Watch Out, Hollywood!: More Confessions of a So-called Middle Child

by Maria T. Lennon

  He steps back and checks himself out in the mirror. “Awesome!” he screams, and hugs me. “I can’t wait to show my friends.”

  Friends. Lucky kid.

  “Charlie?” Mom tries one last time. “Get dressed.”

  “Not this time.” This time, like my friend Harry, I’d watch from above.

  By six it’s dark. By seven there’s a line down the street to get in. From my window I watch in horror as supernosy people roam the estate, taking pictures. I jealously watch my family live their uncomplicated lives:

  • Pen’s handing out her buttons and gathering signatures.

  • Felix and his friends are emptying out all the candy bowls into their bags.

  • Mom and Dad are playing host and hostess.

  And me, I’m a prisoner in my own room.

  I slam my window shut and jump back into my bed and continue streaming my film, Outcast. It goes like this:

  A beautiful young Indian girl tries to free herself from being an untouchable (like yours truly) by running away. She goes to the capital, starts a promising modeling career, and gets onto America’s Next Top Model. She wins. Tyra loves her. She thinks she’s finally on top of the world. But then someone from her village sees a billboard with her on it. They send a mob to the city, hunt her down, bring her home, and sentence her to death by stoning.

  It’s an upbeat film, and I can definitely relate. I’m at the part where they’re digging the hole to bury her in and the local boys are bringing in the stones to stone her with when suddenly a rock hits my window.

  “What the—?” I hit pause and drop to the ground. Then another rock hits.

  “Cooper?” Bobby yells up. “You coming down or what?”

  I wipe my eyes, blow my nose. Slowly I get to my knees and peek out. He’s got on the coolest top hat with attached orange wig ever. And he’s wearing a vest, overcoat, floppy tie, short pants, and work boots. “You look awesome.” I take it all in. And for a moment I forget my horrible life. “The Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, à la Johnny Depp?”

  “You got it.” Bobby stands back and checks me out. “And you’re wearing your pj’s?”

  “I told you I’m an untouchable.”

  Bobby flicks the permed wig that’s attached to the top hat. “You know why they were called mad hatters?”

  I can hear the trick-or-treaters; it makes me want to cry. “Nope.”

  “Because the chemicals the hat makers used made them all nuts. Crazy.” Bobby takes off his hat, checks it out. “And so they called them the mad hatters.”

  “I like it.” I like him.

  “Get down here.” He stomps the ground, acting like there’s no reason to hide.

  “No can do.”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Bobby takes out a bag of Whoppers and empties them into his mouth.

  Word on the street is they’re coming—Lillian, Erica, the whole stinking lot of ’em. “Everyone knows, on Halloween, anything goes.” They’ll TP my house, pour Nair on my hair, spray red dye on my face. I know these things. I did these things.

  Kids swirl around him, but he stays right there. Steady as a rock. “Gotta face the music sometime, Cooper.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but not tonight.” Tonight I’m hiding out. No one’s gonna make a public spectacle out of me. “See ya around.” I close the window and jump back on my bed. I get all comfy and hit play on my computer.

  I must have fallen asleep, because when I hear my name being screamed, the movie’s over.

  “Charlie Cooper, get down here now!”

  I crawl across the floor. I peek out. It’s them, the pack of rabid tweens, led by the mole herself, Greta, dressed like a witch. And what the heck is she doing here? Don’t they believe in the separation of adults and kids on Halloween?

  Behind her are Marta, Lillian, Erica, and of course Babette. Wait—is Marta wearing a costume or has she had a massive Hollywood makeover?

  I get my binoculars and station myself at the window. I can barely believe my eyes.

  • Her hair is so bleached it looks like a wig/broom.

  • Her face is caked with so much makeup she has no expression.

  • Her eyes look like she’s got a set of baby caterpillars on them.

  • Are her lips lined?

  • Hold the phone! Is that a cell phone covered in pink rhinestones dangling from her wrist?

  • Are those French-tip fake nails?

  I gotta admit, if this is real, they got some skills. If it’s a costume, she should just keep wearing it for the rest of her life. Marta the Farta has come a long way since I first laid eyes on her three months ago.

  “Amazing transformation, don’t you agree?” Lillian calls up. “Marta’s their big new star. They signed her on the spot.”

  My heart crumples.

  “We are rich,” Greta yells into the sky. “America really is a beautiful country.”

  “They love her over there at ABC Family, don’t they?” Lillian says.

  “Love her,” Erica repeats. “She’s their new girl. Paying her a fortune, too.”

  “We just wanted to stop by and tell you,” Marta screams up at me, surrounded by her friends, having the night I’d so dreamed of. And then I remember something.

  “Hold on a sec,” I shout. “Doesn’t the pilot shoot the same weekend as the JOs?”

  Marta puts her finger up. “I bet you didn’t know JOs happen all year long”—she spreads her hands wide—“all over the country.”

  Lillian drapes her arm over Marta’s big shoulders. “Well, they do. And she’s our captain. So this one she sits out to do her show, but the next one . . .” They stop to high-five. “Just look at her!” She lifts one arm. “A star and a champ.”

  Say what? “Really?” I drop to the floor, shaking. Could this be true? Could they really want her on the team?

  “You’re a plague, Charlie. You take, take, take, and you never—”

  “Marta?” Pen cuts her off.

  I scramble to my knees, peek over the windowsill, and watch Pen walk over, arms folded across her chest.

  “I’m really happy for you, but you should leave.”

  Marta doesn’t say a word. They just stand there, all of them under my window.

  “And”—Pen points to Lillian, Erica, and Babs—“take the girls who are pretending to be your friends with you.”

  “They are my friends.” Marta pulls them toward her.

  She shakes her head. “See you around.”

  I watch them and think to myself maybe they are real friends now. Maybe I’m the only one incapable of having them.

  Bobby walks over, like he’s been watching the whole thing. “Wait!” He stops them. “Quick question. What were they calling you until Cooper stopped ’em?”

  Silence.

  “Marta the Farta,” Pen says. “So stop holding their hands like they’re your friends.”

  “And you think she is?” Marta points at the window. I drop low. “She’s no friend. I trusted her. I would have done anything for her. She’s—” Marta spits.

  My mom starts walking over. Erica sees her and pulls Marta. “Time to go.”

  Lillian and Babs link arms with Marta. “Let’s take our celebration back to my house.”

  I can’t believe she’s actually letting Marta into her house. I watch them skip away and I feel sick.

  “Later, Pen. Mrs. C.” Bobby waves and walks off. Mom looks up at me and I wave. Then I collapse on the floor.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they do want her on the team. Maybe they realized that with her on the team, they would go further than they’ve ever gone before. And maybe, just maybe, I am the worst human being out there.

  I need candy. Candy helps me solve problems. Shift focus. I get up and crack open my bedroom door. I wait and listen. When I’m sure no one is in the house, I sneak from my room like a criminal. I tiptoe down the stairs and open the door. The first thing I do is check the bowls where Mom dumped all the candy. Empty. E
very last one of them. Those little greedy kids.

  I spy Felix’s bag of candy. Sadly, it’s attached to his arm. I have no choice but to revert to old tactics.

  His bag of candy is huge. I can feel the spit pool in my mouth just thinking about it. “Felix!” He’s with all his friends, sitting under the tree. “Mom sent me to grab all the candy—can you mark your bags?”

  His friends move a little farther away from me, like they don’t trust me or something.

  “If you want to chew on glass or eat rat poison that some freak put in your candy, then feel free. Just don’t come running to me.”

  Felix’s friends band together to discuss. “Okay, fine.” Felix hands me the most bounteous booty you’ve ever seen. “But Charlie, I swear to God, I’m gonna get you if you take any.”

  “Only suspicious ones.” I carry it up to my bedroom and get to work. Definition of suspicious? Everything with gross nuts.

  Pen knocks while I’m in the zone. “Charlie?”

  I’m quick to answer. “By all things holy, Pen, leave me alone.” Lock door. Take out all candy with peanut butter, coconut flakes, and finally almonds. Gross. Apples, toothbrushes go into same pile. Now I divide that up and put it back in their bags. The good stuff goes inside my pillowcase. I run downstairs. The boys are under the tree, their eyes glued to the door. When they see me, they jump up.

  I hand them the bags. “Lucky for you I got it in time, or that tongue of yours—” I point. “Gone!” They scream and run.

  My good deed for the night has been done. I head back in, take a shower, and tuck into my bed. The sweet smell of candy finds my nose and brings me such joy. Outside, the grown-ups are getting louder, the owls and bats hoot and screech, and all I can taste is sweet, sweet stolen chocolate. I think this is what Dr. Scales means when he says you make your happiness.

  The Reinvention of Marta the Farta

  First day back at school. The YouTube video of my downfall has 257,000 hits and counting. I’m a star.

  I stand in front of my closet, wondering what kind of clothes you’re supposed to wear on the day the entire school is going to rejoice in your failure, kick you when you’re down, smash your face in your own humiliation. It takes careful consideration.

  I think about Imelda Marcos. The first lady of the Philippines. She had over three thousand pairs of shoes. They brought her to trial on corruption charges. The people hated her, of course. She had all those Jimmy Choos and they had no food. I wonder which pair she wore when she went to trial.

  TRUE FACT: Who cares about food when you’ve got Jimmy Choos?

  Did she go low-key, cheap flats, or did she go for her most extravagant, in-your-face Jimmy Choos?

  After much thought, I go for low-key. My faded, ripped vintage Levi’s, black tank, and lumberjack flannel. I roll the legs up and pair with a set of black leather high-top Converse tennis shoes with studs. Hair down, black glasses on, deep breath.

  My heart pounds like crazy when I walk into the classroom. Mr. L’s got his orcas cooing in the background. But not even those sweet whales can stop me from wondering what horrible thing will happen to me today. I channel Jai’s words on the untouchables and try to be detached. If you’re detached, they can’t hurt you, right?

  But Marta didn’t come to school today. She doesn’t come for the rest of the week either. And man, did the class feel weird. It was like all the energy that buzzed in that room was gone. One good thing—the back row of girls didn’t seem to care at all about me anymore. And I didn’t care about them. A major relief.

  But then on the following Monday, when I’m looking out at the rain and Mr. L is pulling up his tube socks, the door opens and Marta catwalks in like a Victoria’s Secret model in her tackiest gear.

  Mr. L drops his favorite mug. It shatters on the floor and he doesn’t even realize. That’s how different she looks. “Ms. Urloff?” he stutters. “Is that you? What—”

  Even I have to admit she’s a vision of put-together sparkle. The entire room stops what they’re doing and stares at her. She throws Bobby a high five. Her nails are at least four inches long, pointed and fake. I’m so jealous. They immediately make room for her in the back row. She doesn’t even glance in my direction. She is unrecognizable.

  “Hey, Marta!” Lillian coos. “You look so hot! Those platform sneaks are the bomb!”

  Marta’s rockin’ the bright-purple Juicy Couture rhinestone tracksuit. Her hair is bleached and straightened.

  “Oh, my God, where did you get that? Juicy Couture? Those nails? That hair?” They gather around her like birds.

  “Is that from the set? Is your driver here?” Even the dorks huddle around her.

  Bobby glances in my direction, but I do my best not to show that it’s irritating the heck out of me.

  BECAUSE LET’S FACE IT: Except for the horrible attitude and the bad taste, she was exactly where I thought I was going to be at the very beginning of this depressing installment of my so-called life.

  “You’ve missed a lot of school, Marta.” Mr. L takes a deep breath; he’s concerned. “We have covered so much, I am worried for you.”

  I turn to see her response. The old Marta would have cared. But the new Marta doesn’t even carry a backpack, just a bag stamped with as many Louis Vuitton logos as can fit. She shrugs, like whatever.

  Mr. L implores her. “How will you make up your assignments?”

  She taps her purple fake nails against the desk.

  “A tutor, a course.” She smells like powder.

  The whole class goes, “Ah, man! A tutor on set! She is so lucky.”

  I personally feel like throwing up. It’s all I want and I’ll never have.

  Mr. L walks back over to her desk and looks down at her. “I’ll give your tutor the curriculum. What’s his email?”

  “Don’t know yet. The producers are working on it.” She shrugs, as in Get off my back.

  “Marta.” Mr. L’s not going for it. “Be sure you have a tutor. Otherwise you’ll fall way behind and you’ll have to repeat seventh grade.”

  Marta rolls her eyes again. “Oh, please!” She looks at her sharpened, shiny nails. “No offense, Mr. L, but I’m never gonna need any of that stuff.”

  “True that!” Erica throws up a high five. Babs reaches out to slap her.

  “She’s going all the way!” Lillian moves closer to her.

  Marta is a massive celebrity at Happy Canyon. Her black town car waits for her in a handicapped spot in the parking lot all day long. Kids from kindergarten to high school flock to her; teachers ask her to come and speak. She is an inspiration, they tell her.

  I follow her like an invisible ant. I notice things about her, new things, like:

  • She needs no one.

  • She avoids Coach and the multi-purpose room, where the gym team practices, like the plague.

  • Her new perfume is horrible.

  Being invisible has its perks. I picked up on patterns. Such as: Whenever Marta showed up at school, Lillian, Erica, and even big-boobed Lola kissed her butt like there was no tomorrow. They pretended to be her best friend, painted her nails at lunch, showered her with compliments. They barely mentioned the JOs. “It’s so boring,” they’d whine. “No one is even going to this one,” I’d hear them say. “I so wish we could get out of it.” Marta, she didn’t suspect a thing. And why should she? They were acting like the kind of friends I longed for.

  But the second Marta took off in her fancy car, Lillian, Lola, and Erica would disappear into the gym and train harder than I’d ever seen them train before. The upcoming Junior Olympics was all they talked about. They were obsessed with it. They acted like it was going to be the highlight of their careers.

  It bothered me. In my gut I knew they were up to something.

  Then one day Mr. L’s going on about the lost gold in the Laurel Canyon caves again, and the door suddenly flies opens.

  Coach is bright red. He storms in. His eyes on one person. “Marta Urloff!” He poin
ts. “Now!”

  “Coach, what’s going on?” Lillian looks seriously concerned.

  Erica raises her hand. “We’ll come too.”

  “Yeah, we’re a team.” Lillian and Lola jump up.

  “You sit,” he commands. “Marta, up.”

  I’m hoping with all my might that Coach talks some sense into her. But only minutes pass before Marta comes back. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying.

  “What happened?” Lillian puts her hand on Marta’s shoulder and squeezes.

  “I quit the team,” she announces.

  “You did what?” Lillian’s voice trembles with satisfaction.

  “I quit,” Marta says again.

  “No!” Erica smiles.

  The room goes silent. I can’t shake the feeling that all this is part of some plan and Marta doesn’t even know it.

  Bobby turns. “As in you quit the team?”

  “As in no more team for me and no more school.” She looks around. Her confidence is incredible. “Or didn’t you all hear? I am going to be a TV star.”

  Lillian’s smiling.

  “What about the JOs?” Mr. L asks. “You were so excited—”

  “JOs happen all the time,” she answers flatly.

  Lillian is suddenly positive. “That’s true. All the time.”

  Erica looks at Lillian. “Shooting a pilot!” she gasps. “Now that’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

  I feel it in my bones. “You’re making a mistake.”

  Marta stops dead in her tracks and looks down at me. Her nostrils are huge, red, and flaring. There’s not enough concealer and mascara to hide the fact that she looks like a bull about to charge. “Let me guess—you think I should give you the pilot and go to the JOs—”

  “Uh, yes! I do!” I shout. This is all going so horribly wrong for her.

  Bobby slaps my desk. “Charlie, shut your mouth.”

  Lillian nods. “Guess why.”

  A kid in the second row asks, “Wasn’t Charlie the one who tried to steal the TV show?”