Mia the Melodramatic (15 page)

“That’s enough, Chris,” said Mom. “I guess it’s all right so long as you come home early. You had a big day today and need to get your rest.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, heading toward the door.

“Hey, what do you want me to do with all these e-mails from Tim?” Chris asked, scrolling through our mailbox. “There’s like a gazillion of them.”

“Delete them all,” I said, slamming the door behind me.

“N
ow, do whatever Aunt Maeve asks,” Mom said the following Friday as she zipped up her suitcase, lugged it out of her bedroom, and hauled it down the stairs, “as long as it’s legal.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll be fine,” I said.

Behind her back, I grinned wildly as I thanked the gods who’d finally answered my prayers and sent my parents away for the weekend. Actually, the gods had nothing to do with it. It was all my Aunt Maeve’s doing. On the Internet, she’d won a trip to Las Vegas for a casino’s Fourth of July celebration, but wasn’t able to go because she had to prepare for a big art show coming up in Chicago the following weekend. She told my mom to take the trip instead. My parents finally agreed only after Aunt Maeve said she would watch us over the weekend while she worked on her art. Life was good.

“Hurry up, Maureen,” Aunt Maeve said. “Andrew’s already in the car.” As my mom’s older sister, Aunt Maeve was the only one in the world who could boss her around. She looked at her watch. “You’re going to miss your flight and I worked hard to win this trip.”

“You entered your name on a website,” Mom said. “How hard could that be?” She ran her fingers through her hair as she took one last look around. “Now remember, the kids need to eat a balanced diet. Don’t let them watch too much TV. And make sure they’re in
bed at a reasonable hour.”

Aunt Maeve opened the door. “Maureen, just because I never had kids of my own doesn’t mean I can’t take care of yours. Relax. I’ll make sure they follow your rules.”

Mom’s eyebrows wrinkled in concern. “If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure,” Aunt Maeve said.

I gave Mom a hug and then scooted her out the door. “Have a good time.”

“Remember, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” said Chris as he shut the door. “And while you’re gone, whatever happens in Des Moines stays in Des Moines.”

I balanced a stack of Oreos on my belly while reaching for the can of Easy Cheese. I’d just perfected my mountain of gold goo into a picturesque pile on a Ritz cracker, when Chris walked into the living room and lay down on the floor next to the couch.

I bit into my cracker. “What’s up?” I mumbled.

“I don’t feel so good,” Chris said.

“Well, you don’t look so good, either, but what else is new?”

“Cut it out. I’m not in the mood.” Chris put his hands over his stomach and rubbed it. “My stomach really hurts bad.”

“Cheer up. It’s the Fourth of July.” From my belly, I grabbed one of the Oreos and pulled it apart, licking the white frosting off one side. “And your stomach probably just hurts because you’ve eaten nothing but junk food for the past four days. You know Aunt Maeve’s motto: Every child needs a steady dose of the Vitamin ‘C’s’—candy, chips, and cookies.”

“Don’t even mention food to me,” Chris moaned. “Are you sure you didn’t poison me again?”

“I haven’t done anything to you or your food,” I said. “You just
don’t know how to enjoy yourself. I mean, we’ve had the whole house to ourselves for the entire weekend. We sleep when we want, we eat what we want, we do what we want, and you still aren’t happy.” I reached for the remote. “Where is Aunt Maeve anyway?”

“Who knows?” Chris said, grabbing a couch cushion and laying his head on it. “I couldn’t sleep this morning because my stomach hurt so bad. When I came out of my room, she was just leaving to get some ‘inspiration.’ That was about four hours ago.”

“Well, I hope she left some money for us, because I’m hungry for pizza,” I said, heading for the phone.

“It’s 10:00 in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s a holiday.” I pulled the phone book off the shelf so I could look up the phone number for a place that offered 24-hour pizza. “It’s what our forefathers had in mind when they built this great country of ours: life, liberty, and the pursuit of pizza.”

At 2:00 that afternoon, the doorbell woke me from my mozzarella-induced slumber. I rolled over on the couch, wiped the drool from my face, and yawned. “Is someone going to answer the door?”

There was no reply.

The doorbell rang again, so I shouted even louder. “Hello! Is anyone home? Someone needs to answer the door. I’m in the middle of a nap here.”

The doorbell rang a third time.

“Hold on,” I called in the direction of the front door. “I’m coming.” Heaving myself off the couch, I buttoned my shorts over my bulging belly and opened the door.

A guy wearing an Uncle Sam costume smiled at me. “Are you Mia Fullerton?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, taking a step back.

“Great! I have a singing telegram for you.” The guy cleared his throat and then, to the tune of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” began singing:
“Tim’s so very, very sorry. He shouldn’t have cheated, it’s true. He never should have kissed Felicity while he was still dating you. You are his Yankee Doodle sweetheart. You’re his Yankee Doodle joy. Tim Radford wants to tell you he is very sorry and wants to be your Yankee Doodle boy!”

He ended the song on his knees with his arms stretched out wide, his hat in his hands. I stared at him in absolute shock before I collapsed into a fit of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” he asked as he climbed up off his knees.

“You,” I chuckled. “With your costume, your song—the whole thing was hilarious. I’m totally going to get Chris back for this one.”

“Chris?” the guy asked.

“Yeah, my brother Chris.” I grinned. “He sent you here as some sort of joke, right?”

The guy looked at the receipt in his hand. “It says here this was sent by a Tim Radford.”

“You mean,” I said, my laughter subsiding into an awkward silence, “that song was for real?”

“Hey, I don’t write ’em. I just sing ’em,” the guy explained. “But the costume
is
mine. It’s amazing how many times I’m asked to sing wearing this outfit. We’ve got some real patriotic people around here.”

“Oh.” Suddenly feeling anti-American for openly mocking Uncle Sam, I started to shut the door. “Thanks for the song.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Uncle Sam said as he put his hand in front of him to stop the door from closing.

I took his outstretched hand in mine and, doing the polite thing, gave it a firm shake. “Well, happy Fourth of July.”

“You, too,” he said, quickly releasing my grip like he might catch something from me. And considering I hadn’t showered in three
days, he probably had every right to be concerned.

He continued to stand there, looking at me expectantly, his hand still outstretched, and I racked my brain trying to figure out what he wanted. Maybe he was waiting for me to applaud. I mean, actors are really into the whole ego thing.

I eagerly clapped my hands and said, “Wow! That was a great song!”

“Thanks,” the guy replied, still not leaving.

We stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence before he cleared his throat and stared deliberately at the palm of his hand. And that’s when it clicked.
He wanted a tip!

I reached into the pocket of my jean shorts, pulled out the change from the pizza delivery guy, and smiled altruistically. “Here you go.”

He looked at the two crumpled dollar bills and the eleven cents I handed him. “Gee, thanks,” he said, heading toward a rusty Chevette parked in our driveway, muttering something that sounded like “cheapo.”

I watched him pull away, then walked back into the house just as the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Happy Fourth of July!” Tim shouted into the phone.

The shock of hearing Tim’s voice, the artificial chemicals pulsating through my veins, and the fact that I’d just been serenaded by Uncle Sam—all sent my brain into overload. I set the phone down and began banging my head against the wall, hoping to either clear my mind or knock myself out. After all, a person can only take so much. Following a few swift wallops into the dry wall, all I had was the beginning of a headache. Figuring that Tim wasn’t worth brain damage, I stopped the pounding and picked up the phone. “Hi, Tim.”

“So, did he come yet?” Tim asked excitedly.

“If you mean the singing Uncle Sam, then yeah, he just left.”

“What did you think? Was he any good?”

“Well,” I said, gnawing on a hangnail as I searched for the right words. “It was interesting.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.” Tim sighed. “I can tell by the sound of your voice that you didn’t like it. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to my grandpa. But when I told him about you, he got all jazzed up, trying to come up with a special way for me to apologize. He’s been driving me crazy. You should have heard the schemes he came up with. I really think he needs a hobby.”

“So, the singing telegram wasn’t your idea?” I asked, not sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

“Not really. I only agreed after my grandpa said he’d pay for it,” Tim said. “But I was hoping it would grab your attention, especially since you won’t return any of my e-mails.”

A small sense of satisfaction settled in my stomach. Tim now knew what it felt like to stare at an empty inbox. “Oh,” I said, “you grabbed my attention all right.”

“So,” Tim paused. “Do you forgive me?”

I sighed. It was so hard to stay mad at Tim. I wanted to forgive him, but he’d broken my heart. How could I ever forgive him for that? But if I didn’t forgive him, he would just keep bugging me until I did. If I’d learned anything about Tim during the past year, it was that he was persistent. The only way he’d leave me alone was to accept his apology. So, closing my eyes, I said, “Yes.”

“All right!” Tim yelled. “I can’t wait to tell my grandpa his plan worked and we’re back together.”

“Hold on. I said I accepted your apology. I never said we were back together. I mean, did you honestly think I would take you back just because your grandpa paid some goofy guy to sing to me? I may have forgiven you, Tim, but that doesn’t mean I forgot what you did to me.”

“Oh, come on,” Tim said. “How many times do I have to tell you it was a mistake? You’re really being pig-headed about this.”

“You cheated on me and I’m the pig?”

“Now you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“That would be hard to do, considering your mouth has been kind of busy these days,” I said. “So, how
is
Felicity?”

“I told you, I’m not dating Felicity. We’re just friends now.”

“Does that mean you’re still hanging out with her?” I asked, my stomach tightening.

“Well, yeah. Her parents have a sweet boat,” Tim said. “I’m not going to give that up.”

“So, I’m supposed to believe you’re seeing Felicity every day, but you’re no longer making out with her?”

“You can trust me, Mia.”

“Ha!” I spat. “That’s a good one.”

“I know you still like me,” Tim said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t care if I was still hanging out with Felicity. And no matter how many times you deny it, I know we’ll end up back together as soon as I get home. There’s just no way you can resist me.”