Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (3 page)

“Oh my God! What don't I stand for? I stand for fashion, Mom. And cracking rockin' computer software. I stand for—”

“You need to stand for something right. He's helping you down a new path; you have to go down it and see for yourself what it brings.”

“I know what it's going to bring.” The anger was coming back—why weren't these old people listening to me? “It's going to turn me into an untouchable, like Jai told me they have in India, Mom, that's what it's gonna do, and then I'll be right back in the same place I was when I left Malibu. Hated. Laughed at. Left out. It sucks, Mom.” I started to cry, so I hid my face. The last thing I wanted was for her to give me one of those sad looks. I did not want consolation; I wanted her to call it off.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice cracked. “It's been so hard for you, Charlie, and it kills me to see you like this.”

I grabbed my knees and hugged them hard to my chest. “Then tell him no.”

“I can't.”

“Why? Why can't you? Can't you see that it's going to ruin my chances, and you always say there aren't many fresh starts in life, right, Mom?”

Mom pulled off to the right and put her hand on my knee. “I can't because I think he might be right.” We drove up the dusty, old road that led through the seriously haunted-looking wrought-iron gates of the Houdini Estate. As soon as she pulled up to the gatekeeper's house, I threw the door open and yelled, “I hate you, Mom!” I ran into the kitchen and saw Felix doodling and, of course, my sister reading again.

Pen looked up. “What happened?”

I could see that thrill in her eyes. She always had it when she thought I was in trouble. I went right up to her, got so close I could bite her. “It's all because of you.” Then I ripped the book out of her hands and threw it across the floor.

Sadly, Mom was standing right there. “Just go cool off in your room, Charlie.”

“Love to.” I ran up the creaky, old stairs and pushed open the red door to our room. Yeah, that's right.
Our
room. We're forced to share a room, which is, I believe, a crime against humanity under international law. I hit the switch for the butterfly lights Mom had woven through the loft. The windows were tall and overlooked the gardens and the main street, Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I cracked one open. A gust of air lifted the linen curtain, and suddenly I felt like I wasn't alone in this horrible life of mine.

On my wall were the dudes who had gotten me through my summer of hell and were helping me out right now, big-time:

First and foremost, Nelson Mandela. If he could survive twenty-seven years behind bars, and forgive his enemies for their wrongs, so could I, right?

Steve Jobs. Because like him, I wished the world was populated with little Macs and iPads instead of real, feeling, pain-in-the-neck people.

Since I'd logged on early that morning, I had thirty-five Skype attempts from Jai, my tech-equal main squeeze in Mumbai. I was just about to log on and wake up my Indian brother-in-arms when Mom called from downstairs, “Charlie, do you want pizza or mac and cheese for dinner?”

I smiled. Those were code words for “I'm sorry,” “I love you,” and “Please come down and be a part of our family,” because I could eat mac and cheese for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I got up and cracked open the door. “It's not homemade, right?”

“Velveeta all the way.”

“Yes!” I opened the door and ran to the top of the stairs. “Two boxes?”

“One.” She looked up at me. “The pediatrician says you shouldn't eat two helpings, remember?”

I rolled my eyes. “Give me a break, will ya?”

“Come and help your sister set the table.”

I closed my laptop. Velveeta took precedence over all else; Jai would have to wait. I ran down the stairs, and my nose became alive with the smell of all that wondrous fake cheese. I went to work tossing out the place mats, the bowls, forks, and cups.

I was just singing along, not complaining, when Pen came over, picked my beloved Velveeta box out of the trash, and started reading. I ignored her. She gasped. Mom turned. “What?”

“Did you know there's no actual cheese in this stuff, and there's twelve grams of fat per serving?” She cringed. “Jeez, that sure is a lot of fat.”

I wanted to slap her. But I didn't. See, I was learning.

First Day of the New Me

The next morning, while it was still dark and everyone was spewing their nasty morning breath into the air, I jumped out of bed in need of spiritual guidance, no joke. I pulled my bedazzled robe off the hook, slipped into my fuzzy-dice slippers, and tiptoed down the stairs, kissing the portraits of my friends. Outside, the sun was cutting through the heavy mist. A bunch of wild rabbits ran across the yard, disappearing up the mountain.

Five whole acres of freedom in the Hollywood Hills! Poor Houdini; he wanted to live here forever, but the man who could escape from a box submerged in water while handcuffed, who could stand to be buried alive in a box of sand for one hour and thirty minutes, could not escape a burst appendix. Life can really suck sometimes.

I ran up the hill, and in the middle of the tall, wild grasses, I found my new favorite place to hang out—right under the statue of Mr. Houdini himself. I had learned so much from this man over the summer, more than from any of those dumb books Mom made me read. This was a man who knew how to reinvent himself, which was all I wanted to do.

I mean, seriously, the man did not stop changing his name until he got it just right—first it was Erik Weisz of Hungary. Then Erich Weiss. Finally, it must have hit him that drama matters. So he went with Mr. Harry Houdini of Appleton, Wisconsin.

And he kept on reinventing along the way. Stage-show performer, magician, Hollywood star, ghost. He was smart, that Harry Houdini. He turned himself into something special, something that broke the mold,
and
did it without selling his soul. People came from all over, begging and bribing him to reunite them with the dead, and he turned them down flat. Anyway, that's why they hired my dad to rebuild the whole place and turn it into a museum. I just wished Houdini was a little better-looking.

I'd closed my eyes, trying to channel a little of his confidence, when Mom called out, “Charlie! Baby, where are you?”

I got up and waved to her. “Coming!”

“You'd better get dressed; you don't want to be late on your first day!” She smiled at me like she really loved me, and, you know what, I really loved her too. I ran down the grassy hill I had come to know so well over my grounded summer, went into the house and up the stairs, and opened my humble closet. I had my outfit already picked. I was ready.

For my first day of school, I had carefully chosen my absolute favorite pair of faux snakeskin leggings. I'd had them since I was eight, so they were a little tight, but who cares, right? Oh, did I tell you that I gained more weight in my sixth-grade year than in my entire life? Seeing Ashley in those super trendy drainpipe jeans every day, giggling up and down with Roxy in
matching
drainpipes, well, it made me want to stick my head in the fridge for the rest of my life.

Anyway, that was then. Now, for the first day, I had on a pink tutu, a black Guns N' Roses T-shirt, and a white tank top, and for the details—it's all in the details—cowboy boots and gloves without fingers. Penelope passed by the bathroom door and covered her face. In a heartbeat I knew what she felt. Envy. It wasn't easy having a fashion icon in the house. I waved to Dad, and for no apparent reason he ran out the door. Late for work, I guess.

When Mom walked in, she looked pretty startled. “What on earth are you wearing?”

I gave her my stare of death. “There's no way you can make me take it off.”

 

 

“It's too tight now.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “They'll laugh, baby.”

Laughing! Please, you think I care? “All great designers have to suffer, Mom; that's just the way it goes.”

She gave me one of those heavy looks. “Did you at least brush your teeth?”

“Of course.” Are you kidding me? Not brushing your teeth is for Losers, capital L. I grabbed a piece of bacon, looked out over the hills, and nibbled.

Pen came running down the stairs in an outfit I could only describe as “Anne Frank.” It was a dark, sad
jumpsuit
—enough said, right? She even had her long, mousy, blond hair in two braids, her skin all pale from the Model UN summer camp she went to. Poor Pen. Put it this way—you could see her mustache from across the street. Flies could land on her leg hair. It was that bad. In the old days, I'd just let her go out like that, but now that I was different, I had to offer my assistance. “Uh, Pen, that jumpsuit”—how to put this without sounding mean—“I wouldn't.”

“It's cute,” Mom said. “Jumpsuits are in.”

“Yeah.” I gobbled up the bacon. “In North Korea.”

“Charlie!” Mom warned. She held the evil eye steady. “Enough.”

“I was just trying to help.” I poured more juice. “Seriously, I don't want people to get the wrong impression of her.”

Pen covered her face. “Oh my God, please, make it stop!”

Dad, who had come back for another cup of coffee, nudged Pen's arms. “Come on, Pen, lighten up. She's just looking out for you. Maybe jumpsuits aren't in this year, you know, Charlie's hip to these things—she reads
Vogue
.” He said it like he thought it was funny. It wasn't. Fashion is serious stuff. Ever see Anna Wintour smile? I didn't think so.

Pen dropped her uneaten breakfast in the sink. The dishes banged. She glared at me. “You have so not changed.”

“I have, I swear!” Seriously? How could they doubt me? “I promised, remember, I'm going to be nice.”

“But you can't. It's biologically impossible for you to be kind,” Pen said. “It's not even eight in the morning, and you've already totally made me feel like crap.” When the kitchen light flashed off her braces, she actually looked kinda scary, but I said nothing. “You're just mean.”

“I am so not mean.” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't take my eyes off her braces.

“Sometimes you are, Charlie. Sorry,” Felix totally interrupted.

My watch beeped. I took a deep breath. “Well, this has been fun with a capital F, but it's time to go to school.” I picked up my super cool black-on-black faux snakeskin backpack and was about to walk out the door when Mom pulled me back in and gave me that look of motherly concern.

Pen stormed past me, hitting me with her backpack. “Forget it, Mom. She's incapable.”

“I was trying to help, I swear.”

“I know.” Mom stared me down. “Just find the girl and be nice to her. Let that be your first act. Let that define you before all else.”

Dad came over and kissed me on the forehead. “You have the power to change, Charlie.”

“Oh, please.” Pen snorted like she was Kim Jong #2.

“You sure you still want to walk? I'd love to drive you,” Mom asked us again, even though we'd gone over it the night before.

“Yep, we want to walk,” Pen said. “I want to be way out in the front, not near
her
.” She opened the door, about to take off.

“Nope.” Dad stopped her. “You will walk together, you hear me? You may dislike each other sometimes, but you will be brother and sisters to each other until the day you die. So deal with it.”

Pen could hold a grudge forever, but not me; I got over them so fast, I sometimes forgot I even had them.

Mom was getting all teary. “We'll be right here when you get back. Have a wonderful day.” They stood at the door and watched the three of us walk to the crosswalk and wait for the light to change and begin what would become our morning journey under the canopy of low and twisted sycamore trees, up Lookout Mountain Road all the way to Happy Canyon School. It seemed to take minutes because there were so many cool houses to check out.

Like the old log cabin off to my right, tucked under giant trees and surrounded by giant boulders. Hot springs bubbled between the rocks and into a pool. You could smell it too. P-U. The gate was open. I couldn't wait to go in.

Apparently Pen was not a lover of nature, because she turned around and yelled at me. “Hurry up, Charlie!”

Happy Canyon School was just after the small stoplight on the left. The yard was already full of kids in their new duds, shooting basketballs, playing handball, or tossing footballs around. Ms. Genius/Hairy Dork eyed them the same way the Roman emperors did the slaves in the Colosseum before they were about to be killed for their pleasure. Pen thought sports were for people with small brains. She was a major snob that way. But maybe she would change here too. Felix stopped and stared at the kids running like crazy, and I could tell he couldn't wait.

Pen was the first to walk through the double doors of Happy Canyon.

There was a greeter asking for names and grades. She looked stuck to the chair, like she'd been sitting and waiting all summer long.

She handed Pen a map and schedule, and Pen was on her way without a worry in the world. Me next.

“Charlie Cooper, seventh grade,” I announced.

“Ah,” she said, like she was surprised. “We just had another Cooper. Was that your sister?”

I winked. “She's the middle child; you know how they can be.”

“Gotcha.” She checked me off her list and handed me my map and classroom info.

This school was so different from my last one. For starters, no one was staring at me; no one was sizing me up, checking out my clothes, my watch, my tan. The moment I walked into the corridor, I could feel myself growing hopeful.