One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies (6 page)

P.P.S. Say hello to Cameron for me.

P.P.P.S. Cheer up!

Dear Lizabeth,

Easy for you to say. But I guess I'm not
that
depressed, considering that the biggest tart in the entire galaxy is trying to steal my boyfriend while
I'm
stuck here in Less Angeles, 3000 miles too far away to do a single thing about it.

I'm not
that
depressed, considering that my aunt Duffy's just informed me that she's totally deserting me to go running off with her idiotic new boyfriend and she won't even be able to communicate with me for at least six months.

I'd say I'm doing
reasonably
well, considering that all the girls at my new school look like they just stepped out of the pages of a
Victoria's Secret
catalog, and I have a zit on my nose the size of a giraffe.

I'm not
that
depressed, considering that Whip Logan's ego is listed in the
Guinness Book of World Records
, my best friend lives on the other side of the planet, and my mom's still dead.

Well, maybe I
am
a little depressed.

Love,

Ruby

P.S. I'll say hello to Cameron for
you
, if you'll kill Amber for
me
.

Dear Mom,

How are things in the after life?
Is
there an after life? LOL.

I got one of those “Returned mail: Host unknown” e-mails from AOL after I wrote you the first time. It said that your address had “permanent fatal errors.” Ha!
I'll
say. That permanently fatal part is what I hate the most about death.

Sometimes, I still can't believe that you're never coming back.

Love u 4 ever,

Ruby

I Had My Recurring Dream Again Last Night

The same dream I've been having
ever since I can remember.
It's the one where I'm about two years old
and I'm at the Franklin Park Zoo,
holding hands with this real tall man.
I'm not exactly sure who he is.
But I'm holding this man's hand,
and it feels nice and warm and dry.

We're standing in front of the monkey cage,
watching all these funny red monkeys
eating bananas and swinging from branches
like tiny, furry acrobats,
and I'm feeling like I could
just stand here watching these monkeys,
holding this man's nice, warm, dry hand
forever.

And at this point in the dream,
the smallest monkey always opens its mouth
and lets out a howl,
a howl louder than any howl could possibly be,
a howl that slices through me like a chain saw.
And all the other monkeys start howling too,
and they howl and howl and howl,
until I feel like I'll explode with the sound.

And I try to run away,
but my legs are paralyzed.

So I just stand there,
letting the howls rip through me.
And that's when the tall man reaches down,
scoops me up in his arms,
and whispers, I'll keep you safe.”

He whisks me away from the earsplitting noise,
to a quiet place.
And that's when I always put one of my chubby
two-year-old hands on each of his cheeks
and press my forehead against his.
It feels nice and warm and dry.
Just like his hand.

And then I wake up.

So, Fritz

What do you think I should be?

The monkey?
The man?
The nice, warm, dry hand?
The cage?
The howl?

Or the banana?

Doing Gestalt Therapy on Myself Seems So Lame

But, heck.
I wouldn't mind having
an epiphany of my very own.
So I guess I'll try
being
the banana.
I feel like an absolute idiot doing this,
but here goes:

I am the banana.

I am the banana
and the monkey is eating me.
The monkey is devouring me,
bite by bite.
I am disappearing
into the stomach of the monkey.

I am disappearing.

I am being digested.
I am turning into shit.
My
life
is turning into shit.

My life is shitty?
Geez, what's
that
supposed to be?
An epoophany?

Tell me something I
don't
know.

It's the Second Day of School

And Whip
still
wouldn't let me walk there.

Even though I practically
got down on my hands and knees
and begged him.

He just popped me into this
1938 Pontiac woody station wagon
with these perfect birch panels,

and said, “Aw, come on, Ruby.
Indulge me …
I've been missing out on doing this for years.”

As if I could care
about what
he's
been missing out on.

The Next Few Days Just Sort of Blur By

Like I'm riding on a train
through the pouring rain
trying to see out the window
wearing someone else's glasses.

Every day, when I get home after school,
the house is crawling with strangers.
And Whip insists on introducing me
to every last one of them.

He puts his arm around my shoulder
and says, “I'd like you to meet my daughter.”
His
daughter, he says,
like he
owns
me.

I meet Whip's tailor,
Whip's interior decorator,
Whip's chiropractor,
and Whip's psychic.

I meet his lawyer, his agent,
his masseuse, his business manager,
his business manager's masseuse,
and his agent's lawyer.

I meet his broker, his gardener,
his housekeeper, his homeopath,
his acupuncturist, his manicurist,
and his violinist.

Okay.
He doesn't really have a violinist.
I was just messing with you.
But he does have all those other people.

It apparently takes
half the population of Lost Angeles
to keep Whip Logan functioning.
This guy's
entourage
has an entourage.

And Most of Them Seem Like Kiss-ass Jerks

But this one guy named Max is okay.
Whip introduces him as his assistant
slash personal trainer
slash all-round lifesaver.

He's the only one
out of that whole pack of hangers-on
who doesn't tiptoe around Whip
like he's breakable or something.

And he actually seems interested
in getting to know me.
Even asks me how I like California.
And if I miss being back east.

He's the only one
out of all of them
who gives my hand this little squeeze
and says he's so sorry about my mother.

The only one who offers to pulverize Whip
if he gives me the slightest bit of trouble.
He's just kidding,
but it still makes me feel good.

He's this big bearded bruiser of a guy,
with a voice more gravelly than Hagrid's,
and that name that makes him sound like he
sits around all day playing poker and smoking cigars.
But he can't fool
me
—I know he's gay.

How
Do I Know?

My gaydar.
I was born with it.
It's my sixth sense.
I think I inherited it from my mother.

Sometimes I know a guy's gay
even before
he
does.
It's just this ability I have.
My mom had it, too.

She used to say it didn't have anything to do
with how they held their tea cups
or their taste in music
or things like that.

She just
knew
.
It was something else,
she used to say.
Something she could
smell
.

I guess by now you've figured out
that Mom was prejudiced against gays.
Of course, she never would have admitted it.
I even hate to admit it
about
her.

But she definitely was.
How did I know?
Let's just say
it was something I could smell.

I Wonder If Max is Trying to Hide It

Or if that's just how he is.
Not all gay guys are swishy, you know.
Not all of them lisp.
That's just a myth.

When we're alone,
I ask him if he likes Streisand,
to let him know
that I know he's gay.

He says he prefers Eminem.
Says the guy's a true poet.
Which is exactly how
I
feel,
actually.

He says he doesn't have much of a knack
for interior decorating either,
in case I was wondering.
And then he grins at me, and winks.

Whip's such a lug.
I bet he doesn't even realize Max is gay.
I'd sure like to see the look on that
famous macho face of his when he finds out.

But Max's
little secret
is safe
with me.

Dear Mom,

How are things in the casket? Not too damp, I hope. ☺

I've met the coolest guy. He works for He-who-shall-not-be-mentioned. His name is Max. I'm not going to tell you about him though, because you wouldn't approve. And no, it's not a love thing. So you don't have to worry about any hanky-panky … Speaking of which, you aren't like
all-knowing
now, or anything, are you? I mean, you can't see every move I make down here in Hollyweird can you? If so, quit snooping and get a life. JK.

Love u 4 ever,

Ruby

My Phone Rings

I pounce on it.
“Hey, Rubinski,” a raspy,
Marge Simpson-esque voice says.
“How the heck
are
you?”

It's Lizzie calling!
Good old Lizini,
darling Lizabella,
dearest most wonderful Lizeetheus!

(Okay. So maybe I'm overdoing it.
But until I heard her voice,
I didn't realize how much
I'd been
missing
it.)

Lizzie tells me
how miserable she is without me
and how miserable Ray is without me
and about all of Amber's latest tacky moves.

And I tell Lizzie
about Lakewood and about Max
and about Colette and about
what a pitiful excuse for a father Whip is.

I even tell her
about those e-mails
that I've been sending
to a certain dead mother.

“Do you think I should seek
professional help?” I ask her.
“Most definitely,” she rasps.
“Dr. Lizzie Freudy, at your service.”

Then she laughs,
that perfect rumbly laugh of hers,
and I miss her so much
I can hardly bear it.

But Suddenly She Says She's Got to Go

“Because The Evil Stepmom is suffering from
severe Pre-menopausal Hormonal
Haywire Disorder,” she explains.

“And trust me, if I don't quit talking to you
and go help her in the kitchen
right now
,
my ass is grass.”

That's
not hard to believe.
I can hear her stepmom howling at her
louder than the monkeys in my recurring dream.

So we say quick good-byes and hang up.
I feel a pang in my stomach,
like someone just handed me some Sour Skittles

and then grabbed them away again
before I even had a chance
to pop a single one of them into my mouth.

I just sit there,
staring at the silent phone in my hand.
Then I do the only sensible thing:

I call up Ray.

He Answers the Phone

When he hears my voice, he almost shouts,
“Whoa! Is this really
you
, babe?”
And I practically swoon.

It's as though I can
feel
his voice,
feel his words brushing against my cheek,
his lips brushing against my ear,
his tongue brushing across my …

“Dooby?” he says. “You still there?”
And I realize I haven't been listening
to a word he's been saying.

“I'm still here,” I say.
“But I wish
I was
there
.”

“How's the Weather in Tinsel Town?” He Asks

“
What
weather?” I say.
“It's raining cats and dogs
here
,” he says.
“Listen.”

I hear the sound
of a window being shoved up.
Then I hear the rain.

So clearly—like it's coming down
right outside
my
window.
My eyes threaten a storm of their own.

“Remember that night last summer
when we went to see the movie
about the hurricane?” I say.

“And when we went outside afterward, it was so funny, because it was pouring and we felt like we were
in
the movie?”

“How could I for
get
it, babe?” he says.
And for a few seconds
we share a delicious silence,

remembering together
how he threw his coat over our heads and
we ran down the sidewalk joined at the hip,

and then he pulled me under an awning,
and we kissed and kissed and kissed
while lightning strobed the sky.

“Mmmm,” he says. “That was the night
that your dress shrunk two sizes.
Right while you were
wearing
it!”

“I dreamt about that night last night,” I say.
“Only in my dream,
we did
more
than kiss …”

Then he murmurs
in this real husky voice,
“You're driving me crazy, woman …”

“God,” I say.
“I wish Thanksgiving was tomorrow.”
“I wish it was right
now
,” he whispers.

But Thanksgiving
is still two whole months away
. How am I going to survive until then?

Midnight Shock

I tiptoe down
to the kitchen

to try to sublimate my sexual frustration
with a Häagen-Dazs bar—

and find Max sitting at the kitchen table.
In his pajamas!

“What are
you
doing here?!” I ask.
“I live here,” he says.

“Right in the same house with us?” I say.
“Yep. This very one.”

“Where's your room?”
“Just behind that door over there.”

“In the assistant slash personal trainer
slash all-round lifesaver's quarters?” I ask.

“You guessed it,” he says.
“My homie!”! say.

And we slap each other five.

Blank Book

Feather just gave every kid
in my Dream Interpretation class
a blank book to write in.
She called them dream journals
and said that our homework
is to record our dreams in them
every morning when we wake up.