Trauma Queen (6 page)

“She's just this
person.
She didn't mean to hurt
anybody; she was just trying to be nice. And I feel bad I was so snarky to her.”

“You were snarky?”

I nodded.

“What did you do?”

“I was rude when she tried to calm down Kennie. And I didn't thank her for making dinner.”

Mom blinked. “That's
terrible manners
,” she scolded.

All of a sudden we both started giggling. Not specifically about The Horrible Mona Woman or Dad. Who knows what we were laughing about, actually. Maybe nothing.

That night Mom took Kennedy and me to the movies. I don't remember very much about it, except that Mom called it a “chick flick” and said it was “just what the doctor ordered.” (“Is somebody sick?” Kennedy asked worriedly, and Mom just laughed and kissed her on the nose.) For dinner we ate chocolate—boxes of Milk Duds and Raisinets and a big bag of Tootsie Rolls. But we weren't messy; we threw away every bit of our trash. Mom had spent too many hours in theaters to let us be disrespectful of the cleanup crew, she said.

At first Emma's mom stood there in the kitchenette looking stunned. Everything about her was so straight and perfect—her shoulder-length blond hair, her white teeth, the tiny cables on her turquoise sweater—but she had this twitchy look on her face like,
Okay, Trisha, don't panic, you can handle this.

“Is this a birthday party?” she asked, trying to do a good-sport smile. “Is it Kennedy's?”

“Nuh-uh,” said Kennedy, still chomping on a Twizzler. “My birthday's in August. I just had it three months ago.”

“So then . . . it's Marigold's?”

I glanced at Mom. She shrugged like,
Hey, don't look at me.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Then yours, Rebecca?”

“Call me Becca. And no, it's not my birthday, thank you very much. I'm in no hurry for another one.”

Mrs. Hartley's cheeks were getting pink. Pinker, I mean; she always wore tons of blush. “I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

“Mom didn't get funding for her new performance piece,” Kennedy announced. “Because they didn't like paintball. Or the word ‘random.' So we're having Chocolate Night.”

“Chocolate Night? You mean . . . what? Pigging out on candy?”

“Oh, come on, Mom,” Emma said, pretending to laugh. “We were just trying to cheer up Mrs. Bailey.”

“Becca,” Mom reminded her. “I
hate
being called Mrs. Bailey.”

Mrs. Hartley raised one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “And Becca
,
do you eat like this often?”

“Oh no,” I cut in. “We're very careful about food.” Which was true, actually: For supper we usually had tons of salads and whole grain pasta and cheesy casseroles
and homemade soup. I turned to Mom so she could back me up on this, but she just looked at me like,
Who is this woman, Marigold, and what's she doing in my kitchen?

“I'm a vegetarian,” Kennedy was saying proudly. “I'm always ever so careful about what I eat.”

“That's wonderful, honey,” Mrs. Hartley told Kennedy in this sticky-sweet voice. “And does your mommy make you real meals sometimes? With protein and fruits and vegetables—”

Mom opened her mouth, and then immediately snapped it shut.

“And do you always brush your teeth and see the dentist?” Mrs. Hartley continued.

Emma grabbed her mom's sleeve. “Let's go,” she whispered. “You're starting a fight.”

“What am
I
starting?” Mrs. Hartley looked amazed. “
I
haven't done anything wrong!”

“You're criticizing Becca.”

“What did I say?”

“You're saying she's feeding her kids wrong. And not taking them to the dentist.”

“I'm not intending to
offend
her, sweetheart. But she invites you here for supper and then offers you an entire meal of unhealthy junk—”

“We had milk,” Emma said desperately.

“Milk,” Mrs. Hartley repeated. “Milk is not a balanced meal.”

“Well, maybe this wasn't intended to
be
a balanced meal,” Mom finally exploded. “Listen, Trisha, you know why your daughter spends so much time here? It's because you're driving her completely bonkers.”

Mrs. Hartley looked at Mom as if she was a squished worm on the sidewalk. “You have no right to speak to me that way. Or to feed my daughter garbage. I'm sorry you didn't get money for your stage act, but that's no reason to stop being a responsible parent.”

Now Mom's eyes were enormous. “You're saying I'm not a responsible parent?
And that it's because of
my art
?”

“Your art?” Mrs. Hartley actually laughed. “That's what you call it? Standing onstage making a complete fool of yourself—”

“Excuse me, Trisha, but you've never even seen me perform!”

“I don't have to. I've heard all about your performances from Emma.”

“What?” Mom blinked first at Emma, then at me.

“I didn't tell her anything,” I said quickly. “Just about ‘LICE'—”

“And the oil,” Mrs. Hartley said. “And the plastic surgery. And that cartoon business with Shakespeare.”

“Mom is very sensitive about her work,” Kennedy suddenly announced. Then she threw up.

Everybody rushed to Kennedy's side. She was fine, she kept saying, just too many Twizzlers. But she looked chalky white and sort of focused, like she might throw up again any minute, so Mom took her to the bathroom, and Emma dragged Mrs. Hartley out the door.

See you Monday,
Emma mouthed at me. She waved her Juicy Passionfruit fingernails and tried to smile.

I tried to smile back. But I was terrified. All I could think was,
What if Mrs. Hartley won't let Emma come here anymore? What if she won't let me go to their house? What if, thanks to Mom, I lose the best friend I ever had?

I sewed a million scraps that weekend. Poke, pull, poke, pull.

But it didn't help.

Monday finally came, and the first thing Emma and I did in homeroom was tell each other how incredibly sorry we were for our moms' behavior. We even had a pretend-argument about Whose Mom was Crazier. (I said mine, although the truth was, I'd started to think
Trisha Hartley was catching up in that contest.)

We also agreed that for the next few weeks it would be better if Emma didn't stay for supper, and that in general we should keep our mothers as far apart as possible. And that wasn't hard, because Mom had suddenly gotten an inspiration for a new performance piece. So when she wasn't dogwalking or unicycling or doing yoga in the living room, she was spending tons of time at the Two Beez Performing Arts Café, rehearsing this new character she'd invented, and getting feedback from the waiters. Our apartment was a total mess, but we didn't even mind because Mom was happy.

Two weeks later, she announced that she was ready to perform. The night before, she asked me if I wanted to invite Emma, who I knew would be thrilled at the invitation. “And Trisha might be interested too,” Mom added casually.

“Mrs. Hartley?
”
I said slowly. “You're inviting her
to your
performance
?”

“Why not?”

“Because, no offense, Mom, but I don't think she'll come.”

“Oh, I bet she will,” Mom answered. “She's fascinated by my ‘stage act.' “

“
Fascinated?
She thinks it's stupid!”

Mom just laughed. “She'll be there, baby. You watch.”

Now you're probably thinking:
Okay, Marigold. You know your mother is totally out of control, and capable of anything. So why didn't you suspect that if she was inviting Trisha Hartley, she had to have some sort of warped ulterior motive?

Because the truth is, up to this exact point, I had no idea that my mother
was
capable of anything. I mean, I always knew she was ready to embarrass herself. And to embarrass me, too, for the Sake of Art, and all that. But always, even when she Guzzled Oil back when I was in second grade, there was a definite limit: At a certain point in her act, she'd clean herself up and explain her message. Which was usually something about The Evils of Consumerism or Eroding Constitutional Values or The Perils to Our Planet. (Although sometimes, of course, it was just Aren't I Creative? Buy Tickets to My Show.) Anyway, what you have to understand is that I was completely in the dark about Saturday night, November 30, which was the world premiere of Mom's new performance piece.

Entitled
Nu-Trisha, Mother of Doom
.

Emma, Mrs. Hartley, Kennedy, and I were seated at a sticky little table in the back of the Two Beez Café, watching the regular bunch of Saturday performers get up in front of the mic: Joey Something, who played acoustic guitar; Amanda Somebody, who sang Carrie Underwood; some angry high school girl, who rapped about her cheating boyfriend. I wasn't sure why Mrs. Hartley had even come (Curiosity? To make sure Emma wasn't eating garbage?). But whatever the reason, she frowned when Mom stomped into the spotlight with spray-painted yellow hair, pink smears on her cheeks like warpaint, and a turquoise sweater with glow-in-the-dark cables. And as
soon as Mom thundered, “GREETINGS, MORTALS. I AM NU-TRISHA, MOTHER OF DOOM,” my stomach knotted up, and I thought I might literally faint.

“Just go,” I whispered to Emma. “Leave
now
.”

“Why?” Emma said. “She's a riot.” She grinned as Mom—I mean, Nu-Trisha—smashed some veggies together and hurled them at one of our big soup pots.

“It's not going to stay funny,” I insisted. “Please just trust me on this, okay?”

“Is this supposed to make sense, Marigold?” Mrs. Hartley asked. “Because I truthfully don't understand what your mom's trying to do up there.”

“She's smashing vegetables,” Emma whispered.

“I can see that. But is there a point?”

I breathed. Mrs. Hartley didn't get it; maybe everything would be okay. “It's just dumb. Don't feel you have to stay, Mrs. Hartley. Really, Mom totally won't mind if you guys walk out.”

“But she invited us,” Mrs. Hartley protested.

“Because she felt bad about Chocolate Night. And it was extremely nice of you to come tonight, but now you can both leave.
Please.
”

Kennedy had been watching Mom with the same patient look she always had at these performances, but
now she poked me in the ribs. “You shouldn't be talking, Mari. It distracts Mom.”

“Good,” I muttered. “I hope it does.”

Suddenly Emma figured out what was going on. Her face got pale; I could tell even though the Two Beez was pretty dark. “Come on,” she said to her mother. “Let's get out of here.”

“Just leave?” Mrs. Hartley asked. You could tell she'd never walked out on anything before, and considered it Terrible Manners.

Emma stood. So then Mrs. Hartley got up too.

Sorry,
I mouthed to Emma, but she didn't even look at me.

They headed quickly toward the door, Mrs. Hartley first, Emma following right behind. And then there was a loud boom. Mom was banging with a ladle on the veggie pot. It sounded like thunder.

“HALT, MORTALS. ARE YOU WALKING OUT? NOBODY WALKS OUT ON NU-TRISHA.”

Ulp,
I thought.

“
I
SET THE STANDARDS FOR BEHAVIOR.
I
PASS JUDGMENT ON ALL MOTHERS.
I
FIX BALANCED MEALS.” She threw a tomato at the soup pot. “AND I INTEND TO OFFEND.”

Mrs. Hartley froze.

Then she flew out the front door of the Two Beez Performing Arts Café, with Emma running after her.

For maybe three seconds there was total silence. Then Joey the Guitarist and the high school rapper burst out laughing. Beau and Bobbi, sitting by the kitchen, started laughing too. Even the waiters were laughing.

Not me, though. “Oh, Mom, how could you?” I cried. And I ran out the door after Emma and her mother.

But they were already gone.

I ran around the block a few times, searching for them, not knowing where to go. It was a drizzly and chilly night, but I sure didn't want to go back inside the Café, so finally, after about ten minutes, I just went home. First thing when I got back to the apartment, I called Emma's house. (Emma didn't have a cell anymore because she kept losing them, and Mrs. Hartley had decided to teach her a lesson about
Personal Responsibility.) One of Emma's four slobby brothers—I think it was Seth—answered and promised to give Emma the message. So I waited. But she never called back. Then I tried calling her house again. And then again, about twenty minutes
later. But both times the phone just rang and rang.