Trauma Queen (12 page)

“Emma?” I shout. “Is that you?”

“It's Dad,” he says. “Sorry to disappoint you, Monster.” He pauses. “Is Mom around?”

“No, she's out dogwalking.”

“I was hoping you'd say that,” he admits. “I kind of wanted to talk to you in private.”

“You did? How come?”

“I, uh, have big news.”

Okay. I don't know about you, but there's only so much big news I can handle in one day. I take the phone and sink onto the sofa. “Can I ask you a favor? Please just say it fast.”

“I'm getting married.”

Not that fast.
“You are? To The—I mean, to Mona?”

“Who else?”

Don't ask me.
You're the one with Surprise Girlfriends.
“That's so great, Dad. I'm really happy for you.”

“Thanks, Mari.”

“When will it be?”

“This summer.” He pauses. “We were hoping after the honeymoon you and Kennie could take a little trip with us. Mona knows a dude ranch out west where the three of you could relax, get better acquainted. And it's even got a vegetarian meal option.”

“Sounds perfect,” I lie. “Kennie loves horses; I'm sure she'll be psyched. Of course, she'll start talking like a cowboy and wearing fringes on everything.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Well, we can put up with that, right? As long as she doesn't chew any tobacco.” He
pauses again, longer this time. “But first I'll need to clear all this with Mom.”

“Ri-ight,” I say. “And does she know about you and—”

“No. Not yet. Any suggestions on how to break the news?”

“You're asking
me
?”

“Just joking,” he says, but neither of us is laughing. “Well, anyway, I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He exhales. “Okay, love you, Monster. Can you hand the phone over to Kennie now?”

So I do, then head straight to my computer.
Log on
, I pray to Emma.
Please log on. I desperately need to talk to you.

But she isn't there. Still. Maybe her computer is broken or something.

All of a sudden I have a crazy idea. I'll call her house. If she picks up, we'll have an actual conversation, even if it's only for a few minutes. If either of her parents answer, I'll just hang up. And I'll use my cell, so they won't be able to caller ID my house.

I step out of my bedroom and hear Kennedy's voice on the phone with Dad. She sounds like she's arguing:
“Yeah, a dude ranch sounds okay. I know you do, Daddy. But
whyyyy do you have to
—”
I shut the door and dial Emma's number. It rings four times. On the fifth ring, someone answers.

“Yeah-lo,” says a Hartley. Not Emma, though. Definitely not Trisha, and probably not her dad. One of her slobby brothers. Can't tell who yet.

“Um,” I say.

“Can you repeat that?” Okay, got it. It's Seth, the one who microwaved SpaghettiOs. I've always hated how he teases Emma, but he's usually pretty decent to me.

I clear my throat, hoping that makes my voice thick and goopy, like Mr. Hubley's. “Sorry, bad cold. Is Emma there?”

Silence.
“Marigold?”

Dang. “Uh, yes, actually. How are you, Seth?”

“You shouldn't be calling this house.”

“I know. But this'll be really quick, I swear.”

He thinks; I can hear him breathing.

“Seth,” I beg. “Can I
please
talk to Emma? I wouldn't call if it wasn't incredibly important.”

“Whatever,” he finally mutters, then hollers,
“EMMMM-AAAA!”

For a few seconds I don't hear anything, then some
muffled voices, then the phone dropping, then Emma:
“Marigold?”
Her voice sounds almost squeaky.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“No. Are you?”

“Me? No. That's why I'm calling. I just had a huge fight with Mom at supper. She's threatening to teach an acting class at my school. Can you believe that? I think this cute boy may like me, but also this nasty girl really hates me. And then five minutes ago Dad called—”

“Your dad?” She sounds confused now. “What
about
him?”

“That's what I'm telling you. He's marrying The Horrible Mona Woman. And dragging us off to some vegetarian dude ranch!”

She doesn't say anything.

“Emma? You there?”

“Mari,” she says slowly, “I think you may not know what happened.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This morning. Your mom called my mom. And basically threw a fit about my mom not letting us talk on the phone. And forcing us to sneak IMs—”

“What?”

“Becca told her we've been chatting online, so now
I can't use my computer for anything but homework. And if Mom catches me on the phone with you—” Emma starts sniffling. “This is so messed up. And it just keeps getting worse.”

For a second I'm speechless. Then I sputter, “I can't believe my mom called your house. She's totally out of control!”

“So you didn't know?”

“Well, she told me she wanted to, but I begged her not to. And I thought—”

“Did she promise you she wouldn't?”

I think about our conversation this morning, how I ran off to change my pants before we'd finished. What was my big hurry? To go eavesdrop on Jada Sperry? “No, I guess not. I guess she never promised anything.”

“Listen, Mari,” Emma says. “Things are really bad over here. My mom's incredibly upset. Not just at your mom, but at me for sneaking online. And I hate feeling she doesn't trust me anymore.”

“So what are you saying?”

“It's so unfair. But maybe we should . . . I don't know. Let things go for a while.”

“Let things go? What does that mean? You're saying not be—”

“Don't get mad,” she says quickly. “Okay?”

“But that's crazy, Emma! It's
wrong.
Can't you stand up to her about this?”

“Stand up about what? I
was
sneaking, wasn't I?”

“Yes, but only because she made you!”

“Okay, now you're sounding exactly like Becca.”

My throat is closing up now. “Emma, how can you say that?”

“Sorry. I just mean you're acting like my mom's this big powerful villain. Even though
Becca
was the one who called. And attacked
her
.”

“Mom didn't mean to attack,” I say limply.

“You're
defending
her?”

“No! But she wants us to stay friends. I'm sure she just meant to stick up for us.”

“Well, that's a funny way to do it.” Emma blows her nose. “Anyway, I really do think we should take a break right now. Until things settle down a little. Mari?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I know this isn't your fault.”

“Well, sure! Of course it's not my—”

“What I mean is, I know you didn't purposely tell Becca about the IMs. It just slipped out, right?”

I try to think of that freezing walk, what I said,
what Mom said, but right now all I remember clearly is wanting to shock her. Wanting to tell her something she didn't know.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sort of.”

Emma sighs. “Look, I'm sure you'll like Lawson if you give it a chance. You're a really great person. I'm sure if you just—”

“Don't worry, I've already made a ton of new friends. There's this boy—”

“But you said some girl hates you?”

“It's not important, Emma. I'll be fine.”

Then we don't say anything. This may be our last conversation—our last anything—for a long time, so it's weird how we're both being quiet. But somehow my mouth has just stopped working.

“Okay,” Emma finally says in a small voice. “Well, I'd better get off the phone now. See you, Marigold.”

“You too,” I whisper, and hang up just as Mom bursts in the door.

“Oh, sweetheart, what's
wrong
?” Mom asks, throwing her arms around me. She smells like dogs and snow and oatmeal cookies. For a second I let her squeeze me, resting my head against her down jacket.

Then I pull away. “Mom,” I say. “Were you going to tell me you called Trisha Hartley?”

“Oh! Of course I was. But we got sidetracked at dinner about the club thing.”

“And you told her about the IMs? How could you? Now she's furious at Emma.”

“Oh, no. Is she really?”

“And Emma doesn't want to be friends.”

“With you? She said that?” Mom looks shocked.

I nod.

“But you didn't do anything! Is Emma
blaming
you?”

“It's complicated,” I answer, shrugging. “There's all this stuff
between Emma and her mom.”

Mom rubs my cheek with her freezing hand. “Oh, baby. This is really such a shame. And so unfair to
you.
”

“Yeah, it is,” I say. “Unfair to me.”

And then before I figure out that it's happening, I'm crying. Mom hugs me again, and I let her this time, even though she's kind of missing the point about her role in all this.

Now Kennedy is standing in the doorway, without her glasses. Her eyes look enormous and pink.

“Kennie, can you give us a minute, please?” Mom says, handing me a linty tissue from her jacket pocket.

Kennedy nods. But she doesn't go away. “Mari told you?” she asks in a small, shaky voice.

“Yes, angel. She just now told me all about Emma.”

“No, I mean about Dad.”

“Kennie,” I say in a warning voice. “I really don't think—”

“Think what?” Mom asks quickly.

Suddenly Kennedy bursts into tears and flings herself
onto my bed. I try to catch her eye to give her a look that means
not now,
but she's so busy sniffling and gasping that she isn't registering.

Mom looks at me, alarmed. “Okay. What
about
Dad?”

“Nothing.” I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.

“Mari.
What?
”

“He's marrying Mona,” Kennedy blurts out. A string of snot is dangling from her nose, so I hand her my wet tissue.

Mom turns to me, white-faced. “So,” she murmurs. “And were you going to tell
me
?”

“I just found out,” I say. “Dad called, like, the minute you left—”

“And you called Emma.” She shakes her head. “I had my cell phone. You should have called
me,
baby.”

“I know. Except I was really mad at you.” I sniff in some drippy snot. “But I'm sorry I said all that stuff. About your performances.”

“That's okay. I knew you didn't mean it.” Mom sighs. “Well,” she says tiredly. “I'd say we were all due for a Chocolate Night, but it's too cold to go out shopping again. And I ate too many of Gram's cookies, anyway.”

“Me too,” says Kennie, hiccupping. “Besides, now my stomach hurts.”

“It does? Do you think maybe you're going to—”

“Throw up? I don't think so.” But she has that look she gets, so Mom puts her arm around Kennedy's shoulders and walks her to the bathroom.

A few minutes later I hear Mom close the door to her own bedroom and make some phone calls. I can't hear very much, but it sounds as if first she's talking to Gram (“Oh, Mom, I'm just in shock”), and then to Dad (“And this is how I find out, Jeff? From the
girls
?”). After a while I check on Kennedy and she tells me she's fine, she's getting bored in the bathroom, and can she please come out? So I say sure, why not, and we put on our pj's and both pretend to fall asleep.

Next morning, Mom is in the living room, upside down, surrounded by marbles.

“What a night, huh?” she greets me. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither. So finally around three a.m. I started writing up my club proposal. I think it's okay, but I'm
not used to dealing with PTA types. Maybe after school today I can show you what I wrote?”