One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies (12 page)

I make a feeble attempt to get up,
but my heart's so heavy
it's got me pinned to the bed.

When I don't come down,
he comes up,
and taps lightly on my door.

When I don't answer,
he opens it a
crack and sticks his head in.

I guess I must be deeply splotchy,
or maybe I look like I've been hit by a truck,
because when Whip sees me

his hand flies up to his mouth,
and he takes a step toward me,
like he's thinking about hugging me.

But when he sees the look I shoot him,
he stops in his tracks.
Just stops and stands there staring at me.

Like I'm the scene of a hideous accident.
I am
so
not in the mood
to deal with him right now.

“Leave me alone,” I say. “Just go away.”
But he comes over anyway,
and sits down next to me on my bed.

“I heard the phone ring.
Must have been some pretty bad news …”
He puts his hand on my arm, but I pull away.

“Want to tell me about it, Ruby?” he asks,
with his annoying concerned-parent look
plastered across his face.

“Do I
appear
to want to tell you about it?”
“Well, no,” he says, searching my eyes.
“I guess you don't.”

Then he says, “I remember when
I
was fifteen—”
But I cut him off in mid-sentence, hissing,
“It's always about
you
, isn't it?”

He sighs, and stands up, saying,
“The important thing to remember is
that you won't
always
feel this awful.”

How the hell does
he
know how awful I'll feel?
Why does every word he says make me feel
more and more like strangling him?

He heads toward the door, then turns and says,
“If you change your mind about talking,
I'll be right downstairs.”

“Get out!” I scream.
“Get
out
! GETOUT!”
So he does.

And the totally psychotic thing is
that as soon as he's gone
I almost feel like calling him back.

Calling him back,
crawling into his lap,
and pouring it all out.

Just like I used to do with Mom.

I've Been Lying on My Bed for Hours

Staring up
at the folds of lace
draped across the canopy overhead.

There were a few minutes there,
when I thought
I was actually going to start crying.

My eyes felt like
these two raging rivers
about to flood their banks.

But the feeling passed.
Now, I'm way splotchy,
but at least I'm numb—

as if my heart's been Novocained.

I'm Just Lying Here

Still staring up at the lace,
when suddenly it starts
quivering and shimmering,

morphing into a safety net.
And I'm swinging high above it,
inside a circus tent,

holding on to two silver chains,
somersaulting through the air,
a blur of upturned faces watching from below.

Then the blur comes into sharp focus
and I spot Lizzie and Ray grinning up at me
with their fingers woven together.

And suddenly,
my
own
fingers lose their grip on the chains.
Or maybe I just let go …

And I'm tumbling and tumbling
through air thick as water,
crashing toward the safety net below.

And that's when I notice a furry tail,
curlicueing in the air behind me.
And I suddenly realize that it belongs to
me
!

That I'm one of those tiny acrobat monkeys,
from my recurring dream.
And I'm howling just as loud.

But even so, I can hear the man's voice,
the man with the nice, warm, dry hand,
saying, “I'll keep you safe.”

I can
hear
him,
but I can't see him.
I can only see the safety net,

see it falling into pieces
as the ground races toward me
and—

that's when I wake up.

7:00 pm

I'm still zombieing,
sitting here on my bed in the dark,
just listening to the rain,
when Max brings up my dinner on a tray.

He switches on the light,
takes one look at me,
and says,
“The first time hurts the most.”

Then
he reaches out to hug me,
and I flop against him
like a rag doll.

Morning After the Rain

It's the first blue sky,
I mean truly blue sky,
that I've seen since I've been here.

It's as though someone's taken
a giant toothbrush to it
and brushed away all the plaque.

The view's been magically transformed.
There's an entire mountain range out there
that I've never even seen before!

I fling open the window and breathe in deeply,
filling my lungs
with great huge gusts of clean.

You'd think this would cheer me up.
But it doesn't.
It just makes me miss my sky back home.

Which gets me thinking
about Lizzie and Ray again.
And about what they did to me.

And when
that
happens,
my heart slows,
then stops beating altogether,

and sits in my chest like a clenched fist.

He Loves Me

He loves me not.
He
said
he did.
But he was lying.

I love
him
not.
I just
thought
I did, because he
must have put me under a spell or something.

And I bet I know exactly when he did it.
It was on the night we first met.
He was telling me this long involved story
about this time he got stuck in an elevator.

And then,
right in the middle of his sentence,
he forgot what he was saying.

He just stood there staring into my eyes,
with this dreamy smile on his face,
as if he'd suddenly been struck dumb
by my incredible beauty,

as if he couldn't concentrate
on what he was saying because I was
such a vision of distracting loveliness …

As if he
loved
me.
But he loves me not.
And he never
did
.

Dear Mom,

How are things six feet under? JK. They've got to be better than they are here. My life is a train wreck. Ray dumped me for Lizzie. A week ago today. You never trusted that scuzball. Why didn't I listen to you? And don't even get me started on Lizzie, that mega-skank …

Well, I hope both of them choke on their giant Tic Tacs and that while they're choking and grabbing their throats, while they're turning three shades of purple and trying to give each other the Heimlich maneuver, while their eyes are rolling up into their heads and they're gasping in vain for their last breaths of air, that they'll be thinking of me and how they betrayed me.

You don't think that's too harsh, do you, Mom?

Love u 4 ever,

Ruby

There's Been a Blizzard in Boston

And the Weather Channel's
been rubbing it in.
24/7.

They keep on showing
all these real irritating clips
of twinkling snowdrifts
and frosted forests.

They
keep on showing them.
And
I
keep on watching them.
I just can't seem to get myself
to switch off the TV.

I've been sitting here glued to the screen,
on the couch by the window,
with the sun streaming in on my head
practically giving me heatstroke.

I've been sizzling here,
savoring the memory
of the soft sweet sting
of snowflakes melting on my cheeks.

And the way
the whole world
just seems to white
to a halt.

I've been simmering here,
with the sun streaming in on my head,
remembering
the delicious suspense

of sitting with Mom listening to the radio
in the early morning after a snowfall
and the miracle of hearing
my
school's nam
on the no-school list!

If I have to see one more
deliriously happy kid building a snowman,
I swear I'm going to put my foot
right through the TV screen.

No Wonder I've Lost My Appetite

When
I'm
barely touching my breakfast,
Lizzie and Ray
are eating lunch,
sitting alone together in the cafeteria
at that little table over by the window,
where Ray and I always used to eat.

And when
I'm
staring at my lunch,
Lizzie and Ray
are walking home from school,
his hand stuck deep
into the back pocket of her jeans,
the way he used to walk with me.

And when
I'm
picking at my dinner,
Lizzie and Ray
are writhing around
in the backseat of his Mustang,
just like Ray and I used to.

Only he's not fumbling
with
her
bra strap
like he used to fumble with
mine
.
Because Lizzie doesn't even
wear
a bra.
She's flatter than a CD.

And it serves that you-know-what right.

On the Way Home from School

I see this guy holding up a sign that says:
HOMELESS MAN WILL MAKE LOVE
TO YOUR WIFE OR GIRLFRIEND
FOR FREE FOOD AND LODGING FOR THE NIGHT.

Which you've got to admit is pretty funny.

So I give him twenty dollars.
Just because he made me laugh.
Or maybe it's because it's so awesome
how he's managed to keep his sense of humor.

Even though his life obviously sucks.

I wish
I
was better at that.
I could definitely
use some improvement
in the put-on-a-happy-face department.

But I'm Not
That
Depressed

Considering that
my best friend since preschool
stole the love of my life
even though she knew
it would rip me to shreds.

Not
that
depressed,
considering that dear old Aunt Dufïy's
still digging her way around the world
with that hot archaeologist of hers
and isn't even available for comment.

I'd say I'm doing
reasonably
well,
considering that Whip Logan knows
as much about how to cheer up teenage girls
as Cookie Monster knows
about mud wrestling.

I'm not
that
depressed,
considering that tonight was the night
when I was supposed to be sneaking into
the guest room to fling myself into Ray's arms
with three months worth of pent-up passion.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.
But Ray's not coming to see me.
My ex-best friend
is a weapon of mass destruction.
And Mom's deader than ever.

Depressed?
Who? Me?
Yes.
Hideously.
Not to mention way pissed off.

Wouldn't
you
be?

Things I Am Thankful For

Early Thanksgiving Morning

When the smoke alarm in my bedroom goes off,
it takes less than a minute for Whip and Max
to come bursting through the door,
shouting out my name.

They find me staring into the bathtub
at the letter Lizzie sent me after Mom died
and Ray's drawing of
Ruby's Slipper,
watching them both go up in flames.

They fling open the windows
so the alarm will stop sounding,
but no one speaks
till the fire burns itself out.

At which point,
Whip tells me to change out of my pajamas
and get my ass downstairs.
(
Did he say ass?!
)

I turn to Max to lodge a complaint,
but he just folds his arms across his chest,
raises an eyebrow at me,
and follows Whip out of the room.

A Few Minutes Later

I slink downstairs,
fully expecting Whip to deliver
an irritatingly melodramatic lecture
on why bonfires in the bathtub
are in flagrant violation of the house rules.

But he just pops me into his '35 Caddie,
and seconds later, Whip and Max and me
are whizzing down Sunset Boulevard
on our way over to the Sunlight Mission.
“To donate a certain turd's blocks,” Max says.

When I see the kids there
tear into them like it's Christmas morning
and start building a city together,
something inside me yawns and stretches
and starts to come back to life.

Then we drive to The Farms market to buy
three huge turkeys with all the trimmings,
and we bring it over to Turning Point Shelter,
where no one seems at all surprised
when Whip commandeers the kitchen.

I stand here next to Max,
peeling potatoes,
and watch Whip send away
the television camera crew
that seems to appear out of nowhere.

I watch Whip stuff those turkeys
like he really knows what he's doing.
I watch him spend the entire day
playing charades with the people
who live here.

And when we finally sit down
to Thanksgiving dinner with them,
my father's eyes are shining brighter
than two of those lights that they
aim up into the sky at movie premieres.

As if being able
to make these people happy
is making
him
happier
than if he'd just won
an Academy Award.

And I can't help thinking
that if I didn't hate him so much,
I might even be feeling something
almost like
like
for him,
at this particular moment.

Monday Mourning

We're sitting here in our usual circle,
sharing the dreams we had
during Thanksgiving vacation,
when the dean makes an unexpected appearance,
wearing sunglasses
and an oddly grim expression.

She tells us that last night
some Lakewood kid I never met
lost control of his car.
This kid, Devon, wrapped his Jeep around a palm tree
at the corner of Sunset and Bedford.
And was killed—instantly.

I listen to the collective gasp.
Then to the stunned silence.
Then to the sound of Feather bursting into tears.
And pretty soon,
everyone's hanging on to everyone else, weeping.
Everyone but me, that is.

Big surprise, right?
This not being able to cry thing
is getting to be a real pain in the butt.
Wyatt and Colette and the other kids
must think my heart's made of cement
for me to just be sitting here like this,