One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

by Sonya Sones

  There’s the stone fireplace,

  the antique stained glass lamps,

  and the cozy window seat.

  There’s even the huge bookcase full of books.

  And the canopy bed draped with lace,

  heaped so high with comforters and pillows

  that you can’t even get into it

  without stepping up onto a footstool.

  Cripes.

  It’s the room

  I’ve always wanted.

  Only I didn’t want it

  here.

  A Simple Answer to Simple Question

  “How do you like it?”

  Whip suddenly asks,

  all bright eyed and bushy tailed,

  like he figures I’m going to

  fling my arms around his neck and squeal,

  “Oh my God! I love it, Daddy!”

  So I just yawn.

  Then I shrug and say,

  “It’s okay. I guess.”

  He’s Gone Now

  I can finally breathe.

  Before he left he said he guessed

  I’d probably need some time to settle in

  and rest up before dinner.

  I need some time all right.

  But not to do

  what he said.

  I need some time to call Aunt Duffy

  and beg her to send me the money

  for a one-way ticket back to Boston.

  But when I dial her number,

  her phone machine picks up.

  And just hearing her voice obliterates me.

  I have to hang up fast

  to keep myself from leaving her

  a truly pathetic message.

  Then I call Lizzie.

  I call Ray.

  But nobody’s home.

  And neither,

  unfortunately,

  am I.

  Home

  I can’t believe how much I miss it already.

  It wasn’t anything like this place.

  It was small, but cozy,

  overflowing with all kinds of funky stuff

  that Mom used to find at flea markets.

  And every room was crammed with books.

  I guess it was a little bit messy.

  Okay. So maybe it was more

  than a little bit messy.

  But it was way comfortable.

  Which made it the favorite hangout

  for all of my friends.

  Especially Lizzie.

  Lizzie used to say that she’d give

  her right arm to have a house like mine.

  And her left one

  to have a mother like mine.

  And I guess I can understand why.

  See, Mom wasn’t that corny type

  who always had milk and cookies waiting for us

  when we’d get there after school.

  She was a librarian,

  so she didn’t usually get home

  till just before dinnertime.

  But she knew how to listen.

  She knew how to laugh.

  She knew how to be there when you needed her.

  And how to disappear when you didn’t.

  I loved that about her.

  I loved a lot of things about her.

  Man, sometimes I miss her so much

  that I feel as if

  I’m burning up with missing her,

  as if I’m getting ready to break apart,

  to just disintegrate—

  like the space shuttle did over Texas.

  It Mega-stinks

  These days, even when I want to cry, I can’t.

  But that doesn’t seem to matter to my face.

  Even though no tears come out,

  the rims of my eyes turn redder than my hair

  and my cheeks get hideously splotchy.

  Just like they are right now.

  I need to splash some cold water on my face.

  So I push open the door

  to what I assume must be my bathroom—

  and get my mind severely blown.

  Boy, I wish Lizzie could see this place.

  She would not believe it.

  I mean there’s a sunken tub in here.

  And a separate glass shower.

  And a sauna. And a steam room.

  Oh, and did I forget to mention the bidet?

  Lizzie would think it was hysterical.

  She’d probably be trying it out right now.

  God, I wish she was here.

  I wish Aunt Duffy and Ray were here.

  What’s the point of having

  a bathroom that could be featured

  on MTV Cribs,

  when there’s no one around I care about

  to show it to?

  Dinner

  I thought there’d be a butler.

  Some guy with an English accent

  and white gloves, hovering

  with assorted silver trays,

  lifting off shining domed lids

  to reveal steaming … steaming …

  Oh, I don’t know.

  Steaming crumpets or something.

  But it’s just Whip.

  And me.

  Surrounded by

  an acre of kitchen.

  Just Whip.

  And me.

  And at least one of every cooking device

  known to mankind.

  There’s even a spatula that automatically

  flips pancakes when you press a button.

  Which Whip happens to be demonstrating

  at this very moment.

  He looks like such an idiot in that apron,

  going on and on about

  how his macadamia nut pancakes

  are renowned the world over

  and about how if he hadn’t been an actor

  he probably would have been a chef

  and about how tangy the oranges from his trees

  are at this time of year

  and about how he gave his assistant

  the weekend off

  but I’m going to love him when I meet him

  because he’s a real hoot

  and about how it’s fun sometimes

  to have breakfast for dinner, isn’t it?

  And on and on and on and on …

  until the doorbell rings.

  Whip’s Up to His Elbows in Pancake Batter

  So he sends me to see who it is.

  I swing open the door, and practically fall over—

  there, standing right in front of me,

  is Cameron Diaz.

  She grins when she sees my jaw drop,

  and explains that she lives next door.

  Cameron Diaz is my next-door neighbor?!

  Then she says she’s so glad to meet me.

  She says Whip’s told her all about me.

  Cameron Diaz knows things about me?!

  She says she hates to be a bother

  but she was wondering if Whip

  could loan her some vanilla extract

  for this birthday cake that she’s baking for Drew.

  Drew Barrymore?!

  Then she breezes right past me straight toward the kitchen,

  like she’s been here a million times before.

  Whip lights up when he sees her

  and sweeps her into a hug.

  She kisses his cheek.

  She only stays a minute,

  but it’s plenty long enough for me to ask

  myself the weirdest question of all time:

  Is Cameron Diaz going to be my stepmother?

  After She Leaves

  I take a bite

  of Whip’s famous pancakes

  And they’re delicious.

  There’s no denying it.

  But I’d like to ram the whole perfect plateful

  right down his throat.

  Mom

  was a terrible cook.

  In My New Bed

  There’s a full moon tonight,

&n
bsp; drifting through the sky

  like a sad ghost

  gazing down at me

  with these real soft eyes,

  as though it understands …

  How pathetic is that?

  The only person on the entire West Coast

  that I can actually relate to

  is the Man in the Moon.

  She’s Trying to Get Out!

  I can hear her nails

  scratching against the inside of the coffin,

  hear her thrashing and kicking

  and gasping for air that isn’t there.

  My mother’s not dead!

  She’s been buried alive!

  I’ve got to get her out!

  I claw at the heavy lid till my fingers bleed.

  I heave my whole weight

  against the smooth-as-skin wood,

  over and over again.

  I can hear her moaning, “Ruby … Ruby … Ruby …”

  Suddenly

  her hand bursts a hole through the lid

  and grabs on to my wrist

  with slimy, rotting, horror-movie fingers.

  She starts laughing insanely,

  trying to pull me down into the coffin with her,

  her black nails slicing into my skin—

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  Thank God for alarm clocks.

  It’s 9:30!

  I’m supposed to be ready

  to go shopping with Whip

  in half an hour!

  I catapult out of bed—

  and almost shatter my ankle

  because I forget how high up I am.

  I limp into the shower,

  but there’s so many dials and high-tech switches

  that I can’t figure out how the heck any of it works.

  So I opt for a bath.

  But I must be suffering from a severe case of jet lag,

  because I can’t even figure out how to close the drain.

  Finally,

  I just give up,

  and wash under my arms.

  I’ve never been in a bathroom before

  that made me feel

  like such a moron.

  I Scramble Down the Stairs

  Expecting to see the limo

  waiting for us out front,

  like a sleek black flashback of Mom’s funeral.

  But it’s nowhere in sight.

  Whip leads me over to his five-car garage.

  (You heard me right: there’s five of ’em.)

  Then he asks me

  to choose one of the doors,

  like I’m a contestant on a quiz show.

  I think this

  is a real lame thing to be doing,

  which I indicate by rolling my eyes,

  but I wave my finger

  at door number one,

  just to get him off my back.

  Then he presses a button

  and the door swings up,

  revealing a cherry red 1952 Chevy Corvette.

  How do I know that’s what it is?

  Because I’ve always had a thing

  for vintage cars.

  And this one’s in primo condition,

  with headlights like sleepy eyes

  and a grill like a brace-face grin.

  Whip walks over to it and strokes the fender

  like he’s patting a kitten.

  Then he says, “I collect classic cars.”

  And when I hear this,

  that same little flash of lightning

  flickers on and off inside of me.

  And my cheeks get all splotchy.

  They Don’t Call It Labor Day for Nothing

  It’s hard work

  shopping with a fabulously wealthy father

  who keeps buying me everything in sight

  to try to make up for an entire lifetime

  of world-class neglect.

  It’s hard work

  acting like I really don’t want

  any of the stuff that he’s buying for me,

  when the truth is

  that I want it very, very much,

  only I don’t want it

  because he’s the one who’s buying it,

  but I do want it because I’ve always dreamed

  of having a computer just like this

  and all these great clothes and jewelry and shoes.

  It’s hard work acting like

  I could take or leave all this stuff.

  But I’d give every bit of it back

  before I’d give Whip the satisfaction

  of knowing that I’d hate to.

  As Soon as Whip’s Computer Guy Hooks Up My PC

  I check my e-mail.

  There’s three from Lizzie,

  and one from Ray!

  My heart starts beating ninety words a minute.

  I take a deep breath

  and click open his message.

  It says that he can’t believe

  school starts tomorrow.

  That he’s so not ready to hit the books.

  It says that he’s been thinking of me.

  And that he misses me.

  And that it sucks that I’m so far away.

  “My entire life sucks,”

  I whisper to the screen,

  feeling suddenly and unbearably tragic.

  I swear to God.

  If Ray walked through my door right now

  I’d be so happy to see him

  I’d finally let him devirginize me.

  Hey Ray,

  I dreamt about you on the plane. And when I woke up, and you weren’t there, I wanted to jump out the window. But the evil flight attendants wouldn’t let me.

  The only thing keeping me from drowning myself in Whip Logan’s Olympic-size swimming pool is the thought of you coming to visit me at Thanksgiving.

  In the meantime, maybe we should try having cybersex. Then again, maybe we shouldn’t. Whip’s so famous that someone would probably get their hands on a copy of it and publish every word in the National Enquirer.

  Don’t wait until Thanksgiving. Come this weekend. Come right now.

  I think you should know that I have a really big bed.

  Love and kisses,

  Ruby Dooby

  The Three E-mails from Lizzie

  Dear Ruby,

  I can’t believe you’re gone. It’s only been 24 hours, but it seems like light years. I just spent the entire morning trying to French braid my own hair. The results were très ugly. Trust me.

  What am I going to do without you? I’m suffering from a severe case of Post-traumatic Best Friend Withdrawal.

  Love,

  Lizzerella

  Dear Ruby,

  I walked past your house just now and saw a new family moving in. I told them to get the hell out of there. Not really. But I sure wanted to. It made everything seem so final. You’re not coming back, are you?

  Boo hoo hoo times a zillion,

  Lizzette

  Dear Ruby,

  I ran into Ray at the Gap this afternoon. He said he hasn’t been able to sleep since the day you left. And he looks it, too, poor guy. We commiserated about you being gone. And about the fact that school starts tomorrow. We won’t be able to tolerate it without you.

  Heart-brokenly yours,

  Lizzandra

  (President of the We Miss Ruby Club)

  Dear Lizard,

  School starts here tomorrow, too. Sophomore year is going to be unbearable without you and Ray. Whip said my school’s called Lakewood, and that it’s only a mile and a half away from here. He said it’s got a stellar reputation and that he had to pull some major strings to get me in. So I said, “What did you do? Autograph the dean’s butt?” At which point he acted like he was astonished, and asked, “How did you know?!” At least I think he was acting. I mean I hope he was acting. It’s hard to tell when that jerk’s acting and when he isn’t. I frankly don’t care if the school is stellar or not. As long as it gets me out of th
e mansion (you should see this place!) and away from him. His ego is bigger than the state of California. It’s too awful to even go into at the moment.

  Give Ray an utterly depressed hug for me.

  Miserably yours,

  Ruby

  P.S. Want to hear something deeply surreal? Cameron Diaz lives next door.

  Dear Mom,

  How are things in heaven? LOL. Is this like totally sick that I’m writing to you, or what? It’s not that I actually think your soul’s out there fluttering around in Cyberspace checking your e-mail or anything. I mean, I completely get that you will never, ever receive this. But I feel like writing to you anyway.

  I wish I believed in heaven. Because at least then I’d be able to picture you up there with your halo and your wings, flying around with all the other angels, doing good deeds, maybe even watching over me to make sure my life turns out okay. But I don’t believe in heaven. And mostly, when I try to picture you, all I can see is how grim you looked toward the end, just a pile of bones and see-through skin lying there on the bed.

  I hate it, Mom. I hate remembering you looking like that.

  I miss you so much. A zillion times more than I even miss Duffy and Lizzie and Ray put together.

  Love u 4 ever,

  Ruby

  Fifteen Minutes of Fame

  Just as I’m finishing up

  writing that e-mail to my mother,

  and I’m about to click off AOL

  and drag my miserable bones to bed,

  something blinks

  on the welcome screen

  that catches my eye:

  it’s a photo of Whip and me at the airport!

  The headline says:

  WHIP’S WILD CHILD WINGS INTO L.A.

  Whip is smiling.

  Wild Child is not.

  My teeth are bared,

  my hair’s in a frenzy,

  and it looks like I’m trying

  to claw the eyes out of one of the reporters.

  Like whoa …

  This is way too weird for words.

  I can’t even talk about it right now.

  I’m going to bed.

  On Deaf (and Dumb) Ears

  I definitely don’t want

  the kids at Lakewood to find out

  who my father is.

  Which shouldn’t be too hard to pull off,

  since his last name is Logan

  and mine is Milliken.

  So

  I tell Whip

  that I want to walk myself to school.

  But he says,

  “Oh, it’s no bother at all.

  I’d be happy to drive you.”

  I tell Whip that I really wish he wouldn’t.

  But he just says,

  “Don’t be silly. I insist.”