Mia the Magnificent (17 page)

“Yeah, that would be great,” I lied.

“So that’s a ten-four, good buddy,” Lisa said into the walkie-talkie, though I was sitting right in front of her. “I’m bugging out, Baby Bear. Bring it on back.”

As Lisa stared at me with apparent expectation, I asked, “What?”

“You need to sign off,” Lisa said, her hands on her hips. “It’s only good manners, and I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Oh, all right,” I grumbled, pulling the walkie-talkie from my book bag. I turned it on and, praying that no one was watching, clicked the talk button and whispered, “That’s a ten-four, Mama Bear.”

Lisa beamed as she skipped offstage. “That was so much fun!”

Rolling my eyes and wheelchair at the same time, I moved farther upstage, hoping to hide behind a large townsperson.

I’d just found what I thought was the perfect spot behind Mark Swenson when Alyssa walked right toward me.
Great.
Figuring there was no way I could out-roll her perky little steps, I put on a fake smile and accepted the inevitable.

“I’m so glad you’re finally out of the hospital,” Alyssa said. “I stopped by to visit you on Friday, but they said you’d already gone home. I’d even brought a photo album of my cats to cheer you up.”

“That would’ve been great to see,” I said, thanking God for small favors. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“I have it out in my locker,” Alyssa said with a touch of excitement. “If you like, I can show it to you after rehearsal.”

“Oh, gee,” I said with an apologetic smile, “I’d love to, but I really need to get home right after rehearsal. You know, to get my rest.”

“OK, maybe some other time.” Alyssa shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I also kind of wanted to make sure you’re not
mad that I got back together with Tim while you were gone.”

“Why would I be mad?” I asked. It’s not like I’d risked going to hell by flirting with a priest so she could seek revenge on Tim for two-timing her.

“I don’t know.” Alyssa shrugged. “I got the impression you still liked Tim.”

“I can guarantee you that the absolute last feeling I have for Tim right now is any type of like.”

“Are you sure?” Alyssa said. “Tim said you guys went out for a long time. Sometimes it’s hard to get over feelings like that.”

“Yes, I’m sure I don’t like Tim. And actually, I’m kind of surprised you do. I mean, after what he did to you and Cassie, I thought you hated him.”

“I did for a little while, but Tim explained how it was all a big mix-up, so I gave him a second chance.” Alyssa blushed. “He
is
really cute.”

I pursed my lips together, fighting the urge to gag.

“Anyway,” Alyssa said, “I’m glad you’re back, and I hope there aren’t any hard feelings between us.”

“Of course there aren’t,” I said. I was saving all of my hard feelings for Tim.

“Good,” said Alyssa, smiling with relief. “I wish Cassie felt the same way you do. I don’t think she’s too happy Tim and I got back together.”

“Yeah, probably not,” I said. “And just to be on the safe side, you might want to make sure there isn’t a horse’s head in your bed when you go to sleep tonight.”

“You’re so funny,” Alyssa said with a laugh as she moved to the other side of the stage.

I shook my head. If only I was joking.

“Happy Halloween, Preppy,” Zoë said as I opened my front door.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, wheeling away from the door so she could come inside. “I thought you had band practice on Saturday mornings.”

“Today is my absolute favorite day of the year,” she replied. “Do you think I’d let this momentous occasion go by without seeing my favorite stiff?”

“Don’t most people choose Christmas or their birthday as their favorite day of the year?” I asked as Zoë flopped onto the couch and opened up one of the bags she’d brought with her.

“You should know by now that I’m not like most people,” Zoë said. “Now, get your skinny little butt over here so I can see if this will fit.”

I wheeled over to her. “What are you talking about?”

“I brought you a costume for tonight’s Halloween party at the Flying Squirrel. The Smelly Farts and Barf Bags are teaming up for the bash of the century,” said Zoë. “And since I knew whatever costume you picked would be lame, I brought you one.”

I picked up the costume—what little there was of it—and asked, “Who or what is this supposed to be?”

“You’re going to be Little Dead Riding Hood and I’m going to be Malice in Wonderland.” Zoë intertwined her knuckles, giving them a gigantic crack. “Isn’t that awesome?”

“Um, yeah,” I lied, checking out the bloody red poncho and black fishnet tights, “except I’m not going tonight.”

“Of course you’re going,” Zoë said. “Eric said he’s picking you up
at seven.”

“And I told Eric to forget about it. I’m in a wheelchair and the Flying Squirrel will be packed. People will be bumping into my leg all night. Unlike you, I’m not into pain.”

“That’s why I got you your own personal area right up front,” Zoë said. “I told the manager of the Flying Squirrel you have this gruesome disease that’s eating away your flesh. I might’ve even mentioned something about you having only, like, ten days to live, and seeing us play was your dying wish.”

“You told him I was dying?”

“I had to, because all he was going to offer was handicapped seating in the back. So I told him that if he reserved a table for you in the front, the news might cover the concert.”

“And what’s going to happen when they find out I only have a broken leg?”

“Who’s going to tell them?” Zoë asked. “Just look like your boring lifeless self and they’ll totally believe it. Half the time, you’re so dreary I believe you’re going to kick the bucket any second. If anyone can pull off looking like they have one foot in the grave, it’s you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“So, let’s head up to your Barbie princess bedroom and see how these costumes look,” Zoë said, bounding toward the stairs.

“I’m sleeping in the guestroom now.”

“Your parents are brutal,” Zoë said. “One little accident and they boot you into the guestroom?”

“It’s on the first floor,” I explained. “But in a few weeks, when I get rid of this chair and get some crutches, I’ll be back in my room.”

“So, when you ditch the chair, is there any way you can change that cast, too? It totally reeks. I could smell it from outside,” Zoë said.

“I thought it was getting a little funky,” I said, leaning over so I could get a better sniff. “But when you live with something foul every day, you start to get used to it—kind of like living with Chris.”

“Holy crud!” Zoë yelled as she stepped into my temporary bedroom, “Please tell me you have a housekeeper who is lazy, drunk, or blind.”

I wheeled myself into the room. Grabbing the pole I kept behind the door, I speared the dirty clothes scattered on my floor and scooped them onto my bed. “Sorry, it’s a little messy.”

“Messy?” Zoë said, taking in the discarded juice boxes, dirty dishes, and books strewn across the room. “This place is disgusting.”

“Yeah, it is getting kind of bad,” I said with a shrug. “My mom usually cleans my room before it gets like this, but she’s been so busy and I’m—”

“A slob?” Zoë said.

“I was going to say, temporarily disabled.”

Zoë nudged a candy wrapper with her foot. “This place should be condemned.”

“It’s not
that
bad,” I said, gathering up a pile of old papers stacked on a chair in the corner and shoving them into the trash.

“Since I plan to shower after I leave,” Zoë said, “I can stay long enough to see if the fishnet stockings are going to fit over that big honking cast of yours.”

I eyed the skimpy stockings. “I don’t think they’re big enough to fit over my feet even before I got in the accident.”

“You do have some honking big feet, but you’d be surprised how far fishnet stretches,” Zoë said, holding out the costume. “Come on, Preppy. I drove all the way over here to bring you this outfit, and I’m not leaving until you try it on.”

“Oh, all right,” I said, deciding it would be easier to give in than fight. After all, there was no way this costume was going to fit my freakishly tall body. And the sooner I proved that, the sooner Zoë would leave, and then I’d be free to watch the
Gilligan’s Island marathon
slated to run all day on TV. “But you at least have to turn around while I put it on. Just because I’m immobile doesn’t mean I’m immodest.”

Rolling her eyes, Zoë turned around. And after a couple of ribcrushing moments, I squished myself into a black leather bodice that barely covered enough skin to legally show in public.

“Whoa,” Zoë said after I gave her the permission to turn back around. “With the right make-up and a little black hair dye, you’ll actually look halfway decent, Princess.”

“You can’t possibly think I’d go out in public wearing this costume,” I said, covering my never-touched-by-the-sun stomach. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t,” Zoë replied, wheeling me in front of the full-length mirror my parents had temporarily propped against the office wall. “You look good for a change.”

I studied my reflection in the mirror. Zoë was right. I didn’t look half-bad. In fact, I looked kind of hot.

Zoë draped the blood-spattered red cape over my shoulders. “But there’s something missing.”

“I think almost all of it is missing,” I said, unable to stop looking at my new and improved reflection.

“The costume is fine. It’s your stomach that’s too boring. What it needs is a navel piercing.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Zoë didn’t crack a smile.

“You
are
joking, right?” I asked. “I mean, you have to be eighteen or have your parents’ permission to get your belly button pierced. My mom might be a little busy right now, but she’s not distracted enough to sign a permission form to put a ring into my belly button.”

“You don’t need your parents’ permission when you have a friend with a license to perform piercings.”

“A friend?” I asked, apprehensively. “And who would that be?”

Ignoring me, Zoë dug around in her purse and pulled out a plastic kit. “See, I have it right here, a certified piercing kit.”

I rolled my chair back a few feet. “Where did you get that?”

“On the internet,” Zoë replied. “I watched a video, answered a few questions, and now I’ve got a license to pierce. I can do it all—eyebrows, lips, tongues, noses—but I draw the line at anything below the belt, if you get my drift.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “There’s no way I’m ever going to let you pierce any part of my body.”

“Come on, Preppy, live a little,” Zoë said, opening the kit. “You’re holed up in a disgusting little room in a wheelchair. Your life can’t suck any more than it already does, so you might as well have some fun.”

“Uh, jabbing a needle in my gut doesn’t sound like that much fun to me.”

“Then think of it as an adventure,” Zoë said. “Remember how jazzed you were about breaking free when you got your license? Well, considering the fact that your parents—and the Department of Motor Vehicles—aren’t going to let you drive for at least another two years, piercing your belly button can be a whole new way to show your independence. Plus, it’s a little dangerous. Wouldn’t it be fun to leave Sesame Street and live on the wild side for a change?”

The wild side?
I’d never been there. Maybe it was time for me to live a little. After all, I looked smokin’ hot in this outfit. Why shouldn’t I go a little further and be smokin’ hot all the time? I needed to demonstrate some independence. Get a little crazy. Act irrational and irresponsible. Be a girl who walks on
the wild side.
And it wasn’t like I was letting an amateur pierce my belly button. Zoë was a trained professional...

“Oh, all right,” I blurted out before I could change my mind. “Let’s do it.”

“OK, that’s the kind of attitude I like,” Zoë said. “Now, I need you to lie down while I sanitize the needle.”

Deliberately ignoring the word “needle,” I hoisted myself out of my wheelchair and onto the bed. As I lay down, Zoë snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and and I began to relax. Maybe Zoë was a
professional after all. I mean, in those gloves, she looked just like my doctor—if my doctor dyed her hair black and pierced her face fifteen times.

Then she pulled out a needle as thick as the nails my dad used to hang cupboards in our garage and I struggled to get up. “What’s that for?”

“Don’t worry, Princess,” Zoë said, pushing me back down as she swabbed some disinfectant onto the skin around my belly button. “It will all be over in a second.”

“So, how many times have you done this?” I asked as she clamped the top part of my belly button with a tool that looked like the kind of gigantic tweezers a hairy Italian man would use to pluck his back.

“None,” Zoë said, picking up the needle. “But somebody has to be first. Now, quit squirming or I’ll rip a hole in your gut.”

“Wait! I’ve changed my mind,” I said, twisting to get myself upright. “I like living on Sesame Street!”

“Too late,” Zoë said, jabbing the nail into my flesh.