one of those hideous books where the mother dies
Sonya Sones
Ann Sullivan
SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
1230 Avenue of the Americas,
New York,
New York 10020
SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon " Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Sonya Sones
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON " SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon " Schuster, Inc.
Book design by Ann Sullivan
The text for this book is set in Oranda BT.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
One of those hideous books where the mother dies / by Sonya Sones.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Ruby Milliken leaves her best friend, her boyfriend, her aunt, and her mother’s grave in Boston and reluctantly flies to Los Angeles to live with her father, a famous movie star who divorced her mother before Ruby was born.
ISBN-13: 978-0-689-85820-8
(ISBN-10: 0-689-85820-5)
eISBN 978-1-439-10757-7
[1. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Moving, household—Fiction. 3. Actors and actresses—Fiction. 4. Grief—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 6. Homosexuality—Fiction. 7. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S6978 Mi 2004
[Fic]—dc21 2003009355
for Bennett
with love and admiration
Heartfelt thanks to Ruth Bornstein, Peg Leavitt, Betsy Rosenthal, Ann Wagner, and April Halprin Wayland, for your generosity and your brilliance. Deepest of curtsies to Myra Cohn Livingston, David Gale, Russell Gordon, and Steven Malk, for making it all possible. Tons of gratitude to my kind readers, for the glowing e-mails that have kept me afloat. And huge hugs and kisses to Ava and Jeremy, for helping me keep Ruby’s voice real, and for inspiring me, always.
American Airlines Flight 161
I’m not that depressed, considering that this
gigantic silver bullet with wings
is blasting me away from my whole entire life,
away from Lizzie Brody,
my best friend in the world,
away from Ray Johnston,
my first real boyfriend.
Not that depressed, considering I’ve been kidnapped
by this monstrous steel pterodactyl
and it’s flying me all the way to L.A.
to live with my father
who I’ve never even met
because he’s such a scumbag
that he divorced my mother
before I was even born.
I’d say I’m doing reasonably well,
considering I’m being dragged
three thousand miles away from all my friends
and my school and my aunt Duffy
and the house I’ve lived in ever since I was born,
three thousand miles away from my mother,
and my mother’s grave,
where she lies in a cold wooden box
under six feet of dirt,
just beginning to rot.
I’m not that depressed
considering tha t I’m trapped
on this jumbo poison dart
shooting me away from everything I love,
and there’s this real weird guy
sitting in the seat right behind mine,
who keeps picking his nose
and eating it.
Depressed?
Who? Me?
Aunt Duffy Drove Me to the Airport
And there was a second there
when I actually considered
getting down on my hands and knees
and begging her not to put me on this plane,
begging her not to send me away,
pleading with her to let me stay in Boston
and live with her instead.
But Duffy’s so nice that I knew she’d say yes
and I knew that that would make me feel
like crawling under a boulder,
because her apartment just has
this one microscopic bedroom
and now that she’s finally
got herself a new boyfriend,
the last thing she needs
is to have her fifteen-year-old niece
permanently camped out in her living room,
which is barely even big enough
to fit her couch.
So I contained my urge to grovel.
My Mother Hated Flying
Especially after September 11th.
She used to squeeze my hand so hard
during takeoffs and landings
that she’d cut off my circulation.
She’d screw her eyes closed
and whisper this silly prayer someone taught her once.
Something about manifold divine blessings
being unto the plane or the universe
or some hippie-dippy thing like that.
And if there was even
a teensy bit of turbulence—forget it.
She’d start apologizing to me
for every mean thing she’d ever said
or done or even thought about doing.
This morning,
when the plane was lurching down the runway
and I didn’t have Mom’s hand to hold,
my heart flung itself up into my throat.
And for a minute there,
I couldn’t even breathe.
I didn’t know how much
I depended on
being depended on
by her.
Peach Fuzz
When the flight attendant
leans in to ask me
if I’d like something to drink,
and the sun splashes across her face,
I notice
all these tiny little
blond hairs on her cheeks,
and tears rush into my eyes.
My mother had them, too.
I used to tease her about them.
Called it her peach fuzz.
It used to make her laugh.
If I could reach out
and stroke those little hairs
on the flight attendant’s face,
without totally freaking her out,
I’d close my eyes
and I’d do it right now.
I’d touch my mother’s cheek
one more time.
Maybe You’re Wondering About It
But that’s just tough.
Because I’m not even going to go in
to how she died.
Let’s just say she knew that she was sick,
that she felt it burrowing,
felt it gnawing at her insides.
But the doctors wouldn’t listen.
And when they finally found it,
there was nothing they could do.
Nothing she could do.
Nothing I could do.
Nothing.
Let’s
just say
she wasted away into a toothpick,
and leave it at that, okay?
That after a while
she was just a shadow
lying there on her bed.
Oh.
And I guess we can say
that I was holding her hand
when it finally happened.
I Love to Read
But my life better not turn out
to be like one of those hideous books
where the mother dies
and so the girl has to
go live with her absentee father
and he turns out to be
an alcoholic heroin addict
who brutally beats her
and sexually molests her
thereby causing her to become
a bulimic ax murderer.
I love to read,
but I can’t stand books like that.
And I flat out refuse
to have one of those lives
that I wouldn’t even want
to read about.
And Speaking of Fathers
As soon as I was old enough
to notice that I didn’t have one,
I started asking questions.
Like, “Where’s my daddy?”
And, “How come Lizzie has a daddy,
but I don’t?”
Mom’s face would sort of slam shut
and all she’d say was,
“He divorced me before you were born.”
If it wasn’t for my aunt Duffy
I’d never have even found out
who my father was.
My Earliest Memory
I’ll probably be lying on a ratty old couch
telling some nosy shrink about this in a few years:
I was just about to turn four.
My aunt Duffy told me she was going to give me
a very special present for my birthday.
She said she was going to take me to see my daddy.
But only if I promised not to tell my mommy.
I remember crossing my heart and hoping to die,
and hurrying to put on my brand new red sparkle shoes.
Then she popped me into her Volkswagen
and whisked me off to a movie theater.
I figured my dad was going to meet us there.
I remember searching every face in the lobby,
trying to pick him out of the crowd,
while my heart tap-danced against my ribs.
I could hardly wait to show my daddy (my daddy!)
those new shoes.
I remember the lights going down, the film coming on,
and there still being no sign of him.
“But where is he?” I demanded to know,
on the verge of a major meltdown.
Aunt Duffy put her arm around me,
then pointed to this enormous face up on the movie screen
and said, “There he is, Ruby.
That’s your daddy.”
My Daddy?!
“But he’s too … big!” I squeaked.
And it suddenly struck me
that I wasn’t going to be able to show him
those new shoes of mine after all.
I burst into tears,
leapt out of my seat and ran up the aisle
with Aunt Duffy right on my heels.
And then we were both in the lobby
and she was crying too
and hugging me so tight my lungs were collapsing
and saying how terribly sorry she was
and going on and on about not being a mom herself
and about being clueless
about how to do things like this the right way.
And I remember feeling
sort of guilty for making her cry.
But then this sudden tsunami of fury crashed over me
and I started shouting at her to just stop crying,
just stop talking,
just stop everything—
and bring me back inside the theater
to take another look at my amazing,
colossal,
gigantic
DADDY.
After That It Got to Be a Tradition
Every December, around my birthday,
Aunt Duny would come to pick me up
and tell my mom that she was
taking me for a girls’ day out.
Only what she really did
was take me to see
my illustrious father, Whip Logan,
in his latest smash hit.
Can you believe that name?
Whip.
It sounds so … so made up.
How did he ever come up with something that lame?
Whip Logan is—Mr. Millions.
Whip Logan is—The Seeker.
Whip Logan is—Sergeant Bennett.
Whip Logan is—Black and Blue.
I went to see him faithfully.
Every single year.
But he never came to see me.
Not even once.
That’s because Whip Logan is—an asshole.
The Year I Turned Nine
It got sort of dicey.
That was when Whip Logan was—The Final Father,
a man so evil that he murdered his own children.
Which of course didn’t do a whole heck of a lot
for my ability to fall asleep at night.
And it didn’t help matters any
that I couldn’t even tell my mom
what was keeping me awake,
since Aunt Duffy had drilled it into me
year after year
that if I ever told my mom
about our little trips to the Cineplex,
my mother would murder her.
I knew The Final Father was only a movie.
But Whip was just too good
at being bad.
Aunt Duffy assured me that my actual father
hadn’t actually killed
any actual kids.
She said my father
would never do anything
to hurt me.
Yeah. Right.
Turbulence
Ladies and gentlemen,
the captain has turned on
the seat belt sign.
Please return to your seats
and fish your barf bags out
of the seat pockets in front of you
while we prepare
to slam through some
real nasty storm clouds …
I think I left my stomach about five miles back.
I wonder if this is what it feels like
to be in an earthquake …
What if we get struck by lightning?
What if a huge fist of pissed-off wind
punches one of these pitiful wings right off?
Well, what if?
There’s a part of me
that wouldn’t even mind.
It’d serve my fabulously talented,
deeply neglectful,
Oscar-winning father right.
Window Seat Blues
I have to pee.
So bad.
But the man sitting next to me
looks like a sumo wrestler on steroids.
And just my luck:
he’s sound asleep.
Squeezing past him
is definitely not an option.
Maybe if I called the flight attendant
she could have him forklifted.
Only eleven hundred miles
to go.
At least that weirdo behind me
has finally run out of boogers.
In-flight Viewing
Oh. My. God.
I can’t believe it.
They’re showing that
horrible airplane crash movie!
Just kidding.
Actually,
it’s one of those stupid
international spy films.
r /> The kind that has a plot so seriously twisted
that you get a migraine just trying
to keep track of who the good guys are
and who the bad guys are.
At least this one isn’t starring Whip Logan
or I might have had to shove open
the emergency exit and take my chances
with my seat cushion flotation device.
Airplane Lunch
They
call
this
chicken?
Dear Lizzie,
Sorry about writing you this letter On the back, of a barf bag, but I’m sitting here on the plane to California and it’s the only paper I’ve got. Besides, it captures my mood perfectly. It’s so awful to think that with every word I write, I’m getting farther and farther away from you. And from Aunt Duffy. AND from Ray. How am I going to live without him? I’m so miserable I could puke. But I better not, or I won’t be able to send you this letter.
Don’t forget about me. And don’t let Ray forget about me either, okay? Keep reminding him how wonderful I am. And tell him to watch out for that disgusting skank Amber. I just know she’s gonna try to move in on him now that I’m gone.
Zillions of losses from your pitiful friend in the sky,
Ruby
Ray
He wasn’t the first boy I ever kissed.
But he was the first boy I ever liked kissing.
All the other ones,
not that there were exactly hundreds,
just seemed to want to ram their tongues
down my throat to distract me from noticing
what their hands were trying to do.
But it was different with Ray.
Right from the start.
When he kissed me
it seemed as though he was doing it
because he actually liked me.
Not just because he was horny.
It was as if he was trying to show me
how he felt about me with those kisses of his.
I sure miss that guy.
I miss the way he always tosses
his black curls off his forehead.
I miss the way he presses his thumb
into my palm when he holds my hand.
I miss the way his chocolate eyes melt right into mine
whenever he smiles at me.
There’s a hole in my heart bigger than Texas.
Over which, coincidentally,
we happen to be flying at this very moment.
Three Wishes
I wish Ray was on this plane with me.
I wish we were on our way to Tahiti.
I wish we were the only two passengers
and—