One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies (4 page)

It's 9:30!

I'm supposed to be ready
to go shopping with Whip
in half an hour!

I catapult out of bed—
and almost shatter my ankle
because I forget how high up I am.

I limp into the shower,
but there's so many dials and high-tech switches
that I can't figure out how the heck any of it works.

So I opt for a bath.
But I must be suffering from a severe case of jet lag,
because I can't even figure out how to close the drain.

Finally,
I just give up,
and wash under my arms.

I've never been in a bathroom before
that made me feel
like such a moron.

I Scramble Down the Stairs

Expecting to see the limo
waiting for us out front,
like a sleek black flashback of Mom's funeral.

But it's nowhere in sight.
Whip leads me over to his five-car garage.
(You heard me right: there's five of 'em.)

Then he asks me
to choose one of the doors,
like I'm a contestant on a quiz show.

I think this
is a real lame thing to be doing,
which I indicate by rolling my eyes,

but I wave my finger
at door number one,
just to get him off my back.

Then he presses a button
and the door swings up,
revealing a cherry red 1952 Chevy Corvette.

How do I know that's what it is?
Because I've always had a thing
for vintage cars.

And this one's in primo condition,
with headlights like sleepy eyes
and a grill like a brace-face grin.

Whip walks over to it and strokes the fender
like he's patting a kitten.
Then he says, “I collect classic cars.”

And when I hear this,
that same little flash of lightning
flickers on and off inside of me.

And my cheeks get all splotchy.

They Don't Call It Labor Day for Nothing

It's hard work
shopping with a fabulously wealthy father
who keeps buying me everything in sight
to try to make up for an entire lifetime
of world-class neglect.

It's hard work
acting like I really don't want
any of the stuff that he's buying for me,
when the truth is
that I want it very, very much,

only I
don't
want it
because
he's
the one who's buying it,
but I
do
want it because I've always dreamed
of having a computer just
like
this
and all these great clothes and jewelry and shoes.

It's hard work acting like
I could take or leave all this stuff.
But I'd give every bit of it back
before I'd give Whip the satisfaction
of knowing that I'd hate to.

As Soon as Whip's Computer Guy Hooks Up My PC

I check my e-mail.
There's three from Lizzie,
and one from Ray!

My heart starts beating ninety words a minute.
I take a deep breath
and click open his message.

It says that he can't believe
school starts tomorrow.
That he's so not ready to hit the books.

It says that he's been thinking of me.
And that he misses me.
And that it sucks that I'm so far away.

“My entire
life
sucks,”
I whisper to the screen,
feeling suddenly and unbearably tragic.

I swear to God.
If Ray walked through my door right now
I'd be so happy to see him

I'd finally let him devirginize me.

Hey Ray,

I dreamt about you on the plane. And when I woke up, and you weren't there, I wanted to jump out the window. But the evil flight attendants wouldn't let me.

The only thing keeping me from drowning myself in Whip Logan's Olympic-size swimming pool is the thought of you coming to visit me at Thanksgiving.

In the meantime, maybe we should try having cybersex. Then again, maybe we shouldn't. Whip's so famous that someone would probably get their hands on a copy of it and publish every word in the
National Enquirer
.

Don't wait until Thanksgiving. Come this weekend. Come right now.

I think you should know that I have a really big bed.

Love and kisses,

Ruby Dooby

The Three E-mails from Lizzie

Dear Ruby,

I can't believe you're gone. It's only been 24 hours, but it seems like light years. I just spent the entire morning trying to French braid my own hair. The results were
très
ugly. Trust me.

What am I going to
do
without you? I'm suffering from a severe case of Post-traumatic Best Friend Withdrawal.

Love,

Lizzerella

Dear Ruby,

I walked past your house just now and saw a new family moving in. I told them to get the hell out of there. Not really. But I sure wanted to. It made everything seem so final. You're not coming back, are you?

Boo hoo hoo times a zillion,

Lizzette

Dear Ruby,

I ran into Ray at the Gap this afternoon. He said he hasn't been able to sleep since the day you left. And
he
looks
it, too, poor guy. We commiserated about you being gone.
And
about the fact that school starts tomorrow. We won't be able to tolerate it without you.

Heart-brokenly yours,

Lizzandra

(President of the We Miss Ruby Club)

Dear Lizard,

School starts
here
tomorrow, too. Sophomore year is going to be unbearable without you and Ray. Whip said my school's called Lakewood, and that it's only a mile and a half away from here. He said it's got a stellar reputation and that he had to pull some major strings to get me in. So I said, “What did you do? Autograph the dean's butt?” At which point he acted like he was astonished, and asked, “How did you know?!” At least I
think
he was acting. I mean I
hope
he was acting. It's hard to tell when that jerk's acting and when he isn't. I frankly don't care if the school is stellar or not. As long as it gets me out of the mansion (you should see this place!) and away from
him
. His ego is bigger than the state of California. It's too awful to even go
into
at the moment.

Give Ray an utterly depressed hug for me.

Miserably yours,

Ruby

P.S. Want to hear something deeply surreal? Cameron Diaz lives next door.

Dear Mom,

How are things in heaven? LOL. Is this like totally sick that I'm writing to you, or
what?
It's not that I actually think your soul's out there fluttering around in Cyberspace checking your e-mail or anything. I mean, I completely
get
that you will never, ever receive this. But I feel like writing to you anyway.

I wish I
believed
in heaven. Because at least then I'd be able to picture you up there with your halo and your wings, flying around with all the other angels, doing good deeds, maybe even watching over me to make sure my life turns out okay. But I
don't
believe in heaven. And mostly, when I try to picture you, all I can see is how grim you looked toward the end, just a pile of bones and see-through skin lying there on the bed.

I hate it, Mom. I hate remembering you looking like that.

I miss you so much. A zillion times more than I even miss Duffy and Lizzie and Ray put together.

Love u 4 ever,

Ruby

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Just as I'm finishing up
writing that e-mail to my mother,
and I'm about to click off AOL
and drag my miserable bones to bed,

something blinks
on the welcome screen
that catches my eye:
it's a photo of Whip and me at the airport!

The headline says:
WHIP'S WILD CHILD WINGS INTO L.A.
Whip is smiling.
Wild Child is
not
.

My teeth are bared,
my hair's in a frenzy,
and it looks like I'm trying
to claw the eyes out of one of the reporters.

Like whoa …
This is
way
too weird for words.
I can't even talk about it right now.
I'm going to bed.

On Deaf (and Dumb) Ears

I definitely don't want
the kids at Lakewood to find out
who my father is.

Which shouldn't be too hard to pull off,
since
his
last name is Logan
and
mine
is Milliken.

So
I tell Whip
that I want to walk myself to school.

But he says,
“Oh, it's no bother at all.
I'd be happy to drive you.”

I tell Whip that I really wish he wouldn't.
But he just says,
“Don't be silly. I insist.”

And swings open the door
of an incredible 1957 Ford Thunderbird
painted look-at-me green.

The license plate reads: RUBYZDAD.

Grand Entrance

So much for trying to keep
my celebrity-daughter status a secret.

You should have seen the heads swivel
when we walked in here together.
It was like something out of
The Exorcist
.

And I bet you'd barf if you could see
how these women in the administration office
are falling all over themselves right now,
fluttering around Whip like a flock of butterflies on X.

They're telling him how grateful they are
for his generous donation
and how delighted they are that he's volunteered
to be the auctioneer at their second annual Noisy Auction
and how they're sure he'll draw
an even bigger crowd than Hanks did last year.

They're offering him mocha lattes
and Krispy Kreme doughnuts
and some kind of fruit that I've never even
seen
before.
And I'm sitting here right next to him,
crossing my eyes, sticking out my tongue,
and wiggling my ears.
But no one seems to be noticing
me
.

(Okay. So I'm not really doing any of that.
But they wouldn't be noticing.
Even if I was.)

Whip Finally Makes Like a Tree

He says he's got to run over to Sony
to do some looping.
Whatever
that
means.

Then he gives my shoulder
this nervous little squeeze,
tells me to have fun,
and exits stage left.

At which point, the dean,
one Ms. Moriality,
says she's going to take me
on the VIP tour.

Wouldn't
the-
daughter
-of-the-VIP tour
be a tad more accurate?

I Don't Know Why They Call It Lakewood

There's no lake.
And there's no woods.
Just a bunch of Lakeweirds.

Seems like half the girls
are wearing lingerie
instead of dresses.

And the rest of them are wearing jeans
with such major holes in them
that you can see their thongs.

(Only the skanky girls
dressed like that at my old school.
But here they all do.)

And most of the boys
look like they're trying to do
Brad Pitt impressions.

These kids have perfect hair.
Perfect teeth. Perfect bodies.
Perfect skin …

I can feel a huge zit
blooming on the tip of my nose.
It's flashing on and off like a neon sign.

Electives

I can't believe it.
I just had to choose
between signing up for

Dream Interpretation Through the Ages,
Introduction to Transcendental Meditation,
or The Films of Steven Spielberg.

(But only because The Rhythms of Rap,
The History and Uses of Aromatherapy,
and Organic Farming 101 were already full.)

I chose Dream Interpretation.
So that when I wake up
from this really bad one,

at least I'll be able to interpret it.

Colette

She's deeply,
I mean severely tanned.

Her dress is so short
it's a shirt.

She's got this tattoo of a snake
slithering around her ankle.

And so many parts of her body are pierced
that she jingles when she walks.

I've never met
anyone like her.

I've never even seen anyone like her.
Except on MTV.

Dean Moriarity just asked her
to walk me to my first class,

since both of us
are taking Dream Interpretation.

What do you say to a person
with magenta eyes?

I sure hope she's wearing contacts.

Colette Speaks First

“That is so last week
it's not even funny,”
she says under her Altoid breath.

I cringe,
sure that she's referring to
my new Kate Spade purse.

But then I realize
she's talking about the dress
on the girl who just wiggled by.

It looks like
a handful of scarves being held together
by a dozen safety pins.

“So
yesterday
,” I say.
Colette laughs.
“So one minute ago,” she says.

Maybe
this will be easier
than I thought.

“You're Whip Logon's Kid, Right?”

Shit
.
I'm afraid so,” I say.
“But would you mind keeping that quiet?”

“Sure, Wild Child,” she says with a smirk.
“But everyone who missed you on AOL
saw you drive up with him
in that prehistoric Thunderbird.”

Damn
.
“But I can relate,” she says.
“My
mom's
famous.
And I hate it when people find out who she is.

Because after that
I'm never really sure
if it's
me
they like
or just the fact that
she's
my mother.”

“Wow,” I say,
instantly bonding with this stranger
in a deep and permanent way.
“That's exactly how
I
feel.”

And I find myself telling her
about how strange it was after Mom died,
when everyone found out that Whip was my father.

How all these kids
suddenly started wanting to hang with me
who had never even acknowledged
my existence on the planet before.

Colette just laughs.
“Well, that won't be a problem at Lakewood.
Half the kids who
go
here
have famous parents.”