by Barbara Dee
“Actually,” I say carefully, “I think the real problem—”
“Mari, I’m trying to explain my thought process.”
“Okay, sorry.”
She furrows her brow. “Anyway. My point is that to do my art, I have to be free to take risks. I can’t worry that I’m going to offend somebody, and I can’t promise that audiences are going to love every performance. But what I can promise is that from now on I’ll do a better job of PR.”
“What’s that?” Kennedy asks, wrinkling her nose.
“Public relations,” Mom explains. “Mixing it up with the townfolk. Being a part of the whole”—she waves one arm toward the window—“community.”
Okay, now I’m starting to freak. “Mom? Why exactly were you at my school today?”
“Exactly? To talk to your principal.”
Stay calm. “I know. You wrote that in Beezer’s note. What about?”
“Well, I was coming to that.” She takes another bite of pizza. Then she says, “In the interest of community outreach, and also to introduce our family to the neighborhood, I decided to give a free performance at your school. I was proposing Friday night in the gym.”
“MOM. NO.”
“Unfortunately that’s what Bob said. Apparently they need the space for some kind of depressing basketball tournament or something.”
“I hate basketball,” Kennedy says. “We’re doing it in gym and I haven’t made one single basket yet. Dexter called me a spaz.”
Mom frowns. “Who’s Dexter?”
“A horrid girl in my class.”
“Well, ignore her, then. And just repeat to yourself: Swish. Swish.”
“Why?”
“It’s the sound of the net when the ball sails through. Just keep hearing that sound—swish! swish!—and you’ll make the basket.”
“Swish. Swish.”
“Say it like you mean it, Kennie. SWISH, SWISH. Can you hear the air vibrating?”
“Mom?” I say loudly. “So that’s your big news? You asked if you could perform on Friday night and Mr. Shamsky said no?”
“Of course not,” she answers, smiling. “What’s so exciting about that? My news is that I’m doing a club.”
“A what?”
“An after-school Improv Club, starting right after spring break. It was Bob who suggested it, actually. Apparently they offer all kinds of fun things—cooking, chess, pottery—”
Jousting with greasy fingers. “Yeah, I heard about the clubs. So what does this mean? You’re planning to teach—”
“Oh, no, baby, you can’t teach what I do. I’ll just be encouraging kids to stand up in front of an audience and have fun.” She pushes away her plate. “Oh, Marigold, kids your age can be so painfully self-conscious. I want to loosen them up, get them to really enjoy performing. Because you know, precious daughters, when it all comes down to it, life is really just one big improv act.”
That sounds like a line she’s practiced. Which is kind of ironic, actually.
“But why at my school?” I say, tearing off a tiny bit of crust. “I mean, can’t you just keep doing your workshop at the college?”
“Sure. I plan to. But it’s only three hours a week.”
“Well, then, do the club at Kennie’s school.”
“Oh, could you?” Kennedy pleads. “That would be ever so splendid!”
Mom smiles. “The sad truth, Kennie, is that kids your age don’t get what I do. Mari, you remember all that fuss in second grade, don’t you?”
I shrug, even though obviously I remember perfectly. “Listen, nobody at my school will get it either. Plus they all hate each other, they’re paranoid, and they overreact about everything.”
“Oh, come on. I’m sure it’s not so bad.”
“That’s because you don’t go there. It’s like a giant war zone.”
She laughs, but it’s not a ha-ha laugh. “Okay, now you’re being slightly overdramatic.”
I stare at her. “I’m overdramatic?”
She folds her arms across her chest and pushes her chair back from the table. “All right, Marigold. Is there something you want to say here?”
“Marigold,” Kennie says softly. “I truly think you should hush.”
I look at Mom. Her eyes are glowing, like she’s in the middle of a big dramatic scene, and she’s waiting for me to say my line.
So fine, I say it. “I don’t want you teaching at my school.”
“Why not?”
“Because your stuff embarrasses me.”
She does a gasping laugh. “It does? What stuff are you referring to, exactly?”
“Basically all of it. The whole performance thing.”
“The whole performance thing. You’re referring to what? Everything I do onstage?”
“Just about.”
“Whew. Wow. You never told me you felt this way.”
“You never asked.”
She sits there, blinking, for once speechless and obviously shocked. Obviously hurt, too, and I’m thinking, Why did I say all that? Should I take it back? Act like it was a dumb joke? Apologize?
But then she looks me right in the retinas and announces, “For your information, Marigold, I happen to know the difference between performing and teaching. And if I do teach improv at your school, I’m sure your classmates would absolutely love it.”
“That isn’t the point,” I say, my voice coming out squawky. “I’m asking you not to do it. For me.”
“Oh, but it is for you! For our whole family! That’s what I was trying to explain before. And it’s not up to the two of us, anyway. I still have to write a proposal, and the PTA head has to approve it.” Suddenly she does this big fake cheery smile. “Oh, Mari, it’ll be fabulous, you’ll see. Come on, have a little faith in me, all right?”
She messes my hair and kisses Kennedy on the forehead. Then she springs up from the table and does a yoga stretch so complicated I’m sure she made it up herself. “And now, beloved daughters, I need to round up my Evening Walkers. Are there any cookies left? I think I’ll take some for the road.”
Settle Down
The second Mom and Beezer are out the door, I run to my computer to IM Emma. But she’s still logged off, even though it’s 8:25, prime homework time, when we usually chat. What’s going on? Where is she?
The phone rings. I snatch the receiver from the kitchenette wall.
“Emma?” I shout. “Is that you?”
“It’s Dad,” he says. “Sorry to disappoint you, Monster.” He pauses. “Is Mom around?”
“No, she’s out dogwalking.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he admits. “I kind of wanted to talk to you in private.”
“You did? How come?”
“I, uh, have big news.”
Okay. I don’t know about you, but there’s only so much big news I can handle in one day. I take the phone and sink onto the sofa. “Can I ask you a favor? Please just say it fast.”
“I’m getting married.”
Not that fast. “You are? To The—I mean, to Mona?”
“Who else?”
Don’t ask me. You’re the one with Surprise Girlfriends. “That’s so great, Dad. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks, Mari.”
“When will it be?”
“This summer.” He pauses. “We were hoping after the honeymoon you and Kennie could take a little trip with us. Mona knows a dude ranch out west where the three of you could relax, get better acquainted. And it’s even got a vegetarian meal option.”
“Sounds perfect,” I lie. “Kennie loves horses; I’m sure she’ll be psyched. Of course, she’ll start talking like a cowboy and wearing fringes on everything.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Well, we can put up with that, right? As long as she doesn’t chew any tobacco.” He pauses again, longer this time. “But first I’ll need to clear all this with Mom.”
“Ri-ight,” I say. “And does she know about you and—”
“No. Not
yet. Any suggestions on how to break the news?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Just joking,” he says, but neither of us is laughing. “Well, anyway, I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He exhales. “Okay, love you, Monster. Can you hand the phone over to Kennie now?”
So I do, then head straight to my computer. Log on, I pray to Emma. Please log on. I desperately need to talk to you.
But she isn’t there. Still. Maybe her computer is broken or something.
All of a sudden I have a crazy idea. I’ll call her house. If she picks up, we’ll have an actual conversation, even if it’s only for a few minutes. If either of her parents answer, I’ll just hang up. And I’ll use my cell, so they won’t be able to caller ID my house.
I step out of my bedroom and hear Kennedy’s voice on the phone with Dad. She sounds like she’s arguing: “Yeah, a dude ranch sounds okay. I know you do, Daddy. But whyyyy do you have to—”I shut the door and dial Emma’s number. It rings four times. On the fifth ring, someone answers.
“Yeah-lo,” says a Hartley. Not Emma, though. Definitely not Trisha, and probably not her dad. One of her slobby brothers. Can’t tell who yet.
“Um,” I say.
“Can you repeat that?” Okay, got it. It’s Seth, the one who microwaved SpaghettiOs. I’ve always hated how he teases Emma, but he’s usually pretty decent to me.
I clear my throat, hoping that makes my voice thick and goopy, like Mr. Hubley’s. “Sorry, bad cold. Is Emma there?”
Silence. “Marigold?”
Dang. “Uh, yes, actually. How are you, Seth?”
“You shouldn’t be calling this house.”
“I know. But this’ll be really quick, I swear.”
He thinks; I can hear him breathing.
“Seth,” I beg. “Can I please talk to Emma? I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t incredibly important.”
“Whatever,” he finally mutters, then hollers, “EMMMM-AAAA!”
For a few seconds I don’t hear anything, then some muffled voices, then the phone dropping, then Emma: “Marigold?” Her voice sounds almost squeaky.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“No. Are you?”
“Me? No. That’s why I’m calling. I just had a huge fight with Mom at supper. She’s threatening to teach an acting class at my school. Can you believe that? I think this cute boy may like me, but also this nasty girl really hates me. And then five minutes ago Dad called—”
“Your dad?” She sounds confused now. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. He’s marrying The Horrible Mona Woman. And dragging us off to some vegetarian dude ranch!”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Emma? You there?”
“Mari,” she says slowly, “I think you may not know what happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This morning. Your mom called my mom. And basically threw a fit about my mom not letting us talk on the phone. And forcing us to sneak IMs—”
“What?”
“Becca told her we’ve been chatting online, so now I can’t use my computer for anything but homework. And if Mom catches me on the phone with you—” Emma starts sniffling. “This is so messed up. And it just keeps getting worse.”
For a second I’m speechless. Then I sputter, “I can’t believe my mom called your house. She’s totally out of control!”
“So you didn’t know?”
“Well, she told me she wanted to, but I begged her not to. And I thought—”
“Did she promise you she wouldn’t?”
I think about our conversation this morning, how I ran off to change my pants before we’d finished. What was my big hurry? To go eavesdrop on Jada Sperry? “No, I guess not. I guess she never promised anything.”
“Listen, Mari,” Emma says. “Things are really bad over here. My mom’s incredibly upset. Not just at your mom, but at me for sneaking online. And I hate feeling she doesn’t trust me anymore.”
“So what are you saying?”
“It’s so unfair. But maybe we should . . . I don’t know. Let things go for a while.”
“Let things go? What does that mean? You’re saying not be—”
“Don’t get mad,” she says quickly. “Okay?”
“But that’s crazy, Emma! It’s wrong. Can’t you stand up to her about this?”
“Stand up about what? I was sneaking, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, but only because she made you!”
“Okay, now you’re sounding exactly like Becca.”
My throat is closing up now. “Emma, how can you say that?”
“Sorry. I just mean you’re acting like my mom’s this big powerful villain. Even though Becca was the one who called. And attacked her.”
“Mom didn’t mean to attack,” I say limply.
“You’re defending her?”
“No! But she wants us to stay friends. I’m sure she just meant to stick up for us.”
“Well, that’s a funny way to do it.” Emma blows her nose. “Anyway, I really do think we should take a break right now. Until things settle down a little. Mari?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I know this isn’t your fault.”
“Well, sure! Of course it’s not my—”
“What I mean is, I know you didn’t purposely tell Becca about the IMs. It just slipped out, right?”
I try to think of that freezing walk, what I said, what Mom said, but right now all I remember clearly is wanting to shock her. Wanting to tell her something she didn’t know.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sort of.”
Emma sighs. “Look, I’m sure you’ll like Lawson if you give it a chance. You’re a really great person. I’m sure if you just—”
“Don’t worry, I’ve already made a ton of new friends. There’s this boy—”
“But you said some girl hates you?”
“It’s not important, Emma. I’ll be fine.”
Then we don’t say anything. This may be our last conversation—our last anything—for a long time, so it’s weird how we’re both being quiet. But somehow my mouth has just stopped working.
“Okay,” Emma finally says in a small voice. “Well, I’d better get off the phone now. See you, Marigold.”
“You too,” I whisper, and hang up just as Mom bursts in the door.
Definitely Bad
“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Mom asks, throwing her arms around me. She smells like dogs and snow and oatmeal cookies. For a second I let her squeeze me, resting my head against her down jacket.
Then I pull away. “Mom,” I say. “Were you going to tell me you called Trisha Hartley?”
“Oh! Of course I was. But we got sidetracked at dinner about the club thing.”
“And you told her about the IMs? How could you? Now she’s furious at Emma.”
“Oh, no. Is she really?”
“And Emma doesn’t want to be friends.”
“With you? She said that?” Mom looks shocked.
I nod.
“But you didn’t do anything! Is Emma blaming you?”
“It’s complicated,” I answer, shrugging. “There’s all this stuff between Emma and her mom.”
Mom rubs my cheek with her freezing hand. “Oh, baby. This is really such a shame. And so unfair to you.”
“Yeah, it is,” I say. “Unfair to me.”
And then before I figure out that it’s happening, I’m crying. Mom hugs me again, and I let her this time, even though she’s kind of missing the point about her role in all this.
Now Kennedy is standing in the doorway, without her glasses. Her eyes look enormous and pink.
“Kennie, can you give us a minute, please?” Mom says, handing me a linty tissue from her jacket pocket.
Kennedy nods. But she doesn’t go away. “Mari told you?” she asks in a small, shaky voice.
“Yes, angel. She just now tol
d me all about Emma.”
“No, I mean about Dad.”
“Kennie,” I say in a warning voice. “I really don’t think—”
“Think what?” Mom asks quickly.
Suddenly Kennedy bursts into tears and flings herself onto my bed. I try to catch her eye to give her a look that means not now, but she’s so busy sniffling and gasping that she isn’t registering.
Mom looks at me, alarmed. “Okay. What about Dad?”
“Nothing.” I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
“Mari. What? ”
“He’s marrying Mona,” Kennedy blurts out. A string of snot is dangling from her nose, so I hand her my wet tissue.
Mom turns to me, white-faced. “So,” she murmurs. “And were you going to tell me?”
“I just found out,” I say. “Dad called, like, the minute you left—”
“And you called Emma.” She shakes her head. “I had my cell phone. You should have called me, baby.”
“I know. Except I was really mad at you.” I sniff in some drippy snot. “But I’m sorry I said all that stuff. About your performances.”
“That’s okay. I knew you didn’t mean it.” Mom sighs. “Well,” she says tiredly. “I’d say we were all due for a Chocolate Night, but it’s too cold to go out shopping again. And I ate too many of Gram’s cookies, anyway.”
“Me too,” says Kennie, hiccupping. “Besides, now my stomach hurts.”
“It does? Do you think maybe you’re going to—”
“Throw up? I don’t think so.” But she has that look she gets, so Mom puts her arm around Kennedy’s shoulders and walks her to the bathroom.
A few minutes later I hear Mom close the door to her own bedroom and make some phone calls. I can’t hear very much, but it sounds as if first she’s talking to Gram (“Oh, Mom, I’m just in shock”), and then to Dad (“And this is how I find out, Jeff? From the girls?”). After a while I check on Kennedy and she tells me she’s fine, she’s getting bored in the bathroom, and can she please come out? So I say sure, why not, and we put on our pj’s and both pretend to fall asleep.
Next morning, Mom is in the living room, upside down, surrounded by marbles.
“What a night, huh?” she greets me. “Did you get any sleep?”
