Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (7 page)

Assessing the Damages

So there I was, brand-new purple
bindi
in place, feeling like I'd made it.

 

 

All right. It's the end of week one, and it's time to take inventory, and if you don't know what that is, look out, man. It's called life.

So far:

1. I'd made zero enemies that I knew of.

2. Entered or tried to enter zero cliques.

3. Broke up zero friendships that I knew of.

Yep, so far I'd been nice to everyone, even Marta, who acted like an abused tiger ready to bite my sweet, caring hand. But she was coming around. I even let her pick the animal shelter where we're being forced to volunteer. But seriously, all this selflessness was wearing me out, dulling my senses, and all I wanted to do was spend my weekend doing stuff like digging holes and uncovering secret tunnels with Dad, or tracking down just how much cash President Putin of Russia had stashed away with my buddy Jai.

It was just after lunch when Mr. L sang out, “It's math time, people!” Which I thought was a pretty dumb idea. How can you force kids to concentrate two hours before the bell's gonna ring on a Friday? So there I was, sitting next to Bobby, checking him out as best I could without him seeing me, when all of a sudden I got the most horrible whiff of something so foul, my nose stung and my eyes watered up. I dropped the book. “What the—” I looked around. “What just died in here?”

Bobby pointed to his feet and licked his lips, like he thought he was hot or something. “Took my shoes off.”

All I could do was shake my head at the stupidity of the opposite sex.

“My feet.” He kept going on and on about it, like he was proud of his own stench, while Mr. L was going over fractions with a group of kids who actually wanted to understand them. What idiots. Like we're ever, ever going to need to know how to use a fraction. Fractions! Decimals! What century were we living in?

“These socks haven't been washed since school got out.” He nodded proudly. “Last year, in June. I keep 'em in my soccer bag, wear them, put them back. My mom doesn't have a clue.”

“Are you a complete psycho?”

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.” He smirked. “I think you love me.”

“I love
you
?” I screamed.

At which point the whole class turned to look at us. Gossip and laughter filled the room. Mr. L told everyone to calm down, then added like a jerk, “Valentine's Day is quite a ways away, kids.” He smiled like it was funny. “Until then it's math and reading.”

When the bell rang and everyone ran for freedom, Babette and Trixie came up to me. “Love him?” They grabbed my arm. “You love him?”

“Oh, please.” I shook my head. “Bobby said it, not me, all right?”

“Oh, I know.” Trix skipped along. “He's just trying to embarrass you.”

“Whatever.” I looked at them. I had so much bigger fish to fry, it wasn't even funny. I ran into the auditorium, thinking it would be a great place to hang out and devour the fantastic sandwich I had been waiting all day to eat. See, during lunch I had to sit with Marta in the bathroom, because she still wouldn't come out on account of the tuna fish sandwich her mom had packed her.

I don't know what was worse, the smells coming from the next stall or from Marta's nasty plastic-bag lunch. And it wasn't like she was thankful or anything. She basically totally ignored me.

I unzipped the zipper of my zebra-patterned insulated lunch box. Visions of the huge ham and turkey sandwich I'd asked my mom to make me tickled my tongue. My mouth was dripping.

But
when I opened it up, all I saw was a cheese stick, a bag of carrots, celery, and some kind of horrifying brown-rice thing.

What the—!!!
My mom was putting me on a diet without my consent.

Someone hit my shoulder. I turned and looked right into Marta's eyes. “What, Marta?”

“You can't eat here.” She pointed to all the equipment. “It's starting.”

“What's starting?” I got a good look at her outfit. “And what the heck are you wearing?” And then I knew. “Pajamas, really?”

She looked down at her fluffy bunny pants tucked into old cowboy boots. “Yeah, so what?”

The door opened. Why was the gymnastics team showing up?

“Stop stuffing your face, Cooper.” One of the gymnasts pushed a gym mat past me.

Some dude slid past me with another mat. “Yeah, no food allowed.”

I stared at Marta. My mouth dripped. I could smell the honey in the honey-baked ham. “But, but—” This was the cafeteria. Where else were we supposed to eat?

“Nope. It's the MPR, doofus, which stands for Multi-Purpose Room. It's the cafeteria, the auditorium, and the gym. All in one.”

Boy, this was no Malibu Charter, that's for sure. There we had a dedicated cafeteria with a view of Zuma Beach and a self-serve fat-free yogurt bar.

Marta watched them leave with the look of death in her eyes. “Lillian's flunkies.”

They moved so fast. Within minutes gym equipment came out from behind a curtain, mats were tossed on the floor, uneven bars were rolled out on wheels. Before our eyes, the boring old stinky cafeteria had been turned into an Olympic gym.

Marta watched. “This is one of the only schools with its very own competitive Junior Olympic team—”

“Wow, what a snob.”

“No, you idiot,” Marta snarled. “It means they're all levels seven and up and have a serious shot at qualifying for the Elites. Then it's on to the Nationals.”

“Really?” Who would have thought that this little hippie canyon school, where girls could be boys and boys could be girls, took gymnastics so seriously?

“And,” Marta said, biting her lip, “with this coach, there's a chance, a tiny chance, someone might get chosen for a scholarship to go all the way.” Marta said the word
scholarship
like I say the word Candyland, an all-you-can-eat gummy-bear candy shop near Universal City. FYI, it's where I want to be buried, which was happening sooner rather than later if I didn't eat my sandwich. They pulled down the banners, cleared chairs, and tossed all backpacks and lost sweaters into a room and closed the door. A balance beam was brought out, rings dropped from the rafters, even a trampoline appeared. A door opened, and wow! This girl/woman in the shiniest, most stunning silver leotard appeared; hair pulled back, silver headband, silver earrings, silver slippers.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. “Who the heck is that?”

“Lillian. Team captain.” Marta nodded, unimpressed. “Snap out of it, Coop. She's in our class; you see her every day.”

But the transformation! I wanted to hate her—who wouldn't? She looked amazing, the attention to coordinating diamond and silver, the sparkly bits in her lip gloss, the all-matching silver accessories. We're talking five stars all the way. I watched her as she ran toward the mat and did flips in the air. “She's incredible.”

Marta watched too, though she pretended not to. “Not as good as me.”

I laughed; the more I got to know her, the more I knew that Marta could be pretty dang funny. She had this dry humor with a razor-sharp edge. We watched the rest of the team line up. They were impossibly long and lean; they didn't seem to walk on the ground. Lillian and her crew floated through the sky like shiny silver birds. But after ten minutes or so, Marta suddenly got up to leave. “The coach isn't even here. I need to see the coach.” She stormed out with seriously unbirdlike steps.

I followed her, of course. “What do you want with the coach?”

“None of your beeswax,” she said in a not-too-nice way, and left. I tried to catch Lillian and her gang of perfect people. Every school has them. At my last school they all looked like baby
Sports Illustrated
models: tanned, ocean-tossed blond locks, perfect bathing-suit bodies. Here, clearly they took the whole gymnastics thing way too seriously.

The door opened, and Trixie and Babs came in, hanging on to Lillian and company like those fish hanging off great white sharks. I leaned back in the darkened corner of the auditorium. There is nothing more satisfying than witnessing the girls you have to work so hard to get working so hard to get someone else.

And then something happened. Raised voices? A fight? I poked my head out for a better look and saw Trixie coming right at me. Her face was all red and her fists were tight little balls of anger. “Man, do I hate her,” she hissed. “She's so full of it!”

“Who? What?”

Trix paced. “Lillian promised me.” She was all steamed up. “No, she swore to me that she'd talk to Coach and get me a spot on the team this year for the uneven bars.”

I immediately thought of Marta. “How many spots are there?”

“One or two, tops.” She paced. “You have no idea how hard it is. Coach wants to take it to the Nationals this year to show the people who fired him what idiots they are.”

 

 

I was getting interested, 'cause, you see, I like a good backstory. “What's up with him?”

Trixie did a random handstand against the wall, just like that. “They totally kicked Coach off the Elite training team. They said he had no morals, whatever that's supposed to mean.”

I bent over her. “You're turning a really ugly color, you know?”

“Blood to the brain is good.” She flipped back down. “Anyway, now everyone wants on the team. He'll do whatever it takes to get us to the Nationals and then the Olympics.” She clapped her hands together, looked up at the sky like an angel. “My face on cereal boxes! Me, Trixie Chalice, here I come.”

Babs rubbed her shoulders. “Trix, you'll totally get the spot; you're awesome. You've been training all summer.”

Trixie shook her head, full of doubt. “So have they.”

Honestly, I found gymnastics to be so weird, especially the guys with those all-white bodysuits and bulging muscles. They were seriously uncomfortable to look at, if you know what I mean.

I looked at Babs, at Trixie, and said what Pen would say. “Well, all you can do is your best. You train, sleep, think positive thoughts—”

Trixie's little angel eyes suddenly got bigger and bluer. “There's also sabotage; they do it all the time in sports, you know.”

“Yeah.” Babs grinned from ear to ear. “Sabotage.”

My ears perked right up at that word. I'd always loved that word,
sabotage
.

Trixie pointed at Babs and laughed. “Oh, my God, you should so totally see your face right now. I was kidding, Babs. Kidding.”

Babs pretended to laugh. “You're funny, Trix.”

Yeah, real funny. I wondered how far Babs would go to help her. I was beginning to feel more sorry for Babs than I did for Marta.

 

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

Since I'd become the younger, prettier version of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, my parents were being so much nicer to me. It almost seemed a little fake, like they wanted to bask in the glow, if you get my gist, but we can't all be deep.

“You ready?” Dad asked me.

“Born ready.” I got up, licked the maple syrup off my hands.

I couldn't wait—it was just the two of us. Mom had taken Pen and Felix to Malibu. It was just me and Dad.

I followed him over to his desk in the living room and put my chin on his shoulder while he studied the plans he'd made of the property, based on the original drawings of the mansion built in 1915. Watching them come to life reminded me that my dad was actually pretty cool, despite the Teva rock-climbing sandals he paired with socks and shorts when it got warm. Talk about a fashion faux pas that, I don't mind saying, strained the father-daughter bond in a dangerous way.

“We've already dug down eighteen feet over there by the house.” He pointed to a spot right near all the bulldozers. “Nothing.”

My eyes flew over the map. “What if the tunnels are so deep, you can't even hit them with a machine?”

Dad considered, glancing at the plans, nodding like crazy. “A deep hole and a ladder that takes you into a low tunnel. Genius. ” Dad took a deep breath. “That could explain why we haven't hit it yet. We've been looking for a concrete structure coming all the way up to the surface.”

I picked up the tool belt he'd made just for me, and we walked out into the sunshine and the quiet street traffic. “Imagine if we can find them in time for our massive Halloween party.”

Dad gave me one of
those
looks. “What massive Halloween party?”

I grabbed his arm and screamed, “We live on the Houdini Estate, dude; of course we're going to have a massive party, and I want to invite the whole class, even the total dorks—”

Dad interrupted. “I was a total dork in middle school.”

“Exactly. I want it to be like a giant welcome-to-the-neighborhood party.”

My dad slipped his arm over my shoulders. “So living here is a lot better than Malibu, huh?”

 

 

I turned to look at the land behind me, at the trees, the rock walls, palm trees, and the natural springs that bubbled up from underground somewhere. I thought about the tunnels and the ghosts and the magic that were just waiting for me. This was where I belonged. “I love it.”

“And the whole Marta thing at school.” He checked out the turquoise bead necklace I'd lifted from Mom's jewelry box and wore like a badge. “How are you doing with that?”

Over the mountain two red-tailed hawks began their dip-and-dive dance. I watched until they disappeared. “I'm not gonna lie,” I said, “it's
hard
, so hard, like seriously HARD, but I'm giving it my best shot.”

Dad touched my beads. “Just as long as you're not going to run off and join a cult.”

“Cult.” I looked at him, shocked. “A definite no, unless it is the cult of Coco Chanel or Vidal Sassoon. That man was a genius.”

We walked up to a spot close to the top of the road near the gate. Dad pointed across the street. “There was a guest house there, with an elevator that went all the way down under the street and connected to the tunnels.”

I scanned the area across the busy canyon road. I swear to God I could see it. The parties, the dresses, Houdini running as fast as he could from his ugly wife to all that fun. Man, imagine it, just imagine what could happen if I had an underground tunnel from my house to the school!

Dad dragged me down to the grass near the street. “And check this out. Way back when this house was built in 1915, the road was much, much smaller. The property came way out; they cut back the land on both sides to widen the street, which means the entrance could be closer to the street and not directly under the house.”

He was right, the secret entrance could be in a totally different area than I'd been looking all this time. “Oh, man, two whole months down the tubes.”

“But, but,” he said, trying to cheer me up, “look what I got!” He pointed to a
monster
of an excavator. “Time to do some serious digging.”

It was huge and ugly, its metal jaws ready to tear apart the earth. “With that thing?”

“Oh, yeah.” Dad took off, and I followed. We got into the Caterpillar excavator and turned it on, and black smoke chugged from the exhaust. As Dad lowered its giant mouth, and it began to chew up everything in front of me, I got a seriously bad feeling, like
What the heck are you doing to my lawn?
Even if Houdini wasn't around anymore, were we being majorly disrespectful and would he be totally justified if he wanted to slash me in my sleep?

Dad yelled over the machine, “We're looking for concrete. If you hear it or see it, put your hand up, and I'll stop. Otherwise we could end up smashing the tunnel walls.”

Smashing the tunnel walls? Built in the 1900s and hidden so beautifully for more than a hundred years? I couldn't do it, no matter how badly I wanted to find them. I put my hand up. He looked at me. “Let's stop.”

“But, but you've been wanting to see them all summer.” He gave me this weird look like he thought I was crazy. “I thought you'd love this.”

Yeah, but this was seriously not cool. “On foot, with a flashlight, it's fair. But this bulldozing”—even the word made me cringe—“it just feels wrong, like I'm a big, mean, nasty hunter with a huge gun. It's just so, so
not
cool.”

Dad said, “Okay,” and turned off the giant machine. The smoke stopped polluting the sky, and I felt Houdini wasn't mad anymore.