Mr. Wong’s face goes pale. “Oh, you’re Albert Bloom’s son?”
“That’s right,” Bloom says.
Mr. Wong’s eyes dart from Bloom to me to Mr. Bloom. “Oh, well—” Mr. Wong straightens his tie. “Well, Ms. Clarke, I don’t think a little dance will hurt anyone. Go ahead, go ahead. Ha, ha! You kids have fun!” He claps Bloom on the back, and I watch him scurry away.
“Wow,” I say. “Cool.”
Bloom’s shoulder rises, then dips. “Everyone’s afraid of my dad.”
“That sounds awesome.”
“It’s not that awesome,” Marty says, and a strange look flashes across his face, which disappears as quickly as it came. “But it is useful sometimes. So, Maggie—let me ask you something.” Marty lifts my arm, and I twirl.
“Why do you spend so much time with Tebow and those other guys?” Marty asks.
I feel suddenly wary, as if Marty is trying to catch me in a trap. “Well—they’re kind to me,” I say carefully. “They get me. And I know I can count on them when I need it.”
Marty looks thoughtful. “But they’re so weird.”
“Everyone is,” I reply, “once you get to know them.”
“Interesting,” he says, and—bam!—I feel like I’ve totally scored one for Operation Happiness.
I dance with Marty until the band strikes up a new song, at which point my manager looks like he’s about to bust a vein in his forehead, so I excuse myself and dash off to fill more drink orders.
“What was that?” Eggy demands while I’m waiting at the bar.
Out of nowhere, Brainzilla appears at my shoulder. “Why were you dancing with a Hater?”
“He’s not as bad as you guys think,” I say.
“He’s worse,” Eggy snaps.
“I thought we weren’t going to be so judgmental,” I remind her.
“That doesn’t mean that we’re tossing all our judgment out the window,” Brainzilla shoots back.
I wonder. Can people change?
Chapter 26
SHOCK TREATMENT
Don’t go,” Brainzilla says.
Marty just offered me a ride home. Eggy’s shift ended two hours ago and mine just ticked “done,” and I’m ready to drop. As a shift lead, Brainzilla still has to finish counting receipts, which could take another hour.
“I’ll be done in twenty minutes,” Brainzilla promises. “You know I’m fast. And Mom is already on the way.”
“If I wait here, I’ll probably fall asleep at the bar,” I say. “I’m telling you, Marty is an Operation Happiness waiting to happen.”
I wipe down the counter and then yank off my apron. My feet feel like concrete blocks at the ends of my legs.
I wish someone would go ahead and invent that beaming-up technology they have on Star Trek. Forget the Internet—I want to get beamed straight to bed.
“All right, all right,” Brainzilla says. “See you tomorrow.”
I lean over the counter to give my bestie a peck on the cheek, then head toward the coatroom, where Marty is already waiting for me. He’s actually holding my coat when I arrive, and I’m just about ready to promote the guy to Bona Fide Human Being.
Marty holds the door for me as we step outside, and he escorts me to his beautiful car, waiting as I slip into the comfortable seat. He closes the door, shutting me inside the dark cocoon. Wow. Plush leather. And it’s so clean on the inside. My mom’s car was always approximately 80 percent candy bar wrappers.
Marty settles into his seat and looks over at me. I smile at him. “Thanks for the ride” is about to spill from my lips—when he grabs my wrist and lays his mouth on mine. I try to speak, but his lips stop my voice, his boozy breath stinking up my nostrils. He must have spent the past three hours with a bottle of gin, because his cinnamon scent has disappeared.
I push against him, but his grip tightens. He’s smothering me, crushing me. Adrenaline courses through me, but the more I fight to get away, the stronger he seems, and fear starts to choke me.
I try to scream, and Marty shoves his hand over my mouth as his other hand reaches up my skirt. The fear really starts to get me, and I think, I’ll never get him off. I’m not strong enough—I can’t fight him, and just at that moment, I remember something that Flatso told me: “The jaw is the strongest muscle in the body.”
So I bite down on his hand.
Hard.
Bloom bleeds all over the place, and I spill out of the car and onto the freezing asphalt.
“Kooks?” Brainzilla is there—she hauls me to my feet, takes one look at Marty, screaming and bleeding in his car and slams the door, silencing him.
“Oh my god.” I pull her into a hug, but she’s already moving, half hugging me, half dragging me across the parking lot. She says, “It’s okay—Mom is here. I told you I’m fast. It’s okay. It’s all okay,” and in another moment, we’re standing in the headlights of Brainzilla’s mom’s 1998 Corolla. I have never been so happy to see a midsize sedan in my life.
“What’s wrong?” Brainzilla’s mom asks as we climb into the backseat, but my best friend just shakes her head and says, “Please drive, Mom, okay?” Mrs. Sloane does, and she doesn’t ask questions. Brainzilla and her mom are close, so she doesn’t need to ask questions. She knows she’ll get the whole story later.
I lean against my best friend, and something tickles my face. I swipe at it and realize it’s drying blood. Bloom’s blood. I nearly barf, but Katie just pulls me close, and I can smell her familiar smell of coconut shampoo and vanilla body spray—like a macaroon—and I feel a bit better. And she doesn’t say anything like “I told you so” or “See? Bloom’s bad news” as her mom drives home. She just holds my hand as I cry.
It’s only two hours into the new year, and already things are not looking good.
Chapter 27
OPEN A CRACK
I want to go home with Katie, but it’s too late to call Mrs. Morris, and if I’m not there in the morning, she’ll probably call 911 and mount a posse to look for me.
So Brainzilla’s mom drops me off at home. I manage to thank her for the ride in a somewhat normal voice and walk up the front steps.
The moment I hear Mrs. Sloane drive away, this clammy feeling comes over me. It drips from my head, down my neck, all over my body. It’s a clinging ick.
It captures me; I can’t go inside.
I’m not someone who gets feelings. I usually just walk right into stuff. But this time, it’s like there’s a force field around the house.
I hear the television blaring in the living room. It’s a familiar, calming sound. Then I realize something. It’s 3:17 AM. Mrs. Morris is usually asleep by eleven.
Why is the TV on?
Fear hooks into me, painful enough to pull me forward.
She fell down again, I tell myself. She just fell down again, shefelldownagain, SHEFELLDOWNAGAIN, SHEJUSTFELLDOWNAGAIN! My brain is screaming, wailing like an alarm as I fall to my knees beside Mrs. Morris.
She doesn’t wake up when I say her name. I touch her wrist—it’s cold… and I can’t find a pulse.
“Katie!” I scream, and crawl on my knees to the front door, but my best friend and her mother have already driven away. Still, I scream again. “Katie!” echoes down the deserted street.
This isn’t happening, I think as I crawl back toward Mrs. Morris. I’m dreaming. But I know I’m not. My black tights catch on a flooring nail and rip down the shin. The nail scrapes my skin, drawing blood, but I barely feel it.
Morris the Dog is licking Mrs. Morris’s face, and when I start to cry, he comes and licks my tears instead. I didn’t know tears could pour from me so hard and fast. They say that the human body can be as much as 75 percent water, and I feel like it all comes spewing from my eyes and mouth and nose at once. My body just convulses with the weight of that water as I run my fingers over Mrs. Morris’s face and through her hair. I even spill a little drool on her cheek and have to wipe it away with my coat sleeve.
I c
rawl to the phone and dial 911, and the operator can hardly understand a word I’m saying. It doesn’t matter, though; 911 magic means she knows where I’m calling from, and I’m so hysterical that she says she’ll send an ambulance right away. “You have to breathe, miss,” she says over and over, but I can’t breathe. I feel like someone is sitting on me.
Finally, I manage a raggedy inhale. Then another.
The 911 operator keeps talking softly into my ear, telling me that help is coming and to try to stay calm, but I’m not really listening to her. I sit down to think. It takes me a few minutes to realize that I’m sitting in Mrs. Morris’s wheelchair.
Chapter 28
I STILL DON’T WAKE UP
I sit in the wheelchair and breathe deeply. That’s when I notice that Mrs. Morris’s eyes are still open—and they’re looking at me.
Those dead eyes completely unnerve me. They look like Mrs. Morris’s eyes, but with none of their warmth and energy—no sparkle. I lean forward and try to close them, but it’s not as easy as it looks in the movies—her eyelids spring open again, which makes me let out a little scream. I jump back into the wheelchair, completely freaked.
How long will it take for the ambulance to get here? I wonder. Well, however long it is—that’s too long. The operator is still talking, asking me questions that I don’t even realize I’m murmuring answers to. But I can’t hang out with Mrs. Morris’s dead eyes on me, and I’m not going to just go up to my room and rearrange my bookshelf, either. It isn’t easy to just sit in a room with someone you love who’s now dead.
And before I know what I’m doing, I’ve tossed the phone on to the couch and rolled right through the front door and down the ramp. I don’t even pause to get out of the wheelchair—that’s how freaked out I am.
The air is cold on my face as I wheel down the street. It’s the first day of January, but we haven’t had much snow, so the sidewalks are clear as I race beneath the bare trees. My face stings, and I realize that it’s because my tears are starting to freeze.
A few lights come on, but I keep going.
I circle the block, and by the time I get back, the blue and red ambulance lights are flickering against the front of our house. A police car is there, too.
I roll up the ramp in the wheelchair, and a tall police officer with a big nose tries to stop me. “Sorry, miss,” he says. “There’s been an accident.”
“I know,” I explain. “I’m the one who called 911.”
The officer is really nice then. I follow him into the kitchen while the paramedics take care of Mrs. Morris. Of course, I have to answer a lot of questions. I’m a little muddy brained, but I answer as well as I can. I have to take a lot of breaks, though. I can’t quite catch my breath.
Finally, the short officer says, “You’ll have to come with us to the hospital. There’s a lot of paperwork, I’m afraid.”
“Okay,” I say, standing up.
I don’t think they were expecting that.
Chapter 29
GOOD-BYE TO THE SWEETEST PERSON I KNOW
I stay with Eggy for a couple of days.
Her parents are very sweet to me, but they’re shy. Which is fine. All I want is to be alone.
Eggy is a great friend. She knows how to be quiet, and she is always ready to download ridiculous movies and episodes of bad reality television. We spend a lot of time eating ice cream and watching people make a mess of their lives and/or remodel their kitchens.
The thing about being incredibly sad is that it’s exhausting. I spend a lot of time sleeping. And standing around in the shower, just letting the hot water run over me until it feels like my skin will peel off.
Whitlock Funeral Parlor takes care of everything funeral related, thank God, because I am completely nonfunctional. Mrs. Morris didn’t have much in her savings, so we skip the rhinestones, and I have to say that the result is very tasteful.
All my friends come to the funeral. Brainzilla cries her guts out from the minute we get to the grave site. I’ve cried so much over the past three days that I feel all dried up, like there aren’t any tears left in me.
My other friends didn’t know Mrs. Morris that well, but they know how important she is… was… to me. We all hold hands as I read the letter I wrote. It’s short. Here it is:
Eggy plays a really beautiful version of “Amazing Grace” on her trumpet. It’s a cold day, but sunny and perfectly clear. An inch or two of snow fell overnight—just enough to cover the ground and make everything brilliant white. The crisp air feels good in my lungs. I don’t cry, and I don’t shatter like glass, though I feel like I might do either at any moment.
Is it right that such a sad day should be so beautiful?
Chapter 30
KNOCK, KNOCK
A couple of days pass. Brainzilla can’t tell if I’m just sad or having a crisis, so she calls Dr. Marcuse, and she and I have a long talk. By the end of it, Dr. Marcuse says I’m just sad, and I’m handling things very well, and I should come and talk to her next week, so we set up a time.
I don’t mention my plan to stay in Mrs. Morris’s house.
I don’t think she’d support it, to tell you the truth. My friends sure don’t.
But I really, really want to. Someone has to take care of Morris the Dog. Besides, I miss my room, even if it was only “mine” for a short time. I miss having a place that’s mine, you know? Is this a good idea? Probably not. But what else am I supposed to do? Live with Brainzilla? Her family can barely afford the kids they have. Live with Eggy? Please—they’re sweet, but they aren’t looking for a new daughter.
Anyway, I figure I can stay at Mrs. Morris’s for a little while.… until Social Services comes after me.
It takes them only two days.
“Margaret Clarke?” the man asks.
I ask to see some identification, and Mr. Tenant Goldborough introduces himself. He’s slim and losing his hair. In fact, he’s losing his hair rapidly—in front of my very eyes. He walks around the living room, making notes in a small notebook and shedding all over the furniture. He seems kind of clueless, but mostly harmless. “Mrs. Morris was your care provider?”
“Yes.”
“And the two of you lived here?”
“Yes.”
Then he looks me in the eye and drops his bombshell.
“Ms. Clarke, I’m afraid that, as a minor, you can’t live here alone.” He’s kind enough to look sort of sorry about it.
So I drop a bombshell right back.
“I’m not alone,” I tell him.
Chapter 31
ENTER MARJORIE
Laurence and I are telling the truth.
Mrs. Morris’s totally confused, utterly unreliable, super-flake twenty-something-or-other daughter, Marjorie, has been staying in the house with me ever since the funeral.
I think she was living with a few of her fellow flakes in California before this, but I’m not sure. Probably because she isn’t too sure.
“I’m the adult here,” Marjorie tells Mr. Goldborough in her awkward, quavering voice. He doesn’t laugh, and neither do I, even though that’s one of the craziest things I have ever heard—and I’ve spent time in a nuthouse.
No, instead Mr. Goldborough just nods and asks a few more questions, checks out Marjorie’s ID, scribbles all the answers in his little notebook, and says he’ll get back to her with a follow-up. In this one case, I’m actually kind of relieved the social service system is so sloppy and short on resources. To tell the truth, I think Mr. Goldborough is pretty relieved, too, that Marjorie showed up. I guess it isn’t easy to find a placement for a sixteen-year-old with a (brief) history of mental problems.
“Do you plan to live here for the foreseeable future?” Mr. Goldborough asks.
“Oh, I can’t see into the future,” Marjorie tells him.
“Well, is it your plan to stay here?” he prompts.
“I try never to make plans,” Marjorie replies. “Because they always change, don’t they?”
r /> Mr. Goldborough’s pen hovers above the paper. “Well—will you be here awhile?”
“Absolutely.” Marjorie checks her watch, as if a “while” might mean five minutes.
But Mr. Goldborough has heard the answer he needed and is already filling out paperwork. “Wonderful, wonderful. I’m glad this is going to work out,” he says.
Hmm. I’m not sure it’ll work out, but guess we’ll see. Marjorie and I are in this together… for now. Talk about the confused leading the more confused.
Chapter 32
RETURN TO THE BLACK LAGOON
I round out the first week of the new year with my new housemate. It turns out that Marjorie has some hidden talents. She can play the piccolo. She is an excellent cook. And she never loses at cards—because she cheats.
She has had a pretty interesting life.
It’s interesting to get to know her, but after four days, I’m feeling ready to get back to school.
I’m still spaced out, but I think a routine might help me. Sometimes acting normal is the best way to get back to being normal.
And, of course, I’m beyond thrilled to see my friends again. They seem happy to see me, too.
At lunch, I get a few cubes of fried tofu and something that I think is spinach before joining my friends at our usual table.
“Hey, Tebow,” Zitsy is saying as I plunk down my tray, “I never heard how your trip to Guatemala went.” Tebow and his church youth group spent Christmas building a library for some teeny-tiny town where there’s nothing but coffee beans and Mayan ruins.
Tebow shrugs. “Got a nasty tapeworm. It was, like, five feet long when it came out.”
