Trauma Queen (3 page)

“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.

“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.