Trauma Queen (8 page)

I just can't believe that. And all the other excuses are almost as bad.

I am definitely not happy with her right now.

But, I tell myself, at least she opened the crate and left the kitchenette with Beezer as soon as I started dialing Emma's number. That's one decent thing about her: All her Constitution-worship makes her a fanatic about personal privacy. So she never eavesdrops. Or spies. And you'll never hear her screeching for me to get off the phone, the way Mrs. Hartley does with Emma.

I walk into the living room calling, “MOM? I'm off the phone now!”

But she's not there. I go into my bedroom. Kennie's sitting at the desk frowning at her homework.

“Mom's doing Evening Walk,” she tells me. “She said she wanted to start before the snow gets too deep.”

“Oh, great.”

“What's wrong? You wanted to go with her?”

“Not exactly.” The truth is, I was hoping that by now she'd feel guilty—if not about Emma, then about not laundering the chicken-pox shirt and the seventies track pants. So I was thinking that maybe, just to be nice, she'd decide to dogwalk past Cyndi's 24 Hour Wash'n'Go, where we use the machines.

But the ugly infirmary clothes are still on my bed where I left them, right beside my Thing. Which means Mom didn't take them with her. Which means, obviously, that I should just wash them myself. Or incur the wrath of the school nurse.

I toss them in the bathroom sink and squirt them with Ultra Concentrated Joy. Then I spread them out on the radiator and pray they'll dry by the morning.

That night when we're lying in bed, Kennedy says, “Marigold? Do you think you'll ever see Emma again?”

“Sure,” I say softly.

“Do you think she'll visit? And maybe sleep over sometime?”

“I hope.”

“I hope so too.”

We don't say anything.

Then Kennedy says, “I don't think Mom should have made fun of Mrs. Hartley like that.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Well.”

“I reckon she's ever so sorry.”

I don't even correct her for prairie-talking.

“She is, Mari,” Kennedy insists.

“If you say so.” I lean over and push open the curtains just a little, so I can see the snow fall. “Isn't the snow pretty?” I say, mostly to change the subject.

“No.”

“You don't like it? Why not?”

“I hate it here,” Kennedy says in a tiny voice.

“You do? Why?”

“There's a mean girl in my class named Dexter. She said Kennedy is a stupid name.”

“Yeah, well,
Dexter
isn't much better. Besides, Kennedy is the name of a president.”

“I said that to her.” She sighs. “Anyway, my school is
too big. I kept getting lost today. I couldn't even find the toilet until after gym.”

“You'll figure it out. Soon this will all seem normal.”

“You know what, Mari? I don't think it ever will.” She rolls over on her creaky mattress. “Well, good night.”

“Night.”

For a long time I watch the snow coming down in big, quiet flakes. I think about making snow forts in Aldentown with Emma, Will, and Matt. It's the same snow as here, I tell myself, even though it feels different. Different in a way that will probably never feel normal. Not even if we live here for seventy-five years.

In the morning the nurse's clothes are as stiff as cardboard. And they smell like a combination of radiator rust and Joy.

“What's wrong with that material?” asks Kennedy, as I hold up the chicken-pox shirt.

“I don't know!”

She comes over to the radiator and touches the hot material. “Maybe it baked overnight.”

“I'll tell you exactly what's wrong,” says Mom, clomping into the living room in her snow boots. “You didn't rinse out the soap, Marigold.”

“Yes I did!”

“Well, not enough, apparently. Why didn't you just wait for me to throw them in the laundry?”

“Because you wouldn't! And they had to be returned today! I told you that yesterday!”

“Calm down. Why are you so stressed out about this, anyway?” She holds up the track pants. They hang weirdly in the air, like the American flag that the astronauts planted on the moon. “Yikes. You can't return these like this. Let me drop them off at Cyndi's today and you'll bring them back tomorrow.”

“No! I'm supposed to give them back this morning before homeroom. I promised the nurse.” As I'm arguing, I'm thinking,
Why am I making such a big deal about this? Who even cares about these stupid pants?
But for some reason, I do. I care about these stupid pants. And I refuse to let Mom act like the stupid pants don't matter.

She puts her hands on her hips. “Well. If you really can't wait until tomorrow, I think your best bet is just to wear this stuff to school.”

“
What?
You want me to
wear
them? After you made me wear
pajamas
yesterday? Are you totally trying to humiliate me?”

She groans. “Marigold.
Please
let's not start with the pajamas again.”

“Okay! Fine!” I wave the chicken-pox shirt. It actually crackles.

“My point is,” Mom says calmly, “if you walk to school today, the natural humidity from your body will loosen up the fabric. By the time you get to school, the material won't be so stiff. Then you can change into some regular clothes and return these to the nurse.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Kennedy says hopefully.

I shrug. Actually, it kind of does.

So then I put on the nurse's clothes. They're so straight and cardboardy I can barely move.

“You look like Frankenstein,” Kennedy says, giggling. “Or the Tin Woodsman. Or wait. What's the name of that robot in
Star Wars
?”

“C-
₃
PO,” I mutter. But it's good to hear her laugh, for a change.

Mom offers to walk with me, and I decide not to fight her on this because by now I'm feeling guilty about yelling at her before. She puts Beezer on his leash, we drop off Kennedy at her bus stop, and then pick up Tristan and Darla for Morning Walk.

Finally all five of us (two humans, three dogs) start the long, icy, uphill walk to school, with only one timeout for leash de-tangling. Mom walks Beezer and Darla, and I walk Tristan. Who, I quickly discover, is a definite yanker, so I have to keep his leash long enough so that he doesn't freak out, but short enough so that I'm in control. It's tricky at first, but finally we settle into a good dogwalking rhythm. And Mom is actually right: The more I walk, the more the clothes loosen up, to the point where they almost feel like clothes. I only hope they're not too sweaty by the time I get to school.

“So how's the social thing going?” Mom asks casually, just as we're getting close to the main entrance of Crampton Middle. As you've probably figured out by now, she has this flair for dramatic timing.

“It's okay,” I say.

Two buses pull up right in front of the school, one right after the other. The first bus opens its doors, and out comes Brody. “Hey, Bananas,” he calls, crashing on purpose into Ethan, who pushes him back. Layla follows them both, her shoulders swaying, looking like maybe she's listening to her iPod. Then the second bus opens and Quinn rushes out. I wave at her, but she runs past without saying hello, without lifting her head, even.

“You're friends with that girl?” Mom asks, darting her eyes at me.

“Not really. We just had lunch together yesterday.”

“That sounds like friends.”

“Maybe.”

“So she
might
be a friend?”

“I don't know.”

“Is she nice?”

“I guess.”

Mom sighs a little puff-cloud. “Boy, I really cherish these mother-daughter chats,” she says. “So much sharing. And how was Emma?”

“Emma's great.” I reel in Tristan, who's sniffing an empty Gatorade bottle rolling around a dirty snowdrift.

Mom tugs on the earflaps of her rainbow-striped sherpa hat. Then she takes the leash from me and winds it three times around her mittens. “Is she still mad at me?”

“She says she isn't. We couldn't talk a whole lot.”

“How come?”

“She had to hang up.” Then for some moronic reason I add, “Her mom doesn't want her on the phone with me.”

“What? Are you kidding me?
Why?
”

I shrug. It's not often I can shock Mom, so as long as I've opened my mouth about this, I might as well get the full effect. “We have to sneak IMs. But her mom looks over her shoulder a lot, so we can't even do that very much.”

“But that's outrageous!” Mom explodes. “That woman is completely bonkers. First she bad-mouths me all over town, then she forces us to move, and now she's punishing you and Emma? Long-distance? For
what
?”

“Well,” I say, kicking some ice. “You kind of do know.”

She shakes her head angrily, sproinging the hair under her hat. “Look, Mari. Even if, okay, so I got a little carried away with Nu-Trisha, does this give her the right to wreak revenge on my daughter? Months after the performance? And I'm not even mentioning what she's doing to her
own
daughter.” She jerks Darla's leash. “You know, I kept my mouth shut after Nu-Trisha, I thought I needed to take the high road, but enough is enough. It's time to sit down with Trisha Hartley and have a serious talk.”

Suddenly my eyebrows burst into sweat. “Don't,” I beg.

“Why not? Are you afraid of her?”

I shake my head.

She frowns. “Don't be such a scaredy cat, Marigold. We're not even
in
Aldentown anymore. What do we have to lose?”

“Emma,” I blurt out. “I could lose Emma, okay? She
hates
big confrontations. Promise you won't call her mom or e-mail or do anything.
Please.
”

Mom makes a sound like laughing. “You don't trust me to have a civil conversation?”

“Truthfully?”

“Marigold, give me a little credit, okay? I'm a performer; I can do Rational Adult, you know.”

Except you won't.

Mom stares at me, like she's reading my mind. “All right, beloved daughter,” she says, her breath making a small storm cloud. “It's time for a major life lesson. Whenever someone is getting in your face, you need to look 'em right in the eye and speak out. I'm not saying you have to shout
at them—”

“Mom.” Jada, Ashley, and Megan are getting off the second bus. They wave at me, smiling. Ulp. I have GOT to get out of these clothes.

“But you
do
need to let them hear that they can't just trample all over you. You need to stand up and—”

“Mom.”
I grab her sleeve. “Can we finish talking about this later? I really have to go now.”

She looks shocked again. “But this is important, Mari. Wait.”

“Can't,” I say, and run into the building.

The first thing I do in the girls' bathroom is check for pointy black boots.

But there aren't any. The place is empty. Even so, I choose the wheelchair stall, which is so big it's off in its own corner, like a private dressing room. As soon as I lock the door, I pull off the track pants. They still smell like Joy, but they're a whole lot easier to take off than they were to put on. So if I hurry, I tell myself, I can return them to the nurse before homeroom. Maybe even slip them in her closet before she shows up for the day.

I stuff the pants into my backpack. I'm just about to zip up my jeans when the bathroom door bangs open.

Ashley's voice: “Did you see what she was wearing just now?”

Megan's voice: “You mean those hideous pants?”

Ashley's voice: “The whole thing, including that top. It's like something out of Gymboree.”

Jada's voice: “Oh, who cares what she's wearing. She's a total zero; just ignore her.”

Oh no. They're talking about ME. They have to be.

Megan: “Well, good for you, Jada.”

Ashley: “Yeah. I don't know how you can be so big about this. If it was me, I'd be furious.”

Jada: “What for? It won't change anything. She did what she did.”

Which is what? What did I do?

Megan: “I still can't believe how nervous she was yesterday. Like we're supposed to pity her.”