Trauma Queen

by Barbara Dee

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Kennedy says hopefully.

  I shrug. Actually, it kind of does.

  So then I put on the nurse’s clothes. They’re so straight and cardboardy I can barely move.

  “You look like Frankenstein,” Kennedy says, giggling. “Or the Tin Woodsman. Or wait. What’s the name of that robot in Star Wars?”

  “C-3PO,” I mutter. But it’s good to hear her laugh, for a change.

  Mom offers to walk with me, and I decide not to fight her on this because by now I’m feeling guilty about yelling at her before. She puts Beezer on his leash, we drop off Kennedy at her bus stop, and then pick up Tristan and Darla for Morning Walk.

  Finally all five of us (two humans, three dogs) start the long, icy, uphill walk to school, with only one timeout for leash de-tangling. Mom walks Beezer and Darla, and I walk Tristan. Who, I quickly discover, is a definite yanker, so I have to keep his leash long enough so that he doesn’t freak out, but short enough so that I’m in control. It’s tricky at first, but finally we settle into a good dogwalking rhythm. And Mom is actually right: The more I walk, the more the clothes loosen up, to the point where they almost feel like clothes. I only hope they’re not too sweaty by the time I get to school.

  “So how’s the social thing going?” Mom asks casually, just as we’re getting close to the main entrance of Crampton Middle. As you’ve probably figured out by now, she has this flair for dramatic timing.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  Two buses pull up right in front of the school, one right after the other. The first bus opens its doors, and out comes Brody. “Hey, Bananas,” he calls, crashing on purpose into Ethan, who pushes him back. Layla follows them both, her shoulders swaying, looking like maybe she’s listening to her iPod. Then the second bus opens and Quinn rushes out. I wave at her, but she runs past without saying hello, without lifting her head, even.

  “You’re friends with that girl?” Mom asks, darting her eyes at me.

  “Not really. We just had lunch together yesterday.”

  “That sounds like friends.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So she might be a friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “I guess.”

  Mom sighs a little puff-cloud. “Boy, I really cherish these mother-daughter chats,” she says. “So much sharing. And how was Emma?”

  “Emma’s great.” I reel in Tristan, who’s sniffing an empty Gatorade bottle rolling around a dirty snowdrift.

  Mom tugs on the earflaps of her rainbow-striped sherpa hat. Then she takes the leash from me and winds it three times around her mittens. “Is she still mad at me?”

  “She says she isn’t. We couldn’t talk a whole lot.”

  “How come?”

  “She had to hang up.” Then for some moronic reason I add, “Her mom doesn’t want her on the phone with me.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? Why?”

  I shrug. It’s not often I can shock Mom, so as long as I’ve opened my mouth about this, I might as well get the full effect. “We have to sneak IMs. But her mom looks over her shoulder a lot, so we can’t even do that very much.”

  “But that’s outrageous!” Mom explodes. “That woman is completely bonkers. First she bad-mouths me all over town, then she forces us to move, and now she’s punishing you and Emma? Long-distance? For what?”

  “Well,” I say, kicking some ice. “You kind of do know.”

  She shakes her head angrily, sproinging the hair under her hat. “Look, Mari. Even if, okay, so I got a little carried away with Nu-Trisha, does this give her the right to wreak revenge on my daughter? Months after the performance? And I’m not even mentioning what she’s doing to her own daughter.” She jerks Darla’s leash. “You know, I kept my mouth shut after Nu-Trisha, I thought I needed to take the high road, but enough is enough. It’s time to sit down with Trisha Hartley and have a serious talk.”

  Suddenly my eyebrows burst into sweat. “Don’t,” I beg.

  “Why not? Are you afraid of her?”

  I shake my head.

  She frowns. “Don’t be such a scaredy cat, Marigold. We’re not even in Aldentown anymore. What do we have to lose?”

  “Emma,” I blurt out. “I could lose Emma, okay? She hates big confrontations. Promise you won’t call her mom or e-mail or do anything. Please.”

  Mom makes a sound like laughing. “You don’t trust me to have a civil conversation?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Marigold, give me a little credit, okay? I’m a performer; I can do Rational Adult, you know.”

  Except you won’t.

  Mom stares at me, like she’s reading my mind. “All right, beloved daughter,” she says, her breath making a small storm cloud. “It’s time for a major life lesson. Whenever someone is getting in your face, you need to look ’em right in the eye and speak out. I’m not saying you have to shout at them—”

  “Mom.” Jada, Ashley, and Megan are getting off the second bus. They wave at me, smiling. Ulp. I have GOT to get out of these clothes.

  “But you do need to let them hear that they can’t just trample all over you. You need to stand up and—”

  “Mom.” I grab her sleeve. “Can we finish talking about this later? I really have to go now.”

  She looks shocked again. “But this is important, Mari. Wait.”

  “Can’t,” I say, and run into the building.

  Inside Out

  The first thing I do in the girls’ bathroom is check for pointy black boots.

  But there aren’t any. The place is empty. Even so, I choose the wheelchair stall, which is so big it’s off in its own corner, like a private dressing room. As soon as I lock the door, I pull off the track pants. They still smell like Joy, but they’re a whole lot easier to take off than they were to put on. So if I hurry, I tell myself, I can return them to the nurse before homeroom. Maybe even slip them in her closet before she shows up for the day.

  I stuff the pants into my backpack. I’m just about to zip up my jeans when the bathroom door bangs open.

  Ashley’s voice: “Did you see what she was wearing just now?”

  Megan’s voice: “You mean those hideous pants?”

  Ashley’s voice: “The whole thing, including that top. It’s like something out of Gymboree.”

  Jada’s voice: “Oh, who cares what she’s wearing. She’s a total zero; just ignore her.”

  Oh no. They’re talking about ME. They have to be.

  Megan: “Well, good for you, Jada.”

  Ashley: “Yeah. I don’t know how you can be so big about this. If it was me, I’d be furious.”

  Jada: “What for? It won’t change anything. She did what she did.”

  Which is what? What did I do?

  Megan: “I still can’t believe how nervous she was yesterday. Like we’re supposed to pity her.”

  Jada: “I don’t. I don’t even want to look at her.”

  Ashley: “But don’t you want to tell her off?”

  Jada: “Why? So she can go running to her mommy?”

  Hey, don’t worry about that!

  Ashley: “No. So she can understand how you feel.”

  Jada: “She totally ruined my life, okay? There’s nothing to understand. And honestly, you guys? As far as I’m concerned, Quinn doesn’t even exist.”

  When I hear the name Quinn, I gasp. (I mean, of course I’m relieved that they’re not talking about me, but Quinn? Excuse me? Ruining Jada’s life?) Then to cover up the gasp, I cough. Then I clear my throat.

  The bathroom suddenly gets quiet. Maybe three seconds later, there’s whispering.

  “Helloooo?” Ashley calls loudly.

  I freeze.

  “Yoo-hoo. We know you’re in there. Hello?”

  I yank off the chicken-pox shirt and pull on my Wile E. Coyote tee. Then I sort of shuffle out of the wheelchair stall like, Yawn, I just woke up.

  “Oh, hi,” I say c
asually. I pretend to clear my throat again, but this just makes me sound like Mr. Hubley, so I stop.

  “Marigold?” Jada is staring. “Was that you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Were you listening to us?”

  “What? No,” I say, my brain scrambling for an explanation. How could I possibly be hanging out in the wheelchair stall and not hear a single word of their conversation? Improvise, I hear Mom’s voice say. Just see where it takes you. “I was meditating. I always meditate before homeroom.”

  Megan laughs. “Seriously?”

  “Oh, yes. I do a ton of yoga. It centers me.”

  They stare.

  “And grounds me. And helps me . . . (focus!) focus.”

  Ashley points at my chest. “Like on getting dressed?”

  “What?”

  “Your top is inside out.”

  “Oh.” I look down. “Whoops.” Another wardrobe fiasco, and I can’t even blame this one on Mom.

  “That’s really, really embarrassing,” Ashley points out. “You should be so glad we noticed.”

  “I am. Thanks a lot.”

  “Because two days in a row . . .” She looks at Megan, who shakes her skinny head like, Yeah. What a loser.

  My eyebrows spring into action.

  “Listen, Marigold,” Jada says, fixing me with her hyper-sympathetic brown eyes. “In case you did overhear our conversation, and I’m not accusing you of spying or anything, you should probably know we were talking about Quinn Rieger.”

  “Okay,” I say quickly. I pretend to be flicking my hair out of my face, but actually I’m wiping sweat droplets before they start running down my nose. “Thanks for telling me. But it’s actually none of my—”

  “You two had lunch together yesterday,” Ashley interrupts. “Don’t you remember?”

  They were watching where I sat? “Oh, right. I did. She doesn’t say very much.”

  “That’s what you think,” Megan says.

  “Anyway.” Jada smiles at me sweetly, “You just moved in and you don’t really know anyone yet. So trust us on this: Be incredibly careful.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say. Flick.

  “Don’t feel sorry for Quinn,” Ashley says. “And make sure you don’t tell her anything superpersonal.”

  Megan nods. “And no matter how innocent she acts or what she says—”

  The bathroom door bangs open. It’s Layla. When she sees us, she grunts. Then she marches into the middle stall and slams the door.

  Ashley and Megan give each other a look, but Jada just keeps smiling at me. “We can talk about this later,” she says. “We’ll save you a seat at lunch.”

  “Thanks.” That’s it, I have GOT to stop using this word. “But I sort of made plans today,” I add desperately.

  “Okay, so tomorrow,” Jada says, like she’s writing it on her mental calendar. “Well, you guys, it’s almost homeroom; we’d better go. Don’t forget your top, Marigold.”

  Then poof, the three of them are gone.

  I let out a long, overdue breath and catch myself in the mirror. Not only is my tee inside out, but my jeans are unzipped, and my hair is all mussed and staticky from pulling clothes over my head. I look like an electrified zombie, which leads directly to the question: Why does Jada want me to eat at her table? So she can tell me more scary things about Quinn? What if I really, really don’t want to hear them?

  The middle stall door bangs open.

  Layla looks surprised. “You’re still here.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say.

  “Why? Don’t you want to run after them?”

  “What for?”

  “To join the pack.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m not a dog.”

  “I didn’t say you were a dog,” Layla says, squirting soap on her hands. “I just meant Jada never travels alone.” She rinses carefully, then rubs her hands dry on her ripped jeans. “So? You’re going to sit with them tomorrow? And the day after? And the day after that?”

  This is so insane I have to laugh. “I don’t plan my lunches three days in advance. Why are you asking?”

  She shrugs. She checks her mascara in the mirror. “I think your shirt looks cool like that,” she says.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Inside out is ironic.”

  Great. Now my cheeks are burning. “It’s not supposed to be ironic. It’s Wile E. Coyote.”

  “Oh.” She runs her hands through the orange streak in her hair. “Then you actually like cartoons.”

  “Just classic Looney Tunes. And The Simpsons. Why? Is that okay with you?”

  “Hey, like whatever you want.” She turns and looks right into my eyes, almost the way Mom does. “Quinn didn’t do anything wrong,” she says seriously. “So don’t believe what Jada tells you.”

  “She didn’t tell me anything,” I protest, but Layla is already gone, kicking the door open with her pointy black boots.

  Greasy Fingers

  I’m usually an expert at imagining disaster, but all morning long, whenever I wonder what Quinn could have done to totally ruin Jada’s life, I draw a blank. And not because of what Layla said about not believing Jada; because somehow I know in my stomach that Quinn is innocent. I keep peeking at her—the way she tucks her wispy hair behind her ears, the way she chews on the cap of her pen, the way she looks up from her desk every once in a while, like she’s afraid to catch people giving her the evil eye. But no one is ever looking at her; no one is even talking to her except Layla, and in class Layla is not what you would call chatty.

  And then I watch Jada, laughing loudly, talking loudly, surrounded not just by Megan and Ashley, but by a rotating bunch of fashionista girls, and also a few of the jockiest boys. There’s no way, I tell myself, that Quinn could be terrorizing Jada. Because just look at them: Alpha Girl and Outcast. Popular, Powerful, Pretty Girl and Girl Who Looks Like She’s Going to Puke.

  And I think: Whoa. Now I’m sounding just like Mom. Deciding who’s right and who’s wrong, who’s good and who’s bad, based on zero information, on how my stomach feels. I should stay out of this war, because I can’t possibly have any clue what’s going on. Also (no: mainly) because my only goal at Crampton Middle should be to keep a low profile, not make any enemies, and ride out what’s left of the school year.

  So at lunch I get a tray and park it smack in the middle of four girls from my gym class. They smile in a nice way and ask how it’s going, how do I like Crampton so far, and isn’t it gross how much the gym teacher sweats? Then they start talking about some TV show I don’t watch. I’m thinking okay, well, who cares if I’m in the conversation, at least I’ve got camouflage, like a black-and-white horse hanging out in a herd of zebras.

  But all of a sudden this fifth girl runs over and drags them off to a different table. Which means now I’m sitting here, exposed, surrounded by four deserted seats. And three tables away, Jada and Ashley and Megan and maybe ten of their closest friends are eating pizza, laughing their heads off. I’m pretty sure they haven’t spotted me yet, but it’s probably just a matter of time.

  “These taken?” someone demands. I look up. Layla is standing in front of me, scowling, not even holding a tray. Incredibly, Quinn is right behind her, balancing a small leaning tower of Tupperware containers.

  “I don’t think so. They were taken a minute ago,” I add, as if that matters.

  They sit. Quinn tucks her wispy hair behind her ears and starts disassembling her tower. Layla rests her chin on her knuckles. She’s wearing silver thumb-rings, and I see her ears have, like, six studs per lobe.

  “You fixed your top,” she announces.

  I don’t answer.

  “It was better before. When you couldn’t see the picture, it was kind of mysterious.”

  “I thought you said it was ironic.”

  “Ironic, mysterious. Whatever. So how’s your lunch?” She narrows her smudgy eyes at my sandwich.

  I shrug. “It’s okay.”

  “That’s i
t? That’s, like, your complete review of our four-star cuisine?”

  “It’s turkey. There’s not much to say about it.”

  “Yeah, there is. Sure there is. Be poetic. It tastes like old socks. It tastes like belly button lint. It tastes like warmed-over sewage with a subtle splash of Windex—”

  “Layla,” Quinn says softly. “Leave her alone, okay?”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation. Why does she always have to be so snarky?”

  Me? This girl is like the Supreme Goddess of Snark, and she’s calling me snarky?

  “It’s just a school sandwich,” I say in a jokey way. “What do you want me to say: This sandwich reminds me of Paris, the long walks we took in the rain, that little café near the park . . . ?”

  Layla guffaws. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s exactly what you should say.”

  For some strange reason now I feel proud of myself, like it’s a huge big deal I made her laugh. I nibble on my flabby bread crust and watch Quinn stir the food inside the containers, then carefully unfold a napkin. It’s fascinating, like a Japanese tea ceremony, which I know about because Dad photographed one once.

  Quinn notices I’m staring at her. “I’m vegan,” she explains, like she’s apologizing. “That means—”

  “She eats veegs,” Layla interrupts. She sticks her fingers into one of the containers. “Yum, yum. Zitty.”

  “Ziti,” Quinn corrects her. “With tamari sauce. Use a fork, Layla, okay?”

  “I hate forks.” She pops a drippy ziti into her mouth. “In fact, I’ve decided that from now on I’m anti-utensil.”

  “Really?” I say. “Why?”

  “Why not? They didn’t use them in the Middle Ages.”

  That’s so illogical I have to smile. “Who’s talking about the Middle Ages?”

  “I am,” Layla says. “The Middle Ages rock.” She grabs one of Quinn’s carrot sticks and points it at my chest. “Want to join my Jousting Club?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m starting one this spring. It’ll be much, much funner than all that regular after-school crap.” She smirks. “So? Are you signing up?”