Trauma Queen

by Barbara Dee

  “Mari? Why are you standing there?”

  I spin around.

  And see Kennedy walking toward me.

  And realize there’s something hard under my right foot.

  A marble.

  Before I know what’s happening, I’m sprawled on the floor.

  “Do you think you can walk?” Mom is asking. Her face is pale and her eyes look huge.

  “Probably,” I say.

  I guess I’m not too convincing, though, because she and Gram insist on lifting me up and helping me hop over to the sofa. Then Gram hurries to the freezer to get some ice, while Mom carefully pulls off my sock and props up my foot with a pillow.

  “It’s all my fault,” she’s muttering. “Those stupid marbles. I had them in the box yesterday, but Beezer knocked it over. And I thought I found them all, but I guess one got away. Oh, Marigold, I’m so sorry—”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. Because of course now I’m feeling scuzzy about eavesdropping on her. And I can tell Kennedy realizes that’s exactly what I was doing, because she’s making a fish-mouth and avoiding eye contact.

  The phone rings. Beezer starts barking like crazy from his crate.

  “Somebody answer that phone,” Gram hollers. “I’m dealing with this god-awful ice cube tray.”

  Kennedy runs into the kitchenette. “Uh-huh,” I can hear her say. “Uh-huh. Okay. I’ll tell her.” Then she hangs up and comes running back into the living room, followed by Beezer and Gram.

  “Remind me to teach you some phone manners, Kennie,” Mom says. “Who was that?”

  “The PTA lady from Mari’s school. She said your club was approved, but she wants you to call her back.”

  “What club?” Gram asks, catching my eye. She’s holding about a glacier of ice wrapped in a towel, and now she’s pressing it hard on my throbbing ankle.

  “Just improv,” Mom says distractedly. “Theater games, mostly.”

  “Her name is Lisa Sperry,” Kennedy announces. “And her number is 645-7125. I wrote it on my hand.” She waves her inky palm at Mom. “When are you going to call her?”

  “Later,” Mom says. “Or tomorrow. Sometime.”

  “She said it was ever so important.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t say ever so,” I comment. I pet Beezer, who is now slobbering on my knee. Then I turn to Mom. “And I thought you wanted me to help you with the application.”

  “Well, you didn’t seem too eager, frankly, so I just e-mailed it in this morning.” Mom stares deep into my eyes, like she’s searching for buried treasure. “Listen, Mari. I’ve been thinking. If you really don’t want me to do this club, I won’t.”

  Kennedy looks at me. Gram doesn’t.

  I wince a little, so Gram takes off the ice pack. Then I peek at my ankle: It looks perfectly normal, not swollen, not even black-and-blue.

  Suddenly, in addition to feeling scuzzy, I’m feeling incredibly idiotic. Also selfish. Also drama-queeny, which is something I do not want to feel.

  “It’s just theater games?” I ask Mom. “You promise you won’t do a performance?”

  She shakes her sproingy hair. “No performance, Mari. Promise.”

  “And you won’t try to sell tickets to a performance? Or use the club for free publicity? Or do anything—I’m serious, Mom, anything—besides teaching improv?”

  Mom takes my hands in hers. “I swear, baby,” she says solemnly. “I’ll just teach improv. Cross my heart.”

  I look at Gram. Her eyes are bright, and her lips are shut tight, like she’s forcing herself not to speak.

  “Well, okay,” I say finally. “I guess you can do the club.”

  Gram beams at me. So does Kennedy. Mom kisses my cheek.

  “Just don’t make it humiliating,” I add, wiggling my toes.

  Rotating Gyroscope

  On Sunday after lunch I’m on my bed pretending to read The Lord of the Rings for English. For some dumb reason I chose it as my independent reading, but it’s so boring my mind keeps wandering off in a million directions. Plus it doesn’t help that Mom is on her bedroom phone, and her door is open, so I can hear every word. She’s talking to Jada’s mom in a fakely rahrah sort of voice, like she’s doing a new performance: Becca Bailey, PTA Volunteer.

  “Oh, I’m so excited,” she says. “No, I’ve never worked with middle school kids before. But my daughters—Two. Kennedy is eight, and Marigold is—Oh, is she? In the same homeroom? Isn’t that funny. . . . No, I don’t think she ever has, but you know girls this age—Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, that makes perfect sense. I’ll get on that as soon as I—Well, I’ll try. But I’m not very—No, I understand. No problem. Uh-huh. Thanks for calling.”

  Silence.

  Then Mom shouts, “AAAACK. Well, that woman is a major-league pain in the butt!”

  “What woman?” Gram calls from the bathroom.

  “Lisa Sperry, PTA czar of Marigold’s school. She’s demanding an itemized budget for my Improv club, ASAP.” Mom groans. “And how can I possibly make a budget before I meet my kids? Because who knows, after the first session, I might decide okay, what we really need is a room-size trampoline—”

  A room-size trampoline?

  “And the worst part,” Mom adds, “is that I’m sure she’s terrorizing me just to prove she can.”

  “Oh, Becca,” Gram is saying. “Just guesstimate about the budget. This is public school; you’re not getting a trampoline even if you want one. And if this PTA lady is a little pushy, who cares. The important thing—”

  I hear her walk into Mom’s room and shut the door. She’s in there for a long time, like maybe twenty minutes.

  The whole time they’re talking. Not fighting, talking. Back and forth, but quietly. I think I hear my name once or twice, but I’m not totally sure.

  All of a sudden Gram is knocking on my door. “Can I come in?” she’s asking, smiling as if she already knows the answer. She pushes Beezer off the bed and brushes the fur from my sheets. “That dumb dog thinks he lives here.”

  “We’re only watching him.”

  “Ha. I say he’s moved in permanently.” Finally she stops whacking my sheets and sits herself near my pillow. “I was so busy talking to your mom that I lost track of the time. And I hate to say it, but I do have a bus to catch.”

  I put down my book. “You mean now?”

  “In a few.” She takes my left hand and frowns. “You’ve let that go,” she scolds.

  “Let what?”

  “The polish. I was looking at you all weekend, and I couldn’t tell what was different. Now I realize. You’re not wearing nail polish.”

  I shrug. “I did that with Emma.”

  “Well, you should keep it up, with or without Emma. Most of your colors are not my personal cup of tea, but sometimes it looks pretty snazzy.”

  When I don’t answer that, Gram’s face softens. “You know what, cookie? Things will get better. And I’m sure you’ll get your friend back, if you don’t give up.”

  “Gram,” I say. “It’s not about me giving up. Emma’s the one who’s too scared to be friends.”

  “Well, if you want my opinion, Emma could use a stiffer spine. Beezer, don’t even think about jumping back on this bed.” She wags her finger, but Beezer jumps on anyway.

  I stroke his smelly head. He licks my nose.

  Gram smiles. “Anyway,” she says, “I’ve been doing a little thinking, Mari, and I might have an idea.”

  “You mean about Emma? What?”

  “I shouldn’t say. Just let me work on it a bit. And in the meantime, will you do something for me?”

  “Sure!”

  “Try to trust your mom a little.” She kisses my forehead, then carefully smears off the magenta lipstick. “She’s doing the best she can, you know? And you may not believe this, honey, but she understands you better than you think.”

  * * *

  In homeroom on Monday, Mr. Hubley is handing out Spring After-school Sign-Ups. Amazingly, kids are flipping page
s in the pamphlet, reading club names out loud, acting like they really care about this. Even Layla looks interested in her pamphlet, despite the fact that Jada’s mom shot down her proposal, and called her parents over the weekend to inform them that jousting in middle school was “entirely inappropriate.” (Layla told me about this as soon as I sat down; I could tell she was really proud.)

  “Hey, Bananas!” Brody is shouting. “Check out page three. That’s your mom, right?” He shoves his open pamphlet in my face, so I automatically push it away.

  Then I open my own pamphlet. Yup, there she is.

  DON’T JUST STAND THERE,

  DO SOMETHING!

  Calling all divas-in-hiding, sit-down stand-ups, singers-in-the-shower, bit players, understudies, drama geeks, and extras. Let’s play! In this club we’ll explore the games and techniques of theater improv, so you can learn to think on your feet, lose your inhibitions, command the stage, free your inner thespian. Mostly, though, we’ll just act silly. Come as you are; no performing experience necessary. In fact, the less the better!!!

  Becca Bailey is a nationally known performance artist and theater instructor. She has performed on and off stage all of her life.

  Well, I think. They’ve got that right.

  “Yo, Marigold, your mom’s a performance artist?” Brody is asking.

  “Yeah,” I say. “What about it?”

  “Nothing. I’m just curious. Does she do that thing where she’s buried underwater? Or, wait, what was that thing I saw on TV? Oh yeah: This guy hung upside down in a park for, like, three days. Does she do stuff like that?”

  Jada is looking at me. So are Megan and Ashley. So are Layla and Quinn, and a couple of girls from my gym class. Also Ethan; he’s blushing slightly, or maybe it’s just the weird fluorescent light in this room.

  “No,” I say firmly. “She doesn’t.”

  Now Jada is doing her hyper-sympathetic smile. “Your mom does other things, though, right?”

  “Like what?” Brody demands.

  “Look her up on Wikipedia,” Jada says helpfully. “There’s a whole article.”

  She covers her mouth and says something to Ashley. Then Ashley whispers something in Megan’s ear.

  I’m suddenly aware of leaky eyebrows. Because I know exactly what’s on Wikipedia; Beau and Bobbi cowrote an article last spring, complete with a bit from the “LICE” poem (“Itch. Itch. ITCH!”) and photos of Plastic Surgery. And, of course, the total last thing I need right now is a homeroom that’s researching Mom online.

  “You don’t believe everything on the Internet, do you?” I say, shrugging. “Because you know, half that stuff is wrong.”

  “Really?” Jada bats her eyelashes like Bambi. “Which half?”

  Somebody sniggers. Megan leans over and says something to Ashley.

  “Jada, shut up,” Layla mutters.

  “Did you say something?” Jada asks.

  “You heard me.”

  “Could you repeat that? A little louder? Because you know, we’re all so mesmerized by the sound of your voice.”

  Layla snarls, then sits on her boots and pretends to read her pamphlet. I try to catch her eye, but she’s fascinated by CPR for Babysitters, apparently.

  When the bell rings, I’m about to go to her, but first Ethan walks over to my desk.

  “Hey, Marigold,” he says. “Are you doing your mom’s club?”

  “Of course not,” I answer immediately. “And neither are you, right?”

  “Right,” he says. “I’m doing lacrosse.”

  I take a normal breath.

  “But I think Brody is,” he adds.

  “Are you serious? Why?”

  Ethan shrugs.

  “Can’t you talk him out of it?”

  “Brody?” He makes an are-you-kidding-me? face. “Please try,” I beg.

  “Please.” And grab his arm.

  Then we both realize that I’m grabbing his arm.

  He blinks at me with marshmallow-free eyelashes. “Okay, later,” he mumbles, and half runs out the door.

  Omigod, I think. What did I just do?

  And it gets even worse. Because when I look up, I realize Jada is gaping at me. As if she’s seen the whole thing, including the arm-grab.

  The look in her eyes is not hyper-sympathetic.

  All morning long, everyone is talking about the clubs.

  Five kids tell me they’re signing up for Mom’s, including two girls from my gym class.

  In math, Ashley and Megan pass me a note. WE’RE TAKING YOUR MOM’S CLUB! 8D! When I look up at them, Ashley smiles. Which has to be ironic, because with everything Jada’s been telling her about Mom, there’s no way she’s actually psyched about improv.

  In health class, Brody leans over my desk. “Hey, Bananas,” he says. “Was your mom ever chained to a rotating gyroscope?”

  “Why are you asking?” I manage to say. “Was yours?”

  Twice I catch Jada staring in my direction.

  Not Ethan, though. He doesn’t look at me at all. I think I freaked him out with the arm-grab, which I can’t even blame on Mom. (Okay, well, maybe indirectly. But I guess I could have begged him to talk to Brody without cutting off his circulation.)

  And right outside the lunchroom, Mr. Shamsky waves me over. “Improv has a wait list,” he says excitedly. “Your mom’ll be so pleased.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I lie. Then I run into the lunchroom, grab a turkey sandwich, and plop next to Layla. “Where’s everybody else?”

  “Math retest. Although I think Ethan’s afraid of you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The way you attacked his arm? In homeroom?”

  Ulp. “Did everyone see?”

  “Probably. I mean, dude, it was homeroom.” She points at my sandwich. “There’s no peanut butter in that thing, is there?”

  I shake my head.

  She takes a big bite of my sandwich and chews thoughtfully. “Jada’s madly in love with him, you know. So my guess is, as of this morning, you’ve shot straight to the top of her enemies list.”

  “But why?” I say weakly. “It had nothing to do with her.”

  “Everything has to do with Jada. According to Jada.” She wipes her mouth with my napkin. “So okay, then, what did it have to do with?”

  “You really want to hear?”

  She nods.

  “My mom,” I say.

  “Your mom. Okay, Marigold, now you’re making total sense.”

  I take a quick look around to make sure no one is listening. Then I lower my voice, just in case. “I was just asking Ethan to talk to Brody. To tell him not to take her club.”

  She raises one eyebrow. “How come?”

  “Because she’s crazy.”

  There. I said it. Becca Bailey is a nutcase.

  Layla opens up my sandwich and takes out all the tomato. She closes it up again and takes another big bite. “Hey, listen,” she says, chewing. “Everybody’s mom goes a little crazy sometimes. You know what mine did? She got so sick of my dad watching his stupid plasma TV all the time that she sold it on eBay. Behind his back.”

  “I don’t mean my mom goes crazy,” I say. “I mean she is crazy. As in, you don’t know what she’ll do next. Especially onstage.”

  “Whoa.” Now she’s eating the tomato. “Cool.”

  “Yeah, cool when it’s not your mom.” I definitely didn’t mean to get into all this, but for some strange reason my mouth keeps moving. “She promised me she’d behave herself, so I said fine, do the club. But that was before I thought anyone would sign up. And suddenly it’s this huge thing, Mr. Shamsky says there’s a wait list, and I’m scared she’ll do something really, really humiliating.”

  Layla scrunches up her forehead. “Why would she? You said she promised.”

  “Because she loves a big audience. It’s like, if a bunch of people are watching her, she just goes off. Sometimes I think if I walked onstage in the middle of one of her performances, she wouldn’t even know
who I was.”

  “That’s kind of . . . intense.”

  “And if she does go off,” I add, thinking out loud, “I won’t even be there to know it.”

  Layla wipes her mouth with my napkin. “Well, anyway, you can relax about that part. I’m in the club, so I’ll keep you totally informed.”

  I stare at her. “Wait. You’re doing Improv?”

  “So is Quinn. And you want to hear the best part? It was all her own idea. She said she thought it would help her overcome her shyness. Can you believe she actually said that?”

  I shake my head hopelessly.

  “And who knows.” She drops her voice. “Maybe it’ll help with my stage fright. I hate blanking out like a total moron. Remember that stupid ziti? I stood there like a wall.”

  “Layla,” I say. “It’s not going to help.”

  “Well, gee, Marigold, thanks for that vote of—”

  “I just mean the whole club will be the Becca Bailey Freak Show. It’s not going to be about you or Quinn or overcoming anything. It’s just going to be about her.”

  She takes off her thumb ring and rolls it around in her palm a few times, like she’s weighing it. Then she puts it back on. “Okay, you really want to know what I think? First of all, you should give your mom a chance. She promised you, and maybe she’ll keep her promise. Or maybe not; she sounds like she doesn’t have much of a track record.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “But if she doesn’t keep her promise, and she goes a little Looney Tunes, at least I’ll be there to let you know.”

  “Hey, leave Looney Tunes alone.” I sigh. “Okay, fine. But what if I’d rather not know?”

  “I thought you said—”

  “Well, what if I change my mind?”

  “You shouldn’t,” she insists. “Because if something weird happens, you don’t want to be the last to hear. Not the way gossip spreads at this stupid school.”

  I groan. This isn’t what I wanted from Layla; it’s way too logical. But I think about Ashley and Megan signing up, and probably reporting everything back to Jada, and I can’t really disagree with Layla’s argument.

  “And second of all,” she continues, “why are you so worried about me? Or Quinn? Or Brody, even if he’s in jerk mode? I mean, I don’t know how to break the news to you, Marigold, but along with Ethan, whose elbow you’re in love with, we’re your friends around here.”