Laura Ingalls Is Ruining My Life

by Shelley Tougas

  “That’s my girl.” Mom hugged me.

  I’d just made a rainbow from the rain. Me! Charlotte Lake, observer of gray skies.

  I hate to admit it, but it felt good to have a Rose moment, you know?

  * * *

  All night I worried about the cafeteria. I’d missed the week when kids came up with the unofficial seating chart. If I wasn’t careful, I could end up near the bullies or the freaky kids. I couldn’t eat in the bathroom every single day. And if I skipped lunch, my stomach might roar in math class and everyone would laugh at me.

  On the embarrassment scale, stomach growls are worse than hiccups but better than burps, right?

  I had no choice but to bring a sandwich and eat in a bathroom stall.

  Turns out, I didn’t have to worry about what I would do for lunch, because when everyone left for the cafeteria, Mrs. Newman beckoned me to her desk and handed me a blank piece of paper. “I want a revision of your essay. I applaud your writing. Succinct writing is underappreciated. Most people think length somehow relates to quality, and I’m impressed you recognize the fallacy.”

  “Fallacy?”

  “It means mistaken belief. Charlotte, you don’t have to write a single positive word about Laura Ingalls. But if you’re telling me Laura Ingalls is ruining your life, I want a thorough explanation.”

  I was so consumed by my fight with Freddy, and then worried about how to face all the kids, that I didn’t think about Mrs. Newman and the essay I’d put in the basket. Of course she was going to have something to say about my essay! What difference did it make? It was just a dumb contest.

  “Charlotte?”

  I nodded.

  “I want a verbal acknowledgment that you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  I wrote the essay during lunch in the classroom. It didn’t take long, because it is a fallacy that the amount of time spent on an assignment relates to its quality.

  Laura Ingalls Essay

  By Charlotte Lake

  I will thoroughly explain how Laura Ingalls is ruining my life. My mother is a writer. Actually, she’s a lot of things. She’s been a school bus driver, a lab technician, and a forklift operator. She even worked at a funeral home. But you won’t find Mom’s hero on a bus or in a lab, warehouse, or funeral home. To understand Mom’s hero, you’d have to go to the Minnesota prairie, because her hero is Laura Ingalls Wilder.

  You said concise writing is underappreciated. I will show you how it is not a fallacy to be both concise and thorough. Here are concise but thorough sentences about my mother, Martha Lake, and Laura Ingalls.

  1. Laura Ingalls was a bestselling author. My mother wants to be a bestselling author.

  2. Laura Ingalls wrote books for kids. My mother wants to write books for kids.

  3. Laura Ingalls wrote about a child in the 1800s. My mother wants to write about a child in the 1800s.

  4. Laura Ingalls wrote about the prairie. My mother wants to write about the prairie.

  Therefore, we moved to the prairie to find inspiration. She believes Laura’s spirit will guide her. She believes lots of crazy things like lavender oil cures anxiety and your personal energy affects the universe. My family has moved so many times I’ve lost count, but we’ve never lived in a town with 800 people and no malls or movie theaters or beaches or NOTHING to do. We are city people. Lexington, Kentucky, is the coldest place we’ve ever lived, and I’ve heard Minnesota is worse. It’s possible to die in cold weather. And I mean that literally. And when I say literally, I mean the correct use of literally and not the common use in which people say literally but mean figuratively.

  You could argue that my problems are not Laura’s fault. You could argue that my mother is at fault. Here’s a compromise: they can share the blame. My mother is ruining one half of my life. Laura Ingalls is ruining the other half.

  I took the essay home with me in case I changed my mind.

  I didn’t change my mind.

  But you knew that, right?

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  I ignored Freddy all week, and he ignored me right back, like we’d taken vows of silence against each other.

  Turns out I didn’t have to eat lunch in the bathroom stall, either. Working on the essay during lunch gave me an idea—a great idea. Since I had the flu for a week, I pretended I was so far behind that I had to eat lunch in the classroom to catch up. Nothing really happens the first week of school, but I acted like I had no idea what we were doing in class. I acted like I’d missed months of school, like I could barely remember basic addition and subtraction.

  On Friday, Mrs. Newman sat in the desk next to me while everyone headed to lunch. “We need to talk, Charlotte. If you’re still behind, maybe we should see about getting you some extra help.”

  “I just work slow. Everything’s fine.”

  “Kids need breaks during the day. We learn best when we have a chance to eat lunch, get outside, and talk to friends.”

  “I’m … sensitive to the cold, and it’s been unseasonably cold. That’s what the radio said. It’s like I get sick whenever I’m in cold weather.”

  “Are you having problems with the other kids? Maybe I can help. It’s very hard to be in a new school at your age.” Mrs. Newman was using her I-care-about-you smile and her I-don’t-care-about-you eyes.

  “It’s not. I’m used to new schools.”

  “It’s also hard to live up to a very popular brother.”

  Yes, those were her exact words: Very. Popular. Brother.

  “It’s not hard. I just like to read when I eat.”

  She crossed her arms. “Beginning next week, you need to eat lunch in the cafeteria with the other kids and get outside and enjoy the weather. Trust me, winter comes quickly here.”

  When the last bell rang, I rushed out of school to avoid Julia and Freddy, who apparently decided to become walking buddies. When I got home, Mom was sitting on the couch with her arm around Rose, whose face was wet with tears.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I was just telling Rose about her dad getting married and how happy I am for him and how having a stepmother will be a beautiful experience. Now she’ll have two moms who love her.”

  Rose didn’t look convinced. “He’s going on a honeymoon at Thanksgiving, and I’m not invited.”

  “Because nobody goes on a honeymoon except for the husband and wife. You can’t go. It’s practically a law,” I said.

  “I guess.” She wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt. “I hope she’s not awful.”

  “Your dad wouldn’t marry an awful person.” Mom hugged her.

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  Rose took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. Dad married you, and you’re the best person in the world, so maybe his new wife is the second best. Guess I’ll find out at Christmas.”

  I looked at Mom. She shook her head and mouthed the word no. Obviously she believed Rey would change his mind and take Rose to Greece. I thought Mom should dump all the bad news at once, but I guess rainbow-finders think differently.

  “Where’s the sleepover tonight, Rose?” I asked. “A night with a friend will cheer you up.”

  “Leah had to cancel. She’s sick.”

  Mom said, “Charlotte, I want you to go to the football game tonight with Julia and Freddy.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Honey, you have to open yourself to opportunities. You have to live with joyful intention.”

  Joyful intention? What even is that?

  “I don’t like football. Besides, Rose is staying home. We’ll have a girls’ night.” The phrase didn’t roll off my tongue. I don’t think I’d ever said girls’ night before, because girls’ night meant a night without Freddy. I couldn’t remember the last time Freddy and I hadn’t been together on a Friday night, either watching movies or playing games or eating pizza. “Just you, me, and Rose. How awesome will that be?”


  Rose’s face lit up. “Very awesome. See? You don’t need Freddy. I’ll be your sidekick.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Thankfully Mom spoke first. “I’ll agree to this girls’ night on one condition: I plan our evening.”

  * * *

  I should’ve asked for details, because as soon as Freddy left for the game, Mom dropped her plan on us. “I haven’t been out of the house. I’ve been sleeping too much. It’s not like me. I need a strong dose of Laura. An extra-strong dose. So we’re going to the real banks of the real Plum Creek—”

  “What?”

  “—and we’re going to make a fire—”

  “Why?”

  “—and we’re going to roast marshmallows and eat s’mores.”

  “What? Why?” I looked at Rose for help, but she wore an ear-to-ear grin.

  But you knew that, right?

  I said, “I’m still recovering from fever ’n’ ague.”

  Mom pulled off her ponytail binder and let her hair fall in waves down her back. “The basement is making me claustrophobic. I need to breathe and see the sky. I need space and air.”

  “Me, too,” Rose said. “Space and air.”

  I had tried to escape the football game with this girls’ night idea and look where it got me. Laura’s creek! I sighed. “Fine. Space and air.”

  We had marshmallows and graham crackers but no chocolate, so we stopped at the gas station for candy bars. The cashier put down the magazine he’d been reading and studied us. “Are you the writer who moved to town?”

  Mom looked around the store, apparently for the other writer who’d moved to town. I nudged her. “He’s talking about you, Mom.”

  “Me?” She blushed. “Well, I’m a writer, and I just moved to town, so yes, I’m a writer who moved to town.”

  “How’d you know?” I asked.

  “My neighbor said a lady writer and her kids moved to town from Kentucky. You’ve got a Kentucky license plate on your car. I’m a gas station manager by night and detective by day.”

  “Are you really a detective?” Rose asked.

  He laughed and lifted his Minnesota Twins baseball cap to scratch his head. “No, but I am indeed a gas station manager. Name’s Ted but everyone calls me Shorty.”

  “But you’re tall,” Rose said.

  He nodded. “And that’s why they call me Shorty.”

  “An ironic nickname. That’s cute.” Mom laughed a little and blushed.

  Mom was always talking about irony in books, but she never used the word cute. She never blushed while using the word cute. I didn’t see what was so cute about unusual nicknames. I figured it was a small-town thing. Freddy had blond hair and brown eyes like me, but kids called him Red Fred. Then there was Bad Chad. And Boy Who Needs Braces had an Asian name—something like Chue—and everyone called him Chuck.

  Rose said, “My mom’s name is Martha, and I’m Rose, and my sister is Charlotte, and we have a brother named Freddy, and we live with the Ramos family.”

  “Better you folks than their daughter and that rotten son-in-law. He brought a suitcase full of trouble to town.” He shook his head. “I better shut my trap.”

  “What trouble?” Rose asked.

  “Rose!” Mom hushed her. “How much do I owe you, Ted?”

  “Call me Shorty.”

  “How much do I owe you, Shorty?”

  “Tonight the treats are on me.”

  “That’s so nice.” Mom blushed again. “Thank you.”

  “You bet,” he said. “Welcome to Walnut Grove, Martha-the-writer-from-Kentucky.”

  * * *

  By the time we got to the creek, it was dark. We parked on the shoulder of the road and walked down a narrow strip of gravel. Mom said, “Mia told me the site is private property now, but the owners have left this section open for Laura fans to explore.”

  “She also said you’re supposed to put some money in the little box in the parking area to help with expenses,” Rose said.

  “I parked on the highway, so we’re fine. Did you bring the flashlights?”

  I clicked the flashlight and waved the beam around. The ground sloped upward until it met a cluster of trees. The crickets and frogs were so loud I couldn’t hear the creek.

  Mom said, “There’s a sign marking the dugout’s location on the other side of the creek. Mia said there’s a walking bridge.”

  “Can we actually look inside the dugout?” I asked.

  Rose laughed. “Listen to her, Mom. She thinks it’s still here.”

  I frowned. Rose was making fun of me. The world really had gone topsy-turvy. “Perhaps you can enlighten me with your deep knowledge of all things Laura.”

  “Mom, Charlotte’s being sarcastic.”

  “Let’s assume Charlotte has the best intentions and truly wants information. Then you can answer with kindness and generosity.”

  “Fine. The man who sold this land to the Ingallses made the dugout. He literally dug a hole in the hillside and built some kind of front for it and slapped on a door. There’s no way something like that would last 150 years. It collapsed, but there’s sort of an indentation left.”

  “Thanks for your kindness and generosity, Rose,” I said.

  “Girls, please.” Mom’s voice was firm. We followed her down a narrow path that appeared to have been mowed. On both sides of us, the prairie grasses were waist high. The path split into two directions. I walked straight ahead, into the weeds, to take a look. Mom pulled me back. “Be careful. You could walk off the bank and end up in the water. I think Mia said go to the left.”

  In a minute we were on a wooden walking bridge. I scoped out the creek with my flashlight. The water was still and dark. I said, “It’s creepy. Maybe it’s haunted.”

  “It’s serene.” Mom said. “It’s living history. I really needed this. Just close your eyes and listen to the crickets and the frogs. These are the exact same sounds Laura heard 150 years ago.” A horn blasted from the road, and she laughed. “Except for that.”

  On the other side of the bridge was a sign towering in the weeds. With the flashlight we could make out yellow letters. THE CHARLES INGALLS FAMILY’S DUGOUT HOME WAS LOCATED HERE IN THE 1870S. THIS DEPRESSION IS ALL THAT REMAINS SINCE THE ROOF CAVED IN YEARS AGO. THE PRAIRIE GRASSES AND FLOWERS HERE GROW MUCH AS THEY DID IN LAURA’S TIME AND THE SPRING STILL FLOWS NEARBY.

  “Told you,” Rose said.

  I shined the light in her face. “You’re a regular encyclopedia.”

  “Magical, isn’t it?” Mom’s voice sounded dreamy. “I feel better already.”

  “It feels like she’s here, like if we close our eyes we could hear her splashing in the creek,” Rose said. “Listen.”

  Mom squeezed my hand. “Are you listening, Charlotte? Enjoy this. Use these moments for your essay contest.”

  “I’m already done. Besides, if they paid me a million dollars, I wouldn’t work in Laura’s museum.”

  “I thought you were enjoying her books,” Mom said.

  “I just want you to write the Mars book so we can go back to…” I almost said to the way things used to be, but I caught myself. “… to Church Row.”

  “Better yet,” Rose said, “go back to the prairie book. The Mars idea just isn’t you.”

  Mom shined the flashlight in my face. “Charlotte, take a moment to refocus. Turn off the negativity and let yourself experience the moment.”

  I sighed. I suddenly didn’t feel like arguing anymore. “Fine. This place is … interesting.”

  That made her happy. “Isn’t it? Let’s gather firewood. It’s cold. We can snuggle around the fire and take all of this in.”

  We crossed the bridge, went down the path, and then fanned in different directions using the flashlights to search for wood. People in wilderness movies are always gathering firewood. In a few minutes they’re sitting around a crackling fire. Maybe that’s how it works in a forest, but this was the prairie. And maybe it works like that if you know what you’re doing, bu
t we did not. Trees towered along the creek, but they hadn’t shed perfectly sized logs. With our flashlights guiding the way, we searched the tangle of weeds.

  “How’s this?” We turned our flashlights to Rose, who was holding a stick.

  “Too small,” Mom said.

  “It could be kindling.”

  Mom said, “Keep looking. If we get enough sticks, it’ll probably work.”

  I was tempted to make fun of Rose’s sudden prairie vocabulary. Kindling? But I reminded myself about her dad and kept quiet. If Freddy had been there, we would’ve quietly giggled about kindling, salt pork, and hardtack until Mom told us to either stop or share the joke. We couldn’t share the joke, of course, so we’d have to stop.

  Soon we had a heaping pile of sticks in the middle of the gravel parking area. Mom got some newspaper from the car, tucked sheets of it here and there, and lit the newspaper with a match. The paper roared into flames and burned to ashes in seconds. The sticks didn’t even look warm.

  “I think we need more newspaper,” Mom said as she crunched two stacks of newspaper into balls and lit them. Again, no fire—just a quick-burning flame and ashes.

  “Dry leaves,” Rose said. “We need dry leaves.”

  “It was hard enough finding sticks,” I said.

  “I know!” Rose said. “We have to blow on it to help spread the flames. Fire needs oxygen.”

  Mom tucked the last of the newspaper into the pile, lit it, and Rose and I blew into the flames. It burned bright for a few seconds and then went dark.

  I shook my head. “If we were pioneers, we’d be dead in two days.”

  “We’d make it at least one week,” said Rose the rainbow-finder.

  “I really wanted us to sit around the fire and eat s’mores while I read By the Shores of Silver Lake to you,” Mom said.

  “Why not On the Banks of Plum Creek since we’re on the banks of Plum Creek?” Rose asked. “Besides, By the Shores of Silver Lake is one of her more depressing books.”

  “I didn’t think about it. For some reason this is the book that called to me.” Mom’s shoulders slumped. “Guess it doesn’t really matter. The plan isn’t working anyway.”