Trauma Queen (17 page)

“You really mean that?” I ask doubtfully. Because the truth is, ever since Dad broke the news, I've been half expecting the world premiere of
Nu-Mona, Second Wife of Doom
.

“Yes, baby, I really do,” she insists. “And good luck to them both!”

We keep walking, not talking, trying to keep Darla from peeing on every other mailbox. Beezer poops on somebody's front lawn, then looks at us like,
Whoa, you see that?

Mom pretends she doesn't. “And while we're on the subject,” she adds, even though actually I thought we'd finished. “About this dude ranch business. I know it sounds awful—”

“It does,” I interrupt. “I
really
don't want to go.”

“Neither does Kennie. But you
should
go, both of you. For Dad. And also for what's-her-name.”

“The Horrible Mona Woman,” I say, and we both laugh.

“Guess I'll have to stop calling her that,” she admits. “Maybe we can think up another name.”

“I know. How about Mona the Human Being?”

“Naah, too generic. What about Mona Who Stole My Ex-Husband?”

“Too long,” I insist. “Besides, she didn't, technically.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” She sighs a puff cloud. “The Horrible Mona Woman was perfect, wasn't it? Oh, well.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. “You know what, Mari? I really cherish these mother-daughter chats.”

I turn my head to see if she's smiling ironically, but she isn't. In fact, if I had to describe her expression, I'd say it was dreamy, maybe a bit like that stagestruck college girl I imagined at Dad's. And I know, I should probably say something back right then, some sort of “Yes, And” remark that
advances the scene
, or whatever improv-thing you're supposed to do.

But I'm drawing a total blank. Because it's like we were in the middle of one kind of scene, improvising lines back and forth, and then whammo: Out of nowhere, Mom changes the whole mood. Are you even allowed to do that? It seems kind of unfair.

Plus I told you about her dramatic timing, right? So like the
very second
she says her line about the mother-daughter chats, the dogs yank us in front of school. And now Beezer is lurching toward his flagpole, the bus doors are opening, kids are crashing into us, and Layla
is running over, one arm waving like a windshield wiper. “Marigold!” she's shouting. “Stop!”

By the time she catches up to us, her cheeks are clashing with the bright orange streak in her hair. “Sorry,” she says, gasping. “I didn't think you heard me! Cute doggies.”

“They're not ours,” I say automatically.

She isn't listening, though. Or even looking at the dogs. She's just grinning stupidly at Mom.

“Layla, right?” Mom says, beaming right back at her. “You did so well yesterday.”

“I did?”

“Oh, definitely. You were a little tight when we first started, but I loved your Scream with that boy.”

Layla giggles. “You mean Brody.”

“Right, Brody. You two had excellent eye contact.”

“You think so? Seriously? Because he's such a jerk.”

“Let me tell you something,” Mom says. “In theater, chemistry is very mysterious. That's one of the few things actors never overanalyze.”

I'm just about to say,
Okay, well, time to shove off,
Mom,
see you around,
and also yank Layla into the building, when who should be heading toward us but Ashley and Megan.

Oh, perfect. Jada's hench-girls.

“Becca!” Ashley is calling. “Becca!”

“Wow, look, more of my kids,” Mom exclaims happily, waving them over.

Her kids?
I try to catch Layla's eye, but she's staring at her pointy black boots like they're the most fascinating footwear ever invented.

So now here we all are right outside Crampton Middle School: me, Mom, two dogs who don't belong to us, Layla with her fascinating boots, plus Jada's not-so-secret agents, both of them standing too close and gushing about how
fabulous
the club was yesterday, how they
loved
doing the Blob thing, how great it felt to scream like that, and could Mom
please
tell them what she's planned for today, they promise not to tell anybody, they just can't
wait.

“If I told you, it wouldn't be improv, would it?” Mom answers, laughing.

Ashley does a pseudo-pout. “Oh, but Becca—”

“Remember what I said yesterday? The key to acting is surprise. If I don't surprise you, why should you even watch me?”

Okay, that's it. We are SO not talking about Mom's talent for surprises.

Especially because at this exact moment I see Jada
getting off a bus. When she steps onto the sidewalk, she looks around, like she's wondering what happened to her welcome party.

Then she spots us. She stands there, her arms on her hips, her red scarf snapping in the wind. And maybe I'm right, maybe she's not some evil villain, but right now she definitely resembles one.

“Uh, Mom?” I say loudly. “Don't you have to go get Snickers?”

Ashley grins. “Snickers? We're having
chocolate
today, Becca?”

“NO,” I blurt. “Snickers is a dog. Mom walks them. As a job.”

“That is so, so cool,” Megan exclaims.

“Yes, it is,” Mom says, lovingly patting Darla's head. “Really, I get my best inspirations walking my canine buddies. Some people think in the shower, but I personally—”

“And you don't want to be late,” I insist, staring at Mom.

Mom stares right back at me. “Late?”

“For your walk. With Snickers.”

Ashley laughs. “I'm sure Snickers doesn't have an alarm clock, Marigold.”

“Oh, but he's very hyper about his schedule,” I say. “And if Mom's five minutes late, he goes totally bonkers.”

Now everyone is staring at me.

“You should hear him bark,” I add desperately. “It's like . . .”
Ack, what's it like?
“You know, dog barking. Loud.”

Layla starts coughing into her glove. And I'm sure she's probably thinking I sounded insane just now, but I had to do something. Because Jada is definitely walking in our direction. And this whole scene is excruciating enough without Jada joining in, telling Layla she can't hear her, and asking Mom about Wikipedia.

Mom gives me a look like,
Remind me to teach you some social skills, Marigold.
But she doesn't argue. She flashes me a quick smile, kisses my cheek, and to everybody else calls out, “Okay, see you later, guys.” Then she walks off with the dogs, giving Beezer one sharp tug before he pees on the school flagpole.

The whole next week is pretty much torture.

All I hear at school is how amazing Mom is, how creative, how fun, how you-fill-in-the-blank-with-your complimentary-adjective. After all the time I've spent listening to people gossip about her and snigger, you'd think I'd be relieved to hear what an idol she's become, but I'm not. The truth is, I'm terrified that any minute some kid is going to drink canola oil, and then we'll all be drowning in free negative publicity. And even though Layla keeps telling me that (so far) Mom hasn't done anything “too Looney Tunes,” I'm not sure Layla's concept of crazy is the universal standard.

Plus it just feels funny to have everyone—I mean, like, the
entire school
—start worshipping your mother. Even kids I barely know are coming up to me all the time, going, “Oh, Marigold, your mom is sooo cool,” and “Hey, Marigold, tell your mom I said hi!” I'm starting to feel not like Marigold but like Becca Bailey's Daughter, and to be perfectly honest, it's starting to get a bit annoying.

Take, for example, right this minute in the lunch-room.

I'm sitting across from Ethan, who is wearing a faded green sweatshirt that makes his freckles stand out. Every once in a while he glances at me, but our rule is Keep It Secret for Now, so we're careful to avoid eye contact.

“Meep!” Layla is saying. She sniffs Quinn's Tupperware. “Wazza drogool?”

“Plah-koo,” Quinn answers. She hands Layla some chopsticks. “Spinky.”

Layla grins. “Na na, dweepy bobo.” She twirls some noodles around her chopsticks, then dangles them in the air. “Yoppy kerploova fablum! Poogy yackum.”

The noodles drip. Plop, plop, plop. Probably tamari sauce.

“Pek. Fazzle reeka,” Quinn scolds, wiping the table with a napkin.

Ethan puts down his burrito. “Okay, sorry to interrupt, but are you talking English today?”

“They can't,” Brody informs him. “It's homework. For Becca.”

“Jaddo,” Layla adds, with a mouthful of noodles. “Pizzy alla fadoo drep.”

“Yeah,” Ethan grumbles, glancing at me through his eyelashes. “So you're going to do this
again
? For, like, the entire
lunch
period?
”

“Jez,” Brody tells him, nodding very seriously. “Veezer.”

Quinn starts laughing so hard some water leaks out of her mouth. Layla hands her back the saucy napkin, then leans over and messes Brody's hair. He grins at her and says something that sounds like
aardvark painkiller.

“Okay, this is getting too strange.” Ethan stands. “Later,” he adds, I'm pretty sure to me, and walks off to sit with some jocks from the lacrosse team.

Layla winces. “Sorry.”

“For what?” I ask innocently.

She cocks her head like,
Don't act so innocent.

“Marigold?” Quinn says. “Do you want to do Becca's exercise with us? It's really fun.”

“Oh, no thanks!” I answer. “We talk gibberish at home all the time.”

Brody's eyes light up. “You do?'

“I think that was a joke, you moron,” Layla says. She looks at me. “So it's okay with you if we—?”

“Yup. Don't mind me.”

She shrugs. “Okay, then, if you insist. Verspeezle fregony karple plunkert—”

And on they go with the alien-talk. Which leaves me nothing to do but nibble my lunch, a soggy ham-and-cheddar-and-bruised-lettuce-on-cardboard-pita. Too bad I didn't bring a book; even
The Lord of the Rings
would be better than sitting here listening to nonsense syllables for the third day in a row. But at least I can use the free brain-time to space about Ethan—the way we held hands for a full block yesterday on the walk home, until we ran into Brody's mother. (“And who is
this
?” she asked Ethan, smiling suspiciously at me as if I was maybe something he shoplifted.)

This makes me think about Emma, how great it would be to share every detail with her, exactly how we used to talk about Will and Matt. But since that last
phone conversation, she hasn't tried to contact me. Not once, not even a borrowed-cell-phone voice mail
Hey, what's up, bye
sort of deal. I have a terrible thought then: Maybe the “break” Emma talked about isn't only “until things settle down” at her house. Maybe “things” are permanently broken, and they're never going to be fixed.

Unless Gram's made any progress with her plan, whatever it is. She hasn't said a word about it since her visit, though. Probably that means there's nothing to report. Because I'm sure she would call me the second there was any news.

“Hey, okay if we join you?”

My eyes refocus: It's Ashley and Megan.
Ashley and Megan?

“Join us for what?” Layla asks, not too nicely either.

“Improv homework,” Ashley says, shrugging. “The gibberish thing.”

Layla raises her eyebrow at Quinn, who nods a little reluctantly, but she does nod. “Dro,” Layla says, moving closer to Brody. And now there's a space at the table big enough for Ashley and Megan to squeeze in, especially because Megan is half the width of dental floss.

Okay, well, this is certainly bizarre.

“Prissky,” Megan murmurs politely.

“Prissky,” Ashley echoes, just as polite. “Speena kiff oodwee pennygrapple hooble—”

This goes on for a few demented minutes. You can tell everyone feels incredibly awkward about the seating arrangement, but even so, they're all fake-talking, back and forth, and no one is giving the evil eye or throwing pasta or bursting into tears. It's really kind of amazing, actually.

But then suddenly they all stop. Total frozen silence. Because here comes Jada, her hands on her hips.