Modelland (10 page)

Mrs. De La Crème tossed her hair. “So now your desperate flabby behind is spying on me?” She laughed cruelly. “Oh, Christopher, you have reached an all-time low. I pity you.”

“Spare me,” Mr. De La Crème growled. “The only thing you should pity is that disastrous, petrifying mug of yours.”

Mrs. De La Crème instinctively touched her face. “Oh, so the one-eyed unemployed monster has the nerve to talk about
my
face? Have
you
looked in a mirror lately, dear?”

Mr. De La Crème slammed his jug of TaterMash onto his wife’s desk. “That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? You think I’m damaged goods.” He grabbed Bellissima from Mrs. De La Crème’s arms.

Tookie’s mother groped for the doll. “Christopher, don’t you
dare
hurt her!”

“Her?” He waved the doll in the air. “You say that like she’s a human being. Like she’s more important than me! Where do
I
fit in your life? Sometimes I think you wish that sword had killed me. So that you could continue your life with her father!”

“What?” Mrs. De La Crème asked, her eyes focused on Bellissima. “Whose father?”

“Your daughter’s father, Creamy! Don’t play dumb.”

Mrs. De La Crème blinked confusedly. “Myrracle’s father?”

Mr. De La Crème laughed heartily. “Oh, you wish I was talking about Myrracle! You wish it were Myrracle I had doubts about—that would make her all yours! But no, Creamy, she belongs to both of us, and we will both reap her rewards. You can’t push me out that easily!” He pointed at her. “You know who I mean. The other one.”

Tookie widened her eyes.

Mr. De La Crème prowled around the room. “Every time I look into that child’s mismatched eyes, I see—or shall I say, I
don’t
see it.”

Mrs. De la Crème paled. “But Christopher, you
have
one green eye! Just like hers!”

Mr. De La Crème glowered at her. “There is nothing about me that lives within that girl. That circus freak. She is uncoordinated, unattractive, and unmemorable.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about! You are the only man I have ever been with!”

Tookie waited for her to say more, to deny that she thought Tookie was uncoordinated, unattractive, and unmemorable. But she didn’t. It was the equivalent of saying she didn’t love her. Tookie bit down hard on her inner cheek.

“I do too know what I’m talking about,” Mr. De la Crème said calmly. “She’s not mine, Creamy. I haven’t felt like she was mine from the second she hit puberty. She went from adorable to atrocious almost overnight.”

“What?” Tookie whispered, pressing her spine against the back wall. She felt dizzy. Was this a nightmare?

“Creamy, let’s be real,” Mr. De La Crème continued. “As soon as you got pregnant with her, you had to go off to some special medical facility to deal with all the complications you said you were having, scary things that could’ve made you lose the baby. I was on the road and couldn’t go with you. Remember? I had to keep working to make sure we could put food on the table for our growing family. Then, nine months later, you had her—thousands of miles away from here. You refused to let me be with you to see her take her first breath. My
first
child, Creamy! You denied me that right. How come you never let me talk to the doctors who delivered her? Was there another man in the room while you gave birth? Her
real
father? Was that why you called me only
after
it was over?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Mrs. De La Crème spat.

But Mr. De La Crème barreled on. “You told me they didn’t
know if you or the baby would live. And after that, you said you couldn’t have any more children—your insides were ruined. But two years later, Myrracle came. Thank God. A
real
miracle. The spitting image of her father …”

Tookie’s mouth dropped open. Did he really believe that? Was a child’s life worth more the more they resembled their parents?

Mrs. De La Crème scoffed. “You have lost your mind! That sword must have sliced your sanity!” But she sounded less resolute than usual. Her face was pale. Her wrinkled lips pursed.

Mr. De La Crème shut his one good eye. “Woman, I cannot take your lies anymore!
Just stop it!
” He turned and faced the wall. And suddenly … 
crack!
He pummeled his fist through the flimsy plaster. A cloud of dust billowed everywhere. Tookie shot back and ducked behind the curtain across the hall.

Tookie’s mother whirled around. “Christopher, you have gone
crazy
!”

Mr. De La Crème’s skin flushed puce. “Well, Creamy, if I’m
crazy
, you sure are breaking your number one rule, because you’re making a hell of a lot of eye contact with a crazy person right now, aren’t you?”

Tookie’s mother shot to her feet, grabbing Bellissima from her husband. “I’ll say it again: not one bit of your ridiculous accusation is remotely true.”

“Oh, but it is, Creamy. And you know it. And I’m going to tell everyone I know after I prove my gut instinct to be a scientific fact.” He removed a yellow toothbrush, its bristles worn and bent, from his pocket and waved it in front of his wife’s face. Tookie squinted and realized it was hers. She had brushed her teeth with it earlier that night.

Mrs. De La Crème lunged for her husband and pinned him against the ruined wall. “Oh no you won’t!”

“Oh yes I will!” Mr. De La Crème cried, trying to push her aside. “Right after Myrracle gets chosen tomorrow, I have an appointment at the DNA paternity lab. This very toothbrush of your daughter’s will prove she’s not mine. And once I find that out, I’m sending Tookie away. I don’t want her in this house anymore. I’m sending her to the factories.”

Tookie’s eyes goggled. But that would mean she’d become … a
Factory Dependent
. She closed her eyes and thought of the shaved-headed, dull-eyed, miserable, penniless children trudging through the factory doors. That would be her life—forever. Did her father really want
that
for her?

Mrs. De La Crème shook her head slowly, but she said nothing. Once again, she didn’t defend Tookie. Nor did she debate his decision to send Tookie away.
Maybe she wants to get rid of me too
.

Tookie couldn’t help it. She let out a squeak. Her mother didn’t hear her, but her father—or whoever he was—turned in the direction of the sound and locked eyes with Tookie. At first, he looked surprised—even panicked. And then he stood up to his full height, possibly relieved. “Just go,” he said gruffly, staring at her with his good eye. “For all of us.”

Tookie gripped the rough curtain fabric. She wheeled backward out of the house, leaving the front door wide open. The words vibrated in her brain like a clapper in a bell.
There is nothing about me that lives within that girl. That circus freak.… I’m sending her to the factories.… Just go. For all of us
.

Her chest seared. It felt like her father’s hands were squeezing all the air out of her body. She staggered down the porch stairs
into the evening’s heat. Her bare feet skidded over the dead grass. The pain was so deep, tears did not even streak her face.
I have to get out of here
. To somewhere far away.
But where?

And then she realized. Of course she knew where.

Exodus
.

The zipper of Tookie’s bag made a loud
scrittttch
as she tried to pull it closed. She winced, looked around to make sure no one heard, slipped her
T-Mail Jail
into the left pocket of her cargo pants and the
T O OKE
button into her right, and tiptoed out of the clothes-strewn bedroom. She paused in the doorway to glance at Myrracle, who was sleeping soundly, letting out a giggle-snore here and there. This might be the last time Tookie would see her sister. Ever. Tookie wondered how she’d be able to fall asleep once she was separated from Myrracle. Myrracle’s signature giggle-snore had sort of become Tookie’s sound machine, lulling her to sleep every night.

“I know you’ll get in,” Tookie whispered. “I hope Modelland is everything you and Creamy always wanted … and more.”

Dawn was breaking as she crept down the stairs. Tookie had stayed awake all night, plotting and planning. She now knew for certain that this was her only option. This was what Wingtip was talking about—this was her “dreaming big.”

Last night, after hearing her parents’ conversation, she’d painted X-O-2 on the front door of her home, her secret signal to Lizzie. Less than two hours later, Tookie had heard a soft shriek outside her bedroom window. She looked out and saw a barren tree trunk bearing the same symbol: X-O-2. It was accompanied by a smiley face and the number seven, the time in the morning when they would meet.

Tookie was escaping Peppertown forever. Escaping her parents. Escaping with Lizzie to the place of their dreams and being in total control of their destinies.

She could start her whole life over … and become a Rememba-Girl.

Two more steps. One. Tookie curled her finger around the doorknob. She could taste the freedom.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Tookie jumped and spun around. Her mother stood behind her. She wore tight-fitting, iridescent bone-colored jeans with a matching one-shouldered top made of silk jersey that read
MODELLAND NEEDS A MYRRACLE!
Her cheeks shone with Wrinkle Redux. Bellissima, whom she’d tucked under her arm, wore the exact same ensemble, minus the face cream.

For a moment, Tookie couldn’t move. This was the first time she’d faced her mother since overhearing the dreadful conversation the night before. Instantly, all the feelings of shame and betrayal and rejection rushed back to her.

“Well?” Mrs. De La Crème repeated, her gaze shifting from Tookie to the bag. Her face brightened. “Oh, Tookie … what a good sister you are! You’ve already packed the extra supplies for Myrracle for today. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Tookie’s heart pounded. How could her mother act like last night hadn’t happened? Creamy had all but agreed that Tookie should be sent off to work in one of Metopia’s horrible factories.

Tookie swiveled her head back to the narrow window at the side of the front door. The sun was over the tree line. “I j-just wanted to go outside for a m-minute.”

“There’s no time for anybody but The Myrracle today, Tookie.” Mrs. De La Crème turned to the stairs. “And here she is now.”

Myrracle bounded down the stairs and did a full body wave when she reached the last step. The SMIZE rested gently in her palm. It glittered and hummed. A small case was in her other hand. “Da-tahh!” she cried.

“Time to go.” Mrs. De La Crème walked to the front door.

“No.” Tookie dug in her heels. “I’m not going.”

Mrs. De La Crème stopped short in the foyer, swung around, and stared at Tookie. “Have you lost your mind? Of course you’re going.”

The door gaped open. Mr. De La Crème stood by the car, Brian Quincy at his side. Mr. De La Crème wore his old Chris-Crème-Crobat costume, the exact costume he’d lost his eye in; he’d cut out the
MODELLAND NEEDS A MYRRACLE!
portion of his T-shirt and sewn it to the abdomen. There were even old brown spots on the fabric, evidence of the bright red blood that had stained the costume on the day his life had changed forever.

“We gotta go and we gotta go now!” Mr. De La Crème yelled. “I am not missing the countdown and the opportunity to change our sad excuses for lives. Plus,” he added, “I have an important appointment to get to after Myrracle is chosen.” He tapped his hip. Tookie could see the outline of her toothbrush underneath the pocket of his costume.

Mrs. De La Crème seized Tookie hard by the neck and walked toward the car. “No!” Tookie cried desperately, trying to wrench free. She swung her neck to the side of the house and saw the X-O-2 written on the tree. All she could think about was how desperate and scared Lizzie had seemed in LaDorno the day before.
They’re going to kill me
, she had said. What if Lizzie was telling the truth? Tookie’s gut told her that if they didn’t escape today, something dreadful would happen to her one and only friend.

Mr. De La Crème bounded over. “Look, girl,” he growled, grabbing Tookie roughly by the shoulders. “You need to get in the car and help your sister with the most important day of our lives.” He walked Tookie toward the vehicle and shoved her into the back of the car as one might shove a pan of bread into the oven. “In you go.”

Tookie was surrounded by garment bags, shoe boxes, makeup cases, hair sprays, and hair-straightening apparatuses. “Hold this,” Myrracle said bossily, shoving the SMIZE into Tookie’s lap while she buckled her seat belt. The SMIZE rattled inside its case, as if it were trying to escape. It was a feeling that Tookie understood far too well.

Tookie pressed her hands to the back window. As Mr. De La Crème started the car, Tookie’s ache for Lizzie cut so deep, she envisioned Lizzie standing just beyond the tree line, her flame-red hair wild around her face.

Then she sat up straighter. That wasn’t a vision. “Oh my God!” she screamed. “Lizzie!”

Myrracle swiveled around and followed Tookie’s gaze. “Creamy, there’s a dirty girl in our yard.”