by Alice Quinn
ALSO BY ALICE QUINN
Queen of the Trailer Park
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Alice Quinn
Translation copyright © 2016 Alexandra Maldwyn-Davies
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Rosie se fait la belle: Au pays de Rosie Maldonne 2 by Editions Alliage in France in 2015. Translated from French by Alexandra Maldwyn-Davies. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503948310
ISBN-10: 1503948315
Cover design by Marc Cohen
Contents
Start Reading
Monday: Codes and Stuff
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Tuesday: Megacatch
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Wednesday: A Drinkypoo, Dearest?
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
Thursday: The Best Things in Life Are Free
24
25
26
27
Friday: Nobody Puts Cricri in the Corner
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Saturday: Campfire
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
Sunday: Smile
48
Monday: A Hide out
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
Tuesday: A “Neither One Thing nor the Other” Situation
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
Wednesday: I Know, You Know, He Knows
69
70
71
72
73
74
Thursday: Maldonne! Atttt-eeeennnn-ttttiiiiooooon!
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
Friday: A Quiet Day
83
Saturday: Carpe Diem
84
85
86
87
Sunday: The Kids, the Cat, and Little Old Me
88
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Translator
“When you find a stiff, a little bit of chocolate can do you good.”
“You reap what you sow. I’d planted a goddamn hand grenade and it just exploded in my face.”
Rosie Maldonne
Monday: Codes and Stuff
1
My name is Rose. Rosie Maldonne. As it goes, I don’t like people to call me Rose. Or Rosie. Only my mother ever had the right to. It was her name too. Since her death eleven years ago of a stroke, I’ve never allowed another living person to call me Rose. Just Cricri.
I don’t know how I ended up choosing Cricri as a nickname. My psychoanalytical skills aren’t all that hot, and I’ll probably never get to the bottom of why and how I wound up wanting to be named after a cricket. I remember my mom took me to see Pinocchio at the theater when I was little. I loved Jiminy Cricket. Maybe that has something to do with it. Plus I’m always letting my conscience be my guide! That’s just so me.
Anyway, the morning everything started to go bunk, I awoke with a start from one of the worst nightmares ever. That was just so typical of me and my life. I snuggled down a little farther under the quilt and deeper into my gorgeously soft bed.
When I say “bed,” I’m talking about my super class-act daybed in the fit-for-royalty cabin of my brand-spanking-new and luxurious trailer.
That’s right! My home-sweet-home is a trailer, but thanks to a massive stroke of luck last year, I upgraded from my stinky old Caravelair to a souped-up mobile home (which was made to measure for some big Gypsy mogul, but he never bothered to pick it up) called the Ambassador. It is the King of Travel. I am a girl with style these days. My rich buddy Gaston (he’s loaded to the max) bought me the trailer as a gift.
We—my three kids, the cat, and I—were all feeling under the weather. It was sniffle central in our house (trailer!). Not to mention, it was freezing outside, and I had the school lunch bills hanging over my head. Both schools were asking me to settle up for my three kiddos.
I call the two little ones, Lisa and Emma, “the twins” because they were born almost on the same day three years ago, but only Lisa is actually mine. Emma is my friend Yasmina’s daughter. Yasmina died in childbirth. It’s hard to believe such things can still happen, but they do.
Her father wasn’t there the day Emma was born. I was the one who registered her birth and took care of everything. I obviously tried not to get too attached, but when he finally showed up, the hopelessness of it all floored the guy! He hardly even looked at Emma and seemed more than pleased that I was taking care of her. So he left me in charge of her. And I couldn’t be happier about the situation. I mean, what would my Lisa be without my Emma? They stick together like glue, that pair. They actually look nothing like twins—Emma has brown hair and dark skin and Lisa is the spittin’ image of the White Witch from Narnia. She always looks sick to me, especially when she stands next to my coffee-colored Emma. Then there’s Sabrina, my eldest at six. I had her with a guy from Cape Verde who I was madly in love with.
So that’s who we all are. It can be a bit hard to follow who’s who in my family, especially because over at our house—hmm, our trailer I should say—we often have Simon stay over too. He’s my friend Véro’s six-year-old kid and Sabrina’s BFF. Véro has been having more than her fair share of problems lately, and she’s pretty fragile (especially since she went all wacko and had to spend some time in the psych ward), so I know his staying over really helps her out. I love having him over. Simon is a total sweetheart—apart from the fact that there’s a whole bunch of stuff he won’t eat . . . and he doesn’t say much either.
Anyway, being under the weather wasn’t the best sitch to be in, seeing as I was also in the red—as always! Rosie Maldonne, a.k.a. Mademoiselle Holes-in-Her-Pockets.
Who on earth could be expected to bring up three little ones on welfare? Anyone in the same boat as me would be in just as big a mess. But knowing this never makes me feel any better. Being broke is pretty much the status quo around here, and I’m always bummed out about it. That’s why the last thing I needed, especially that morning, was to be listening to miserable old pop songs by th
e Walker Brothers. Thanks, Mom! Who wants to hear two men warbling on and on about the sun not shining just because someone won’t hook up with you? Not me.
You see, my mother always finds a way to speak to me through my dreams, and she usually sends me songs—big hits from way back. She died when I was sixteen, but thanks to her weird and wonderful nocturnal communication system, we’ve never really been away from each other. The problem is I sometimes have a hard job trying to decode her messages.
She watches out for me. This means she usually tries to give me a heads-up about what lies ahead that day. She forewarns me and lets me know if there’s any danger coming up or, on the other end of the spectrum, if something good is about to happen. Her songs act as premonitions.
It’s up to me to work out all the whys and wherefores. Decrypting her messages can be hard work, though. How do I know if I’m getting a good sign or a warning? It’s a bit like the machine in Person of Interest. I’ve seen a few episodes down at Sélect. I had to watch them there because ever since my old trailer got all trashed, I haven’t had a TV. Here I have a state-of-the-art trailer but no set. But you’ve just got to live with it, don’t you? Gaston keeps saying he’ll buy me one, but we never seem to get around to it.
So, to get back to what I was saying, the machine on the show selects someone at random, but you don’t know whether that person is the murderer or the victim. Unfortunately, with my mom’s songs, I often only understand her message after the event. It’s no big deal. I always wind up working it out in the end, even if it is too late. This is because my mom gave me the right life tools to get myself out of a whole load of scrapes. Like don’t forget not to be an idiot! That was one of her best ones.
One of the tools is how to use my sex appeal. I’m one of those drop-dead gorgeous gals and have been since I was thirteen. I’m not showing off—it’s just the impression I get from all the stares and winks I receive from men. When I’m down, the attention feels quite good, but sometimes the guys make me feel like I’m the cream and they’re the cat. But I don’t always let the cat get the cream. Sometimes I do, and I purr, but most of the time I scratch!
Wanting to scratch people is pretty much a permanent state of mind with me. I’m always holding back from planting my claws in folks. I’m trying to learn how to control my stress. In other words, this is my major flaw. I can’t seem to get a handle on my emotions. I’m a sensitive type.
The Walker Brothers song was playing at full volume in my head. It was the one about the sun not shining anymore. Nice tune. Whiny lyrics.
I felt sure the song had nothing to do with me. I’d had my fair share of misery, like everyone, but I was back on the straight and narrow for now. There’d be no tears clouding my eyes anytime soon.
I stretched out my right foot a little to see whether Pastis—my cat—was in bed with me or not. Pastis sneaks in with me from time to time, and I find it comforting to feel him moving around at the end of the bed.
Everything was good. He was there. A real loyal little soldier. He lifted his head a stitch, moved toward my face, and blinked at me through his lovely long lashes.
I looked through the trailer window and had to shift the fitted curtain to wipe away the condensation to get a better peek outside. Brrr . . . You could freeze your nuts off out there—rain, sleet, and gusts of wind were throwing filthy, wet trash all over the place. It was just awful. There wasn’t a living soul out there. Nothing unusual about that, though. This is a one-family trailer park. We’re the only people here.
Where in God’s name was I going to find the strength to face the day? I had to get the imps up, take them to school in this awful weather, then somehow try to make some money so I could cough up what I owed left, right, and center. Honestly, couldn’t I just stay tucked in bed?
We live in the South of France—how come it was as cold as this? The weather guy on the radio mentioned something about it being even colder up north. How was that even possible?
That morning, on top of having the heebie-jeebies from that god-awful song my mother had sent from beyond, I was feeling pretty pissed. I was still obsessing over something that had happened at the school gates the previous Friday. I couldn’t seem to get past it. The whole deal had totally gotten to me.
The toy store downtown had sent a load of teens over to the school to hand out catalogs. It was December and close to Christmas, so the school was easy pickings for these guys. It made sense I suppose. Anyway, Simon and Sabrina were all over those catalogs like a rash.
What was I going to do now? What chance did I possibly stand against all those glossy pictures?
Criiii . . . Criiii . . . Criiii . . . Criiii . . . My phone! Yes, my cell’s ringtone is a cricket call. Speaking of ringtones, I should tell you that, even though it might be a little surprising given my circumstances, I have a really cool phone. I’d bought it with some of my welfare dough back when I was a little less broke. And at some point in all the excitement, I’d signed a two-year contract. I don’t ever use the Internet because that costs extra, but I have unlimited text messages and loads of special offers when it comes to making calls.
But who was calling at this time? People are cracked to think it’s OK to call this early in the day.
“Cricri?”
It was my beautiful lesbian friend, Ismène. This was a pretty lucky break actually—I’d be able to ask her for a loan.
“Yeah,” I moaned. “What’s up? I’m in the middle of sorting out the kids. We’ve got to schlep off to school now . . .”
No point letting her know about my feeling down and still lying in bed. It’s always best to stay one step ahead. That’s the way I like to play it.
“I went down to the library and found out that they’re going to be running this amazing course on codes and Radio London and all that stuff from World War II. Do you want to come with me?” asked Ismène, her excitement clear.
“Hmm . . . I don’t get it.”
“Sure you do! Let’s do this thing! That way, the next time we have to use secret codes to communicate, we’ll know what we’re doing. We’ll be better organized than we were last time.”
Ismène works in an office job in local government, but she’d much rather be James Bond. She’s nuts about cracking codes and stuff. She’s odd like that.
“Hmm . . . What do you mean by ‘better organized’?”
“Well, more scientific . . .”
“Hmm . . .” I wondered how I could change the subject to my problem.
“Hmm?” Ismène mimicked. “What’s with all the hmms? You’re like a broken record! Just tell me whether you’re interested or not!”
She was starting to get grumpy.
“What’s the problem here?” she whined.
Seeing as she’d asked, why bother hiding it?
“I don’t have any cash, that’s my problem. I don’t know how we’re going to make it through to our next welfare check. So about that . . . I wanted to know if you think you could maybe . . .”
“What? You’re short again? No way! Don’t you ever get sick and tired of living like this? Seeing a shrink might do you a whole world of good. Do you know that?”
Here we go. She’d started up the battle stations big time. Ismène never gave me a gentle ribbing. She always got out the big guns. The Lashkinovs, Klishnikoks, Kalashnikovs? Whatever they were called, they were big.
“It’s not normal to always be in the same mess like this! When history keeps repeating itself, it means the problem lies with you. You’re going to have to deal with this shit at the source.”
Blah . . . Blah . . . Blah . . . Carry on, sweetheart! I moved my cell away from my ear, but the volume was turned all the way up, so I could still hear her. I had no other choice but to listen to her until she was through. I didn’t know how to turn the volume down.
Silence. Nothing. She’d stopped yapping. It seemed like she was waiting for something.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Gaston! Why don�
��t you ask him?”
“You know he’s gone off to some godforsaken country up north somewhere.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. What about Mimi, Véro, Tony . . . ?”
“Just listen to you! Have you got a list of everyone I know or something? Anyway, it’s you I’m asking right now.”
“Me? No. I can’t and you know that, Cricri!”
“Just this once . . .”
“It’s one of my rules. It’s a family thing. My grandfather once gave me some advice: Never lend money to friends. It’s the quickest route to a major blowout, and I like you too much for that. You know how fond I am of you, right? That’s why you’ll never get a cent out of me, Cricri.”
I was so pissed, I couldn’t even respond. She’d brought our little conversation to an abrupt end.
“So you don’t want to go to the Radio London course with me?”
“How did you guess? You see, while you’re over there learning all that stuff, like ‘code blue over the duck pond tomorrow at eighteen hundred hours’ or whatever bull they’ll be talking about, I’ll be trying to find a way to feed my kids, and maybe I’ll somehow manage to get them something for Christmas. So I’m super, super sorry about not being able to join you on your special little adventure!”
“Hey! You need to calm down, lady! It’s not my fault if—”
She was just about to launch into lecture mode again when I stopped her in her tracks.
“The kids have been harping on and on about a pirate ship and a princess castle. How am I supposed to afford those? Those fancyass catalogs never give you the prices. I’ll have to go to the store to get a better idea of things . . .”
But this wasn’t going to shut up my Ismène. She was one of those annoying if-you’ve-got-a-problem-find-a-solution broads.
“Why don’t you go down to the food bank? They’re handing out Christmas gifts down there.”
“I heard about that. They’ve got a ton of secondhand stuff that people who have more money than they know what to do with give to the poor.”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“Thanks, Ismène! That’s a really great idea! Genius! You’re such a fabulous friend, aren’t you?” My sarcasm was clear. “But there’s one thing you need to remember about me, OK? If there’s one word I don’t like, it’s ‘Why don’t you . . . ?’”
