Trauma Queen

by Barbara Dee

  “Right. The terrible kind.”

  “There is no terrible kind. Haven’t I taught you anything by now? Take my sweats.”

  “No. Just . . . no.”

  Suddenly Mr. Shamsky, the principal, comes bursting out of the main office. “Mrs. Bailey?”

  “Ms. But please just call me Becca.”

  “Are those your dogs out there?”

  “Not really. I mean they’re not mine technically. I’m actually just walking them.”

  “But you tied them to the flagpole?”

  Mom’s eyes flash; she looks mythological. “My daughter,” she announces, “was having an emergency. So I couldn’t stop to make alternative arrangements for five dogs.”

  He squints at my pajamas. “Everything okay now?”

  “Oh, sure,” I mutter.

  “Great,” he says, like he doesn’t believe either of us. “You know, Marigold, the school nurse keeps spare clothes in her office. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?” Mom asks innocently.

  The end-of-homeroom bell rings. I peek at Mr. Shamsky, whose shiny bald skull is turning pink.

  “In case of what?” Mom repeats, louder this time.

  Is she kidding? There’s totally no way she doesn’t get this.

  She looks at me with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. And the corners of her lips are twitching, like she’s trying not to smile.

  Oh. Okay. I get it now. She’s trying to make Mr. Shamsky say something he doesn’t want to say: IN CASE A GIRL GETS HER PERIOD. It’s one of Mom’s spontaneous performances, only this time it’s happening in my school. And in front of a live audience, because now doors are opening and kids are pouring into the hall. In fact, way off in the distance I can see Mr. Hubley, and now Jada, Ashley, and Megan are walking this way. And also Layla. And also Brody and Ethan.

  “Mom,” I beg her. “Please.”

  She blinks at me, disappointed.

  Mr. Shamsky pretends to cough. “So anyway, Marigold, you’re welcome to stop by the infirmary and check out the closet. But right now, Ms. Bailey, you need to remove those dogs. First period is starting and we can’t have all this barking.”

  “Oh, no problem,” Mom says cheerfully.

  She puts her hands on my shoulders. She looks deep, deep, deep into my eyes, as if he’s not even there. As if dogs aren’t barking and kids aren’t staring, and she’s trying to locate a tiny little speck on the back of my brain. “Last chance, baby. Do you want to switch or not?”

  “Not.”

  “Ms. Bailey,” Mr. Shamsky warns.

  “Okay, listen, Marigold,” she says in my ear. “If I go home now and get your clothes, I could be back here in forty-five minutes. An hour tops.”

  “No, thanks,” I say, pulling away. “I’m going to the nurse. Just go take care of the dogs now, okay?”

  Then I skid down the hall, the late bell ringing in my ears.

  Marbles

  When I get home that afternoon, Mom is in the living room. She’s in her yoga pants, upside down, surrounded by marbles.

  For her this is normal.

  Of course, her definition of “normal” also includes inviting a bunch of people over at three a.m. to videotape her sleeping.

  And sitting onstage with a huge gooey chocolate cake, which she either eats or doesn’t eat, depending on her willpower.

  And wrapping herself in Saran Wrap for a piece called Plastic Surgery.

  Oh, and pitching a tent in the park while she reads Hamlet in the voices of the Simpsons.

  Not to mention turning herself into an electronic billboard with LEDs running all over her body to “broadcast” this poem she wrote called “LICE.” She says it’s about “how our overreliance on chemicals causes Mother Nature to rebel,” but I think most people in the audience probably just think she’s infested with electronic bugs.

  Okay, I’ll stop. But before you decide she’s certifiable, let me explain: Mom is what is known in the biz as a performance artist. That’s another way of saying she does embarrassing things in public. Sometimes she makes her audience buy tickets to watch her do those embarrassing things, but her shows are not exactly standing-room-only. So she gets these other jobs running workshops, teaching theater improvisation mostly to college students. Also walking other people’s dogs. Not very well.

  “Yikes, Mari. What are you wearing?” Mom says. She carefully flips herself over and lands her bare feet on the marble-covered rug. She’s so good at landing that only a few marbles go rolling. Her goal is none, not one marble rolling, which I’m pretty sure ignores the law of physics.

  Now she’s looking at me and grinning. “Sorry, baby, but those pants are so seventies. And that top looks like it has a disease.”

  “It’s polka dots.”

  “They’re pink. You look like you have chicken pox.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s all the nurse had.”

  “Figures. You should have taken my sweats. Or let me go home to get you something decent.” She starts picking up the marbles and plunking them one by one into an old shoebox. “So how was school?”

  “The usual. Once I changed.”

  “Anybody give you grief?”

  “Not really.” Unless you count Jada telling me how she felt so, so sorry that I was stuck wearing such a dorky outfit. And Brody snoring in my ear and calling me Bananas all day. And Layla smirking. And staring. “The nurse says we have to wash these in hot water and bring them back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? You mean someone’s actually waiting for them?”

  “I don’t know. That’s just what she said. I’m supposed to return them before homeroom.”

  She sighs. “Well, I’m happy to wash them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just not by tomorrow.”

  “Why not?” I say.

  “Because, precious daughter, laundry is not my number one priority. I’ve got to prepare something spectacular for my workshop tomorrow, I’ve got this grant proposal to e-mail out by tonight, and then, of course, there’s Evening Walkers.” She springs up from the floor in one motion. My mother is all muscle, like the human heart.

  Now she’s looking out the window. “Uh-oh,” she says. “It’s starting to snow.”

  I decide to argue, just for the sheer sport of it. “What’s wrong with snow? I think it looks pretty.”

  “That’s because you don’t have to schlep eight blocks to pick up greyhounds.” She sighs again. “And they’ll be murder to walk tonight if the sidewalks are icy. The younger one is a real squirrel-chaser and the older one has an arthritic hip. She’s a sweetheart, though; her name is Mabel.”

  “Mom,” I say loudly. “What if I went to the Laundromat myself?”

  “Now? You mean in the snow?”

  I shrug. “I don’t mind.”

  “Whew, this nurse lady really has your number. Don’t let her terrorize you, Mari.”

  “She isn’t,” I insist. But for Mom the conversation is already over; by now she’s in the kitchenette fixing herself some ginger tea. She says it helps her digestion, but if you ask me, if there’s anything wrong with her digestion, it’s because she’s upside down half the time.

  I go to the bedroom I share with my eight-year-old sister, Kennedy. Don’t laugh, okay? Yes, her name is Kennedy. My mom named her babies after a flower most people think is a weed, and a dead president. And my dad . . . well, let’s just say he stopped arguing with Mom a long time ago.

  Kennedy is sitting on her bed, doing what she basically always does, which is reading. She wears these geeky-cute wire-frame glasses that slip down her little upturned nose. Her other really cute feature is the space between her two front teeth, even though according to her, it makes her look stupid. Other than those things—the glasses, the nose, and the tooth-space—we look pretty similar: longish, wavy medium-brown hair parted in the middle, olive skin, dark eyes.

  She notices me and closes her book. “Oh, Mari. Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn
’t I be?”

  “Mom told me about the pj’s. She feels terrible.”

  “No, she doesn’t. She thinks it’s funny. What book is that?”

  She holds it up for me: Louisa’s Triumph. It’s one of those American Dreams books Kennedy is obsessed with. For a long time last year she wanted to be Jessamine the Prairie Girl, and she went around wearing braids and long flowery skirts and saying things like Sakes alive and I reckon. It drove me crazy, but Mom totally went along with it. She even made Kennedy a Jessamine rag doll, and once for a whole weekend turned our living room into a log cabin by taping brown paper bags to the walls. But then the landlord found out about it and made us take it all down because he said it was a fire hazard.

  For a second I just sit on my bed, careful not to smush this patchwork Thing I’m making. (It’s not a quilt; that would be way too Jessamine. Besides, the scraps are kind of random, and it’s not even a rectangle. In fact, it’s not even really a shape.) Then I take off my chicken-pox shirt and the seventies pants, and put on my Wile E. Coyote T-shirt and my favorite jeans. This is the highlight of my day, I think: getting dressed in my own clothes.

  Kennedy watches. She sucks in her cheeks and makes a fish-mouth. “Did people make fun of you?” she asks.

  “Some. A little. But I was fine.”

  “And they made you change?”

  “They didn’t make me. I wanted to.”

  “You wanted to wear that ugly outfit?”

  “Of course not. It was just the best I could do under the circumstances.”

  She furrows her brow. Then another fish-mouth. “Do you hate your school?”

  “Not really. It’s just school.”

  “Do you hate Mom?”

  “Kennie. How can you ask that?”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Well, then you shouldn’t ask it. Because I don’t.”

  “I take it back.” She rests her chin on her knees. “And you’re calling Emma?”

  “What?” I say.

  “She called before. First Gram called and said she was mailing us cookies, and also she had some more scraps for you, and then Emma called.”

  I stare at my little sister. “When?”

  “Like, twenty minutes ago. Mom answered the phone.”

  “She did? Why didn’t she tell me just now?”

  Kennedy shrugs. “Don’t be mad at her, Mari. She has ever so much on her mind.”

  I run to the kitchenette. Mom is at the table sipping her ginger tea and typing on her laptop. PROPOSAL FOR PERFORMANCE PIECE, the screen says, all the P’s in this jumpy-looking computer font. Beside the stove Beezer the one-eared beagle is snoozing in his metal crate. He’s been here for about a week now, and I’m starting to think his owner has forgotten him.

  “So Emma called?” I ask before I can catch my breath.

  “Emma?” Mom acts like she’s trying to remember some trivial battle from ancient history. Then her face freezes. “Oh, yes! Yikes! I completely forgot to tell you!”

  “You forgot Kennie said she called a few minutes ago!”

  “She did. I’m really sorry! It just flew out of my mind.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that. My mouth hangs open.

  “I’m sorry, Marigold,” Mom repeats. She waits. Then she smiles brightly. “Now you’re supposed to say, That’s okay, Beloved Mother, I see how you’re swamped with work, plus we’re still getting settled in a brand-new town and everything is crazy, so of course I totally forgive you—”

  I shake my head.

  “No? Not a good line? Yeah, you’re probably right.” She sits back in her chair, crosses her arms, and sighs. “Okay, Mari, look. I know you’re furious at me about the Pajama Day thing. I understand; I’m mad at me too. I should have read that info packet more carefully, and you’re right, I owe you a huge apology.”

  “Mom.”

  “But you know what, baby? You could have read it too. I didn’t want to say that when I came to school this morning, because you were obviously so upset. But it’s the truth. You’re a big girl, and you should take some responsibility here. It’s not all my fault.”

  “Mom,” I say in a tight voice. “This is not about Pajama Day.”

  “It’s not?” She sips her tea.

  “You know exactly what it’s about,” I say, and dial Emma’s number.

  How It Is

  “Emma?”

  “Mari? Omigod. Is it really you?”

  “It’s really, really me.”

  “I can’t believe it! I miss you soooo much!”

  “I miss you, too.” I can hear my voice cracking, but I’m happy. No, better than happy: I feel like a dusty, thirsty houseplant that’s finally getting watered. Because I’m talking to my absolute best friend in the universe for the first time since we left Aldentown last month. We’ve been sending each other e-mails and cards and everything, but it’s just not the same as an actual conversation.

  “So what’s it like?” she’s asking.

  “You mean Lawson?” I look out the kitchenette window. “Well, right now it’s snowing.”

  “It’s snowing here, too! God, Mari, remember last winter when we made that incredible snow fort? And then had that humongous snowball fight with Will and Matt?”

  Will is her crush. Matt is mine. Was mine. There’s no point in having a crush if you can’t see the crushee anymore.

  “And then after that we all came over here and Mom made hot chocolate and we played my brother’s Wii? And you owned Matt on SuperSmash; you were amazing, Mari. God, it feels like two days ago.”

  Not to me, but I don’t correct her. “So what’s going on with Will, anyway?”

  She tells me all about this cool-sounding after-school club they co-invented: Japanese Anime. Mostly I just listen to her talk. I can’t believe how great it feels to hear her slightly-too-loud voice that always sounds as if there’s a laugh inside, waiting to burst out. Maybe, I think, we can get Webcams or something, so we could actually talk face-to-face.

  Finally she orders me to stop listening and say something back.

  “There’s not much to say,” I tell her.

  “Oh, Mari, come on. Have you made any friends yet?”

  “Sort of.” Actually, at lunch today I’d sat down with Quinn, but the whole time she kept looking over her shoulder, like she thought someone would snatch her food. And then Brody sat down and started making comments about my polka dots, so I couldn’t even ask what she was so nervous about.

  “You will,” Emma says confidently. “Just try to open up a little, so they’ll see how great you are. Are there any cute boys?”

  I think about Ethan, with his dark, wavy hair. And his apelike best friend. “Not really.”

  “Too bad. Well, keep looking; one’s bound to turn up.” She pauses. “So anyway. What’s your polish status?”

  I study my fingernails. Not only are they totally unpolished, they’re also chipped and dirty. The truth is, ever since the move, I haven’t even thought about them. “Um, right now I’m wearing Fun in the Sun.”

  “Oh, I love that color!” she squeals. “That’s the one with, what was it? Oh, yes. Pearly undertones.”

  I grin. “And a hint of opalescence.”

  “And a whiff of springtime.”

  “And romantic evenings before the fire. And Paris in the rain.”

  “Ooh la la. Oh, but wait. How can Fun in the Sun mean Paris in the rain?”

  “It’s a sun shower,” I say. “With a gorgeous rainbow at the end.”

  She laughs. I love her laugh. Then she says, “God, it’s just so awful that we can’t hang out anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “And so unfair! It’s not like we messed up.”

  I tear off a ragged bit of pinky-nail. “Yeah. We didn’t.”

  She sighs. “Well. No use going into all that again, I guess. So tell me something else about your brand-new life. Tell me about school.”

  “You really want to hear that?
”

  “Of course I do!” she swears, so I tell her about the whole Pajama Day ordeal.

  “That’s horrible,” she says. “Did your mom at least apologize?”

  “Sort of. She said she was mad at herself, but that it was my fault too.”

  “Really? How was it your fault?”

  “I don’t know. I could have read the school calendar.”

  “Could you have?”

  It takes Emma’s question to focus my brain on the fact that yes, okay, I actually could have read the dumb calendar. I mean, Mom did tear up the New Student Info Packet for Beezer’s crate-bed, but first it had been sitting for, like, a week on the kitchenette counter with all the bills and junk mail. So technically yes, I could have read it myself. And with Mom’s organizational track record, I probably should have.

  Before I can admit this, though, Emma’s mom starts yelling. I can’t hear exactly what she’s saying, but I can make out enough of the tone to know that Trisha Hartley wants her daughter off the phone. This minute.

  “Look, gotta go,” Emma says quickly.

  “Your mom?”

  “Yeah.” She laughs awkwardly. “You know how it is.”

  “Has she . . . you know. Said anything?”

  “Not specifically. But I’m still thinking that if we give it enough time, she’ll calm down. And then maybe you can visit in the summer.”

  I swallow. “That would be so great, Em.”

  “EMMA,” I hear. “WHAT DID I JUST SAY? DO YOU THINK I’M DEAF? DO YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU’RE TALKING TO?”

  “See you online,” she whispers. And then she hangs up.

  Chocolate Night

  We moved to Aldentown with only three weeks left to the school year. Most parents would have waited until summer vacation, I knew, but Mom had insisted that Beau and Bobbi were counting on her to perform, and that we had to get to Aldentown as soon as we possibly could. And then of course once we got there, and all the boxes had been re-unpacked, she insisted that Kennedy and I start school the following Monday to “get into the swing of things.”

  “Can’t we just wait until September?” I begged her. I was convinced that the least she owed us was the chance to start school with everybody else. Plus I was just fine hanging out in my tiny new bedroom, talking with Kennedy, working on my patchwork Thing. Right before we moved, Gram had mailed me a big box of scraps, and I guess it kind of comforted me to be stitching them together. I liked designing patterns with the weird, clashing fabric, and also making something that kept changing shape. But mostly what I think I liked was the soothing rhythm of sewing: poke, pull, poke, pull.