One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

Sonya Sones

Ann Sullivan

SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
1230 Avenue of the Americas,
New York,
New York 10020

SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon " Schuster Children's Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2004 by Sonya Sones

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

S
IMON
" S
CHUSTER
B
OOKS FOR
Y
OUNG
R
EADERS
is a trademark of Simon " Schuster, Inc.

Book design by Ann Sullivan

The text for this book is set in Oranda BT.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

One of those hideous books where the mother dies / by Sonya Sones.—1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: Fifteen-year-old Ruby Milliken leaves her best friend, her boyfriend, her aunt, and her mother's grave in Boston and reluctantly flies to Los Angeles to live with her father, a famous movie star who divorced her mother before Ruby was born.

ISBN-13: 978-0-689-85820-8
(ISBN-10: 0-689-85820-5)

eISBN 978-1-439-10757-7

[1. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Moving, household—Fiction. 3. Actors and actresses—Fiction. 4. Grief—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 6. Homosexuality—Fiction. 7. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.S6978 Mi 2004

[Fic]—dc21 2003009355

for Bennett
with love and admiration

Heartfelt thanks to Ruth Bornstein, Peg Leavitt, Betsy Rosenthal, Ann Wagner, and April Halprin Wayland, for your generosity and your brilliance. Deepest of curtsies to Myra Cohn Livingston, David Gale, Russell Gordon, and Steven Malk, for making it all possible. Tons of gratitude to my kind readers, for the glowing e-mails that have kept me afloat. And huge hugs and kisses to Ava and Jeremy, for helping me keep Ruby's voice real, and for inspiring me, always.

American Airlines Flight 161

I'm not
that
depressed, considering that this
gigantic silver bullet with wings
is blasting me away from my whole entire life,
away from Lizzie Brody,
my best friend in the world,
away from Ray Johnston,
my first real boyfriend.

Not
that
depressed, considering I've been kidnapped
by this monstrous steel pterodactyl
and it's flying me all the way to L.A.
to live with my father
who I've never even met
because he's such a scumbag
that he divorced my mother
before I was even born.

I'd say I'm doing
reasonably
well,
considering I'm being dragged
three thousand miles away from all my friends
and my school and my aunt Duffy
and the house I've lived in ever since I was born,
three thousand miles away from my mother,
and my mother's grave,
where she lies in a cold wooden box
under six feet of dirt,
just beginning to rot.

I'm not
that
depressed
considering tha t I'm trapped
on this jumbo poison dart
shooting me away from everything I love,
and there's this real weird guy
sitting in the seat right behind mine,
who keeps picking his nose
and eating it.

Depressed?

Who? Me?

Aunt Duffy Drove Me to the Airport

And there was a second there
when I actually considered
getting down on my hands and knees
and begging her not to put me on this plane,
begging her not to send me away,
pleading with her to let me stay in Boston
and live with
her
instead.

But Duffy's so nice that I knew she'd say yes
and I knew that that would make me feel
like crawling under a boulder,
because her apartment just has
this one microscopic bedroom

and now that she's finally
got herself a new boyfriend,
the last thing she needs
is to have her fifteen-year-old niece
permanently camped out in her living room,
which is barely even big enough
to fit her couch.

So I contained my urge to grovel.

My Mother Hated Flying

Especially after September 11th.

She used to squeeze my hand so hard
during takeoffs and landings
that she'd cut off my circulation.

She'd screw her eyes closed
and whisper this silly prayer someone taught her once.
Something about manifold divine blessings
being unto the plane or the universe
or
some
hippie-dippy thing like that.

And if there was even
a teensy bit of turbulence—
forget
it.
She'd start apologizing to me
for every mean thing she'd ever said
or done or even
thought
about doing.

This morning,
when the plane was lurching down the runway
and I didn't have Mom's hand to hold,
my heart flung itself up into my throat.
And for a minute there,
I couldn't even breathe.

I didn't know how much
I depended on
being depended on

by her.

Peach Fuzz

When the flight attendant
leans in to ask me
if I'd like something to drink,
and the sun splashes across her face,

I notice
all these tiny little
blond hairs on her cheeks,
and tears rush into my eyes.

My mother had them, too.
I used to tease her about them.
Called it her peach fuzz.
It used to make her laugh.

If I could reach out
and stroke those little hairs
on the flight attendant's face,
without totally freaking her out,

I'd close my eyes
and I'd do it right now.
I'd touch my mother's cheek
one more time.

Maybe You're Wondering About It

But that's just tough.
Because I'm not even going to go
in
to how she died.

Let's just say she
knew
that she was sick,
that she felt it burrowing,
felt it gnawing at her insides.

But the doctors wouldn't listen.
And when they finally found it,
there was nothing they could do.

Nothing
she
could do.
Nothing I could do.
Nothing.

Let's just say
she wasted away into a toothpick,
and leave it at that, okay?

That after a while
she was just a shadow
lying there on her bed.

Oh.
And I guess we can say
that I was holding her hand

when it finally happened.

I Love to Read

But my life better not turn out
to be like one of those hideous books
where the mother dies
and so the girl has to
go live with her absentee father
and he turns out to be
an alcoholic heroin addict
who brutally beats her
and sexually molests her
thereby causing her to become
a bulimic ax murderer.

I love to read,
but I can't stand books like that.

And I flat out refuse
to have one of those lives
that I wouldn't even want
to read about.

And Speaking of Fathers

As soon as I was old enough
to notice that I didn't have one,
I started asking questions.

Like, “Where's my daddy?”
And, “How come Lizzie has a daddy,
but I don't?”

Mom's face would sort of slam shut
and all she'd say was,
“He divorced me before you were born.”

If it wasn't for my aunt Duffy
I'd never have even found out
who my father
was
.

My Earliest Memory

I'll probably be lying on a ratty old couch
telling some nosy shrink about this in a few years:

I was just about to turn four.
My aunt Duffy told me she was going to give me
a very special present for my birthday.
She said she was going to take me to see my daddy.
But only if I promised not to tell my mommy.

I remember crossing my heart and hoping to die,
and hurrying to put on my brand new red sparkle shoes.
Then she popped me into her Volkswagen
and whisked me off to a movie theater.
I figured my dad was going to meet us there.

I remember searching every face in the lobby,
trying to pick him out of the crowd,
while my heart tap-danced against my ribs.
I could hardly wait to show my daddy (
my daddy!
)
those new shoes.

I remember the lights going down, the film coming on,
and there still being no sign of him.
“But where
is
he?” I demanded to know,
on the verge of a major meltdown.

Aunt Duffy put her arm around me,
then pointed to this enormous face up on the movie screen
and said, “There he is, Ruby.

That's
your daddy.”

My Daddy?!

“But he's too … big!” I squeaked.
And it suddenly struck me
that I wasn't going to be able to show him
those new shoes of mine after all.

I burst into tears,
leapt out of my seat and ran up the aisle
with Aunt Duffy right on my heels.

And then we were both in the lobby
and she was crying too
and hugging me so tight my lungs were collapsing
and saying how terribly sorry she was
and going on and on about not being a mom herself
and about being clueless
about how to do things like this the right way.

And I remember feeling
sort of guilty for making her cry.
But then this sudden tsunami of fury crashed over me
and I started shouting at her to just stop crying,
just stop talking,
just stop
everything
—

and bring me back inside the theater
to take another look at my amazing,
colossal,
gigantic

DADDY.

After That It Got to Be a Tradition

Every December, around my birthday,
Aunt Duny would come to pick me up
and tell my mom that she was
taking me for a girls' day out.

Only what she
really
did
was take me to see
my illustrious father, Whip Logan,
in his latest smash hit.

Can you
believe
that name?
Whip
.
It sounds so … so
made up
.
How did he ever come up with something that lame?

Whip Logan
is
—
Mr. Millions
.
Whip Logan
is
—
The Seeker
.
Whip Logan
is
—
Sergeant Bennett
.
Whip Logan
is
—
Black and Blue
.

I went to see him faithfully.
Every single year.
But he never came to see me.
Not even once.

That's because Whip Logan
is
—an asshole.