One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

by Sonya Sones

  And swings open the door

  of an incredible 1957 Ford Thunderbird

  painted look-at-me green.

  The license plate reads: RUBYZDAD.

  Grand Entrance

  So much for trying to keep

  my celebrity-daughter status a secret.

  You should have seen the heads swivel

  when we walked in here together.

  It was like something out of The Exorcist.

  And I bet you’d barf if you could see

  how these women in the administration office

  are falling all over themselves right now,

  fluttering around Whip like a flock of butterflies on X.

  They’re telling him how grateful they are

  for his generous donation

  and how delighted they are that he’s volunteered

  to be the auctioneer at their second annual Noisy Auction

  and how they’re sure he’ll draw

  an even bigger crowd than Hanks did last year.

  They’re offering him mocha lattes

  and Krispy Kreme doughnuts

  and some kind of fruit that I’ve never even seen before.

  And I’m sitting here right next to him,

  crossing my eyes, sticking out my tongue,

  and wiggling my ears.

  But no one seems to be noticing me.

  (Okay. So I’m not really doing any of that.

  But they wouldn’t be noticing.

  Even if I was.)

  Whip Finally Makes Like a Tree

  He says he’s got to run over to Sony

  to do some looping.

  Whatever that means.

  Then he gives my shoulder

  this nervous little squeeze,

  tells me to have fun,

  and exits stage left.

  At which point, the dean,

  one Ms. Moriality,

  says she’s going to take me

  on the VIP tour.

  Wouldn’t

  the-daughter-of-the-VIP tour

  be a tad more accurate?

  I Don’t Know Why They Call It Lakewood

  There’s no lake.

  And there’s no woods.

  Just a bunch of Lakeweirds.

  Seems like half the girls

  are wearing lingerie

  instead of dresses.

  And the rest of them are wearing jeans

  with such major holes in them

  that you can see their thongs.

  (Only the skanky girls

  dressed like that at my old school.

  But here they all do.)

  And most of the boys

  look like they’re trying to do

  Brad Pitt impressions.

  These kids have perfect hair.

  Perfect teeth. Perfect bodies.

  Perfect skin …

  I can feel a huge zit

  blooming on the tip of my nose.

  It’s flashing on and off like a neon sign.

  Electives

  I can’t believe it.

  I just had to choose

  between signing up for

  Dream Interpretation Through the Ages,

  Introduction to Transcendental Meditation,

  or The Films of Steven Spielberg.

  (But only because The Rhythms of Rap,

  The History and Uses of Aromatherapy,

  and Organic Farming 101 were already full.)

  I chose Dream Interpretation.

  So that when I wake up

  from this really bad one,

  at least I’ll be able to interpret it.

  Colette

  She’s deeply,

  I mean severely tanned.

  Her dress is so short

  it’s a shirt.

  She’s got this tattoo of a snake

  slithering around her ankle.

  And so many parts of her body are pierced

  that she jingles when she walks.

  I’ve never met

  anyone like her.

  I’ve never even seen anyone like her.

  Except on MTV.

  Dean Moriarity just asked her

  to walk me to my first class,

  since both of us

  are taking Dream Interpretation.

  What do you say to a person

  with magenta eyes?

  I sure hope she’s wearing contacts.

  Colette Speaks First

  “That is so last week

  it’s not even funny,”

  she says under her Altoid breath.

  I cringe,

  sure that she’s referring to

  my new Kate Spade purse.

  But then I realize

  she’s talking about the dress

  on the girl who just wiggled by.

  It looks like

  a handful of scarves being held together

  by a dozen safety pins.

  “So yesterday,” I say.

  Colette laughs.

  “So one minute ago,” she says.

  Maybe

  this will be easier

  than I thought.

  “You’re Whip Logon’s Kid, Right?”

  Shit.

  I’m afraid so,” I say.

  “But would you mind keeping that quiet?”

  “Sure, Wild Child,” she says with a smirk.

  “But everyone who missed you on AOL

  saw you drive up with him

  in that prehistoric Thunderbird.”

  Damn.

  “But I can relate,” she says.

  “My mom’s famous.

  And I hate it when people find out who she is.

  Because after that

  I’m never really sure

  if it’s me they like

  or just the fact that she’s my mother.”

  “Wow,” I say,

  instantly bonding with this stranger

  in a deep and permanent way.

  “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  And I find myself telling her

  about how strange it was after Mom died,

  when everyone found out that Whip was my father.

  How all these kids

  suddenly started wanting to hang with me

  who had never even acknowledged

  my existence on the planet before.

  Colette just laughs.

  “Well, that won’t be a problem at Lakewood.

  Half the kids who go here

  have famous parents.”

  This is so sick.

  But the truth is I’m dying to know

  exactly who those famous parents are.

  Especially Colette’s mom.

  My Curiosity Is Killing Me

  But before I can work up the nerve to ask her,

  Colette says, “You know something?

  I think your father and my mother

  played a married couple in a movie once.”

  “Then, hey,” I say.

  “That means we’re practically sisters”.

  “Come on, Sis,” she grins.

  “We’ve got a few minutes before class starts.

  I’ll show you around”.

  And as we head off,

  I casually ask, “What movie was it?”

  “McKeever’s Will,” she says.

  Oh. My. God.

  Marissa Shawn’s daughter just called me Sis!

  (Will you listen to me gushing?

  I am such a hypocrite.)

  Colette’s Tour

  Well, let’s just say

  it’s a wee bit more extensive

  than the tour that the dean took me on.

  First,

  she shows me the spot behind the gym

  where everyone goes

  to sneak cigarettes between classes.

  (I happen to think smoking’s disgusting,

  but decide it would be unwise

  to divulge this information to my tour guide.)

 
; Next,

  she points out a tangled mess of weeds,

  maybe twenty feet wide by forty feet long,

  and informs me that it’s

  the organic vegetable garden.

  She says there’s a patch down at the far end

  where a guy named Bing is growing some pot

  that’s so amazing it’s not even funny.

  He supposedly has the farming teacher

  convinced it’s a rare species of mint.

  But the word on the street is that it’s more like

  a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of thing,

  because Bing lets the guy “help with the harvest,”

  if I know what she means.

  Then,

  before I even have a chance to stop reeling from shock,

  she points out the spot

  where the coke dealer hangs at lunch

  as thougheveryschool has one.

  After that,

  she walks me past the two best places

  for making out on campus,

  introducing me, along the way,

  to an enterprising senior named Lolita

  (Lolita?)

  who sells term papers.

  And finally,

  she points to a door

  that’s been painted to look like a starry sky,

  behind which our Dream Interpretation class

  apparently meets.

  Whoa.

  Whoa.

  If I was a coked-out nympho

  stoner cheat who smoked a pack a day,

  I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.

  Dream Interpretation

  Maybe

  this is the norm in Loser Angeles.

  Maybe this is just how things are.

  Maybe all of the kids in all of the classes

  in all of the schools around here

  have to sit on cushions on the floor

  holding hands in a big circle

  with their eyes closed

  while their teacher burns incense

  and strawberry candles

  and makes them do deep breathing exercises

  and leads them through

  these excruciatingly lame things

  called visualizations.

  Maybe this is just

  how things are in Califartia.

  Maybe I’ll just have to try

  to get used to

  all this touchy-feely stuff.

  Maybe my dream class

  is not exactly going to be

  my dream class.

  Then Again, Maybe It Is

  Because I have to admit that after Feather

  (she actually asked us to call her that!)

  finishes doing her stupid visualization thing,

  it almost starts getting sort of interesting.

  Maybe even a tiny bit fascinating.

  She tells us about this psychologist named Fritz Peris

  who invented this bizarre technique

  for interpreting dreams,

  way back in the sixties,

  called Gestalt Therapy.

  Then she shows us this video

  of Fritz doing this therapy on one of his patients.

  In the film, the patient is telling Fritz

  about a dream that he had the night before,

  a dream about being at a train station.

  And the patient says that in this dream

  he’s watching all these people climbing up a big staircase.

  And then Fritz interrupts him

  and tells him that he should be the stairs,

  that he should talk as if he is the stairs.

  So the guy looks at Fritz like he thinks

  the idea of being the stairs is way idiotic,

  but he starts talking anyway.

  And he says, “I am the stairs.

  People walk on me.”

  And Fritz says, “Go on.”

  And so the guy says, “People walk all over me.

  People walk all over me to get to the top.”

  And then he starts bawling like a little kid

  and saying that he hadn’t realized until this very minute

  that he’s been letting people walk all over him

  his whole entire life,

  that he’s been letting them use him

  and abuse him and it’s been making him

  angry and resentful and sad.

  And I’m watching this film

  and I’m really getting into it

  because it is sort of amazing to see this guy

  have this major epiphany about himself

  just from one measly dream.

  And, I don’t know, I guess it feels good

  to wrap my mind around some new ideas for a change.

  Good to take a break from missing my mom.

  And Aunt Duffy. And Lizzie. And Ray.

  It even feels good to take a break

  from hating Whip.

  Multiple Choice Pop Quiz

  I will:

  get used to being expected

  to call all my teachers

  by their first name

  (such as Feather, Troy, Violet,

  and, my personal favorite, Proton)

  learn not to burst out laughing

  when my math teacher suggests

  that I “take a moment to reflect”

  on how solving the math problem

  made me feel

  adjust to the sound of a gong

  ringing at the beginning

  and the end of each period

  (naturally, they don’t have bells here,

  that would be too normal)

  grow accustomed to the fact

  that the cafeteria has waiters,

  which is apparently what you have to do

  if you get detention here,

  instead of staying after school

  none of the above

  After School - Take One

  I step outside—and there’s Ray!

  Grinning behind the wheel

  of his battered blue 1989 Mustang.

  He waves.

  I melt.

  He leaps out of the car

  and we run toward each other.

  Then he hugs me off my feet.

  And I die from joy,

  right there in his arms.

  After School - Take Two

  I step outside—and there’s Whip.

  Grinning behind the wheel

  of a pale yellow 1929 Packard convertible.

  He waves.

  I freeze.

  He leaps out of the car

  and runs toward me.

  Then he hugs me,

  right in front of everyone.

  And I shrivel up and die.

  (You get to guess which one actually happened.)

  On the Drive Home

  Whip plays the concerned parent.

  “I thought about you today,” he says.

  Yeah?

  Well, I tried not to think about you.

  “I kept wondering

  how you were doing,” he says.

  I bet. Just like you’ve been wondering

  every minute for the last fifteen years, right?

  “How was your first day at Lakewood?”

  “It was fine.”

  “How are your teachers?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are the kids nice?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “How’s the cafeteria food?”

  “Fine.”

  “I just have one more question then,” he says.

  “Are things fine at Lakewood?”

  He cracks up at his own joke

  and pretends not to notice that I don’t.

  “I wonder why they call it Lakewood,” he says.

  “There’s no lake and there’s no woods.”

  Jesus H. Christ.

  If he does that one more time

  I’m going to have to kill him.

  Aunt Duff
y Calls

  And all she has to say is,

  “Hey, Rube. How are you doing?”

  And my eyes threaten

  to turn into two gushing faucets.

  But it’s an idle threat.

  Because, of course, they don’t.

  They never do anymore.

  My cheeks just do their hideous splotchy thing.

  “I’ve been missing you,” she says.

  Aunt Duffy’s words sound far away,

  and so thin, as though she’s forcing them out through

  a throat that’s even tighter than mine is right now.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m this geyser

  with a cork shoved in its mouth.

  Like I’m this overfilled water balloon

  that’s getting ready to blow …

  “It’s great to hear your voice,” I say,

  barely managing to swallow back the quiver in my own.

  But it isn’t great.

  It’s awful.

  Because Aunt Duffy’s voice

  is an exact replica of my mother’s.

  And hearing it

  splits apart every atom in my body.

  What I Say (and Don’t Say) to Aunt Duffy to Keep Her from Worrying

  Turns out Whip isn’t as bad as I thought he’d be.

  He’s a hundred times worse.

  He’s got a mega-cool collection

  of classic cars in mint condition.

  The sole purpose of which

  is to draw even more attention to himself.

  He took me on an amazing shopping spree

  and bought me everything in sight.

  But he couldn’t buy my love.

  ’Cause my heart’s not for sale.

  God. My life’s starting to sound like a bad country song.

  (Is there such a thing as a good country song?)

  Marissa Shawn’s daughter and me are like this.

  Who am I kidding?

  She was probably only so nice to me

  because she felt sorry for me and my enormous zit.

  My bathroom is to die for.

  And if you don’t come out here

  and rescue me right now,

  I’m going to.

  What’s that you say?

  You’re leaving on a six-month-long

  archaeological dig with your new boyfriend?

  And you won’t be reachable

  by phone or by e-mail or even by postcard

  the whole entire time?

  I’m so happy for you!

  That’s wonderful!

  You deserter.

  You traitor.

  You scum of the universe.

  You call yourself an aunt?

  I Log on to AOL

  And when I see FrankLloydWrong

  in my “new mail” box,

  my heart starts moshing against my ribs.

  That’s Ray’s screen name!

  He says that the first day of school sucked.