Trauma Queen (20 page)

“So unfair. This late,”
I hear Megan grumble.

“Yeah,”
Ashley tells her.
“And now we have to go sign up for some stupid—”

When I'm sure every kid is finally gone, I slip back inside the auditorium. Mom is stacking the folding
chairs onstage as if absolutely nothing has just happened.

“Oh, Mari,” she says in a cheery voice. Fake-cheery. “Sorry I'm running so late today. The kids were a bit tight warming up—”

“I heard you,” I blurt. “About ending the club. I was sitting in the back.”

She stares. “You were?”

“Is it because of me? Is that why? Because of our fight last night?”

“Oh, baby.” She smiles sadly. “That, and everything else. I've been thinking about what you've been saying, how I just keep doing the same things over and over. And you're right, I've been so selfish. It's time for me to put your feelings first. Yours and Kennie's both.”

I swallow hard.

It's the line I've been waiting for her to say, I guess.

But what's funny is, now that she's actually said it, whammo, I completely change the scene on her.

“Thanks,” I say. “Except my feeling is, you should do the club.”

“What?”

“I saw the whole thing,” I tell her. “Not just what you said at the end. You're a really good teacher.”

“Well, thank you, Mari. But—”

“And I don't want you to quit.”

“You're serious?”

I nod. “Promise you won't, okay?”

She rakes her sproingy hair out of her eyes. “Well, Marigold, I mean, I'm just
shocked
,” she says. “Because last night you were convinced I came to Improv dripping peanut butter.”

“Yeah, but then I remembered Layla's allergic. She'd challenge you to a joust if you showed up like that.”

Mom stares at me.

“That's a joke,” I explain. I smile at her, but she's still not smiling back.

Then I reach to touch her arm. “Listen,” I say, “everyone is really psyched about this club. You should hear them in the lunchroom talking gibberish all the time. Plus there's the Mochahouse. All the parents are coming, right? You can't just not show.”

“Right,” Mom says slowly. “The Mochahouse.” She presses her hands on my shoulders and gives me her deep-in-the-retinas look. “But Mari, you're
sure
it's okay that I'm at your school every day? Completely okay? Because I'm serious, baby, if it's not—”

“You'll know,” I promise.

*    *    *

While Mom is off telling Mr. Shamsky that she's not quitting Improv after all, I race down the hall. Quilting Quorum is about to end for the day, and I want to be there when the end-of-after-school bell rings.

Because suddenly I realize that there's something else I need to do. Something I should have done yesterday, but maybe it's too late.

As soon as Ms. Canetti's door opens, Jada Sperry walks out, followed by Kirsten, Lexie, and Molly.

“Hey,” I call out. “Jada, can I please talk to you a minute?”

She stops and narrows her eyes at me. “Sure,” she says.

The eighth-grade girls stop too. Maybe they're waiting to see what happens.
Okay, fine,
I tell myself.
So I have an audience.

“Well?” Jada says impatiently.

Go.
“I was just watching my mom,” I say. “And she was great. So before you say anything else about her, get your facts straight, okay?”

Jada laughs like I'm this crazy person. “What are you talking about, Marigold?”

“The Improv club. Have you seen it with your own eyes? Because maybe you just
want
it to be bad.”

“Okay, you know what? This is extremely fascinating, but I really have to—”

“No, you don't,” Kirsten says.

“
Excuse
me?” Jada flashes her eyes at the eighth-grade girls, but all three of them stare right back at her.

“Marigold's talking to you,” Kirsten tells her. “Don't walk away; it's rude.”

“Incredibly rude,” Lexie agrees, and Molly nods.

Jada's face goes pale. She opens her mouth to protest, but nothing comes out.

I mean, seriously, she just looks kind of stunned. Also trapped.

And maybe it's stupid, but right now I do feel sorry for her.

And I know just what she feels like. But I blurt out: “Jada, listen. You're the last one who should be saying things about my mom. Because I heard about your parents fighting, and how everyone was talking. And that was awful for you, right? And really, really unfair. But it wasn't Quinn's fault. She couldn't help it if—”

“Shut up, SHUT UP!”
Jada explodes. “You're not even
from
here, Marigold, so don't you
dare
talk about my family! Or anything!”

She pushes past Molly. We watch her run down the
hall, almost crashing into a group of sixth-grade soccer players.

Then Kirsten pats my back. “Nice,” she says. “Even if you got a little warm and fuzzy there at the end.”

“I just didn't want to be nasty,” I say.

“Why not? She totally deserves it.”

I shrug. There's no way I can explain how I know about Jada.

“You walking home, Marigold?” Lexie asks. “Or taking the late bus?”

“Walking,” I answer. “But I'm actually waiting for someone.”

She catches Molly's eye with an I-told-you-so grin. “You mean Ethan? Well, don't let
us
stop you.”

And they head out just before Mom shows up with Mr. Shamsky, both of them laughing like they're old friends.

After my Big Confrontation Scene with Jada, a few major things happen.

One is that Ethan and I decide not to be secret anymore. It's not like we're all boyfriend/girlfriend in homeroom or anything, but at dismissal we meet by the flagpole and walk home together, some of the
time holding hands. Brody still makes his obnoxious comments, of course, but basically we just laugh it off. Besides, the way Brody is hanging around Layla these days, it's not like he can get away with too much teasing.

Another development: The eighth-grade girls go spreading the word around school that Marigold Bailey Told Off Jada Sperry. And I don't know if it's because of that, exactly, but the permanent crowd around Jada is definitely shrinking a little. Even Ashley and Megan aren't glued to her side anymore. In fact, sometimes they sit at our table to talk about Improv, and once they even started laughing with Layla about “the time Marigold said ‘squeep.' “

I guess the other main result of my Jada Scene is that I start working on the Thing in Quilting Quorum. It's like, one morning I just wake up and realize that I don't have to worry about Jada's evil eye anymore. And if Ms. Canetti doesn't understand why someone would sew a non-quilt with non-patterns, that's her problem, not mine. So I start bringing my own fabric scraps—Mom's scraps, the ones Gram sent me—from home, sewing small sections at a time. And then one day, I think,
This is stupid. I should just bring in the whole big
alien-blob.
So I stuff it into my backpack, which means I have to leave a few notebooks home, but okay.

Amazingly, the eighth-grade girls love the crazy, clashing shape. Kirsten and Molly hold up a few of the corners and waft it around the classroom before Ms. Canetti shows up. “Look, it's a mutant rainbow!” Molly shouts.

“It's fabulous,” Lexie gushes. “When it's open house, we should totally hang it in the front lobby.”

I stop sewing. “You mean right near the main office? Are you serious?”

“Yeah. It'll make the lobby look like a psychedelic circus tent. In a good way.”

“Omigod! What a fantastic idea!” Molly squeals. “I love it!”

“Listen, guys,” I begin.

“You're overruled. It's three against one.”

Right then Jada walks into the room and takes the seat nearest Ms. Canetti's desk. She picks up a square of fabric and immediately starts sewing, not even bothering to talk to any of us.

Which makes me feel a teeny bit guilty, actually.

But I know I can't waste more time on Jada, because now I have something new to worry about. And the
thought of the whole town staring at my crazy Thing, seeing it through their own eyes, judging it, is making my stomach start to hurt.

I mean, Mom is the one who enjoys freaking out an audience. Not me.

“Erg, I'm so nervous,” Layla says. “I think I may barf.”

“Well, don't,” Mom says. “I can't afford a new sofa.” She squints at Layla's face, then slowly applies some eyeliner.

“Ooh, I know, Becca. Can you do Egyptian eyes? You know, thick and black, with the sides coming way, way out?”

“I can. But I won't.”

“Why not?”

“Performers should never wear anything too specific. It distracts the audience.”

Kennedy gives me a look. “Was that why you wouldn't
let Dad buy you a diamond ring?” she asks.

Mom smiles. “Where did you get that from?”

“Dad. That's what he told us when he gave a rock to Mona.”

“Kennie,” I say in a warning voice.

“It's okay, Mari,” Mom says calmly. “The truth is, that's what I told him at the time. But the real reason I didn't let him buy an engagement ring is that we couldn't afford one. Two starving artists,” she explains to Layla.

“Cool,” Layla says, admiring her eyes in the mirror.

The doorbell rings.

“Door's open,” Mom calls. “Make your entrance.”

Quinn comes rushing into the living room, looking surprisingly un-babyish in her black leotard. “Sorry I'm late,” she says, panting. “But my parents just got home from work, and there was all this traffic—”

“Relax, sweetheart, and save that energy for the performance.” Mom studies Quinn's face a minute, then starts lining up foundations, powders, creams, eye shadows, and lipsticks all over the coffee table. She throws a towel over Quinn's shoulders and starts putting on Quinn's makeup. “Is your dad parked downstairs?”

“Across the street,” Quinn says. “But he said, ‘Let
Mrs. Bailey take her time with your makeup. I want you to look beautiful.' “

“Theater makeup's not for beauty,” Mom corrects her. She smears on some rouge. “It's so the audience can read your expression.” She outlines Quinn's lips with some liner and then puts on some lipstick, a cherry color that makes Quinn's whole face come alive.

“There,” she announces. “Perfecta.”

And then Beezer trots over and licks Quinn across the nose.

“Bad dog!” Mom cries. “Now I have to do a touchup.”

Layla smirks at me. “When you finish, Becca, I think it's Marigold's turn.”

“No, it's not,” I say. “I'm not performing!”

“Au contraire,” Layla argues. “Everyone's going to be looking at your quilt. And as the artist—”

“They're not going to care what my face looks like. No makeup, Layla.”

“Well, you should at least change
that,
” she says, pointing accusingly at my Wile E. Coyote tee.

“I like what I'm wearing,” I reply. “No, wrong: I love it.”

“What about nail polish?” Kennedy asks. She goes running into our bedroom and comes out with a handful of bottles.

I groan. “If I put some on, will you guys leave me alone?”

They all promise. So I grab Fun in the Sun and do two quick coats. Then we all—Mom, Kennedy, Quinn, Layla, and me—race out of the apartment and squeeze into Quinn's car, everybody laughing and talking way too loud.

“You look beautiful,” Quinn's dad tells us.

“No, we don't, we look dramatic,” Quinn answers. And then Layla starts doing all these silent-movie gestures that end up whacking me in the head.

“Girls, center and compose yourselves,” Mom says. “Do your breathing and be calm.”

“Yes, swami,” Layla says.

Not me, though. The whole ride to school, my stomach feels like fireworks. The main reason is, I'm terrified what people will say about the Thing. The eighth-grade girls did exactly what they threatened to do, and convinced Ms. Canetti to display it right smack in the main lobby, so everyone has to see it. Everyone. Plus Kennedy told me that Dad called, and he said he's bringing Mona, which will make this the first time she's met Mom face-to-face. And even if Jada is wrong, and everyone isn't gossiping about Mom—whose
Birdfeeder
performance was on page five of the local newspaper—I'm sure people will talk if there's a Big Confrontation
Scene. At my school. On open house night. Truthfully, the more I think about the potential for disaster, the only thing that's keeping me from bolting when we stop for a traffic light is that Gram called an hour ago, and said she was on her way. “Cookie, I wouldn't miss this for the world,” is what she said.