Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (12 page)

My Mission of Good Hope

It took me, and I'm not bragging here, all of three minutes to find Marta's real address. So the next day, Sunday, my day off, I hopped on the very same little neighborhood shuttle bus that apparently Marta the Farta took every day to and from school. The doors shut. I looked out the window and watched my house fade away into the distance.

 

 

But Marta's couldn't be too far. After all, she did this twice a day, every day. But the bus just kept on going up and up through the canyon, over the top of Mulholland and down into the valley, for such a very, very long time. It turned this way and that, until suddenly I realized I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was that I couldn't get off until I heard the words
End of the line
. That was her stop; you couldn't miss it, the bus driver said.

When we left the nice canyon and dropped into the hot valley, the bus got packed. That's when I closed my eyes so that all the old people with all their bags of veggies would stop trying to take my seat. I figured if they thought I was sleeping, they'd leave me in peace.

Anyway, when I woke up, we were smack in the slums. The bus was nearly empty. “End of the line,” the bus driver bellowed, and we all walked off like a row of inmates.

We stepped out into the hot, hot sun. Jeez, where the heck were we, and how was I ever gonna get home again? With shaky hands I took out my directions and followed them.
Take a right, then first left, then another right. 2346 Reseda Avenue.
The busy streets soon fell away to small neighborhoods with tiny row houses. And then I saw it. A brown house with brown roses. An old orange Pacer sat in the garage under a thick blanket of dust.

I went up the driveway and knocked on the door. I knocked again. Feet came pounding, hard and mad. For a second I wanted to hide behind the car.

Marta yanked open the door, screaming at me before she even knew who it was. “What do you want?” She was in the same stretched leotard; her face was red, veins were bright blue under her skin, and she was sweating everywhere. Super gross.

I stared at her. I did not want this to be the case. It complicated my life to no end. “Oh God,” I said, almost collapsing. “Please, please, don't tell me you actually live here.”

She was just about to slam the door in my face when I stuck my fantastic electric-blue Dr. Marten in. And guess what? She still slammed the door as hard as she could on my foot without even flinching.

“Oooooowwwww!!!!”
I checked my boot. “Man, you're really mean.”

“Get lost!” She walked away, leaving the door wide open, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was when I should have just walked away and given Trixie the address. Wow, my life would have been a whole lot easier. Think about it:

Marta would have gotten kicked out, and then I'd be done,
done
! I'd tell Dr. Scales the truth, blame it all on Trixie, of course, and
bam
! I'd be set free from the mental-health institution.

But God help me, I felt sorry for her. She just seemed so alone. Even though, for all I knew, she could have had a
huge
family in there, she seemed so alone.

I watched Marta storm through the house, her back covered in tight, tiny, ripped muscles, muscles I never knew existed.

I followed her. Inside, it was cool, as dark as a cave, with brown, plush carpeting so thick and squishy your poor shoe disappeared when you walked. On the mantel of their old brick fireplace, I spied a photograph of a very small woman with Marta's eyes and the same dead gray complexion standing on a podium and wearing a red-and-white leotard and a silver medal around her neck.

I got closer, picked it up, and studied the heck out of the old photo. No way, no way. But they looked identical, and not in a good way, if you get my drift. Could it be true? Marta's mom, an Olympic medalist? And they lived in this dump? That was when the glass door to the garden slid open. I spied uneven bars, mats, rings; you name it, it was there. And so was Marta. She was headed right for me, her leotard stretched long and low, steam comin' out of her ears, veins popping—

“Put that down!”

“Whoa, whoa, I'm here to help, all right.” I looked at the photograph in my hand. “Is this your mother?” She ripped it from me and carefully put it back in its place, on its dusty shrine.

Man, her mother might have been a good gymnast, but she was a horrible housekeeper and not too hot in the fashion or hygiene departments, either.

Marta was a mess. A wreck. Her hair was more than just not combed. It looked like it had
never
been combed. Her teeth were yellow; her nails long and jagged; her clothes looked like the pile the Salvation Army said
no
to.

And she was violent. She pushed me backward until I slammed into the wall. Her voice dropped low like a guy's. “What did they offer you to get rid of me?”

“Offer, what offer?” Was that spinach in her teeth? “Dude, I just came to warn you that some people know you live out of district, that's all.”

“Who's ‘some people'?” She laughed. “Trixie? Babette? Lillian?”

She went to the desk in the entranceway, took out a rather official-looking sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve, and threw it at me. “Here!” On it was written Permit to Transfer and then a whole bunch of boring stuff in fine print. “I'm allowed to go to Happy Canyon, so you can tell Trixie that she'd better start practicing.” Marta stood over my shoulder breathing like some weird crazy person. “Now get the hell out of here.”

I was just about to hand it back to her when something caught my eye. A number. “Oh, crap.” I read it again. “It's expired.” I nodded. “This September.”

Marta's face went white. “What?” She pulled the permit from my hand and read it and reread it. “Oh no! You're lying. This can't be possible!”

“Well, where's your mom?” I said calmly. “You can get this fixed by next week, no problem.”

The vein that ran down the middle of her forehead popped out again. “I said none of your business!”

“I'm just saying, it's not too hard. She just has to renew the permit, that's all.” I stopped; Marta was in full panic mode.

Her hands balled into fists. “Get out!”

“Okay, okay.”

I backed down the driveway and ran to the bus stop.

Trixie's Freaking Out Big-Time

When I walked through my front door and saw Felix sitting there playing with his thing-a-ling again, I just smiled. Then I hugged Mom. I was so grateful to be home.

“Hey, baby.” Mom smiled at me. “So how far was it?”

“You have no idea.”

“That bad?” Mom rubbed my shoulders.

“That sad.” I opened the fridge.

“I just cut some carrots,” Mom said.

“Please, Mom. I'm depressed as it is.”

“Mac and cheese?”

“Now you're talking.” I collapsed on the chair.

Pen came down the stairs in her shorts with her hair loose. Actually she didn't look half bad. Or maybe I was just dehydrated.

“I'm guessing she doesn't live in the neighborhood.”

“You could say that.” I took Pen's glass of juice and drank it down.

“Thanks.” She rolled her eyes and got up. “So she's illegal?”

“The good news is she's got a permit,” I said.

Mom and Pen clapped. “Yeah! That's great news, baby!” said Mom.

“At least she has a semi-fair chance at winning now.” Pen went to the stove, pulled out one of the noodles, and handed me the fork to see if the pasta was ready. I happened to be the expert noodle checker. “I'll give her a makeover if she'll let me.”

“The bad news is,” I said, nibbling, “it's expired.”

“Okay.” Mom put two heaping plates before us. “Her parents can renew it before the big showdown. It's Friday”—she shrugged—“plenty of time, thanks to you, Charlie.”

“Yeah.” Pen ate, all infused with the weird thrill she got from justice being served. “Had you not gone down there, she could have gotten booted out on a technicality.”

I didn't have the heart to tell them that there was something else going on, something I really didn't understand myself. Why had Marta flipped out so badly, gotten so mad, so scared, when she saw the permit was expired? She acted like it was the end of the world. And where was her mom, and why didn't she dust or use her car? And even more pressing, what was I going to tell Trixie?

After lunch I called her. She didn't answer her cell, so I tried the house phone. I so wanted to get this over with, tell her the whole truth, but when her housekeeper answered with “Ms. Trixie went to Beverly Hills shopping with her mother,” something in me flashed to poor old Marta in that depressing cave of darkness in the middle of nowhere.

“Thanks, Esmerelda. I'll call later.” I fell back onto my bed and stared at the wall. I felt horrible. Last week, when I told Dr. Scales that I truly felt bad for Marta, he went into this whole lecture about middle kids being the most sensitive of all.

 

 

According to old Scaly Head, the older ones get all the attention, because they're the best at everything, like Penelope is. The younger ones rely on their looks. Hello??? Felix. But us? We're ignored. So when we see someone else in similar shoes, we feel it; we know it.

I picked up my reading assignment, oh my God, really! About some sad, poor English girl who wants to get married at twelve!
Boring
. I tossed it. Math integers!
Too easy
. Tossed it too. And then I read the news. Anything to take my mind off it,
but
the whole Marta picture would not leave my head. It just stayed there like a big, dark cloud. What was wrong with me? It was the beads; it had to be the beads. I took them off at once and put them in the box with the Mama T scarf and went out to dig some more in search of the tunnels.

Trixie called later that afternoon. She sounded so excited, it kinda made me sick. “So, how was she?”

“She's good.” I took the phone and walked outside. I had the urge to go visit Mr. Houdini.

“Does she live out of district?”

I climbed up the hill. “If you call Reseda out of district, I'd say, yep, she does.”

“Yes!” She sounded ecstatic. “That spot is mine.”

It was getting darker outside, the mist moving in from the ocean like a curtain closing these warm canyons down for the night. I hiked up to the statue and looked at Houdini, felt his face. Trixie rambled justifications for turning her in now in my ear, reasons Marta could not go to school with us.

“Trix, Trix, hold on,” I cut in.

“What? What?” she said, pouncing.

“She's got a permit.” Dead silence. “Her mom's got a permit.”

“What!” She yelled so hard into the phone, I could feel my eardrum pop. “How can that be? A permit? A permit for what?”

“A permit to go to Happy Canyon School.” Dead silence.

And then the explosion. “Are you crazy? Demented? How can she have a permit? What reason could she possibly have? Her mom doesn't work in the canyons, she's no celebrity, please. It's a lie. I swear to God, I'm going down there right now—”

“Not a good idea, remember?”

“But this has nothing to do with the team. If she's using an illegal permit, which I'm sure she's doing, Pickler has to know.”

“But she's not. I saw it. I read it.” I walked back to the house, went inside, kissed Dad on the cheek, and went up to my room. “Think about it. If you try to dig up dirt on her, they'll say you tried to get her kicked out because she was better than you. It'll backfire.”

“But what if I'm right?” Trixie protested. “Huh?”

“Win first,” I said, “then do your snooping. Do whatever you want.” By then Marta would be 100 percent legal, and there'd be nothing Trixie could do to stop her. I'd make sure of that.

Mom called up, “Charlie? Dinner.”

“I gotta go,” I announced.

“Sure, sure,” she said flatly, “you go.”

Crap Hits the Fan

On Monday, when Mr. L read from
Huck Finn
, his voice was trancelike, his eyes almost closed, and he swayed like a creepy zombie.

“Listen to the language, the tone, the nuance. Can you hear it, do you hear it?” Then he started acting out all the different accents, and it was pretty scary. The class looked either mesmerized or horrified, I couldn't tell. I took the opportunity to slip Marta a note.

 

 

Marta slipped it into her pocket when she was done reading and gave me a dirty look. Great, I thought, she was on top of it. I felt relief.

The bell rang; we all jumped up. I couldn't wait to get out of there. Felix's class was starting a vegetable garden, and I could think of no better place to open my lunch box and eat my chicken leg.

After snack Mr. L made us all put on deodorant. He even opened the windows.

“Open your language-arts text,” he said, surveying the room, “and Charlie and Marta, please join us in our study of verbs.”

Marta turned; she was ruffled.
The note, the note!
she mouthed, like I was an expert lip-reader.
It's gone.

“What?”

Bobby kicked me under the table. “Pay attention, or he's gonna make us stay in.”

“Fine!” I kicked him back.

“Verbs are simply wonderful little beings, so filled with life and light!” Mr. L turned from the board and smiled. “Motion, action, you feel it every time you utter a verb. Can you think of a verb, Trixie?”

“Oh, I can think of lots,” she said with a smile. “Lie, steal, rob, trick, harm, cheat. Right, Marta?”

 

The next day Mr. L was going on again about how beautiful words were when the door opened suddenly. Principal Pickler stood in the doorway. I didn't catch any of this because I was asleep.

“Charlie Cooper,” he called out in a not-so-nice voice.

Me, still sleeping.

“Charlie?” He looked closer.

Bobby kicked me hard under my desk. I jumped like a rocket.

“Ouch, you creep!” That was when I saw these giant legs in shiny, polyester pants. Principal Pickler was standing over my desk, looking down at me.

“What, what?”

“Come with me,” he said.

“But I, I—” I stalled. This was not good.

He pointed at the mess at my feet. “And take your things.”

Okay, that was seriously not good. That meant I was not coming back. The whole class was looking at me; there wasn't a sound in the room. Even the fish had stopped swimming. Mr. L put his hands over his face like he was an old lady at a funeral.

Walking down the long, empty hallways side by side with the principal was like seeing your own death about to happen but not being able to stop it. Vivid memories of the last time this very same thing happened came flooding back at me. Down the stairs, through the office. All eyes on me. He opened the door to his room; I stopped like I'd been shot.

Uh-oh.

Mom. Mom was sitting at his desk. Clearly I was in so much trouble. But what the heck did I do? For the first time in my entire life, I couldn't think of a single
major
thing I'd done wrong.

Mom turned. I could tell by the pinched facial muscles that she was beyond mad; we're talking in pain.
Pain
. Eyes red too. Oh Lord, this was it.

“Charlie,” she said, “I'm ashamed. There's no other word for it.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. Seriously. No idea. I'd been a model citizen to the point of nausea.

Pickler shook his head. “And to think we gave you a clean start, Charlie. The kind of malice it takes to do what you did—” He slapped the desk. “It's just spiteful, mean, indicative of serious criminal propensities.”

“Wait, wait,” I cut in, “what the hell—” And then I saw the crucifix on the desk.
Hell
was not a good choice of word. “I meant crap, not hell, wait, which is worse?” I looked over at Mom, who was covering her face with a pretty floral scarf.

Pickler stood up, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and put his big plastic shoe on his chair. “Charlie, she may not be a fashion model like you, but Marta is a valuable part of our school.”

Was I detecting a little sarcasm?

“For you to take the trouble to do this”—he held up an envelope—“makes me think you're not a good person.”

On his wall were framed pictures of him with every celebrity he could get his hands on. He took out the letter he was accusing me of writing. I stared at it, like it was some joke. “You think I did that?” It had all those cutout, creepy newspaper letters tipping off the principal that one Marta the Farta lived in Reseda, address included. Signed Charlie Cooper. They left out the C, of course. Because it was not
me
!

Mom began ranting. “Charlie, how could you? I thought you cared about Marta?” She was aging by the second. “We were all so sure you'd changed.”

“Wait.” I had to take a moment to really comprehend that they'd think I was so totally unoriginal. “You honestly think I'd leave my name?” I looked at Pickler. “Please, how dumb do you think I am?”

Pickler nodded brightly. “Clearly you think you're doing us a favor by reporting on a student coming to this school illegally, but, young lady, we are not living in the 1950s when students turn each other in. She doesn't even know about this; it came directly to me.” He grinned. “So your little plan failed. It's like it never happened.”

I looked at them both, shocked. “But I didn't do it. I'd never do something like this.”

“And let me tell you”—spit was collecting in his mouth—“even if it were true, I wouldn't expel her on principle. You got that?”

I nodded. “Nice play on words, dude.”

“Thank you,” he chirped, “and don't call me ‘dude.'”

Mom cut in, her hands wringing her purse strap in her hands. “Was it the pressure? Did they force you to do it? Did
she
force you?”

“Force you?” Pickler shook his head. “Who's forcing who?”

“No one is forcing anyone. No one can force anyone.” I glared at Mom, hoping she'd shut up.

“Tell him,” Mom commanded.

Pickler touched Mom's arm, nodding like it was his turn now to give me a thrashing. “We have a policy here at Happy Canyon: Students who attempt to better themselves at the cost of another student are automatically suspended and face disciplinary action.”

Mom jumped out of her chair. “Charlie, tell him!”

The injustice of it was sickening.

The phone was ringing off the hook, but Pickler didn't even look; he was enjoying this too much. “Tell me what?”

Nope, no way.

Mom elbowed me. “Charlie, you're going to be suspended. Tell him!”

“You're barking up the wrong tree, Pickler. It ain't me, but I ain't no snitch neither.”

“Fine. Have it your way.” Pickler narrowed his eyes, pounded the desk. “Suspended until I get a full report from Dr. Scales.” He gave me this look of grave disappointment. “Mark my words”—his eyes bugged out—“never, never will I allow what happened at Malibu Charter to happen here.”

Mom got up. “Come on, Charlie.”

“Where are we going?”

“Guess.” She grabbed me.

Pickler folded his arms and studied us. “I won't let her back in without a full evaluation.” He made a point of looking at his gallery of framed celebrity photographs. “I have a lot of very important families here, you know?”

“I didn't do it,” I said, but he just gave me a smirk like he didn't care what I had to say at all.

 

 

I knew where we were going. Didn't even have to ask. We headed south down Laurel Canyon and swung a right onto Sunset Boulevard, where the resident homeless guy waved his dumb flag. I bet he wasn't falsely accused on a daily basis like yours truly.

When Scales saw me, he shook his head for a seriously long time, like I could have watched an entire episode of
Cake Wars
and he'd still be nodding. “So tell me, Charlie, why did your principal, whom I know and respect—”

“Really?” I had to cut in here. “You know him,
and
you still respect him?” Mom elbowed me.

Dr. Scales looked seriously disappointed. He leaned back in his chair, putting his hands in front of his face like he was tired and all out of tricks. “What did you do, Charlie?” He blew out a lot of hot air. “You were on such a good path; we've worked so hard—”

“Doc, stop,” I said, his disappointment killing me. “I'm still on the path, Doc. I'm completely innocent, Doc, one hundred percent didn't do it.”

He leaned forward. “Do what?”

I leaned even more forward; our faces were almost touching. “Set up Marta to get kicked out of school.”

He fell back into his chair like he was seriously relieved. “So who did?”

“Ah!” I slapped the table. “If you'd all just let me out of here, I could take care of the whole mess.”

Scales looked at Mom; Mom looked over at me. He said, “I really don't think she's responsible this time.”

Say what? “Seriously, Doc?”

He wiped his lips with his hands, gross, and then he kinda chuckled like he was so smart. “Charlie would never sign her name on the note. She is not stupid.”

“Maybe I'm so smart, I actually did sign my name because I knew you'd think I wouldn't. Ha!”

He shrugged. “See what I mean? Plus I'm quite sure Charlie has a conscience.”

Mom gave him this weird look like she was totally not expecting that. “You are?” Then she looked down at me. “She does?”

I wanted to kick her. “Wow, thanks, Mom.”

Doc put his hand on my shoulder. “So you got set up?”

“You're right on the money, Doc.”

“So the question is why?” They both looked at me. “Yeah, why, Charlie?” Mom folded her arms, her foot tapping.

Scales put his desk clock in his drawer. He shook his head. “I've got all afternoon.”

I knew I wasn't getting out of here until I told them. “Trixie's using me to get Marta kicked out and is basically blackmailing me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Trixie?” Mom's nose got all scrunched. “But she promised she'd wait until after the competition.” She said it like she couldn't believe anyone but
me
would stoop to blackmail.

“She promised
you
,” I said, “but
me
she sent to find out where Marta lived, and when I told her she had a permit, she still went ahead and wrote that letter.”

“Why?” Mom tried to understand.

“She's stirring up trouble to see what she can find and blaming me for it.” I shrugged. “As long as I take the fall, she can stir up whatever she likes.”

“But Marta's getting it fixed, right?” Mom looked at me.

“Yeah, if she can,” I said, and left it there.

That's when Scales got all up in my grill. “So, how are you going to handle this?”

“The way I see it, I've got three choices:

 

1. Let Trixie tell everyone at school the story of my downfall at Malibu Charter and eat alone until I graduate high school.

2. Shut up, do nothing, and let Marta get kicked out.

3. Make Trixie think I'm on her side; take care of Marta.”

 

Dr. Scales thought for some time. “Which one is it?”

“Three.” I announced. “It has to be three, right?”

Scales thought for a while, nodded.

“And I don't want you involved, okay? You promise me?” I was serious on this one. I mean, how can I ever be taken seriously if my shrink is getting all up in my business all the time?

Scales closed his eyes like he was falling asleep or dead. But then suddenly his eyes snapped open. “On one condition,” he said.

I stared up at his hairy nostrils. “What?”

“If you get in over your head, call me.”

“You have email?”

He jotted something down on the back of his card. “You are the only one I've given this to; use it when you need to.”

Mom put her arm around me and smiled. “Will you tell the principal that you put her under truth serum, and she's innocent?”

“I'll call him now.” He opened the door. “Good luck, Charlie.”

“Thanks, Doc.” The elevator door opened, Mom ran to get in, and so did I. I had some serious planning to do. I stared at the closed doors, not saying a thing.