Trauma Queen (18 page)

“What are you doing?” she asks in a fakely super-calm voice.

Ashley's face turns bright pink. “A theater exercise. Becca wants us to practice gibberish with as many partners as possible.”

“Gibberish? You're joking, right?”

“She says talking in gibberish frees your imagination. And teaches you to listen better.”

Jada rolls her eyes. “So she's making you talk
baby talk
. And for partners you picked these—”

“We had to,” Megan mutters, looking at the table. “It's not like we
chose
to sit here.”

“Yeah, well, that's obvious. Anyway, you guys have to do this right
now
?”

“Kind of,” Megan says. “Becca wants us to talk about food. That's the assignment.”

Jada sighs deeply. “So how much longer is this going to take?”

“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”

“Lunch is
over
in ten minutes.”

“Jada, this is our homework,” Ashley says. Now her ears are hot pink. “We really need to do this. Becca says—”

“Fine,” Jada interrupts. “Do this.” Her eyes dart around the table. “So anyway, where's Ethan?”

“Squeep,” I blurt out.

Everyone stares at me.

“Squeep,” I repeat, louder this time.

Quinn starts giggling.

Layla grins. “Squeep,” she says, nodding. “Squeep.”

“Yez, squeep,” Brody says. “Squeepsqueepsqueep—”

“Stop that,” Jada says sharply. “It's moronic, even for you, Brody.” She glares at Ashley and Megan. “Well? Is someone going to answer me in English?”

“Squeep,” Layla insists. “Fazoo wobby farple.”

“Fazoo wobby treeny,” Quinn replies. “Gopper.”

“Shut up,” Jada snaps. “All of you. You're acting like total jerks, you know that?”

Then she storms off.

*    *    *

That afternoon in Quilting Quorum, Ms. Canetti is swishing her flowery skirt around the room, watching us lay out our patterns and offering comments like, “Ooh, I'm in love with your focal fabric,” and “Try not to make it too matchy matchy.” When she gets to my desk, she stops. “Oh, Marigold,” she says, noticing the fabric bits scattered all over my desk. “You haven't gotten very far, have you?”

“I'm still deciding what to do.”

“You mean you haven't chosen a pattern yet? Just pick any one. I showed you those books—”

“I'm not sure I want to make a pattern,” I confess. “I'm not even sure I want to make a quilt.”

Ms. Canetti does the kind of smile you do when you don't know what to say. “Let's think about this,” she murmurs. Then she swishes over to the eighth graders, Kirsten, Lexie, and Molly, who are sitting in a private group with their backs to Jada.

Jada looks up at me like she can feel my eyes on her. She stands and walks over to me, casually, then leans over my desk so I can smell her shampoo. Or maybe it's perfume; there's an extra wave of something flowery that you don't get just from washing your hair.

“Nice fabric,” she says quietly. “I like your colors.”

She's complimenting me? After I started the “squeep” business at lunch? “Thanks,” I say uneasily.

She does a quick no-tooth smile. “Does Becca like to quilt?”

“My mom? Oh, no. She can't even thread a needle.”

“That's so funny.” She picks up a scrap, a neon-green satin bit that Ms. Canetti had cut into a perfect square. “Because doesn't she make her own costumes?”

“Not really. Well, she
makes
them, but she doesn't
sew
them.”

“I guess she uses other material? Didn't she make one out of aluminum foil?”

“Saran Wrap.”

“Right. I saw that photo on Wikipedia.”

I'm suddenly aware of my eyebrows. “That's not all she does.”

“Oh, I
know.
I've been reading about her online. And also Ashley and Megan won't shut up about her. They say she's really wild.”

“Actually,” I say, “I'm pretty sure they like her.”

“Oh, they do! Because she's so entertaining. I mean she'll just do
anything,
right? All the other moms—” She shrugs.

“What?”

“Well, you know they're not like that. My mom is always going,
Wow, that Becca Bailey is something
.
And she has such strong opinions!
And omigod, I hear my mom on the phone with Brody's . . . Well, you know how they talk. I try to tune her out, but it's impossible.” She sighs. “Anyway, Marigold, you're so incredibly lucky. Everyone else's parents are so
normal.
”

“Uh, thanks.”

“But sometimes aren't you a little . . . I don't know. Uncomfortable?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Why should I be?”

Jada fixes me with her hyper-sympathetic eyes. She doesn't answer my question; she just lets it dangle in the air, the way Layla dangles noodles.

“Anyhow,” she says finally, “you just seem totally different.”

I swallow. My throat feels vacuumed-out, like I just ate ten peppermints.

“What I mean,” she explains, leaning closer, “is I can tell you're a sensitive person. You really care what other people think. And what they say behind your back.” She slides the green square across my desk. “That's how I am, incredibly sensitive. It makes things
hard, though, doesn't it? Because people can be so nasty.”

Okay, I'm starting to lose it now. “Jada,” I say, hearing my voice wobble. “If you're trying to say something, just say it.”

She does the Bambi-blink. “You're sure?”

I nod once.

“Okay, then.” She cups her hand around my ear. When she speaks, her hot breath fills up my head. “Everyone says you're trying to steal Ethan from me. But I know you wouldn't do anything so tacky, or anything people would
say
was tacky. Because you're already so freaked by all the talk about your mom.”

She touches my arm, like she's afraid I'll break. “Did I upset you, Marigold? I'm really so, so sorry.”

As soon as Quilting Quorum is over, I grab my stuff and run.

I don't want to see Ethan or Layla or anybody else. I don't want people saying to me,
Oh, Marigold, Jada's horrible. She's worse than horrible; she's evil. Whatever she says to you, think the opposite.

And I don't even want people saying,
Oh, Marigold, your mom is awesome. Jada's jealous; just ignore her.

Because I can't. One thing I know for sure right now: This isn't about Jada Sperry. This isn't even about Ethan and me. This is about Becca Bailey, because it's
always
about Becca Bailey. And I can't let her keep hurling my life into total chaos.

When I get home, she's not there yet, of course; she's still at Improv. But Kennedy is there, her bare feet up on the coffee table. And this other person, a small, pointy-faced girl, is polishing Kennedy's nails. With my nail polish.

“This color is soooo gorge,” the pointy-faced girl is saying. “What's it called again?”

“Fun in the Sun,” Kennedy answers. “Watch it, you're dripping some on my foot.”

“Hello?” I call out.

Kennedy jumps up. “Oh, Mari! Hi! This is Dexter. She asked if we could borrow your polish. I said it was okay, because you never use it, right?”

“Right. Though you should have asked first.” Wasn't Dexter the mean girl who called Kennie a spaz in gym? I look at my sister, her eyes huge and pleading behind her glasses. “Actually,” I say, “this color doesn't work for me. You want it?”

Kennie throws her arms around me. “Thanks, Mari,” she murmurs.

“Wow, Ken, your sister's soooo cool,” Dexter says, her beady little eyes popping.

That's when the front door opens, and Mom bursts into the living room in her purple Wagley College sweats, her cheeks glowing, her hair all sproingy. “Sorry I'm late,” she says, panting. “I tried to end the club early, but they just wouldn't leave. Is this Dexter?”

“I'm really glad to meet you, Mrs. Bailey,” Dexter says shyly. “Kennedy's been telling me about you.”

Mom beams, as if Dexter is now officially one of
her kids
. “Call me Becca,” she says, and plops onto the sofa.

For the next hour and a half, I'm in my room, listening through the walls to Mom chatting up Dexter, and Dexter giggling hysterically, and then the doorbell. “Bye!” Mom sings out. “We'll have Dexter over for dinner next time!” I wait a few minutes for the Chocolate Night DVD to stop playing in my head. Then I go to the kitchenette, where Beezer is noisily chomping his kibble and Mom is pulling stuff out of the pantry.

As soon as she sees me, she dumps some peanut butter into a mixing bowl. “What a successful day,” she announces. “Kennie's made a nice friend, we had a truly
spectacular
Improv, I think I've just had an inspiration for a new piece, and this morning I got Bob's approval
for the Mochahouse.” She drizzles some honey into the bowl, frowns, then drizzles some more. “What's up with you, baby?”

“Nothing,” I sputter.
“Mochahouse?”

“Cutesy name, right?” She laughs. “Apparently every June all the clubs have an open house for the parents. And I had this idea for an Improv coffeehouse, so my kids could perform in front of a live audience. But Lisa Sperry is making us call it a Mochahouse, because, as she puts it,
“Coffee is inappropriate for middle schoolers.”
I swear, that woman is driving me completely—”

Your cue, Marigold.
“You're not fighting with her, are you?”

“Well, I'm expressing contrary viewpoints. But don't worry, always in an
appropriate
manner.” She rips open a bag of sunflower seeds and pours the entire contents into the bowl. Now she's chopping apples. “Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. I heard some stuff today.”

“Oh, really?” Chop, chop, chop. “What sort of stuff?”

“About you.”

“Ah, free publicity. The best kind.” She stirs the goopy mixture with a spatula, frowns, then adds some raisins. “And who said this newsworthy stuff?”

“Some girl I know. She's not in your club.”

“So apparently word travels. Well, that's good to hear.” She takes the spatula and smears the goop all over her arm.

“Mom? Uh, what are you doing?”

“Research.” She holds out her goopy arm and jiggles it slightly, like it's a branch fluttering in the wind. “I need to see if it's the right consistency. Hmm. Maybe a bit too thin. See how it's dripping off?”

“Okay,” I say. “You know what? You've finally gone off the deep end.”

“Oh, Mari, relax, it's for my new piece.” She adds peanut butter to the bowl, then tastes the goop with her finger. “I'm calling it
Birdfeeder
. I'm going to stand in the park on Earth Day, smear this stuff all over my scuba gear, and see what happens. Maybe you can take some photos?”

I don't even answer that. I watch her add more raisins to her arm. “Mom, how can you keep doing this to us?”

“Doing this to
you
?” She spreads more goop. “This has nothing to do with you, baby. This is my work.”

“I know it is! But you promised me—”

“I promised to keep my work separate from the
Improv Club. I never said I'd stop doing performances.”

She has a point, doesn't she? Technically that's what she said
. “But people will see,” I argue lamely.

“They're
supposed
to see. That's the idea: to show people how we're one with nature. Or should be.” She does three or four jumping jacks. Only a few raisins and some sunflower seeds fall off. “Maybe I should add some butter. Although, wait a sec: Do birds even like butter?”

Okay, just pretend she didn't ask that
. “Mom. You're not advertising this
Birdfeeder
thing in the club, are you? Or talking about, I don't know,
Nu-Trisha
, or any other performance you've ever—”

“Marigold,” Mom says, rinsing off her hands. “Enough already, okay? I'm getting tired of all these questions.”