One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

by Sonya Sones

  one of those hideous books where the mother dies

  Sonya Sones

  Ann Sullivan

  SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  1230 Avenue of the Americas,

  New York,

  New York 10020

  SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon " Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 by Sonya Sones

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon " Schuster, Inc.

  Book design by Ann Sullivan

  The text for this book is set in Oranda BT.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  One of those hideous books where the mother dies / by Sonya Sones.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Fifteen-year-old Ruby Milliken leaves her best friend, her boyfriend, her aunt, and her mother’s grave in Boston and reluctantly flies to Los Angeles to live with her father, a famous movie star who divorced her mother before Ruby was born.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-85820-8

  (ISBN-10: 0-689-85820-5)

  eISBN 978-1-439-10757-7

  [1. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Moving, household—Fiction. 3. Actors and actresses—Fiction. 4. Grief—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 6. Homosexuality—Fiction. 7. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S6978 Mi 2004

  [Fic]—dc21 2003009355

  for Bennett

  with love and admiration

  Heartfelt thanks to Ruth Bornstein, Peg Leavitt, Betsy Rosenthal, Ann Wagner, and April Halprin Wayland, for your generosity and your brilliance. Deepest of curtsies to Myra Cohn Livingston, David Gale, Russell Gordon, and Steven Malk, for making it all possible. Tons of gratitude to my kind readers, for the glowing e-mails that have kept me afloat. And huge hugs and kisses to Ava and Jeremy, for helping me keep Ruby’s voice real, and for inspiring me, always.

  American Airlines Flight 161

  I’m not that depressed, considering that this

  gigantic silver bullet with wings

  is blasting me away from my whole entire life,

  away from Lizzie Brody,

  my best friend in the world,

  away from Ray Johnston,

  my first real boyfriend.

  Not that depressed, considering I’ve been kidnapped

  by this monstrous steel pterodactyl

  and it’s flying me all the way to L.A.

  to live with my father

  who I’ve never even met

  because he’s such a scumbag

  that he divorced my mother

  before I was even born.

  I’d say I’m doing reasonably well,

  considering I’m being dragged

  three thousand miles away from all my friends

  and my school and my aunt Duffy

  and the house I’ve lived in ever since I was born,

  three thousand miles away from my mother,

  and my mother’s grave,

  where she lies in a cold wooden box

  under six feet of dirt,

  just beginning to rot.

  I’m not that depressed

  considering tha t I’m trapped

  on this jumbo poison dart

  shooting me away from everything I love,

  and there’s this real weird guy

  sitting in the seat right behind mine,

  who keeps picking his nose

  and eating it.

  Depressed?

  Who? Me?

  Aunt Duffy Drove Me to the Airport

  And there was a second there

  when I actually considered

  getting down on my hands and knees

  and begging her not to put me on this plane,

  begging her not to send me away,

  pleading with her to let me stay in Boston

  and live with her instead.

  But Duffy’s so nice that I knew she’d say yes

  and I knew that that would make me feel

  like crawling under a boulder,

  because her apartment just has

  this one microscopic bedroom

  and now that she’s finally

  got herself a new boyfriend,

  the last thing she needs

  is to have her fifteen-year-old niece

  permanently camped out in her living room,

  which is barely even big enough

  to fit her couch.

  So I contained my urge to grovel.

  My Mother Hated Flying

  Especially after September 11th.

  She used to squeeze my hand so hard

  during takeoffs and landings

  that she’d cut off my circulation.

  She’d screw her eyes closed

  and whisper this silly prayer someone taught her once.

  Something about manifold divine blessings

  being unto the plane or the universe

  or some hippie-dippy thing like that.

  And if there was even

  a teensy bit of turbulence—forget it.

  She’d start apologizing to me

  for every mean thing she’d ever said

  or done or even thought about doing.

  This morning,

  when the plane was lurching down the runway

  and I didn’t have Mom’s hand to hold,

  my heart flung itself up into my throat.

  And for a minute there,

  I couldn’t even breathe.

  I didn’t know how much

  I depended on

  being depended on

  by her.

  Peach Fuzz

  When the flight attendant

  leans in to ask me

  if I’d like something to drink,

  and the sun splashes across her face,

  I notice

  all these tiny little

  blond hairs on her cheeks,

  and tears rush into my eyes.

  My mother had them, too.

  I used to tease her about them.

  Called it her peach fuzz.

  It used to make her laugh.

  If I could reach out

  and stroke those little hairs

  on the flight attendant’s face,

  without totally freaking her out,

  I’d close my eyes

  and I’d do it right now.

  I’d touch my mother’s cheek

  one more time.

  Maybe You’re Wondering About It

  But that’s just tough.

  Because I’m not even going to go in

  to how she died.

  Let’s just say she knew that she was sick,

  that she felt it burrowing,

  felt it gnawing at her insides.

  But the doctors wouldn’t listen.

  And when they finally found it,

  there was nothing they could do.

  Nothing she could do.

  Nothing I could do.


  Nothing.

  Let’s just say

  she wasted away into a toothpick,

  and leave it at that, okay?

  That after a while

  she was just a shadow

  lying there on her bed.

  Oh.

  And I guess we can say

  that I was holding her hand

  when it finally happened.

  I Love to Read

  But my life better not turn out

  to be like one of those hideous books

  where the mother dies

  and so the girl has to

  go live with her absentee father

  and he turns out to be

  an alcoholic heroin addict

  who brutally beats her

  and sexually molests her

  thereby causing her to become

  a bulimic ax murderer.

  I love to read,

  but I can’t stand books like that.

  And I flat out refuse

  to have one of those lives

  that I wouldn’t even want

  to read about.

  And Speaking of Fathers

  As soon as I was old enough

  to notice that I didn’t have one,

  I started asking questions.

  Like, “Where’s my daddy?”

  And, “How come Lizzie has a daddy,

  but I don’t?”

  Mom’s face would sort of slam shut

  and all she’d say was,

  “He divorced me before you were born.”

  If it wasn’t for my aunt Duffy

  I’d never have even found out

  who my father was.

  My Earliest Memory

  I’ll probably be lying on a ratty old couch

  telling some nosy shrink about this in a few years:

  I was just about to turn four.

  My aunt Duffy told me she was going to give me

  a very special present for my birthday.

  She said she was going to take me to see my daddy.

  But only if I promised not to tell my mommy.

  I remember crossing my heart and hoping to die,

  and hurrying to put on my brand new red sparkle shoes.

  Then she popped me into her Volkswagen

  and whisked me off to a movie theater.

  I figured my dad was going to meet us there.

  I remember searching every face in the lobby,

  trying to pick him out of the crowd,

  while my heart tap-danced against my ribs.

  I could hardly wait to show my daddy (my daddy!)

  those new shoes.

  I remember the lights going down, the film coming on,

  and there still being no sign of him.

  “But where is he?” I demanded to know,

  on the verge of a major meltdown.

  Aunt Duffy put her arm around me,

  then pointed to this enormous face up on the movie screen

  and said, “There he is, Ruby.

  That’s your daddy.”

  My Daddy?!

  “But he’s too … big!” I squeaked.

  And it suddenly struck me

  that I wasn’t going to be able to show him

  those new shoes of mine after all.

  I burst into tears,

  leapt out of my seat and ran up the aisle

  with Aunt Duffy right on my heels.

  And then we were both in the lobby

  and she was crying too

  and hugging me so tight my lungs were collapsing

  and saying how terribly sorry she was

  and going on and on about not being a mom herself

  and about being clueless

  about how to do things like this the right way.

  And I remember feeling

  sort of guilty for making her cry.

  But then this sudden tsunami of fury crashed over me

  and I started shouting at her to just stop crying,

  just stop talking,

  just stop everything—

  and bring me back inside the theater

  to take another look at my amazing,

  colossal,

  gigantic

  DADDY.

  After That It Got to Be a Tradition

  Every December, around my birthday,

  Aunt Duny would come to pick me up

  and tell my mom that she was

  taking me for a girls’ day out.

  Only what she really did

  was take me to see

  my illustrious father, Whip Logan,

  in his latest smash hit.

  Can you believe that name?

  Whip.

  It sounds so … so made up.

  How did he ever come up with something that lame?

  Whip Logan is—Mr. Millions.

  Whip Logan is—The Seeker.

  Whip Logan is—Sergeant Bennett.

  Whip Logan is—Black and Blue.

  I went to see him faithfully.

  Every single year.

  But he never came to see me.

  Not even once.

  That’s because Whip Logan is—an asshole.

  The Year I Turned Nine

  It got sort of dicey.

  That was when Whip Logan was—The Final Father,

  a man so evil that he murdered his own children.

  Which of course didn’t do a whole heck of a lot

  for my ability to fall asleep at night.

  And it didn’t help matters any

  that I couldn’t even tell my mom

  what was keeping me awake,

  since Aunt Duffy had drilled it into me

  year after year

  that if I ever told my mom

  about our little trips to the Cineplex,

  my mother would murder her.

  I knew The Final Father was only a movie.

  But Whip was just too good

  at being bad.

  Aunt Duffy assured me that my actual father

  hadn’t actually killed

  any actual kids.

  She said my father

  would never do anything

  to hurt me.

  Yeah. Right.

  Turbulence

  Ladies and gentlemen,

  the captain has turned on

  the seat belt sign.

  Please return to your seats

  and fish your barf bags out

  of the seat pockets in front of you

  while we prepare

  to slam through some

  real nasty storm clouds …

  I think I left my stomach about five miles back.

  I wonder if this is what it feels like

  to be in an earthquake …

  What if we get struck by lightning?

  What if a huge fist of pissed-off wind

  punches one of these pitiful wings right off?

  Well, what if?

  There’s a part of me

  that wouldn’t even mind.

  It’d serve my fabulously talented,

  deeply neglectful,

  Oscar-winning father right.

  Window Seat Blues

  I have to pee.

  So bad.

  But the man sitting next to me

  looks like a sumo wrestler on steroids.

  And just my luck:

  he’s sound asleep.

  Squeezing past him

  is definitely not an option.

  Maybe if I called the flight attendant

  she could have him forklifted.

  Only eleven hundred miles

  to go.

  At least that weirdo behind me

  has finally run out of boogers.

  In-flight Viewing

  Oh. My. God.

  I can’t believe it.

  They’re showing that

  horrible airplane crash movie!

  Just kidding.

  Actually,

  it’s one of those stupid

/>   international spy films.

  The kind that has a plot so seriously twisted

  that you get a migraine just trying

  to keep track of who the good guys are

  and who the bad guys are.

  At least this one isn’t starring Whip Logan

  or I might have had to shove open

  the emergency exit and take my chances

  with my seat cushion flotation device.

  Airplane Lunch

  They

  call

  this

  chicken?

  Dear Lizzie,

  Sorry about writing you this letter On the back, of a barf bag, but I’m sitting here on the plane to California and it’s the only paper I’ve got. Besides, it captures my mood perfectly. It’s so awful to think that with every word I write, I’m getting farther and farther away from you. And from Aunt Duffy. AND from Ray. How am I going to live without him? I’m so miserable I could puke. But I better not, or I won’t be able to send you this letter.

  Don’t forget about me. And don’t let Ray forget about me either, okay? Keep reminding him how wonderful I am. And tell him to watch out for that disgusting skank Amber. I just know she’s gonna try to move in on him now that I’m gone.

  Zillions of losses from your pitiful friend in the sky,

  Ruby

  Ray

  He wasn’t the first boy I ever kissed.

  But he was the first boy I ever liked kissing.

  All the other ones,

  not that there were exactly hundreds,

  just seemed to want to ram their tongues

  down my throat to distract me from noticing

  what their hands were trying to do.

  But it was different with Ray.

  Right from the start.

  When he kissed me

  it seemed as though he was doing it

  because he actually liked me.

  Not just because he was horny.

  It was as if he was trying to show me

  how he felt about me with those kisses of his.

  I sure miss that guy.

  I miss the way he always tosses

  his black curls off his forehead.

  I miss the way he presses his thumb

  into my palm when he holds my hand.

  I miss the way his chocolate eyes melt right into mine

  whenever he smiles at me.

  There’s a hole in my heart bigger than Texas.

  Over which, coincidentally,

  we happen to be flying at this very moment.

  Three Wishes

  I wish Ray was on this plane with me.

  I wish we were on our way to Tahiti.

  I wish we were the only two passengers