Trauma Queen (15 page)

“Well, if you want my opinion, Emma could use a stiffer spine. Beezer, don't even
think
about jumping back on this bed.” She wags her finger, but Beezer jumps on anyway.

I stroke his smelly head. He licks my nose.

Gram smiles. “Anyway,” she says, “I've been doing a little thinking, Mari, and I might have an idea.”

“You mean about Emma?
What?”

“I shouldn't say. Just let me work on it a bit. And in the meantime, will you do something for me?”

“Sure!”

“Try to trust your mom a little.” She kisses my forehead, then carefully smears off the magenta lipstick. “She's doing the best she can, you know? And you may not believe this, honey, but she understands you better than you think.”

*    *    *

In homeroom on Monday, Mr. Hubley is handing out Spring After-school Sign-Ups. Amazingly, kids are flipping pages in the pamphlet, reading club names out loud, acting like they really care about this. Even Layla looks interested in her pamphlet, despite the fact that Jada's mom shot down her proposal, and called her parents over the weekend to inform them that jousting in middle school was “entirely inappropriate.” (Layla told me about this as soon as I sat down; I could tell she was really proud.)

“Hey, Bananas!” Brody is shouting. “Check out page three. That's your mom, right?” He shoves his open pamphlet in my face, so I automatically push it away.

Then I open my own pamphlet. Yup, there she is.

DON'T JUST STAND THERE,
DO SOMETHING!

Calling all divas-in-hiding, sit-down stand-ups, singers-in-the-shower, bit players, understudies,
drama geeks, and extras. Let's play! In this club we'll explore the games and techniques of theater improv, so you can learn to think on your feet, lose your inhibitions, command the stage, free your inner thespian. Mostly, though, we'll just act silly. Come as you are; no performing experience necessary. In fact, the less the better!!!

Becca Bailey is a nationally known performance artist and theater instructor. She has performed on and off stage all of her life.

Well,
I think.
They've got that right.

“Yo, Marigold, your mom's a performance artist?” Brody is asking.

“Yeah,” I say. “What about it?”

“Nothing. I'm just curious. Does she do that thing where she's buried underwater? Or, wait, what was that thing I saw on TV? Oh yeah: This guy hung upside down in a park for, like, three days. Does she do stuff like that?”

Jada is looking at me. So are Megan and Ashley. So are Layla and Quinn, and a couple of girls from my gym
class. Also Ethan; he's blushing slightly, or maybe it's just the weird fluorescent light in this room.

“No,” I say firmly. “She doesn't.”

Now Jada is doing her hyper-sympathetic smile. “Your mom does other things, though, right?”

“Like what?” Brody demands.

“Look her up on Wikipedia,” Jada says helpfully. “There's a whole article.”

She covers her mouth and says something to Ashley. Then Ashley whispers something in Megan's ear.

I'm suddenly aware of leaky eyebrows. Because I know exactly what's on Wikipedia; Beau and Bobbi cowrote an article last spring, complete with a bit from the “LICE” poem (“Itch.
Itch.
ITCH!”) and photos of
Plastic Surgery
. And, of course, the total last thing I need right now is a homeroom that's researching Mom online.

“You don't believe everything on the Internet, do you?” I say, shrugging. “Because you know, half that stuff is wrong.”

“Really?” Jada bats her eyelashes like Bambi. “Which half?”

Somebody sniggers. Megan leans over and says something to Ashley.

“Jada, shut up,” Layla mutters.

“Did you say something?” Jada asks.

“You heard me.”

“Could you repeat that? A little louder? Because you know, we're all so mesmerized by the sound of your voice.”

Layla snarls, then sits on her boots and pretends to read her pamphlet. I try to catch her eye, but she's fascinated by CPR for Babysitters, apparently.

When the bell rings, I'm about to go to her, but first Ethan walks over to my desk.

“Hey, Marigold,” he says. “Are you doing your mom's club?”

“Of course not,” I answer immediately. “And neither are you, right?”

“Right,” he says. “I'm doing lacrosse.”

I take a normal breath.

“But I think Brody is,” he adds.

“Are you serious?
Why?”

Ethan shrugs.

“Can't you talk him out of it?”

“Brody?” He makes an
are-you-kidding-me?
face. “Please try,” I beg.

“Please.”
And grab his arm.

Then we both realize that I'm grabbing his arm.

He blinks at me with marshmallow-free eyelashes. “Okay, later,” he mumbles, and half runs out the door.

Omigod,
I think.
What did I just do?

And it gets even worse. Because when I look up, I realize Jada is gaping at me. As if she's seen the whole thing, including the arm-grab.

The look in her eyes is not hyper-sympathetic.

All morning long, everyone is talking about the clubs.

Five kids tell me they're signing up for Mom's, including two girls from my gym class.

In math, Ashley and Megan pass me a note.
WE'RE TAKING YOUR MOM'S CLUB! 8D!
When I look up at them, Ashley smiles. Which has to be ironic, because with everything Jada's been telling her about Mom, there's no way she's actually psyched about improv.

In health class, Brody leans over my desk. “Hey, Bananas,” he says. “Was your mom ever chained to a rotating gyroscope?”

“Why are you asking?” I manage to say. “Was yours?”

Twice I catch Jada staring in my direction.

Not Ethan, though. He doesn't look at me at all. I think I freaked him out with the arm-grab, which I can't even blame on Mom. (Okay, well, maybe indirectly. But
I guess I could have begged him to talk to Brody without cutting off his circulation.)

And right outside the lunchroom, Mr. Shamsky waves me over. “Improv has a wait list,” he says excitedly. “Your mom'll be so pleased.”

“I'll tell her,” I lie. Then I run into the lunchroom, grab a turkey sandwich, and plop next to Layla. “Where's everybody else?”

“Math retest. Although I think Ethan's afraid of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“The way you attacked his arm? In homeroom?”

Ulp. “Did everyone see?”

“Probably. I mean, dude, it was
homeroom
.”
She points at my sandwich. “There's no peanut butter in that thing, is there?”

I shake my head.

She takes a big bite of my sandwich and chews thoughtfully. “Jada's madly in love with him, you know. So my guess is, as of this morning, you've shot straight to the top of her enemies list.”

“But why?” I say weakly. “It had nothing to do with her.”

“
Everything
has to do with Jada. According to Jada.”
She wipes her mouth with my napkin. “So okay, then, what
did
it have to do with?”

“You really want to hear?”

She nods.

“My mom,” I say.

“Your mom. Okay, Marigold, now you're making total sense.”

I take a quick look around to make sure no one is listening. Then I lower my voice, just in case. “I was just asking Ethan to talk to Brody. To tell him not to take her club.”

She raises one eyebrow. “How come?”

“Because she's crazy.”

There. I said it.
Becca Bailey is a nutcase.

Layla opens up my sandwich and takes out all the tomato. She closes it up again and takes another big bite. “Hey, listen,” she says, chewing. “Everybody's mom goes a little crazy sometimes. You know what mine did? She got so sick of my dad watching his stupid plasma TV all the time that she sold it on eBay. Behind his back.”

“I don't mean my mom
goes
crazy,” I say. “I mean she
is
crazy. As in, you don't know what she'll do next. Especially onstage.”

“Whoa.” Now she's eating the tomato. “Cool.”

“Yeah, cool when it's not
your
mom.” I definitely didn't mean to get into all this, but for some strange reason my mouth keeps moving. “She promised me she'd behave herself, so I said fine, do the club. But that was before I thought anyone would sign up. And suddenly it's this huge thing, Mr. Shamsky says there's a wait list, and I'm scared she'll do something really, really humiliating.”

Layla scrunches up her forehead. “Why would she? You said she promised.”

“Because she loves a big audience. It's like, if a bunch of people are watching her, she just goes
off.
Sometimes I think if I walked onstage in the middle of one of her performances, she wouldn't even know who I was.”

“That's kind of . . . intense.”

“And if she
does
go off,” I add, thinking out loud, “I won't even be there to know it.
”

Layla wipes her mouth with my napkin. “Well, anyway, you can relax about that part. I'm in the club, so I'll keep you totally informed.”

I stare at her. “Wait. You're doing
Improv
?”

“So is Quinn. And you want to hear the best part? It was all her own idea. She said she thought it would
help her
overcome her shyness.
Can you believe she actually said that?”

I shake my head hopelessly.

“And who knows.” She drops her voice. “Maybe it'll help with my stage fright. I
hate
blanking out like a total moron. Remember that stupid ziti? I stood there like a
wall
.”

“Layla,” I say. “It's not going to help.”

“Well, gee, Marigold, thanks for that vote of—”

“I just mean the whole club will be the Becca Bailey Freak Show. It's not going to be about you or Quinn or overcoming anything. It's just going to be about
her
.”

She takes off her thumb ring and rolls it around in her palm a few times, like she's weighing it. Then she puts it back on. “Okay, you really want to know what I think? First of all, you should give your mom a chance. She promised you, and maybe she'll keep her promise. Or maybe not; she sounds like she doesn't have much of a track record.”

“She doesn't.”

“But if she
doesn't
keep her promise, and she goes a little Looney Tunes, at least I'll be there to let you know.”

“Hey, leave Looney Tunes alone.” I sigh. “Okay, fine. But what if I'd rather
not
know?”

“I thought you said—”

“Well, what if I change my mind?”

“You shouldn't,” she insists. “Because if something weird happens, you don't want to be the last to hear. Not the way gossip spreads at this stupid school.”

I groan. This isn't what I wanted from Layla; it's way too logical. But I think about Ashley and Megan signing up, and probably reporting everything back to Jada, and I can't really disagree with Layla's argument.

“And second of all,” she continues, “why are you so worried about
me
? Or Quinn? Or Brody, even if he's in jerk mode? I mean, I don't know how to break the news to you, Marigold, but along with Ethan, whose elbow you're in love with, we're your
friends
around here.”

“I know that,” I murmur. “Thanks, Layla.”

But I'm thinking:
Truthfully? That's exactly why I'm worried.

The whole next week was spring break, but there's not much to tell. The major thing is that Dad drove to Lawson to fetch Kennedy and me and then drive us all the way back to his house. It was okay to be there for maybe the first afternoon, but after a while there was basically nothing to do besides eat Oreos and watch TV. So Kennedy and I went to Rite Aid and bought a whole bunch of pretend-vacation nail polish:
Spring Fling! Cherry Soda! Surf's Up!
And for the next three days I polished all our nails, first Kennedy's (including toenails), then mine.