Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (17 page)

Marta Gets All Heavy

We celebrated that night. The way Mom and Dad acted, it was like one of their own had made it onto the team. While Mom threw together a Duncan Hines devil's food cake and a tray of lasagna, Marta walked around the estate, examining the rock walls, fountains, springs, and statues like an explorer, both amazed and strangely sad. I wanted to ask her why, but I knew why. She kicked butt in the gym, but out of it, she was scared. And who could blame her? She had no one.

“As soon as your aunt is back, you'll be fine,” I said, “and in the meantime, you can stay here.”

She looked confused. “Why are you so nice to me?”

I had no idea how to answer that. “Um, well, I—” She stared at me like she really wanted the answer.

And then, thank God, Mom opened the door and called, “Girls!” Boy, was I glad for the interruption. I wasn't in the mood for a confession. So I ran in, and Marta came after me. The lights were out, but when we came in, Dad, Mom, Felix, and Pen all started screaming and switching the lights on and off.

“Congratulations!” they yelled. On the table was Mom's yellow Provence tablecloth that she
loved
, flowers from the garden, a huge bowl of salad (
yuck
), lasagna, and the cake. Mom came over and gave Marta a kiss. And you know what? Marta actually let herself be kissed. “I only wish your mom didn't have to work,” said Mom.

Marta had tears in her eyes looking at all of us. “Why?” she asked again.

“Why what?” Dad looked at her like he had no idea what she was talking about 'cause he didn't. Marta was not normal, if you get my drift.

“Why are you all so nice to me? I've never been nice; I am not nice as a person.” Marta looked at her hands. She spread them out, stared at the calluses. “I've always been tough. People don't like me.”

“That's how Charlie was,” Felix said, picking up his plate, “and she's nice now. People change.”

Mom got up and started serving everyone. “Your life will only get better from now on. You're on the team. Those girls will come to see you as the incredibly valuable person you are.”

Pen shook her head. “Who knows what Trixie's gonna do after Pickler's through with her?” And then she brightened. “But at least you're free and clear, Marta. She can never hurt you again. Cheers to that!”

Ha! If she only knew the half of it, she'd bury her head in the sand like one of those blindworms and never come out. I had so many balls in the air, I felt like a juggler. To recap:

1. Trixie was a complete psycho.

2. The permit was a total fake.

3. Marta was an orphan living in Reseda illegally.

4. Roxy's last promise to me was to hunt me down and tell everyone how truly desperate I was.

 

 

But back to Pen, who had that satisfied look all over her face like she'd just fed the last hungry child. “Enough of this negativity; let's celebrate.”

That night Marta promised me that she'd have her next-door neighbor come and stay if I promised to look into her aunt's paperwork. I could not promise—the US immigration department was a tough nut to crack, and my Romanian was a little rusty—but I planned on calling Jai as soon as she left to see what we could do. Jai was a master at booking first-class flights and flying all over the world without paying a single cent.

“Lock your doors,” I yelled out as she was leaving. “Don't open them for anyone.”

She turned, still wearing her pink princess velour sweatpants over her leotard. Mom and Dad came to the window and watched her go. Dad mumbled, “That girl just might go all the way.”

Mom shook her head. “So independent, too.”

“European kids are so much more self-sufficient,” Dad said, and elbowed me.

“You're right about that.” I grinned, because sometimes some things were better not said. She got on the little bus, put her hand on the window, and disappeared up Laurel Canyon Boulevard.

Travel Plans

I spent most of Saturday holed up in my room with Jai on the other side of the screen as we entered the false information of Greta Cochenko, making her a Romanian citizen with an H-1B visa allowing her to live in the United States temporarily. This required a string of heavily encrypted code that made us both want to pull our hair out, but it was the best we could do. Any kind of sudden change to a permanent resident visa would have raised too many red flags.

“This is what it must have felt like for all those spies,” Jai said, stretching. He had a single lightbulb over his laptop. I could hear his family snoring. The bunch of ingrates; they should have been massaging his shoulders. “Getting into President Putin's personal Mac was easier than this, Charlie.”

We were done. “Jai, my friend”—I stood, stretched, cracked my back—“I owe you.” I couldn't wait to tell Marta to call her aunt and tell her to get her butt to the airport. Her H-1B visa was in the system. Kids, do not try this one at home.

The moment I hung up, I called Marta. But when she picked up, she sounded crazed. “Whoa, calm down, calm down, what's wrong?” I said.

“They're outside my house, Charlie. They're sitting across the street in Trixie's housekeeper's car.” She swallowed like someone who hasn't had anything to drink for a long time. “They're watching me.”

“Since when?”

“Since I got back from your house last night.” She was hyperventilating.

“Oh crap,” I said. I told her about the papers. “Call your aunt now. She's booked on a British Airways flight out of Bucharest International on Monday nine forty a.m. to London, and then it's on to LA, business class—we decided first class might draw attention. She's landing at eleven forty-five p.m. Monday night.”

“I'm not gonna last that long. They're going to call Social Services. I swear, they know.”

“Have you left the house?”

“No,” she said. “I'm too scared.”

“You have to leave!” I said. “You have to act normal, go next door, visit your neighbor, walk around, play outside, sit on the stoop. Marta, don't just hide behind the curtain in there like you're a crazy bomber.”

“I feel sick.” She whimpered. Very unlike her, I might add.

“Marta.” I got very quiet. “Call your aunt now. Have her call British Airways or log onto their website. She will see her booking. Tell her to pack a bag and get to the airport first thing Monday morning. When she lands on Monday night, and those little passport checkers look her up, she should have a beautiful visa by her name and be welcomed home with loving arms.”

“I don't know, I don't know, I don't know—” she cried.

“Pull it together!” I yelled. “If all goes well, she'll be here on Monday night. Marta, relax, we did it!”

“Promise me you won't tell your parents, promise me!” She was almost hysterical. “I know what they do to people like me. They send them to horrible places, places where I'll never get to do gymnastics again.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Jeez when did I become the good guy? Being nice was getting seriously exhausting.

It Just Gets Worse

But when the alarm clock went off on Monday morning, I was full of dread. I knew that today was the day it would all happen, and I had to be totally ready for anything that came my way. First things first, clear the decks:

I shot an email to Dr. Scales and decided to be honest because of the whole doctor-patient privilege thing.

 

 

I was about to hit Send when I remembered the clause that said if a patient confesses to something against the law, it was the doctor's duty to tell. I looked at Mr. Mandela and Mr. Jobs, took a deep breath, hit Delete, then wrote:

 

 

Who was I kidding? Of course he was free.

 

 

I put on my lucky black leggings with holes, a black lace tank top, and some serious high-top Nikes. I pulled my hair into a loose loop up on top of my head and got out my sandalwood beads. The gurus use them to slow down, to count until their minds are clear again. I had a feeling the beads might come in handy.

“It's gonna be okay.” Pen could see the stress all over me. She rubbed my shoulders. “What else can Trixie do to her? It's done, finished, over.”

I didn't say anything. What could I say? My parents would kill me if they knew how deep into this I'd gotten myself.

“Have a great day.” Mom kissed us all.

“Oh, Mom, I almost forgot,” I said. “Scales sent me an email; he had to cancel today.”

Her mom antennae shot up. “Really? He said nothing to me.”

I nodded, not looking in her eyes. “Yeah, we're on for tomorrow afternoon though.”

“Oh, okay.” Mom antennae down.

When we walked out the door, it was misty and slow outside. I got that feeling again, like the end of the world was coming. I wondered if this was how the Incans felt every day.

Dad was riding one of the tractors, a huge smile on his face. I immediately felt guilty. He was so much happier here than he was building mansions for all those rich Hollywood types. What if I got into serious trouble, and he got fired? And we got kicked out? What if?

Felix pushed me from behind. “Come on, we're gonna miss the bell.” As we came up to school, buses and cars edged into the lot and kids walked past, but the three of us stood on the corner, watching.

Pen took a deep breath like it was a glorious day. “Marta's going to become our national hero, just watch.”

Not if she's in foster care in South Central. I pointed to Pen's braces. “You've got a strawberry in your braces, right there.”

“Thanks,” she said, and we all walked in.

What did I expect Trixie to do to me? I didn't have a clue. All my senses were on red alert. I was like a ninja this morning, I'm telling you, one beautiful ninja.

It all started off smoothly. The morning began with a huge round of applause for both Trixie and Marta. A standing ovation. Marta looked massively uncomfortable when Mr. L asked her to stand.

“Thanks,” she said, and immediately sat back down. I could see in seconds that she'd been biting her lips and nails all weekend, had barely slept, and forget about combing her hair—the matted knots were back. Trixie, on the other hand, beamed like the real champion.

“Thank you,” she said, waving. Then she held her hands to her heart. “All your support has meant the world.”

I wondered what kind of punishment Pickler had handed out; whatever it was it couldn't have been bad. She was positively glowing, the evil witch.

Mr. Lawson cleared his throat. “All right, there will be plenty more time to celebrate Marta's win later. You're practicing today, am I right?”

Marta nodded. I checked Lillian's face, stone cold. Trix and Babs looked like it was the last day of school. You know that glint in the eye, that excitement that comes from knowing what's just about to happen?

“Take out your books on Rome, people.” He walked around us. “Unlike this group here, we're going to talk about backstabbing, mistrust, treachery Roman style.”

How apt. I opened my book, and a note flew out and landed like a pebble on my desk. On it was written:
She's coming for you. Watch out.

I turned to see who wrote it, but all heads were down.

After a good half hour, Mr. Lawson stopped reading from his boring book, looked up, and said, “Boy, you kids sure are tired today.” He sounded amazed. “Not a peep, no flying notes, secret signs? You're really maturing.”

 

 

Yep, Mr. L, you nailed it right on the head. We were maturing. Were all teachers this out of touch with their students? They were more in tune with a Roman senator's murderous rage from thousands of years ago than what was brewing before their eyes in their very own classrooms.

The next period bell rang. And when it did, people did not jump and run as they always did. They moved slowly. Bobby looked at his pack of friends; Trixie looked at Babs; Lillian at Erica. The undercurrent was so intense, it felt like I was about to get zapped by an electrical fence. I put my hands on my beads and counted.

“Come on.” Marta slapped me on the back. “We've got PE.”

I'd totally forgotten.

Today of all days we had the big nine-lap run—one whole horrible mile. Talk about child abuse. I went into the locker room to change. I took a super long time, because I
refuse
to change in public and had to wait for a stall to open. Here's why:

1. No one was gonna talk about my boobs (or lack of boobs) at the next party I was
not
invited to.

2. I would not be judged naked.

3. Naked people seriously grossed me out.

When I finally got a stall—Mitzi Warner, the fattest girl in school, was in there for like an hour—it was so quiet in the bathroom, I thought I was alone. But when I came out of the toilet stall, changed and ready to run, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Trixie, Babs, and the gymnastics team—minus Marta, of course—were all there, lined up, waiting for me. Trixie was leaning up against the sinks in her PE gear, her long blond hair back in an obnoxiously high ponytail, her nails long and red, and she was smiling like she had just eaten something delicious. See what I was up against?

“What's this?”

“A frenervention.” Trix approached. “Last-time offer.”

I couldn't help it, I did an eye roll. “What the heck is a frenervention?”

“It's basically your true friends coming together in a loving environment to tell you what you have to do so that I don't call Roxy,” Trix recited perfectly. Her parents were shrinks, remember?

True friends and a loving environment; I couldn't describe it better. “And what is it you want me to do?”

Trix gave me that wide-eyed look. “It's easy, so easy—”

Someone banged on the door. “Hey! I need to pee!”

“Pee somewhere else!” Babs yelled back. “Marta gone. That's it, easy as pie.”

Trixie came over, circling. “All you have to do is say nothing, do nothing, that's it.” Her cute shoulders bounced like she was saying something sweet instead of kicking a poor girl out of her school because she thought she was better than they were. “Everything we've got planned for you goes away, and you go back to being who you are.”

Trouble was—and thank you very much, Mr. Harry Houdini—I wasn't me anymore. I'd stopped being that old me the day I got booted from Malibu Charter and everyone clapped. Or maybe I stopped being me when I met Marta. They were right, no doubt. It would be as easy as pie; it would all go away. And yet.

I looked at my feet in my super cool, beaten-up, hip-hop high-tops and wiggled my toes. Then I looked at their spanking-white shoes, some of which actually had rhinestones. In middle school? Really? Were these the kind of people we should allow to rule the school? “Uh, before I get on board with this and throw Marta to the dogs”—suddenly they seemed so eager, so
happy
—“let me ask you, What has she ever done to you?”

“Um.” Babs laughed like it was a done deal. “She stinks like fish.”

“Has crap in her hair.” Erica shook her head.

Lillian rolled her eyes. “I mean, seriously, you think we can go to the Nationals with
her
?”

 

 

“Well,” I said, approaching the situation calmly, “none of that's really true anymore, is it?” I took in their blank faces. “I mean she's changed, right?”

“She's a liar,” Trixie said defiantly. “That hasn't changed.”

“She's better than anyone on the entire team. Isn't that the real problem?” Their faces fell. “And that she will always be better than you. She's destined for greatness, and you're not. That's the simple truth.”

Trixie nodded. “That is one hundred percent true.”

I looked at my little nemesis. At least she wasn't totally delusional.

“But it's not gonna matter.” Trixie allowed herself a smile. “After Social Services sweeps in and sends her to a home far, far away.”

“Nice, Trix, nice.” I grabbed my water bottle.

“Nice bottle.” Trixie smiled. “You always have that on you, huh?”

“Yep.” I unlocked the door and pulled it open. I'd rather run two miles than stay here a second longer with these creeps.

“Hey, Charlie,” Trixie called out, “did you really think I'd hold on to your little Malibu Charter secret out of what?” She paused for effect. “The kindness of my heart? Loyalty?” She laughed again. “I called Roxy the first day of school and got the whole scoop. I've known all along.”

“Great.” I shrugged. “I don't care.” Well, I did, but—

“You walk out that door and everyone's gonna know what a total psychopath you are.”

The room was quiet. Babs filled it. “You're super pathetic.”

The irony of that comment was lost on Babs.

Trix took it all in like she was the queen of the yard. “You talk a good game, you wear all the right stuff like you've got game, but at the end of the day, you're no better than Marta. You'll never have any friends, because you're a loser, Cooper, a total loser, and soon everyone will know the truth.”

I turned to look at her. “Yep, they will,” I said, and slammed the door behind me. Truth was I could handle the truth getting out. What I couldn't handle was selling Marta out.