Finally, Tebow steps forward and plants a delicate kiss on Brainzilla’s forehead. His lips linger a moment, and I see him breathe in once, twice. I can tell he’s just as relieved as I am.
“Who needs a doughnut?” Flatso asks, opening a huge box.
Zitsy reaches for three, and suddenly the hospital room is like a party. Eggy has brought along her trumpet, and she plays a very bouncy version of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
Brainzilla doesn’t have a doughnut, but she smiles and even manages to laugh when Zitsy gets a pink sprinkle stuck on the end of his nose. It’s kind of amazing how there can still be room in your heart to laugh, even when something really scary and sad has happened.
“I’d like to make an announcement,” Zitsy says, reaching into his pocket. “I have something I’d like to give you.” He holds out a fist and lets it hover there—right over Brainzilla’s lap for a dramatic moment. Then he uncurls his fingers, revealing a beautiful gold filigree ring. At the center is a large emerald-cut ruby.
Brainzilla creates a new vowel between O and U. She’s so shocked that she doesn’t even reach for it.
Eggy purses her lips. “Are you proposing to Brainzilla, Zitsy?”
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“I found it in a clogged pipe,” he admits. “The lady who owned the house said it wasn’t hers, so I reported it to the police, but they just told me to keep it. Which is fair, I think, because I’m the one who dug it out of the sewage.”
Brainzilla blinks a little bit, like she isn’t sure whether to take it. But—after a minute—she takes the ring and puts it on. She never could resist anything sparkly.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.
“When you wear it, you should remember how much we all care about you,” Zitsy says.
“I’ll remember all the crap I have to put up with,” Brainzilla shoots back.
Which reminds me of a song.
“When the night has come,” I sing, “and the land is dark…” I feel everyone staring at me, and my voice trails off.
Note to self: Bursting into song does not go unnoticed.
I don’t know what made me start spewing that song. “Stand by Me” was one of Mrs. Morris’s favorites. It just popped into my head while I was standing here, feeling the love. Now I just feel my ears burning with embarrassment.
“Go on, Kooks,” Tebow says gently. Then he starts the next line, “And the moon…” He has a nice voice—a strong tenor. I hesitate a moment, looking at my friends.
And then Eggy puts her trumpet to her lips and plays along. Soon, the room is filled with our voices as we all join in.
We only get to sing for a few minutes before a nurse comes and tells us to shut up. But still, those moments are beautiful.
Beautiful.
I can’t explain why, but this is exactly what we all needed—just to be together.
We really are going to be okay.
All of us.
Chapter 58
SCHOOL DAZE
The next morning, I’m still feeling trashed. I skipped school to stay at the hospital with Brainzilla yesterday. But they’re releasing her today, and I can’t just avoid the world forever.
In homeroom, I feel like I’m walking a tightrope—one wrong step could send me plunging toward the hard ground. The school announcements do their fifteen minutes of blahblah, so I put my head down on my desk and close my eyes. The minute I do that, though, I hear the phone ringing in my mind—the same phone that kept ringing and ringing the night I tried to get in touch with Katie. And then something really scary happens.
I can’t find Laurence anywhere. I can’t remember his face. I can’t hear his voice—the phone in my brain is too loud.
And that’s the step—the step off the tightrope.
I start crying. Bawling, really. The class goes silent, and all the kids around me avert their eyes. I feel Flatso’s hand on my shoulder, and Zitsy murmurs, “Oh, Kooks, oh, Kooks.” But I can hardly hear him. All I hear is that goddamn phone.
I keep on crying when the bell rings, and for the first eight minutes of first period. I’m finally starting to pull it together, take shaky breaths and all that, and then—surprise, surprise, Ms. Alter shows up at the door and beckons me down the hall to Ms. Kellerman’s office.
When I walk in, she’s sitting in her chair. She’s got the same look on her face that supervillains always wear when they capture James Bond. It’s that moment when they feel like their plan is really coming together.
This isn’t really a look that you want on your psychologist.
“Hello, Margaret,” she says, gesturing for me to have a seat. “I’ve heard what occurred two days ago. I’m very sorry.”
“Okay,” I say, because I can’t bear to say thank you.
“I have been informed that you have not been handling the situation well.” Ms. Kellerman starts rooting through her pencil cup, as if she’s talking to the pens, maybe hoping to get their advice. “I fear this represents a real crisis in your case.”
“I wouldn’t call it a crisis.”
She selects a pen, then looks up at me—finally meeting my eye. “Then what would you call it?”
“Appropriate sadness?”
“Do you think that crying in homeroom is appropriate?”
“Not really.”
“And skipping school yesterday—was that appropriate? The hospital in Tuality informs me that you spent the night in the waiting room. That you refused to go home. Is that appropriate?”
A hot, angry tear leaks from my right eye. This is enough to convince Ms. Kellerman that I’m going over the edge. “Margaret, you need to accept the fact that you are mentally ill. You’ve already been hospitalized once, and I think you should consider that option once more.” She starts signing some paperwork, which sends a creepy feeling all over me. “I’m writing out a recommendation—”
“What?” The word bursts from my mouth like a scream.
“Margaret, I’m concerned that you might be a danger to yoursel—”
Danger! Danger? I grab her pencil cup and dump the writing implements on the floor. Then I stomp on them.
It feels really good to hear those pens and pencils crunch under the soles of my Uggs.
Ms. Kellerman is totally speechless, and I’m not going to lie: I feel really good for wiping that supervillain grin off her face. In fact, I feel better than I have in three days.
“Wow, Ms. Kellerman,” I say, “I think you’ve cured me. Thanks.”
And then—before she can think of anything to say or even stand up to stop me—I walk right out the door.
Chapter 59
MEN IN WHITE COATS
Kooks!” Marjorie meets me at the front door the minute I get home from school. “What happened?” Her nervous little hands flutter to her throat.
“Did they call you?” I ask, but a moment later, I look past her and get my answer. Mr. Tenant Goldborough is sitting on our couch in the living room. Beside him stands Billy, one of the attendants from St. Augustine Hospital.
“Margaret, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Mr. Goldborough says.
“Hi, Billy,” I say. “It’s been a while.” Billy isn’t a bad guy. He’s got broad features and the flat expression of someone who doesn’t ask a lot of questions, which is probably what makes him good at his job.
He sighs and looks at the paperwork in Mr. Goldborough’s hand. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”
I shrug. It looks like Ms. Kellerman got everyone’s attention. I guess I shouldn’t have attacked her pencil cup like that. My insides feel heavy—like I just ate a giant block of cheese, or concrete, or something. Ms. Kellerman claims to be so worried about my fragile psyche. Did it ever occur to her that sending people off to the loony bin is the kind of thing that makes them crazy?
But I don’t pitch a fit. I don’t even argue. I just let Billy put a warm hand on my elbow and guide me out the door.
“Oh, Kooks!” Marjorie�
�s hands have sunk into her hair.
“I’ll be back,” I tell her, and try to smile. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“You sound like my mother,” Marjorie calls after me as we step outside into the steady rain.
I don’t know if it’s true, but I cling to that compliment like a gold coin. I want to put it in my pocket and examine it later. If I could be like Mrs. Morris—even a little bit—then I know I’ll get through this.
Chapter 60
ST. AUGGIE’S I AM
Why do you think you were crying in class?” Dr. Marcuse asks me.
I’m sitting in her office across from a funky green felt wall hanging. It’s a thousand shades of green, like a forest, and I love looking at it. It’s funny—I don’t like the fact that Ms. Kellerman sent me here, but I don’t mind actually being here. “I was crying because I was sad,” I tell Dr. Marcuse. “Because my best friend nearly died.”
Dr. Marcuse takes off her glasses and polishes them with a handkerchief. I love that she has a handkerchief. It’s so old-fashioned and elegant. “Can you think of a more appropriate response?”
“Not really.”
“Neither can I,” Dr. Marcuse says, perching her glasses back on her nose. “Do you have any idea how the school administration expected you to react? What they would consider appropriate?”
“Increased study time, maybe?”
Dr. Marcuse laughs softly, like a cat’s purr. “No doubt that was their hope.”
“Sometimes I just feel like I’m going to be sad forever,” I say. “Like my blue period is going to turn into my blue life, and I’ll just be a loser who cries nonstop and feels sorry for herself.”
“How much do you believe that? One hundred percent?”
“Thirty, maybe. Thirty-five? Thirty-three. No. Twenty-eight.” I can’t quite come up with the perfect number, but it’s in that range.
“So—less than half. You don’t really believe it, in other words. A small part of you thinks it, but you don’t really believe it.”
“Yeah.”
“Is there anything that makes you happy now?”
“Well, Katie’s okay,” I say.
“Yes, that’s good.”
I think a moment. “And I have my other friends. And Marjorie—she’s been really sweet to me. I’m starting to see how we could be…” I shrug, unsure what to say. Friends? Foster relatives? “We could really get along.”
Dr. Marcuse nods. “Good.”
I think about Morris the Dog. And Laurence, and all the books at the library. And all those happy things make me start to feel a little bit better.
I can even imagine a day when I’m just happy and nothing else.
I’m not there yet. The hospital and Mrs. Morris and my mom and everything—it’s all still too raw. But someday.
“You have a right to be sad, Maggie. You’re fine. Sadness is not a mental illness.”
I look back up at the leafy wall hanging. The forest. Even trees go though sad times. But then they burst back to life. That will be me, I tell myself.
That will be me.
Chapter 61
BANNED!
Finally, Monday comes around. It’s Brainzilla’s first day back from the hospital. It’s my first day back from the mental hospital. We’ve barely set foot in homeroom before we get called to Mr. Tool’s office.
Those guys really know how to give a girl some space. Like, thismuch.
The rest of the Freakshow is already sitting in Mr. Tool’s office when we arrive. Flatso is wearing tons of navy eye shadow, which gives her a menacing, glowering look. Everyone else seems blank, except for Zitsy, who is staring at Mr. Tool as if he’s a cliff he might fall off. We’re definitely not at our best, and being called in to see Mr. Tool isn’t making things better.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Chicken butt!” Zitsy says involuntarily. He clamps a hand over his mouth as nobody laughs.
Mr. Tool taps his fingers against his desk impatiently, then snaps up a paper lying there. “What do you know about this?” he asks, brandishing one of our Rally for Reason fliers.
“Um… that we’re pro-reason?” I say, looking at the others.
“I made that,” Eggy announces. “We wanted to do something positive for the school.”
“Well, I’m afraid that this event has been canceled,” Mr. Tool announces. “You can’t simply schedule an event on school grounds without the proper permission and clearance.”
For a moment, we all just stare at one another.
“How do we get the proper permission and clearance?” Zitsy asks.
Mr. Tool gives him a narrow-eyed smile. “You can submit an application to my office.”
“Okay.” Tebow stands up, as if the matter is settled. “We’ll do that.”
“I’m afraid your application has been denied,” Mr. Tool says.
Tebow—bless his sweet, innocent self—looks confused. “How can it be denied if we haven’t submitted it yet?”
Mr. Tool throws our flyer in the trash. “That’s how. This event is not happening. Not this weekend. Not next weekend. Not in my lifetime.” He shoots a look at me.
“Why?” I ask. The word dribbles from my lips like a coffee spilling from the edge of a chipped mug.
“Because you can’t handle it.” Mr. Tool’s voice isn’t mean, but his words stab through me, anyway. I feel all eyes dart to Brainzilla, who is studying the carpet, unmoving in that comfortable chair of his. It takes all my energy not to lunge across Mr. Tool’s desk and take a swipe at him. What’s he trying to do—make Katie take another bottle of pills?
I hear the door open and turn to see Tebow’s back as he leaves the office. Eggy is next, and then the rest of us rise and file out.
Our event is banned.
Operation Happiness is over.
Chapter 62
DIGGING OUT
The back stairwell is claustrophobic and a really sickly shade of green. Also, the faint smell of barf seems to linger in the corner closest to the door, and it’s always about fifteen degrees hotter than the rest of the school. The windows here are the industrial kind threaded through with slim wire, and someone has used one as a canvas on which to scratch a lovely image of an angry penis.
I usually avoid the back stairwell because it makes me feel like I’m stuck in the Grinch’s pocket. Then again, everyone else avoids it, too. So it’s a good place to come if you want to be alone.
Which I do.
I can’t believe our Rally for Reason has been banned. The school doesn’t want reason. Literally. It’s not even a metaphor.
The door pops open, and I turn away, not wanting to make eye contact with whoever has chosen to walk through this wasteland.
“You’re gonna die,” Digger Whitlock announces.
“I know that, Digger.” I look up at him. He’s blinking at the angry penis, like he can’t make sense of it. “Why do you keep reminding me?”
Digger sits down beside me. His fat, square fingers reach out to touch the vomit-green paint, and when he moves, his clothes release the faint smell of wood smoke. He traces a circle, keeping his eyes on the wall. “People need reminding.” His voice is slow, almost mechanical. “If everyone remembers that they’re going to die, then maybe they’ll remember to live.” His eyes slide across the floor. “My brother didn’t get a chance to live, Maggie. Andy never even thought about it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Digger’s eyes lift to meet mine. All this time, I’ve heard Digger telling us that we were going to die, but I’ve never bothered to wonder what he meant by it. I just thought he was borderline nuts, and trying to scare us. And as I meet his soft brown gaze, I see something I didn’t expect: reason.
It’s like he and I are having our own mini rally right here, in the Grinch’s pocket.
“You’re right,” I tell Digger. “I am going to die. We all are. But not today.”
“Not today,” he agrees.
We can’t give up on the rally. I can’t.
I won’t.
It’s time to call an emergency meeting of the Freakshow.
Chapter 63
SCREAM OUT
Chapter 64
BEYOND OUR WILDEST DREAMS
Here is the thing about Facebook: Its power can be used for evil… but can also be used for good. So we harness its power and invite everyone to the Scream Out. We send e-mails and put flyers up around town. We’ve planned the Scream Out for Saturday, which is only two days away. That means turnout will be small. But, in a way, the fact that we don’t have much time is an advantage—there’s less time for the school to find out, and less time for us to come to our senses and back out.
Flatso’s mom works for the mayor’s office, so she gets us a permit for the town green. Eggy knows a bunch of musicians, and a local band called Flying Squirrel says we can borrow their microphones and speakers. Zitsy’s dad gets some carpenter friends to volunteer to build us a stage. Tebow even persuades the local bakery to donate a bunch of cookies. What else do you need to do to organize a bunch of people to get together and scream? I mean, I could pretty much do that in my living room with zero planning whatsoever.
On Saturday, Tebow shows up about an hour before the Scream Out to pick me up. He seems a little nervous as we drive downtown in his dad’s old car, but I’m not. Even if it’s just the Freakshow, I’m ready to scream and eat cookies.
There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, but the air is warm, which has made the day misty and gray. It softens the edges of the buildings and trees beyond the car window and makes me feel as if I’m drifting through a cloud.
The traffic slows as we near downtown, and Tebow frowns as we inch forward. “Something’s going on,” he says. “There are a ton of cars.”
Homeroom Diaries Page 10
