Trauma Queen (5 page)

And then Mom walked to the front of the classroom.

And started taking off her clothes.

Everyone gasped. Until they realized that under her clothes was a scuba-diving outfit. Which was cool all by itself, really.

But then she reached into a giant tote bag she'd brought, and took out three beach towels, which she carefully spread on the floor. She placed a chair on the beach towels and sat down. Then she grinned at the class and held up a giant bottle of imported olive oil. She twisted off the cap slowly, and before anyone could stop her, she poured some of it into her mouth.

“Eww,” said the class.

Except she didn't just drink it. She also poured it all over her scuba-diving outfit. In her lap, down her chest, even on her arms and legs. She also poured some of it onto her hair, and let it drip down her face. She was so oily and shiny under the fluorescent classroom lights that she practically glowed.

At first no one knew what to say. “What's your job?” a kid named Bradley Miller called out. “Are you a weirdo?”

Mom shook her head. Oil spattered on the towels.

“Eww,” said the class again, louder this time.

“Are you a grease monster?” Sean Koplik asked, laughing so hard he fell out of his chair. “Are you a french fry?”

“Nope,” Mom said.

“Are you a weirdo?” Bradley repeated.

“Ms. Bailey?” Our second-grade teacher, Mr. O'Neill, was young and fun, but he was definitely getting a little nervous. “Can you please give us a clue about your profession? We're kind of stumped here.”

Mom grinned. “I'm the United States.”

The class stared.

“I'm guzzling oil,” she explained. “And making a big mess. Isn't that silly?”

The class roared. I mean, if you want to get a whole bunch of seven-year-olds to instantly fall in love with you, Mom had the secret formula. They clapped and jumped out of their seats and begged her to keep pouring oil over her head, but finally she wiped herself off with some paper towels and explained that she was sort of an artist, but not the easel type. She did performance art, she explained, using her body to make you see boring, everyday things in a surprising new way. “And possibly even think a little,” she added. Oh, and she was doing a one-woman show this weekend at the community theater, so if the class wanted to see more, they should tell their parents to buy tickets.

“Thanks, Ms. Bailey,” Mr. O'Neill said, smiling. “That was certainly memorable.”

And it was. The kids all remembered to tell their parents, and that Saturday, Mom had maybe her best turnout ever. I forget what she did onstage—I think it was
Plastic Surgery—but whatever it was, it didn't go over as well as
Guzzling Oil
. Which the kids in my class couldn't stop talking about, constantly asking me if my mom wore a scuba suit at home, and if the floors in our apartment were all slippery. Finally somebody's mom—I think it was Sean Koplik's—complained to the principal that she caught her kid drinking canola, so the principal called Mom and accused her of “sending the wrong message.”

“Excuse me,” Mom shouted into the receiver. “But under the First Amendment of the Constitution I have
every right
to speak out about protecting our planet. And maybe if you folks were teaching energy awareness and global responsibility, my daughter would actually be learning something
important
!”

I couldn't hear the rest of the conversation, but from the way Mom slammed her bedroom door afterward, I could tell she was really upset. And that night at dinner, Mom didn't eat very much. Or talk very much either.

Finally she said, “I think I may have blown it with your principal, Mari.”

“It's okay,” I told her. “Nobody likes him, anyway.”

“That's not the point.” She sighed. “I just don't want him taking it out on you.”

“But he never even yells at me.”

“Really? Well, let's keep it that way.
No youthful hijinks, all right, young lady?
”
She wagged her finger, like she was scolding me. And then all of a sudden she grinned, like the whole thing was a joke.

But it wasn't. Because the next thing I knew, Mom got uninvited from chaperoning the second-grade trip to the planetarium, and four kids in the class told me their parents wouldn't let them come to my house anymore.

“Your mom's a weirdo,” Bradley Miller said to me at recess one day.

“No, she's not, she's an artist,” I'd answered loudly. Kids were starting to crowd around, so I added, “And if she's so weird, how come you clapped for her? How come you came to the theater afterward?”

“Because she's funny,” Bradley said. “But now everyone thinks she's nuts.”

“And she also had a big fight with the principal,”
said this older girl I didn't even know. Which was how I knew that word had gotten out, and it was all over school now, probably all over town.

Right around this time, the theater told Mom it was canceling her show. (Mom threatened to perform for free in the small park across the street from the theater; they said, “Go ahead,” so she did, wrapping herself with Saran Wrap for all the nannies and the pigeons.) The next year, Mom lost her job teaching improv at the community college. By the time I was in fourth grade, she started walking dogs to pay the rent.

We moved in the middle of sixth grade, the second year of middle school. At the time Mom said it was so that we could live closer to Dad, but they'd been divorced since I was in first grade, and not together very much before that, so I had my doubts. He was renting a small house about three miles from our new apartment building, but he was a magazine photographer always off “on assignment,” so he was practically never there. I don't know if Mom had totally realized this before we'd moved. Maybe she expected us to become one big happy divorced family. Or maybe she thought if he saw us more often, he'd pay for more stuff; I know around then she was pretty worried about money.

Anyway, the whole time we were setting up the new apartment, she was in a great mood. She even unpacked an old scrapbook of Dad's photos, and showed Kennedy and me a bunch of landscape shots he'd taken during his study-abroad year in India. I thought they were pretty amazing, but I could see by the slow, dreamy way Mom turned the scrapbook pages that they meant something else to her. Then she gave us a big speech about what a brilliant photographer he was, how daring and original, how proud she was that he'd dedicated his life to his art.

“You do that too,” I reminded her. “Dedicate your life to your art.”

“You think so?” she answered. “Because
I
think I dedicate my life to my two precious daughters.” She kissed my cheek and then Kennedy's, closed the scrap-book, and stuck it in her nightstand.

We'd been living in the new apartment for about a week when one day, right after Easter, Dad called. He'd be in town for the next month or so, he said, and wanted to invite Kennedy and me over “for Sunday dinner.” This was surprising, because whenever we saw Dad, he always drove to our place and took us out for “ethnic food,” which usually meant Chinese. And then
afterward we'd do mini golf or go to a movie, anything where we wouldn't have to talk very much.

But now he was inviting us “for Sunday dinner,” as if it were a sacred Bailey family ritual. Kennedy was so excited she actually put on a prairie dress, and I decided to wear my jean skirt—dressier than my usual jeans, but not too hyper-formal. Mom hugged us and told us we both looked gorgeous, and then she dropped us off in the driveway of Dad's small red house.

This short, perky woman with streaky highlights and a fake-looking bronzer tan answered the door. When Kennedy and I stood there like maybe we'd gotten the address wrong, Dad came rushing over to introduce her as Mona. And then he casually mentioned that she was a “family friend.”

“Whose family?” I asked. Dad gave me a look that meant:
Don't start being difficult, Marigold. I've been divorced for five years, and I'm allowed to have girlfriends. And I will NOT allow you to mess this up for me.

So, of course, I stopped looking at him.

Things went downhill from there. For dinner Mona made baby back ribs, not knowing that Kennedy had just turned vegetarian, and that serving anything with the word “baby” in the title was just the sort of thing
that would make my sister totally lose it. By lose it I mean burst into tears and not be able to stop sniffling, even though Mona kept handing her paper napkins and saying things like, “Honey, the animal is already dead.”

“Um, Mona? That's kind of the point,” I informed her, purposely avoiding Dad's eyes.

Finally Dad cleared off the table and ordered an olive pizza for Kennedy, and we all watched pro wrestling on TV until none of us could stand it anymore. Then he drove Kennedy and me back to our apartment.

“Maybe next time we'll go bowling,” Dad said as we got out of the car.

“Uh-huh,” Kennedy said cheerfully. “Well, see you!” She ran into our apartment building as if she was trying to get out of a rainstorm.

“Bye, Dad,” I said. I suddenly felt sorry that we'd both given him such a hard time. So I leaned into the car and kissed his cheek.

“Bye, Monster,” he said sadly. “I'm sorry it was such a bad evening.”

“It wasn't so bad,” I lied. “Tell Mona thanks for the dinner.”

“I will. She'll be glad you said that.” He reached for
my hand and squeezed it. Then he looked into my eyes. “Everything okay at home?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't it be?”

He kept holding my hand. “I mean with Mom.”

“She's great,” I said enthusiastically. “Busy with the dogs. She's starting a drama club at the Y and learning sign language for this new piece she's working on.”

“Wow, sign language.” He shook his head. “Your mom's really something.”

“Oh, I know.”

He opened his hand slowly, as if he didn't want to let go. “Well, call me if you need anything, okay, Monster? Kennie, too.”

“We will. Bye, Dad!”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too!” I blew him another kiss and ran inside.

By the time I reached our apartment, Kennedy had blabbed to Mom all about Mona, and Mom was calling Dad's cell to give a loud screaming speech about Sensitivity and Respecting Your Daughters' Choices and Putting Your Family First. (One thing about performance artists: They know how to get attention.) The landlord banged on our front door and told Mom that he was sick of all the noise, and that if she didn't
shut up, and also stop dropping marbles on the floor and bringing barking dogs up and down the stairs, he'd raise the rent. “GO AHEAD!” she yelled back at him. “I DARE YOU.”

So he did.

About a month later Mom informed us that we'd be moving to Aldentown, where two old friends of hers named Beau and Bobbi were opening the Two Beez Performing Arts Café. Aldentown would be perfect for us, Mom said. She'd appear at the Café every other Saturday night, and Beau and Bobbi had some friends at the local college who would see if Mom could run a workshop. We wouldn't be living too far away from Gram, and we could visit Dad when he was in town. “If you really
want
to,” she added.

“Of course we do,” I said, shocked that this was even a question.

She snorted. “What about The Horrible Mona Woman?” That was her name for Mona; she was using it all the time now.

“She's really not so horrible, Mom.”

Mom's eyes got big. “How can you say that, Mari? After the insensitive way she treated Kennedy? Serving her
baby
meat
?”

“It wasn't Mona's fault.”

“Oh, so you're sticking up for her?”

“No. But how was she supposed to know Kennie was a vegetarian? Even Dad didn't know.” I paused. “How come? Didn't you tell him?”

“Of course I did! You think I'd purposely not tell him something so important? I'm such a terrible mother? And besides,” she said, tossing books into a cardboard packing box, “you girls are always talking to him on the phone. I'm sure Kennie just told him herself.”

“Then how come he didn't know?” For a second I considered shutting up, like I usually did. But this time, for some crazy reason, I kept going. “You know what I think, Mom? I think Dad has a serious girlfriend and you're jealous. So you're kind of overdramatizing.”

“I'm
what
?” Mom said. Her olive-colored skin—the skin we all three have, Mom, Kennedy, and me—looked weirdly pale, as if I were looking at her through tracing paper.

“Mona isn't evil,” I said. “You shouldn't turn her into some kind of stage character. Or performance topic.”

“Mari. I can't believe you're talking to me like this. How can you possibly accuse me—”