One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies (2 page)

The Year I Turned Nine

It got sort of dicey.

That was when Whip Logan
was
—
The Final Father
,
a man so evil that he murdered his own children.

Which of course didn't do a whole heck of a lot
for my ability to fall asleep at night.
And it didn't help matters any
that I couldn't even tell my mom
what was keeping me awake,
since Aunt Duffy had drilled it into me
year after year
that if I ever told my mom
about our little trips to the Cineplex,
my mother would murder
her
.

I
knew The Final Father
was only a movie.
But Whip was just too good
at being bad.

Aunt Duffy assured me that my actual father
hadn't actually killed
any actual kids.

She said my father
would never do anything
to hurt me.

Yeah. Right.

Turbulence

Ladies and gentlemen,
the captain has turned on
the seat belt sign
.

Please return to your seats
and fish your barf bags out
of the seat pockets in front of you

while we prepare
to slam through some
real nasty storm clouds …

I think I left my stomach about five miles back.
I wonder if this is what it feels like
to be in an earthquake …

What if we get struck by lightning?
What if a huge fist of pissed-off wind
punches one of these pitiful wings right off?

Well, what if?
There's a part of me
that wouldn't even mind.

It'd serve my fabulously talented,
deeply neglectful,
Oscar-winning father right.

Window Seat Blues

I have to pee.
So
bad.

But the man sitting next to me
looks like a sumo wrestler on steroids.

And just my luck:
he's sound asleep.

Squeezing past him
is definitely not an option.

Maybe if I called the flight attendant
she could have him forklifted.

Only eleven hundred miles
to go.

At least that weirdo behind me
has finally run out of boogers.

In-flight Viewing

Oh. My. God.
I can't believe it.
They're showing that
horrible airplane crash movie!

Just kidding.
Actually,
it's one of those stupid
international spy films.

The kind that has a plot so seriously twisted
that you get a migraine just trying
to keep track of who the good guys are
and who the bad guys are.

At least this one isn't starring Whip Logan
or I might have had to shove open
the emergency exit and take my chances
with my seat cushion flotation device.

Airplane Lunch

They
call
this

chicken
?

Dear Lizzie,

Sorry about writing you this letter On the back, of a barf bag, but I'm sitting here on the plane to California and it's the only paper I've got. Besides, it captures my mood perfectly. It's so awful to think that with every word I write, I'm getting farther and farther away from you. And from Aunt Duffy. AND from Ray. How am I going to live without him? I'm so miserable I could puke. But I better not, or I won't be able to send you this letter.

Don't forget about me. And don't let Ray forget about me either, okay? Keep reminding him how wonderful I am. And tell him to watch out for that disgusting skank Amber. I just know she's gonna try to move in on him now that I'm gone.

Zillions of losses from your pitiful friend in the sky,

Ruby

Ray

He wasn't the first boy I ever kissed.
But he was the first boy I ever
liked
kissing.

All the other ones,
not that there were exactly hundreds,
just seemed to want to ram their tongues
down my throat to distract me from noticing
what their hands were trying to do.

But it was different with Ray.
Right from the start.
When
he
kissed me
it seemed as though he was doing it
because he actually
liked
me.
Not just because he was horny.

It was as if he was trying to show me
how he
felt
about me with those kisses of his.

I sure miss that guy.
I miss the way he always tosses
his black curls off his forehead.
I miss the way he presses his thumb
into my palm when he holds my hand.
I miss the way his chocolate eyes melt right into mine
whenever he smiles at me.

There's a hole in my heart bigger than Texas.
Over which, coincidentally,
we happen to be flying at this very moment.

Three Wishes

I wish Ray was on this plane with me.
I wish we were on our way to Tahiti.
I wish we were the only two passengers
and—

Oh my God!
It's
him!

He's slipping through the first-class curtain,
passing right by me with this big grin on his face,
motioning for me to meet him at the back of the plane.

I manage to levitate over the sleeping giant next to me,
and float down the aisle right into Ray's arms.

He wraps me into a hug so hot
that I practically burst into flames.

We slip into the bathroom,
and lock the door.
Then, without even saying a word,
we start kissing.

And we kiss and kiss and kiss
until I can feel his kisses running all through me.
And now he's starting to unbutton my shirt and—
that's when I wake up.

No!
I
don't
want any honey-roasted peanuts.

It Figures

The pilot just announced
that there's a breathtaking view
of the Grand Canyon
for the passengers who are seated
on the left side of the aircraft.

Guess which side
I'm
sitting on?

Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Beginning Our Dissent

Will the passengers in coach class
please return your seat backs and tray tables
to their full upright positions for landing.
And will the passengers in first class
please take a moment
to stow their personal footrests
beneath their seats
.

Their personal footrests?!

Oh, and if it's not too much trouble,
would they mind returning
their empty champagne bottles
and caviar buckets
to their personal in-flight servants?

Those first-class passengers
who are still submerged
in their individual hot tubs at this time
should take this opportunity to climb out
in order to allow their geishas
sufficient time to towel them dry.

At this time we must also request
that all the exotic dancers
place their clothes back on their bodies,
and that all masseuses fold up and stow
their portable massage tables
in the massage table bin
located at the rear of the first-class cabin.

Kindly take a moment to hand
your monogrammed cashmere blankets,
your imported goose down pillows,
and your exclusive complimentary
American Airlines Armani bunny slippers
to your personal in-flight butlers
for placement in the overhead compartments.

Thank you for flying with American Airlines.
We hope that all of you,
even the scum
who could only afford coach class,
will have a very pleasant stay here
in the Los Angeles area.

The air quality at the present time
is hideously unhealthy
for all living creatures.

That's L.A. Down There

Lurking under a curtain
of olive brown mist
that's hanging over it
like a threat.

That's L.A. down there,
simmering in that murky smog stew.
But from where
I'm
sitting,
it looks more like

Hell
A.

I Didn't Want to Get on This Plane

But now I don't want to get
off
it.

I gather up my stuff in slow motion
and make myself follow
the sumo wrestler down the aisle,
past the flight attendants standing by the cockpit,
grinning and nodding at me
like those bobble-head dogs
that people stick on the
dashboards of their cars.

I force myself to step through
the gaping steel jaw of the doorway,
and inch down the corridor of doom,
balancing on the tightrope
of dirty gray carpet,
painfully aware that every step I take
is leading me
closer and closer

to the sperm donor himself.

There He Is

The
Whip Logan.
In three whole dimensions.

I don't know whether
to ask him for his autograph,
kick him in the balls,

or run.

So I Don't Do Anything

I wish I felt
like racing over to him
and flinging my arms around his neck.

I wish I felt
like telling him I love him
and all is forgiven.

I wish I felt
at least a tiny bit
glad to see him.

Not that
my
feelings
exactly appear to
matter
to him
one way or the other.

He's too busy signing autographs
to even notice
that I've gotten off the plane.

I Watch Whip Logan

Chatting away
with his giggling fans,
scribbling on all their scraps of paper,

and their arms
and their T-shirts
and their whatevers.

I watch him
being so damn friendly
to everyone,

and
I feel—
what
do
I feel?

Nothing.
Nada.
Zip.

Zero.

Uh Oh

He's spotted me.

That nice comfortable
nothing feeling

just morphed into dread.

Here He Comes

The guy from whose
ridiculously famous loins I sprang
is heading straight toward me.

He's walking right up to me,
smiling at
me
just like he smiled at
Gwyneth Paltrow
,
in that sappy opening scene
from
The Road to Nowhere
.

My real, live, honest-to-goodness dad
is standing here right in front of me
saying, “You must be Ruby.”

Who
wrote
this dialogue?

I want to say, “No, duh.”
I want to grab him by his collar and scream,
“Where have you been all my life,
you worthless piece of—”

But the words
get all fisted-up in my throat.
So I just nod.

Then his eyes start getting all blurry,
exactly like they did when
he was reunited with Julia Roberts
in that terrible remake of
It's a Wonderful Life
,
and he puts his arm around
my
shoulder,
just like he put his arm around
hers
.

Gag me.

So I duck down,
pretending I have to tie my shoe.
And when I stand back up
he doesn't pull any more of that
arm-around-the-shoulder,
I'm-your-famous-movie-star-father crap again.

At least he's capable of taking a hint.

“
Welcome to California!
”

He says it like he's rehearsed it.
But he says it like he means it.
Like he really,
really
means it.

Well,
so what if he does?
Because I'm here to tell him
that he can't just ooze out
onto the stage of my life
and
play
my father.

Not after Mom did all the hard work
of teaching me to be a decent human being,
which is something he obviously couldn't have done
even if he'd bothered to try
since he clearly doesn't know the first thing
about being one himself.

I'm here to tell him
that this is going to be
the toughest role he's
ever
had to play.

Suddenly

A billion flashbulbs are exploding all around us
and people are shouting and pushing and shoving
and sticking cameras in our faces
and crowding so close
that it feels like we're in a mosh pit.

“Whip! Whip!” they're calling
from every direction at once.
“Is that your long lost daughter?”
“She looks just like you!”
“Come on, honey, smile for the camera!”
“Hey, Ruby, look over here!”
“Put your arm around her, Whip!”
“Come on, Miss Logan, give us a smile!”

“Damn paparazzi,” Whip says under his breath,
and then all of a sudden
these four incredible hulks muscle through the throng
and link arms to make a pathway for Whip and me.
“Thanks, guys,” he says as we rush past them.
“We'll see you back at the house.”

Then he grabs my hand and starts running
toward the limo that's parked out front.
“I'm so sorry, Ruby,” he says,
as we leap inside and it speeds away.
“I hired a look-alike to throw the reporters off the track,
but I guess it didn't work.”

Is that
all
you're sorry for, Whip?

It's Creepy Being in a Limo

Because the only other time
I was ever even
in
one
was on the way to Mom's funeral.

And there's a movie star in
this
one.
He's sitting right across from me,
staring at me like
I'm
a movie star.

Only
this
movie star
is my father.
How bizarre is
that
?

He's just sitting here,
staring at me,
trying to catch his breath.

And now his eyes are getting
all disgustingly misty and he's saying,
“You look so much like your mom.”

Whoa.
I feel like I'm the co-star
of one of those gruesome soap operas
and the director's going to start shouting “Cut!”
if I don't get a grip
and remember my line.

So I say, “You're a lot
shorter
than you look on the screen,”
practically spitting the words in his face.

But he just smiles at me,
that same smile that he smiles
in all his movies,

and says,
“I'm sure glad you're here.”
Cut. Cut! CUT!
CUT!

Sightsniffing

Whip tells the chauffeur to turn left on California
and take the Pacific Coast Highway to Sunset.