Trauma Queen (16 page)

She was thrilled. She kept saying her nails looked
“gorge.” I don't know where she got that word from, but I was so relieved to hear her say something besides prairie-talk that I didn't bother pointing out that Laura Ingalls Wilder probably never polished her toenails.

On the fourth day Mona showed up at dinner, wearing a diamond engagement ring, which she referred to as “a rock.”

“It's very nice,” I said politely.

But Kennedy wasn't so polite. “Did you give a rock to Mom?
”
she asked Dad.

“Kennie,” I said into my napkin.

“Your mom didn't want one,” Dad answered, putting his arm around Mona's bony shoulders.

“Why not?” Kennedy pressed. “Did you offer to
buy
her one?”

I widened my eyes at her, but she wouldn't even look at me.

“She told me she thought engagement rings were too specific,” Dad explained patiently. “And that when she's performing, she likes to be a blank slate.”

“Isn't that something,” Mona commented. “Imagine being so stagestruck that you don't even want one of these.” She held out her French-manicured fingers (which was a nail polish look Emma and I both thought
was kind of tacky) and wiggled her ring to make the diamond sparkle.

And the whole rest of the week I kept thinking about that word: “stagestruck.” It sounded like a starry-eyed girl in an old-fashioned novel, and it made me wonder if that's how Mom was, way back in college when she first met Dad.

But it also sounded like “crazy,” which brought it right up to the present.

It's the Monday after spring break. I'm sitting in Room 306, waiting for the start of Quilting Quorum, which is the club I finally signed up for. Okay: I know it sounds Jessamine the Prairie Girl, but it was either this or Beginners' Badminton, and I couldn't see myself whacking a little birdie back and forth, back and forth, every Monday through Friday afternoons for the next ten weeks. And when I found out that Beginners' Badminton was being coached by
Mr. Hubley
, well, let's just say that sealed the deal for Quilting Quorum.

So here I am. Me and three eighth-grade girls named Kirsten, Lexie, and Molly, plus the art teacher Ms. Canetti, who wears long, flowery skirts and is in love with my name. “Marigold,” she repeats when she's
taking attendance. “What an absolutely beautiful word. It reminds me of—”

“Marigolds?” Kirsten suggests, and Molly and Lexie start to snicker.

Ms. Canetti looks at them with teacher-eyes. Then she looks at me and smiles. “Springtime,” she finishes. “Are you named after someone?”

“No. I think my mom just liked it.”

“Well, she has excellent taste.
Marigold.
It almost sounds like a nineteenth-century quilter, doesn't it? Can't you imagine a lovely young woman—”

I'm just about to drown in eyebrow-sweat when the door bursts open.

Jada.

“Sorry I'm late,” she tells Ms. Canetti breathlessly. “I was helping my mom. She's running after-school and the gym was locked, so she asked me to find the janitor—” Then she notices me. Her face freezes over.

“No problem, Jada,” Ms. Canetti says cheerfully. “We're just getting started. Take a seat anywhere.”

Jada sits herself next to Kirsten, in the seat as far from me as possible. As if I totally don't exist, but even so, I might have some deadly virus. I notice Kirsten look over at Molly and Lexie whispering.

Then Ms. Canetti starts passing around some quilting books “for inspiration,” she says. I'm flipping pages, listening to her talk about patterns with scary-sounding titles like Blue Winter and Hidden Wells and Mine Shaft, and I'm thinking:
What did I get myself into? This is totally not me.

Plus Jada is in this club, and she's giving me the evil eye.

Maybe there's room in Origami. Or in CPR for Babysitters. Or in anything but this. This and Improv.

Ms. Canetti starts talking about some projects we'll be doing, which don't sound a bit like alien mutant tentacled Things.
She says we can bring fabric from home, or she'll supply some of her own “if we'd prefer.” (When she asks for a show of hands, I shoot mine straight up for Ms. Canetti's supply.) And when she tells us we're through for the day, even though it's early, I skid out the door as if I'm wearing poofy bedroom slippers.

On the way out I pass the auditorium, which is where Improv meets. I'm hoping to catch up with Layla so she can snitch about Day 1. But the auditorium is locked, and there's a sign duct-taped to the doors, written in one of Mom's jumpy computer fonts:
PLEASE KEEP CLOSED!!! ACTORS AT PLAY.

I stand there for a minute, trying to eavesdrop.

The first thing I hear is a piercing scream. Then a loud crash, and furniture squeaking. Then a bunch of people laughing hysterically.

Then two piercing screams.

Then more crashing, and more hysterical laughs.

My stomach knots up.

Because whatever “game” Mom has them “playing,” I can tell it's completely insane.

And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

At dinner Mom is ecstatic.

“The club went GREAT,” she announces as she takes a big slurp of lentil curry. “All the kids were amazingly motivated. Plenty of tightness initially, but by the end, juices were definitely flowing. You could see it in their eyes.”

“See what?” I mutter. “Juices?”

“Don't be gross at the table, precious daughter.” She laughs. “Marigold, I really don't understand why you were so down on my club. Your classmates are just terrific. Do you know some girls named Ashley and Megan?”

“Yes, but they're not my friends.” Then I shut myself up.

Kennedy is watching my face with sharp eyes. When I look back at her, she turns away. “So what games did you play?” she asks Mom. I see her sneak a piece of bread to Beezer, who's sniffing around under the table.

“Oh, lots,” Mom answers brightly. “Let's see. First we did some stretching and breathing in the rehearsal room, and I introduced ‘Yes, And'—”

“What's that?” Kennedy asks, dropping some bread crust on my foot.

“I never explained ‘Yes, And' to you? Really?” Mom shakes her head, as if she can't believe she's been so negligent in Kennedy's upbringing. “It's
only
the basic law of improv: When one actor has an idea, the other actors need to accept that idea and build on it. So whenever your scene-partner comes up with something, you're always supposed to be saying ‘
Yes, and
also that.' Like if I say to you, ‘Hey, did you have a nice vacation?' you say something back like, ‘Yes, I did, and when I got home, I could speak five new languages.' That's how two actors advance a scene.”

“Oh,” Kennedy says, feeling around under the table for Beezer, and grabbing my knee instead.

“OW,” I complain. Kennedy gives me an innocent blink.

Mom ignores me. “
Any
way. So then we did some ‘Yes, And' games; the one they liked best was Emotional Mirror, where they had to pass feelings back and forth while they were talking about the weather. Then we did Scream, which is the one where you make a big circle, and whenever two people make eye contact, they scream as loud as they can and drop dead.”

“Sounds fun,” I say. “And do they crash into furniture?”

“Of course not,” Mom replies, laughing. “Sometimes they get what we call
furniture bites
, but it's never a big deal. Oh, and at the end I tried Big Blob, where you set up a scene—it could be about anything—but you tell the players that there's an enormous blob in the room that they have to walk around, or go through, or deal with somehow. But the trick is, they can't talk about it. It was extremely challenging, probably way too advanced for the first day, but I think we were really starting to get the hang—”

The phone rings.

“I'll get it,” Kennedy says eagerly.

“Ignore it, Kennie,” Mom orders. She waves her hand toward the phone. “People should respect the dinner hour.”

“It's not the dinner hour, it's eight o'clock,” I point out. I go into the kitchenette and answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Yeah.” Then there's silence. “Um, hi. Is this . . . Marigold?”

My heart flips. “Ethan?”

“Right. I didn't have your cell, so I called Information.”

“Oh, that's fine. We're not eating dinner.”

“I thought. So, yeah, I tried to talk to Brody.”

I lower my voice. “You mean about the club?”

“Yeah.”

Nothing. Total dead silence.

“And what happened?” I ask.

“He's doing it. He said it's awesome.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. He likes your mom.”

“Okay, well, thanks for trying.” I peek out the kitchenette; Mom and Kennedy are chatting away. “So how was lacrosse?”

“Pretty decent. You're in . . . ?”

“Quilting Quorum. But I'm probably switching out.”

“How come?”

“It's not really . . . what I do.”

“Well, give it a few days. Who knows, maybe you'll like it.”

Ethan is so smart,
I think.
And so nice.
And his voice sounds sooo incredibly cute on the phone.

I really, really wish I could call Emma.

“Well, anyway,” he says. “I wanted to tell you about Brody.”

All right, so now what do I say? I've already thanked him.
Improvise,
I tell myself.
Advance the scene.
“Maybe we can walk home tomorrow,” I blurt out.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, cool.”

I do a mime-scream.
He said okay. He said COOL.

Then he coughs. “Uh, can I say something?”

“Sure!”

“You probably shouldn't tell anybody.”

“About what? That we're walking home together?”

“Yeah. I know it sounds stupid. But Jada's so paranoid. And if she hears . . .”

“What could she do?”

He doesn't answer.

“You know what?” I say with pretend-bravery. “She's just this
person.
I'm not afraid of her. I even feel sorry for her.”

“Okay, that's stupid.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I admit. “But she's not some evil villain, right? So why should we let her scare us?”

“She's not scaring
me,
” he answers. “I told you before, she
likes
me. That's kind of the problem.”

“So if she likes you—”

“Hey, it's not me I'm worried about, Marigold. It's you.”

By the time I get off the phone, Mom is off doing Evening Walk, which I decide is really lucky. Because who knows what my face looks like right now, but my guess is mostly ecstatic with a subtle hint of freakedout, and I don't need Mom playing Read Marigold's Expression.
I don't need Kennedy playing it either, so instead of doing my homework at my desk while she reads
Louisa's New Bonnet
or whatever American Dreams book she's probably memorizing at the moment, I hang out in the kitchenette with Beezer and listen to him snore like an old man on a bus.

Next morning after breakfast Mom informs me
that since her newest Morning Walker, a mutt named Snickers, lives across the street from my school, she and Beezer and Darla will “keep me company” on the walk over.

“You don't have to,” I tell her with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“I know I don't
have
to, but I
want
to,” she replies firmly.

Once Kennedy is on her bus and we pick up Darla, who immediately pees all over a fire hydrant, Mom says, “So. Was that Dad who called at supper last night?”

I shake my head.

“Anyone I know?”

“Just a kid from school. And no, he's not in your club.”

“That wasn't what I meant.” Mom tugs on the earflaps of her hat, and winds both leashes around her mittens. We walk for a couple of blocks, and then suddenly she blurts out, “So listen, Mari, there's something I wanted to say to you. I had some good long talks with Gram over the weekend, and I've been doing a lot of personal soul-searching—”

Here we go,
I think.

“And I've decided I'm fine about Dad's wedding. I
mean, life goes on, right? And if he wants to waste his with Mona, who am I to stop him?”