Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (13 page)

It's Getting Hot in Here

I didn't go back to school right away. No way was I gonna walk into that classroom and have everyone turning around, whispering, staring.

Talk about post-traumatic stress.

So Mom took me out to lunch in Beverly Hills and ordered me a basket of chicken nuggets and fries with ranch, which was like my favorite thing in the entire world, but she
never
lets me eat it. On account of all those poor, skinny chickens that never see the light of day and have no feathers and grow old with all the hormones they're given. You know what, though? I really didn't care. As long as my nuggets were golden-crispy and came with fries and ranch, I couldn't care less where they lived before they made it onto my plate. Sorry.

“Here you are.” The server put down the basket, and my mouth began to water like crazy. I picked up a nugget and dipped it in ranch and chewed, waiting for the
zing
and the
zang
of all that meat and deep-fried breading to kick in, but there was nothing. Nothing! Flat. I picked up a fry, dipped it. “Oh my God!” I spat it out. “What the heck is this?”

Mom stabbed a piece of lettuce casually. “Oh,” she said, “those are the sweet-potato fries; they're the new thing.”

“Traitor!” I pushed them away.

She pointed. “And how about the nuggets?”

And then I got suspicious. “Um, why aren't you putting the word
chicken
in front of that?”

“Because they're made out of soy,” she said, beaming. “Isn't that amazing?”

“And you're wondering why I need a shrink! The duplicity, the lies!” I stood up. “Take me to a McDonald's before I, before I—”

So
she drove me to McDonald's, and I ate in the car like all good Americans do. On the way home, fighting our way up Laurel Canyon—no one respected an old Volvo—Mom asked me, “Charlie, are you getting yourself in too deep?”

It was a fair question, and it was one that had been bothering me too. I knew what Trixie was up to and how far she'd go to get what she wanted. I knew that she'd done her research on me and held my secret in her little hands. I could have said no and bowed out of this game altogether. But then I'd risk her letting it leak that it was me who got booted, shunned, and made to undergo major therapy, which would seriously hurt my street cred. I deserved a fresh start. So I had no choice but to play the game.

“I'll be okay, Mom.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “It's different this time.”

She glanced over at me with those mom eyes and then put her hand on the horn and honked until someone let us merge into the single lane that would bring us home.

When I got home, I took advantage of my snoring siblings' absence and stretched out for a long nap—digestion requires patience and care, people. When I woke up, I called Trixie and told her we had to talk about the Marta problem ASAP.

“Come over,” she said.

“Sure, I'd love to,” I lied, and hung up the phone. Man, I dreaded that walk. But in the name of duty, I put on my high-tops, and a pair of hip-hop sweats and told Mom I was going to deal with Trixie.

“Good luck, dear.” She patted my back as I opened the door, covered my face, held my breath, and ran through the cloud of dust that covered our house now that they were digging an even larger crater in our front yard. Lucky for me, Dad wasn't there. If there was anyone who could tell that I was up to something, it was him.

I got to Trixie's house and rang the bell. Esmerelda answered and sent the elevator like I was a VIP. She met me with a snack and pointed to my shoes, which I removed promptly. I could hear a man's voice on the phone off in the study. His voice was smooth; even his laugh sounded like it came from a TV show. The door was open. I tried to get a look, but Esmerelda hurried me along.

“Come,” she said, and I followed her to Trixie's room. She pushed open the door and, low and behold, there they were, Trixie and Babette, the two little schemers.

I wished my beads were on, because I was not feeling very kind at this particular moment. I stood there watching them giggle and gossip, so lost in their world, they didn't even notice I was there. They had fake champagne in real glasses and chocolate-covered strawberries on the bed, celebrating. Celebrating what? I wondered. My suspension or Marta's expulsion? “Hey, guys.” I cleared my throat.

Trix jumped. “Charlie!” She put down her glass. “Finally!” She ran to me and threw her arms around me.

I picked up the bottle and drank straight from it, grabbing as many strawberries as I could and shoving them into my mouth, letting the juices run out. “I'm so sorry, Trix.”

Trix stopped celebrating. “What do you mean?”

I collapsed onto the bed. The girls looked at me like I'd been struck with some kind of disease.

“So, so.” Trixie shook me. “What happened?”

I sat up. “Pickler said, and I quote, ‘Even if Marta lived in Romania, I still wouldn't kick her out.' Can you believe that? There's no way to get rid of Marta.”

“That is unbelievable!” Babs covered her face.

Trixie turned purple. “Is that what he said?”

“Yep.”

“We'll see about that.” Trixie paced back and forth. “My mother always says, Where there's a will there's a way.”

“Hold on a second,” Babs said, like she'd just had the best idea ever. “When
was
the last time you actually saw
her
mother?”

“Wait, didn't she drive that weird corn car and wear socks and sandals?” Trix tied her long, beautiful hair up in a knot on the top of her head. “I totally remember her; she used to pick her up; we used to
see
her a lot.”

“But not since last year.” Babs smiled. “That was the last time we saw her. She didn't come to orientation, parents' night, or even the tryouts. So where the heck is Marta's mom?”

“You think she took off?” Trix asked. “Is that possible?”

Babs shrugged. “Just up and left her? Then who's taking care of her?”

Trix started tapping her desk with her long nails. “This year, I've never seen anyone, never. She's always alone.”

“Think she died?” Babs looked at the two of us.

“Died?” Trixie's whole face went blank as she nodded. “And there's Marta—no dad, no relatives, can't go back to Romania, so she stays and pretends—”

“Come on!” I said. “No way! Her mom probably works two jobs; she's a single mom.” I took a deep breath and felt worse for Marta than ever before, like really bad. Like I didn't see the old, faded Disney outfits anymore or the hair or the food in her teeth. I just didn't want her to be living there alone. Who deserves that?

Esmerelda brought us a tray of cut fruit, and Trix pointed to her swimsuit. “We'll eat on the deck.”

In the background I could still hear her father on the phone, still sounding like an actor. We got on the elevator. Trix's blue eyes got even bigger, and they locked in on me. “You're gonna have to go back and check it out.”

“Me?” My stomach tightened. “Pickler already thinks I have it in for her.”

Trixie suddenly looked like she cared. “That's exactly why you really need to run down there and see Marta's mom in person.” The elevator opened onto the perfect heaven of a deck. Every chair had a thick, soft, white cushion on it; the sky was blue; there wasn't a single noise, a single moment out of place. I watched them walk out, and then the doors closed with me still inside. And, gladly, I left. I did not belong there.

Secret Door

I walked through the gate and saw Dad knee-deep in dirt, even his face covered in mud. Next to him was a small box overflowing with the earthworms he'd saved from being sliced in half with his shovel, 'cause that's the kinda guy he is. I ran to him, jumped in the hole, and hugged him as hard as I could.

“Whoa, whoa.” Dad held me. “What happened?”

I let him hold me because I was exhausted. “I want to be like Jai.”

Dad kind of laughed. “Why, because he doesn't go to school?”

“Yes, Dad!”
I cried. “It's so hard, it's so hard.” I wiped my nose on his sleeve. “Girls are so mean!”

Dad nodded. “We've really stuck you in a tough spot with this Marta thing.”

I sat down in the mud pile; I didn't even care. All the beauty in my life was over. “Trixie's not my friend; she's on a mission,” I said. “And she doesn't care who she steps on to get there. I always cared, you know. I did bad stuff, but I cared.”

Dad nodded. “That's what makes you so lovable, Charlie.” And then he got this crazy look. “I want to show you something.”

I rubbed my eyes. “What's up?”

His voice was barely a whisper. “The door, Charlie. I think I hit the secret door.”

“What!” My mind raced a mile a minute. “To Houdini's secret tunnels!” I could feel the door under my feet.

Dad got down on his hands and knees, feeling the square for a way in, and then he stopped and looked at me. In his hand was a padlock, a very old gold padlock. “It's locked. He locked it.”

By “he,” he meant Mr. Houdini himself. “Well, of course he locked it, Dad. This is where he's hidden his book of magic, the secrets to how he was able to escape from handcuffs and water jugs, and all the work he did on exposing fake mystics. This is the key to everything.”

Dad beamed. “How do you know all this?”

“Oh my God, Dad, that was one of the coolest things about him. He was a magician, but he was totally against all those freaks who went around telling people they could speak with dead people.”

Dad wiped his hands on a towel. “But I thought he thought
he
could talk to the dead?”

“No, never,” I explained. “He was a scientist, Dad. His tricks were meticulously worked out; he didn't just appear on the scene, he knew
how
to get on the scene. Pretending to hear spirits was so not him.” I stared at the trapdoor and could feel his world opening up beneath me, and you know what was so cool? It made mine feel so much smaller.

“I'll get my electric saw and tool kit!” Dad said. “I am so happy you're here with me.”

“Me too, Dad.” I waited for him to come back. It was hot; I felt like one of those worms with that nasty pink skin. In these tunnels Houdini practiced escaping from the most impossible places and devised his most famous illusions, like the time he made the elephant disappear.

Dad came running back, tripped over a rock, and picked himself up again. “I got it!” He held the electric saw, a great big grin across his face. The blade of his saw caught the sunlight. “We are about to make history.” He turned it on and lowered it onto the thick-as-heck lock shackle, which turned bright orange; the blade cut through it; sparks flew everywhere. The lock fell off, and it was as big as his hand. He took off his glasses and smiled. Houdini's secret tunnels. Sweet! Dad lifted the cover. It smelled like a grave. “I can't believe it!”

I got closer, my heart pounding. “Let's go in.”

Suddenly he backed off. “Maybe we should wait.”

“Are you kidding me? Wait for what?” I was already thinking of charging admission.

“Maybe we should call Martin,” he said. “He's the owner, you know. All this belongs to him, not to us.”

“Dad, hello! Halloween is around the corner, Houdini's speaking to us, and it's not like we're going to steal anything!”

“I don't know, Charlie—” He shone his light inside. “We don't even know what's down there. Maybe black widows, snakes—”

Think I cared? No way. I jumped.

“No! Charlie!” he yelled after me. And then he jumped too, and fell hard on his backside, his flashlight and shovel making a horrible sound as they hit the rock. He shone the flashlight on the walls. There were pictures everywhere in silver frames and large, painted portraits of really ugly old people looking mean.

“Probably his in-laws,” Dad said. They were one depressing bunch, serious and wrinkled, unpleasant. “Poor guy.”

The air was cold and musty, but so far there were zero spiders, which I was secretly thankful for. I'd rather see a rat any day than a spider. We walked, our shoes making heavy sounds as we trespassed through this private sanctum. Mr. Houdini died on Halloween day in 1926. There were cold lanterns on the walls and carpets on the floor. It was like someone's house that had been left in a hurry.

But where was all the stuff? I'd had visions of it all summer long: In my dreams there'd be a stage; a thick, red velvet curtain hanging low to hide the giant steel milk can he submerged himself in so many times to figure out just how to contort his body, how to inhale and squeeze, how to get free. I'd find Houdini's trunk and it would be filled with secrets just waiting for me.

“Look at this place.” Dad scanned the walls. There were lights made of copper; there were dangling chandeliers of cut crystal. “Imagine, this was where Houdini used to come up with all his magic acts.”

I was just about to suggest I throw my Halloween party right here when we got to this circle area that looked like a living room, with red velvet sofas, a beaded lamp, and shelves of glass jars. “Cool. Dad, come here.” And then I got closer. The jars were staring back at me. I grabbed Dad's arm, pointing. “Eyes!”

Dad put the shovel against the wall and scanned the shelf with his super bright light. “Look at this: dogs, cats, birds, reptiles,” Dad said. “Our Mr. Houdini studied species.”

I checked out the carefully labeled jars. “Why?”

“To see what happens to them under harsh circumstances. Like you said, he was a scientist.” And then Dad stopped and made a face. He yanked my arm, hard. “You don't want to see this.”

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing, baby, come on.” Dad pulled. But you know that just doesn't work for me, so of course I went right up to where he was standing. Skeletons were sitting on the sofa, a tea set before them. There was a door behind them and a large bookcase full of books.

Wow. “Are they real?”

“Think so.” He took my hand and pulled me again, but I wanted to stay.

My brain flooded with some seriously cool decorating ideas. “Dad, I have to have my Halloween party down here, like absolutely have to.” I was thinking, planning out loud. “We can make spaghetti and meatballs, Jell-O with spiders, Mr. and Mrs. Bones over there can—”

And that's when I heard the sound of my baby brother, Felix.
“Daaaaaad!”

Dad looked torn. “Sorry, Charlie, I gotta get him. Your mom's working.”

“Not a problem.” I slapped him on the back. “I'll close it up.”

He squeezed my hand. “You feeling better?”

“Are you kidding me? It's like a brand-new day.” If Trixie opened her big mouth about Roxy, a party down here could turn me into a rock star at school.