“She doesn't
choose.
I
do. But I'm trying to respect her feelings.”

“I know you are, but—”

“Didn't you try to respect mine when I was growing
up? Isn't that why I turned out so spectacular?” Now Mom is teasing, but I can hear the sharp edge in her laugh.

“Yes, of course,” Gram answers huffily. “But there are limits. Children need protein.”

“And she gets
tons
of it. Really, Ma, you can be so rigid about food.”

For a second I'm afraid another big Trisha-fight is starting, but now Mom and Gram are quiet. I can hear the dishes clatter, though, like they're doing the arguing.

Then Mom says, “Sorry I called you that. I'm just kind of upset right now, and I don't want to be arguing about hamburger.”

“Neither do I,” Gram says. There's a pause. “Is it about Jeff?”

“Yeah.” The faucet shuts off. “Although actually it's more about Marigold. I feel like she doesn't trust me anymore.”

“Of course she does!”

“No, Ma, she's always mad at me. She says I embarrass her. And she barely even talks to me these days.”

“She's just at that tricky age.”

“Yeah, well, I talked to
you
when I was thirteen.”

“Sometimes.” Gram laughs. “Don't you remember giving me the silent treatment that time I showed up at your school in plaid pants?”

“No. I did?”

“You refused to talk to me for two days. And when you finally started up again, you called me
mortifying.
And that was just for starters.”

Gram? Mortifying? What a horrible thing to say. And not just horrible: unfair.
Because she totally understood about the costume business. Plus she saved all of those scraps, even after Mom forgot about them. So how could Mom have possibly ever thought—

“Mari? Why are you standing there?”

I spin around.

And see Kennedy walking toward me.

And realize there's something hard under my right foot.

A marble.

Before I know what's happening, I'm sprawled on the floor.

“Do you think you can walk?” Mom is asking. Her face is pale and her eyes look huge.

“Probably,” I say.

I guess I'm not too convincing, though, because she and Gram insist on lifting me up and helping me hop over to the sofa. Then Gram hurries to the freezer to get some ice, while Mom carefully pulls off my sock and props up my foot with a pillow.

“It's all my fault,” she's muttering. “Those stupid marbles. I had them in the box yesterday, but Beezer knocked it over. And I thought I found them all, but I guess one got away. Oh, Marigold, I'm so sorry—”

“It's okay,” I say quickly. Because of course now I'm feeling scuzzy about eavesdropping on her. And I can tell Kennedy realizes that's exactly what I was doing, because she's making a fish-mouth and avoiding eye contact.

The phone rings. Beezer starts barking like crazy from his crate.

“Somebody answer that phone,” Gram hollers. “I'm dealing with this god-awful ice cube tray.”

Kennedy runs into the kitchenette. “Uh-huh,” I can hear her say. “Uh-huh. Okay. I'll tell her.” Then she hangs up and comes running back into the living room, followed by Beezer and Gram.

“Remind me to teach you some phone manners, Kennie,” Mom says. “Who was that?”

“The PTA lady from Mari's school. She said your club was approved, but she wants you to call her back.”

“What club?” Gram asks, catching my eye. She's holding about a glacier of ice wrapped in a towel, and now she's pressing it hard on my throbbing ankle.

“Just improv,” Mom says distractedly. “Theater games, mostly.”

“Her name is Lisa Sperry,” Kennedy announces. “And her number is 645-7125. I wrote it on my hand.” She waves her inky palm at Mom. “When are you going to call her?”

“Later,” Mom says. “Or tomorrow. Sometime.”

“She said it was ever so important.”

“I'm sure she didn't say
ever so
,” I comment. I pet Beezer, who is now slobbering on my knee. Then I turn to Mom. “And I thought you wanted me to help you with the application.”

“Well, you didn't seem too eager, frankly, so I just e-mailed it in this morning.” Mom stares deep into my eyes, like she's searching for buried treasure. “Listen, Mari. I've been thinking. If you really don't want me to do this club, I won't.”

Kennedy looks at me. Gram doesn't.

I wince a little, so Gram takes off the ice pack. Then
I peek at my ankle: It looks perfectly normal, not swollen, not even black-and-blue.

Suddenly, in addition to feeling scuzzy, I'm feeling incredibly idiotic. Also selfish. Also drama-queeny, which is something I do
not
want to feel.

“It's
just
theater games?” I ask Mom. “You
promise
you won't do a performance?”

She shakes her sproingy hair. “No performance, Mari. Promise.”

“And you won't try to sell tickets to a performance? Or use the club for free publicity? Or do anything—I'm serious, Mom,
anything
—besides teaching improv?”

Mom takes my hands in hers. “I swear, baby,” she says solemnly. “I'll just teach improv. Cross my heart.”

I look at Gram. Her eyes are bright, and her lips are shut tight, like she's forcing herself not to speak.

“Well, okay,” I say finally. “I guess you can do the club.”

Gram beams at me. So does Kennedy. Mom kisses my cheek.

“Just don't make it humiliating,” I add, wiggling my toes.

On Sunday after lunch I'm on my bed pretending to read
The Lord of the Rings
for English. For some dumb reason I chose it as my independent reading, but it's so boring my mind keeps wandering off in a million directions. Plus it doesn't help that Mom is on her bedroom phone, and her door is open, so I can hear every word. She's talking to Jada's mom in a fakely rahrah sort of voice, like she's doing a new performance: Becca Bailey, PTA Volunteer.

“Oh, I'm so excited,” she says. “No, I've never worked with middle school kids before. But my daughters—Two. Kennedy is eight, and Marigold is—Oh, is she? In
the same homeroom? Isn't that funny. . . . No, I don't think she ever has, but you know girls this age—Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, that makes perfect sense. I'll get on that as soon as I—Well, I'll try. But I'm not very—No, I understand. No problem. Uh-huh. Thanks for calling.”

Silence.

Then Mom shouts, “AAAACK. Well,
that
woman is a major-league pain in the butt!”

“What woman?” Gram calls from the bathroom.

“Lisa Sperry, PTA czar of Marigold's school. She's demanding an itemized budget for my Improv club, ASAP.” Mom groans. “And how can I possibly make a budget before I meet my kids? Because who knows, after the first session, I might decide okay, what we really need is a room-size trampoline—”

A
room-size
trampoline?

“And the worst part,” Mom adds, “is that I'm sure she's terrorizing me just to prove she can.”

“Oh, Becca,” Gram is saying. “Just guesstimate about the budget. This is public school; you're not getting a trampoline even if you want one. And if this PTA lady is a little pushy, who cares. The important thing—”

I hear her walk into Mom's room and shut the
door. She's in there for a long time, like maybe twenty minutes.

The whole time they're talking. Not fighting, talking. Back and forth, but quietly. I think I hear my name once or twice, but I'm not totally sure.

All of a sudden Gram is knocking on my door. “Can I come in?” she's asking, smiling as if she already knows the answer. She pushes Beezer off the bed and brushes the fur from my sheets. “That dumb dog thinks he lives here.”

“We're only watching him.”

“Ha. I say he's moved in permanently.” Finally she stops whacking my sheets and sits herself near my pillow. “I was so busy talking to your mom that I lost track of the time. And I hate to say it, but I do have a bus to catch.”

I put down my book. “You mean now?”

“In a few.” She takes my left hand and frowns. “You've let that go,” she scolds.

“Let what?”

“The polish. I was looking at you all weekend, and I couldn't tell what was different. Now I realize. You're not wearing nail polish.”

I shrug. “I did that with Emma.”

“Well, you should keep it up, with or without Emma. Most of your colors are not my personal cup of tea, but sometimes it looks pretty snazzy.”

When I don't answer that, Gram's face softens. “You know what, cookie? Things will get better. And I'm sure you'll get your friend back, if you don't give up.”

“Gram,” I say. “It's not about
me
giving up.
Emma's
the one who's too scared to be friends.”