My Miserable Life (8 page)

“Hi. You must be Amy?” my mom said when the person with black hair and black clothes and black boots with spikes came to the door.

Angelina ran to pick up Monkeylad so he wouldn't get hurt from the spikes.

“Hey. It's Thursday,” said the person.

“Thursday? Isn't it Monday?” said my mom.

“No. My name. It's Thursday.”

“Your name is Thursday?”

The person rolled her eyes, which were lined with black stuff. “I was born on a Thursday. Every Thursday I feel like hell and want to die.”

“Then why did you name yourself after that day?” Angelina asked.

The person ignored her. She glared at me. “Don't you have a day of the week you hate?”

“Sunday,” I said.

“What day were you born?”

I looked at my mom. “Sunday?” she said sheepishly.

“See? I rest my case. Where do I sleep?” the person said.

I felt an invisible baseball slam into my gut as the truth fully hit me: I was getting kicked out of my room.

Our scary guest stomped away in her spike-studded black boots.

“I can't believe this,” I said.

Angelina stomped off as if she, too, had on giant black spiked boots. I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut. It all just kept getting worse and worse, and it wasn't even Sunday.

*   *   *

From MY room, I could hear music so loud it made my teeth chatter.

“I'm sorry, Ben,” my mom said. “It's only for a little while. I feel sorry for her.”

“Aren't you going to tell her to turn off the music?”

“In a little while. I want her to settle in and feel at home. Why don't you knock on her door and see if she needs anything?”

I didn't want to do this, but I went and knocked anyway. I was surprised that Thursday let me in.

“My mom wants to know if you need anything,” I said.

Thursday was sitting cross-legged on my bed, painting her fingernails black. “Nah, I'm good,” she said. “As good as a person can be in this life. Which isn't great.”

“What's that music?” I asked.

“G.O.T.H. It stands for Get On to Hades. You like?”

“Not bad, not bad,” I said, because I wanted to sound cool. “You like the color black a lot, I guess.” This did not sound cool, but Thursday didn't seem to mind.

“You might not like black now, because you're just a happy kid, but when you're older, say, around thirteen, you're going to like black because it will express how you feel. Your life will be miserable every day. Not just on Sundays.”

“Thanks,” I said.

*   *   *

“Maybe we can find something fun for you to do this vacation?” my mom said when I came back. She was looking up camps on the computer. “Something sports related maybe?”

“Not 4 Kids Only,” I said.

“We have to have you do something, though? Won't you get bored?”

“I can play video games,” I said.

“How can you play them all day? Won't it make your eyes hurt? And what will you do when I have to work? Maybe you can show Amy—uh, Thursday—around?”

Anything but that. My mom smiled at me like she could tell she'd won.

“How about this camp?” She handed me a flyer with a picture of some kids in baseball caps.
SUPER SPORT BASEBALL CLEAT CAMP
.

I love baseball. That chalk diamond on the green grass as the sun sets over the hills. The smell of grilled nitrate-filled hot dogs that your mom never lets you eat. Sliding into home. (Except when you're tagged out.) Mud permanently ground into your knees. (Except when you have to use a washcloth to scrub them clean in the bath.) Candy and chips with hydrogenated oils in them that your mom has to let you have because everyone else is eating them. (Except when it's her turn to be in charge of snacks and she brings tangerines and organic almonds.)

I've been in Little League for four years, and this spring will be my fifth. My problem with Little League was that if I didn't do well, I got really mad at myself and threw my glove. Then my mom came running into the dugout to talk to me, and this made everything worse. The coaches had to tell her not to interfere.

“But it's so hard for me to watch Ben that upset,” my mom said.

They reassured her that they'd take care of me and made her go sit back down.

I guess her behavior kind of worked, because toward the end of the season, I'd stopped doing it just to avoid her running into the dugout with a pack of tissues.

My thing is I really, really, like to win. And I really, really, really, a hundred million
really
s, hate to lose. It makes me feel like a giant failure.

I looked at the picture of the smiling kids. Maybe Super Sport Baseball Cleat Camp would give me an edge over the other kids in Little League when spring came.

And I didn't want to stay home with Angelina over vacation. She would torment me with Lady Blah-Blah and Dustin Peeper songs, cheers, and running around the house screaming while Monkeylad tried to lick the lotion off her legs. Plus, I got enough of her when I had to sleep in the cot in her room and asphyxiate on perfume and nail polish while Dustin Peeper watched me with his beady eyes and too much hair. Worse, I could get left with Thursday, having to show her around, having to hear her talk about how life was hell, having to listen to her music. So I said yes to my mom.

 

CHAPTER 9

CHRISTMAS COFFIN

My mom's new friend came by for Christmas Eve dinner with my family and Thursday.

“This is Tree,” my mom said. “He's my yoga instructor. He also does acupuncture and is a nutritionist.”

Our new roommate smirked. I kind of agreed with her.
Tree? Seriously?
But then I remembered that her name was Thursday.

“Your name is
Tree
?” Angelina said.

“Angelina,” my mom said in the voice that means
Rude! Stop!

“That's okay,” said Tree, smiling secretively with just the corners of his lips. Tree is a skinny but muscular guy with a shaved head. “It might sound strange. My name was Daniel Zimmerman, but I changed it.”

“Tree is great,” my mom said. “Would you like some chicken tamales?”

“No, thank you. I brought my special delicious salad. I'm a raw foodist.” Tree gave us that same smile, took a large container full of salad from his backpack, and began to pour ingredients from smaller containers onto it. “Spirulina, flaxseed oil, lemon juice, raw organic sunflower seeds, sprouted almonds…” He listed each thing as he put it in. My mom watched with her hands clasped together as if it was the best thing she had ever seen.

Thursday made a gagging face behind their backs and pretended to stick her finger down her throat.

“Why don't you do the dishes, kids,” said Tree when Thursday, Angelina, and I were done eating tamales and Tree and my mom had eaten the raw-food salad. “I can give your mom an acupuncture treatment while you clean up.”

Thursday said she was really sorry but that she was allergic to dish soap, and disappeared into her (my) room. Angelina and I just looked at each other. Even Angelina was speechless. We went into the kitchen while my mom lay on the couch. Tree stuck needles in her body. Every so often she would make little
ouch
sounds and I'd run in to see if she was okay.

“Oh, yes, it's helping a lot,” my mom promised.

I didn't see how getting stuck with sharp needles really did anything except hurt and get you out of doing the dishes.

We heard a banging sound, and I ran back in to see if Tree was doing something weird to our house, but the sound was coming from my room.

Tree knocked loudly on my door. “Excuse me, we're doing a healing session out here.”

“So am I,” Thursday answered without opening up. She always kept my room locked.

“Maybe it will keep her out of trouble,” my mom said.

I figured the acupuncture would keep my mom out of the kitchen long enough for Angelina and me to find some sugar (maybe some old candy the Halloween Fairy had hidden?), but there wasn't any around.