Tears fill his eyes, and Flatso hands him a long strand of toilet paper. Zitsy’s crying so much I’m afraid we might need a boat to get out of this girls’ room.
“Thank you.” Zitsy blows his nose. “And Bloom is mean to everyone, but it’s Kooks who gets sent to a mental hospital. A mental hospital! Are you kidding me?” He looks at Eggy. “And then I think about those guys who called you names—”
“Don’t,” Eggy says, putting up her arms.
“They treated you like you were a piece of garbage! But they’re the garbage!” And Zitsy dissolves into tears.
Hana has her arms wrapped around her shins and her face pressed against her knees. Her back shakes a bit, and I rub my hand over her soft sweater.
“I just don’t know how much more I can stand!” Zitsy wails, and bursts into tears all over again.
“It’s good that you can share your feelings,” Brainzilla tells him.
“Yeah, Zitsy,” Flatso agrees. “I guess that’s why they always say ‘you’re such a girl.’ ”
“That’s why we love you,” I add, but it’s too late—he’s already offended.
“I’m a total guy,” Zitsy insists. “I’m gonna be a plumber, for god’s sake.”
“That’s the other reason we love you,” I tell him. “Everybody needs a good plumber.”
Chapter 40
TERROR, INC.
I barely register being in math class. I have no idea what Mrs. Rosewater is saying. Usually, being a Terror Teacher, she loves to call on people who seem sleepy or spaced out. But I spend the entire class with my eyes glazed, just staring out the window, and she doesn’t call on me once, or even tell me to pay attention.
I watch a squirrel leap from branch to branch, shaking snow to the white ground with every step. Some of it blows away in the wind, like a ghost.
The bell rings, and I snap back into this world. I gather up my books and think I’m about to get out alive when Mrs. Rosewater says, “Margaret, would you please stay a moment?”
This is it, I think as I walk up to her desk. She’s going to scream at me for not paying attention, take points off my grade, report me to Mr. Tool—
“I was so sorry to hear about Roberta’s passing,” Mrs. Rosewater says. She reaches for my hand. “She was my student, you know.”
And I’m thinking, Who’s Roberta? Who’s Roberta? And then it hits me—Mrs. Rosewater is talking about Mrs. Morris, and it catches me so off guard that tears spring to my eyes.
“She was always a very conscientious student—and very kind. Is someone taking care of Morris?”
“The dog?” I ask, and Mrs. Rosewater nods. Wow. Mrs. Morris and Mrs. Rosewater kept in touch? I’m so surprised that I actually answer her question. “I am. Well, and Marjorie, too. She and I are staying at the house together.”
“Ah! That’s good.” Mrs. Rosewater nods and squeezes my fingers. “Very good.”
“Well, DSS says I need someone to look after me,” I explain.
“Is that what’s going on?” Mrs. Rosewater laughs. “I wonder who will end up looking after whom.” She sighs. “Roberta would be so happy to know Marjorie is back at the house.”
“Were you good friends?” I ask.
“We would have coffee once in a while. I don’t know if she told you, but Roberta used to babysit my children back when I was her teacher.” She takes out a wallet and pulls a worn photo from it.
I’m fall-on-the-floor surprised. It’s her, a younger Mrs. Morris, and three kids. I never thought about Mrs. Rosewater being someone’s mother… or someone’s friend.
“She was so happy when you came to live with her,” Mrs. Rosewater tells me. “She worried about you, though.”
“I was lucky to have her,” I say. Then, seeing the concern on my teacher’s face, I add, “I’m really, honestly making progress. I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know that, Margaret.” Mrs. Rosewater is still holding my hand. Her fingers are warm. She doesn’t look away from me.
I have no idea what makes me do this, but I pull my diary out of my backpack. “Do you want to see something funny?” I ask her. “You have to promise not to tell Ms. Kellerman.”
Mrs. Rosewater rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t even tell that woman if her own pants were on fire. I’m certainly not going to go blabbing about you.”
Chapter 41
DEAR OLD MOM
The good thing about having something horrible happen is that you realize that people actually care about you. The bad thing is that having so much care and concern can feel a little overwhelming.
And all the concern at school is making me feel a little bit nutso at home. Having Marjorie around is only adding to the nuttiness factor.
For one thing, she keeps vampire hours: awake from twilight to sunrise, asleep most of the day. For another thing, she’s obsessed with the Home Shopping Network. She never buys anything—she just sits on the couch, hating on everything they bring out.
And to top things off, Morris the Dog makes her sneeze.
“I’m allergic to dander,” she explains.
So I walk Morris, and give him baths, and vacuum the house to get rid of dander. Marjorie takes care of the cooking. Neither one of us is very good at taking out the garbage. We’re managing, but I sometimes feel as if I’m hanging on by my fingernails.
Everyone’s so worried about my progress that I start to worry that I’m not making any. Am I? I did cry in Ms. Kellerman’s office, which can’t be good. And I’ve felt really shaky ever since the fight.…
Am I backsliding? Frontsliding? I never really thought I was crazy to begin with. What if I was? How would I know?
This is the kind of thinking that can turn you crazy, if you aren’t already.
If I were Brainzilla or Eggy, I could ask my mom if she ever felt this way and how she got through it. But I’m not them. I have no idea if my mom ever felt crazy. I only know the most basic stuff about her life.
Chapter 42
SLEEPOVER
Entenmann’s?” Brainzilla asks when I open the door. She’s holding out a box of chocolate-covered doughnuts.
“I’ve got milk!” Flatso says, holding up a gallon. “Plus three Will Ferrell movies!”
“Oh, I—”
“We thought we’d have a sleepover,” Brainzilla says as she pushes open the door. “If you don’t mind.” She and Flatso don’t wait for me to agree, or anything. They just bust into the living room, where Marjorie is drinking coffee in her bathrobe and cursing out an electric knife on TV.
“Listen, guys, I’m not sure that Marjorie—”
“Did someone say Entenmann’s?” Marjorie asks.
My friends charm Marjorie, who gets dressed and makes us a pesto-and-gorgonzola pizza (which is delicious, by the way).
Later, when Marjorie heads out to go grocery shopping at midnight (her favorite time), I get to have some quality time with my besties. We settle in and flip through magazines, while Flatso paints our toenails. My room is still cold, but it feels cozy with my friends and Morris to cheer me up.
“I’m so glad you two came over tonight.”
“Yeah—we kind of thought you needed a hug,” Flatso says.
Brainzilla nods.
I swear—my friends are the best. I couldn’t even make up anyone as good as them.
“I don’t know how you guys even put up with me,” I say. I seriously mean this. Who wants to be friends with someone who’s sad all the time?
“We love you,” Flatso says. “And the thing is, you don’t even understand how amazing you are.”
“W. H. Auden was talking about you when he said poetry is ‘the formation of private spheres out of a public chaos,’ ” Brainzilla replies.
“Thanks,” I whisper. I’m not really sure what she means, but I think she’s talking about my writing. Anyway, I know she means it as a compliment, and I love her for just being here. And for being her.
I know I’ve had a lot of bad luck lately. But I’ve h
ad good luck, too.
Just look at how lucky I am right now.
Chapter 43
DRESSED FOR STRESS
Three hours.
That’s how long it took Brainzilla to decide what to wear to her informational interview with the Yale alum. I didn’t realize that it was possible for one person to own so many accessories.
Once we narrow down the choices, Brainzilla comes out looking gorgeous and impressive, as always. She’s wearing a soft pink sweater and a gray knit skirt. Black tights and high-heeled booties make her legs look five miles long, and she has on a wrist full of funky African bangles made by a women’s cooperative that she did a fund-raiser for last year. (Perfect conversation starter.) Even though this isn’t a super-official interview, Brainzilla always goes for the knockout punch. Still, she’s so nervous that she begs me to come with her to the café.
“Won’t that look weird?” I ask.
“I’m not asking you to sit in my lap,” Brainzilla says. “Just walk with me, so I don’t hyperventilate and die on the way there. Then you can order a Frappuccino and read, or whatever, while I talk to this woman.”
She had me at “Frappuccino.”
But before we reach the front door, Brainzilla’s mom calls, “Katie!” She dashes in, her hair escaping in wisps from her ponytail. In her brown Cape Cod sweatshirt and jeans, she looks younger than Brainzilla. “How long will you be gone?”
“Just an hour, Mom,” Brainzilla promises.
“I really need your help with your brothers,” Mrs. Sloane says.
“Just an hour.” Brainzilla is begging, and I wonder if her mother even knows where she’s going. Her parents didn’t go to college. The whole idea is vague to them—except for the cost, which is real, and terrifying.
But Mrs. Sloane just nods, and Brainzilla and I walk out the door. Even though I’m supposed to be keeping her calm, we’re silent the three blocks to the café. I let Brainzilla walk in first, then slink into the warm, fragrant air like an innocent bystander. I order my drink and settle in at a table beside a steamed-up window.
Brainzilla’s feet are tap-tap-tapping beneath her table, so I know she’s nervous. But even from across the café, I can tell that she and the Yale lady are getting along well. Zilla gestures wildly, and Yale Lady laughs. Perfect.
I space out and look around the café. I didn’t bring a book—or even my notebook—so I decide to play my favorite form of solitaire. It’s a game I made up in which I imagine the people around me as literary characters.
This is such a fun game that I completely lose track of time, and before I know it, Brainzilla has slipped into the seat across from mine. She’s beaming so hugely that I don’t even need to ask how it went. But I’m polite.
“How was it?”
“Fabulous!” Brainzilla peeks over her shoulder, but the woman has disappeared into the parking lot. “We really got along.”
“You can talk to anyone.”
“I even told her to friend me, so we can stay in touch on Facebook,” Brainzilla gushes. “I wanted her to see the photos from debate team, and a few from the hospital.” Brainzilla has a volunteer gig reading stories to kids with cancer. Because she has so much spare time.
She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “I can just feel it, Kooks! This is the beginning of the beginning!” Her toes are still tapping a crazy dance beneath the table, as if a thousand volts of electricity are shooting through her. I know she’s happy, but I can tell by her wide eyes that she’s stressed out.
“That’s great!” I really want to tell her that I’m proud of her, but that’s kind of silly. I mean, even with perfect grades and excellent test scores, and a million extracurriculars, she still might not get into Yale. I know she’s counting on it. I know she thinks her whole life will change if she goes to an Ivy League school.
I just hope it works out the way she hopes it will.
I think we’re all kind of counting on it.
Chapter 44
SMOKIN’
Some people have video games, some have bad reality television, and I have homeroom with Laurence.
There’s nothing wrong with escaping from reality sometimes. It’s not like I’m a heroin addict.
Well, I might be a heroine addict, or in Laurence’s case, a hero addict, but that’s not as dangerous. So I don’t hesitate to imagine up a lovely date with Laurence. Dating him is way easier than dating in real life. Real life is complicated.
Laurence’s only flaw is that he doesn’t exist.
“Your only flaw is that you do exist,” Laurence tells me. Sigh—high school boys never come up with such witty repartee!
I can’t tell you how much I love thinking about Laurence and writing down our story. With Laurence, I can have our first kiss take place under a rainbow or in a cave hidden behind a waterfall or up in a hot-air balloon. Whatever I want—I’m in charge. I’m not in charge of much these days, but I am in charge of that.
Laurence and I go for a stroll in the summer countryside. It’s warm and smells like hay. Dust motes float on golden sunshine as he tells me that he loves me. He says that he wants us to be together forever, in a comfortable house with a small garden in the back.
Everything is beautiful and wonderful for fifteen minutes. Then the bell rings, and I have to plunge back into the daily grind.
Reality is way overrated.
Chapter 45
HOW LOW CAN WE GO?
Oh, no,” Brainzilla breathes an hour later. Her face is pale, and her feet are doing their crazy stress dance beneath her desk.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
“I didn’t study,” she whispers. “I’m a little behind in the reading.” We’re in English class, and Ms. Olsson is handing out pop quizzes.
Ms. Olsson just looooooooves pop quizzes.
“How far behind?”
Brainzilla’s eyes flash at me. “I had to prep for my interview, Kooks.” Her voice is brittle, like a word might break off and land on her foot.
“It’s okay,” I say to Brainzilla. “It’s just one test.”
“You don’t understand,” she hisses, shaking her head at me. “You don’t know what it takes to get into a school like Yale.” Brainzilla mashes her lips together, and her breathing comes fast and shallow from her nose.
“You’ll do fine,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “At least you haven’t fallen asleep, like Tebow. Wake up!” I lean forward to whisper in his ear. Tebow’s head is bowed, his eyes closed.
“Shh!” He opens one eye and glares at me with it, then snaps it closed again. His lips start to move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
“Stop that!” I hiss. “What are you doing? Silas Marner is coming to get you!” Ugh. Sorry to be a mini Hater, but I despise Silas Marner. If you’re a fan, please contact me via my Twitter handle @silassux and explain why this is great literature. Warning: I may use your answer on a pop quiz.
Tebow’s lips stop moving, and he opens his eyes just as Sheila McGuinness hands back the pile of quizzes. “As long as there are tests, there will be prayer in public schools,” he explains.
“Pray for me, too,” Brainzilla says. She doesn’t sound like she’s kidding.
“Done,” Tebow says, snapping his eyes shut and muttering to himself.
“Mr. Jemowicz!” Ms. Olsson shrieks. It takes me a minute to remember that Jemowicz is Tebow’s real last name. “This will be your first and last warning! I expect SILENCE!”
There’s something funny about hearing the word silence screamed at top volume, but I don’t dare laugh, because Ms. Olsson’s got her Crazy Teacher face on. I swear, that woman needs a ten-day observation period at St. Auggie’s way more than I ever did.
Here is the difference between Mrs. Rosewater and Ms. Olsson, which I didn’t even realize until Mrs. R. revealed that she’s an actual human being:
Mrs. Rosewater is strict.
Ms. Olsson is mean. She loves giving
pop quizzes because she likes to see us squirm—and fail.
You know what they say: Misery loves company. I guess Ms. Olsson is as miserable as they come, because she loves to make us suffer.
Chapter 46
MY BRILLIANT IDEA
I blew it,” Brainzilla says when we reach gym class. “I totally blew that test.” She inhales slowly, then nearly gags. The gym smells like an old sneaker dipped in swamp juice, so it’s not exactly ideal for deep, relaxing breaths.
“It was just a quiz,” I point out. “She gives us, like, two a week—so it’s only worth about one-fiftieth of our grade.”
“Still—a zero could bring my grade down to a B.” My best friend tucks her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture that I know well. “And a B isn’t getting me a scholarship to Yale. And now we have dodgeball.” She shudders and refrains from taking in another relaxing meditation inhale.
Dodgeball is the moment when the Haters get to slam rubber balls at us with impunity. It’s Freakshow torture.
“Sloane! Clarke!” Mrs. McGrath—the gym teacher—points to the far wall. “Line up!”
“Um, Mrs. McGrath—could Brainzilla and I just run laps?” I ask.
“This is a dodgeball unit,” Mrs. McGrath snarls. “Line up.”
“But—” I glance over at Brainzilla, who doesn’t look like she can handle a battle. “Look—running is better exercise than dodgeball,” I protest.
“This is a dodgeball unit,” Mrs. McGrath repeats.
Brainzilla just shakes her head and starts for the wall. “Forget trying to reason with her,” she mutters.
I consider telling Mrs. McGrath that dodgeball is against my religion.
But I know she’ll probably just send me to see Mr. Tool—or worse, Ms. Kellerman. In the end, it just seems easier to get whacked by a bunch of balls.
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