Trauma Queen (21 page)

When we arrive in the parking lot, Mom takes Kennedy, Quinn, and Layla to the back auditorium door. Before she goes in behind them, she pulls me to her. “Can't wait to see the final version of your Thing,” she says. “I'll come by the lobby after our show, okay?”

“Okay. It's not that big a deal, Mom. It's just Gram's old fabric sewn together. And you've already seen sections at home—”

“After my show,”
she repeats firmly. “Say break a leg.”

“Break a leg. But
you're
not performing, right?”

She gives me a pretend-furious look.

“Just kidding,” I say.

Then I walk into the lobby, feeling as if I'm wearing flannel monkey pajamas. On a sticky, warm June night.

I wipe my eyebrows with my sleeve.

“Marigold!” someone calls. It's Ms. Canetti. She's standing under the Thing, which the school custodian somehow tied to the overhead lights so that it looks
more like a Chinese dragon than a psychedelic circus tent.

“This is our textile artist,” she explains to a small crowd of parents. “Her name is Marigold Bailey, and the work is entirely her own creation.”

“It's breathtaking,” one woman says, grabbing my hand. “Where did you get your inspiration?”

“My what?”

“Your idea for the design.”

“It doesn't really . . . have an idea. I just like how it looks.”

“But didn't you mean to convey—”

“Monster? Is that you?” someone calls.

I spin around. Dad is walking toward me with Mona, who's carrying two enormous bouquets of red roses, all wrapped up with pink ribbons and baby's breath and shiny silver foil.

He nearly crushes me in a hug. Then he points up at the ceiling. “This is the quilt your grandma was telling us about?”

“It's a Thing, Dad.”

“So it is. A really fantastic Thing.”

“She has your eye for color, Jeff,” Mona tells him.

“No, honey, she has her own eye.” He waves his
hand at a tentacle-bit. “The contrasts are so electric in that section. And the shape looks almost organic, like a mysterious creature from the Great Barrier Reef.”

“Thanks,” I say, grinning. I suddenly remember my first day at this school, how I thought if I kept repeating the word “thanks,” people would leave me alone. The funny thing is, now I'm not sure that's what I want.

“Oh, I forgot!” Mona cries. “These are for you.” And she thrusts one of the giant bouquets into my arms. “I thought about getting you marigolds instead, but I don't know, they're just so puny this time of year.” All of a sudden a panicky look takes over her face, like she's afraid she might have insulted me or something.

“Thanks, Mona,” I say. “They're really, really beautiful.” But then I start giggling. Because what else can you do when you're holding a zillion roses underneath an electric sea-dragon?

Then way down the hall, I see a familiar figure.

Two familiar figures.

“Dad?”

He nods. So I hand him the roses.

“Thanks,” I manage to say, one last time.

And I race down the hall so fast it feels like I'm wearing poofy bedroom slippers.

“Mari!”

“Emma, I can't believe it's you!” I'm hugging her, she's hugging me, and we're both sort of swaying and jumping and screaming. Right in the hallway, in front of all the kids rushing to their open houses, and all their parents, and a few frantic teachers.

“But what are you doing here?” I ask, gasping.

Emma grins. “Your grandma arranged it,” she says.

I look blindly at Gram, who gives me a big kiss full of magenta lipstick.

“It was really Becca's idea,” Gram explains.

“Wait,” I say.
“Mom's?”

Gram nods. “Remember when I came for the weekend? Mom asked me to work on Trisha for her. She wanted to fix things, but she was afraid she'd mess up. So these past few months I've been writing letters, making phone calls, and then finally last week I paid Trisha a little visit—”

“You did?” I screech. “She let you
in
?”

Emma laughs. “She's not some dragon at the gate, Mari.”

“Oh, I know! I just mean, she was so mad at Mom. About the IMs, remember? And she was so upset with
you
.”

“Well, nobody can be upset at a little old lady,” Gram says, winking. “Besides, I brought her some homemade cookies. Where's Kennie?”

“Backstage with Mom.”

“Shouldn't we get seats for the coffeehouse?”

“
Mochahouse.
Kennie's saving some for us. And for Dad and Mona.” I blink at Emma. “I'm just in total . . . shock.”

“So snap out of it,” Gram says, squeezing my hand. “And let's take a stroll over to look at the Thing.”

A half hour later, we're in the third row of the auditorium: Dad, Mona, Kennedy, Gram, Emma, and me.
Two rows ahead of us—the first row, dead center, are Jada and her mother. And Ethan is sitting with his parents three rows back; we wave at each other, but I guess neither one of us feels ready to be un-secret in front of our families. Plus about two hundred of our friends and classmates.

But Emma sees the wave. “Who's that?” she whispers.

“Boyfriend,” I whisper back.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She cranes her neck and stares at him. “Ooh la la,” she says, and then we both start giggling so hard Gram leans over and slaps my knee.

The lights dim, and Mom comes out onstage in her chocolate cake leotard.

“Welcome to our Mochahouse,” she says in her perfect stage voice. “What you're about to see is a program we call
Actors at Play
. All of the students chose their own performances. Some are improvs, some are not, but all of them use theater techniques we explored this spring in our club. We'd like to thank Lisa Sperry and the Crampton PTA for all their support, and we hope to see many of you again next spring. And now, enjoy.”

The program starts. You can tell that some of it kind of confuses the audience—like when Ashley and Megan sit onstage facing each other, playing Emotional Mirror, or when Brody burps to the tune of
Star Wars
. But Layla's performance as a trash-talking knight challenging audience members to joust is a big hit. And when Quinn stands at the microphone and sings “Defying Gravity,” it brings down the house.

“Whoa,” Emma whispers. “That girl can
sing.
”

“She's one of my best friends,” I whisper back. “But really, I had no idea.”

When the applause dies down, Mom steps to the mic. “Wasn't Quinn great?” she asks, and then there's a second round of clapping. When
that
finally stops, Mom smiles. “Okay,” she says. “I guess this wouldn't be an improv show without some audience participation. Does anyone here tonight have a scene they'd like us to perform?”

People titter. Or mumble. No one shouts anything.

In the first row a hand goes up. Jada's.

Mom points at her eagerly. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Bailey,” Jada says in a supersweet voice, “would
you
do a performance for us?”

No. NO.

“Oh, I couldn't,” Mom says, smiling. “This isn't my evening.”

“Oh, but
please
?”

Someone starts to clap. Then three people. Then, like, ten.

My insides dry up. My head starts to buzz. In all the disasters I'd imagined for tonight, I never imagined this. NO, I tell myself. I CAN'T LET HER DO THIS. NOT HERE. NOT TONIGHT. NOT IN FRONT OF EMMA AND JADA AND JADA'S MOM. AND ALSO ETHAN AND MONA AND,
LIKE
,
THE ENTIRE TOWN.

NONONONONO.

I stand up.

“What are you doing?” Emma hisses. She grabs my arm.

“Marigold?” Kennedy asks in a scared voice.

I don't answer. I stare at the stage. At the lights. At Mom.

Then I call out in a voice that isn't mine,
“Mom? Can I do a scene with you?”

“Mari?” she breathes into the mic.

I never saw Mom look frozen on a stage before, but for one split second she's entirely still. White-faced.
In shock. Then her face breaks out in a grin. “Oh, yes! Let's all have a round of applause for my brave daughter, Marigold!”

“Oh, Lord,” I hear Gram say.

The audience starts clapping, and as I'm climbing up to the stage, I'm thinking,
THIS IS A DREAM. I'M PROBABLY JUST SLEEPWALKING
. I dig my thumbnails into my palms and try to wake up.

But I don't.

Now somehow I've arrived onstage, the lights in my eyes, my legs soft like overcooked spaghetti. No, Twizzlers. Twizzlers left overnight on the radiator. And not stiff from Joy.

I look straight out: The audience is smeary blobs of color, not really faces I can read. That's probably a good thing.

I look left and right: The whole club is gathered in the theater wings looking shocked. Horrified.
Not
a good thing.

Okay, so what do I do now?

“Go, Marigold!” somebody hollers. It sounds like Kirsten.

Somebody else whistles.

“Whoo-hoo!” Lexie shouts.

I stare frantically at Mom.

She puts her hands on my shoulders as if to keep me from floating away. Then she looks deep into my eyes. “Let's chat about the Thing,” she murmurs. “Okay, baby?”

I nod.
This will be fine,
I tell myself.
Just fine. As long as I don't have to talk. Or breathe.

Mom drags two chairs to the center of the stage. She gently pushes me into one, and takes the other. Then she sits very straight and cocks her head to one side, like a perky TV anchorwoman. “Greetings,” she says in a loud, cheerful voice. “We're here today chatting with the famous Thing-artist Marigold Bailey. Marigold—if I may be so bold as to call you that—you've worked on this project for a very long time, haven't you?”

I swallow.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

I'm nothing but a giant sweaty eyebrow.

“According to my research, you began this”—she flips imaginary cards—“several months ago, isn't that right?”

I can see the
come-on-Marigold-you-can-do-it
look in
her eye. I feel her energy radiating in my direction, like waves of heat.

“Squeep,” I answer.

The audience rustles. A few people laugh.

“
What
did she say?” somebody's grandfather asks loudly.

Becca Bailey doesn't blink. “Drotella goobaba frew trayko meenen,” she replies cheerfully, checking something off on her imaginary index card. And then on we go, back and forth, the whole interview in total gibberish. Actually, she does most of the talking; my answers are basically monosyllables. But at least I get them out; at least it's an actual back-and-forth conversation. And by the end of the two minutes or so, I'm watching her in amazement: Not only is she conducting the interview with me, she's also cutting away to do commercials. And the news and weather. Every time in different gibberish-languages, if that even makes sense.

Finally she springs up. Which means our scene is over, so I stand up too. And then the audience starts applauding like crazy, and Dad starts throwing roses at the stage. Kennedy throws a few, and so does Emma, and pretty soon Mom and I are standing there ducking roses and tossing them back into the audience. Then
Mom beckons for the whole Improv Club to come out and take a bow, so we all hug each other and laugh and toss roses and wave at the audience, and then the lights come on and suddenly the whole thing is over.

“THANKS FOR COMING!” Mom shouts into the mic. “STOP BY THE LOBBY ON THE WAY OUT, AND BE SURE TO CHECK OUT MARIGOLD'S THING.”

“Omigod!” I scream at Layla, who's squeezing me and jumping up and down.

“Dude, I can't believe you did that!” she shrieks.

“Neither can I.”

“You were amazing.”

“So were you! And Quinn! And everybody else!”

“And Becca
rocked.
The way she did all those voices—”

“I know! By the end she almost had me relaxed.
Almost
.”