One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

just like Ray and I used to.

  Only he’s not fumbling

  with her bra strap

  like he used to fumble with mine.

  Because Lizzie doesn’t even wear a bra.

  She’s flatter than a CD.

  And it serves that you-know-what right.

  On the Way Home from School

  I see this guy holding up a sign that says:

  HOMELESS MAN WILL MAKE LOVE

  TO YOUR WIFE OR GIRLFRIEND

  FOR FREE FOOD AND LODGING FOR THE NIGHT.

  Which you’ve got to admit is pretty funny.

  So I give him twenty dollars.

  Just because he made me laugh.

  Or maybe it’s because it’s so awesome

  how he’s managed to keep his sense of humor.

  Even though his life obviously sucks.

  I wish I was better at that.

  I could definitely

  use some improvement

  in the put-on-a-happy-face department.

  But I’m Not That Depressed

  Considering that

  my best friend since preschool

  stole the love of my life

  even though she knew

  it would rip me to shreds.

  Not that depressed,

  considering that dear old Aunt Dufïy’s

  still digging her way around the world

  with that hot archaeologist of hers

  and isn’t even available for comment.

  I’d say I’m doing reasonably well,

  considering that Whip Logan knows

  as much about how to cheer up teenage girls

  as Cookie Monster knows

  about mud wrestling.

  I’m not that depressed,

  considering that tonight was the night

  when I was supposed to be sneaking into

  the guest room to fling myself into Ray’s arms

  with three months worth of pent-up passion.

  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

  But Ray’s not coming to see me.

  My ex-best friend

  is a weapon of mass destruction.

  And Mom’s deader than ever.

  Depressed?

  Who? Me?

  Yes.

  Hideously.

  Not to mention way pissed off.

  Wouldn’t you be?

  Things I Am Thankful For

  Early Thanksgiving Morning

  When the smoke alarm in my bedroom goes off,

  it takes less than a minute for Whip and Max

  to come bursting through the door,

  shouting out my name.

  They find me staring into the bathtub

  at the letter Lizzie sent me after Mom died

  and Ray’s drawing of Ruby’s Slipper,

  watching them both go up in flames.

  They fling open the windows

  so the alarm will stop sounding,

  but no one speaks

  till the fire burns itself out.

  At which point,

  Whip tells me to change out of my pajamas

  and get my ass downstairs.

  (Did he say ass?!)

  I turn to Max to lodge a complaint,

  but he just folds his arms across his chest,

  raises an eyebrow at me,

  and follows Whip out of the room.

  A Few Minutes Later

  I slink downstairs,

  fully expecting Whip to deliver

  an irritatingly melodramatic lecture

  on why bonfires in the bathtub

  are in flagrant violation of the house rules.

  But he just pops me into his ’35 Caddie,

  and seconds later, Whip and Max and me

  are whizzing down Sunset Boulevard

  on our way over to the Sunlight Mission.

  “To donate a certain turd’s blocks,” Max says.

  When I see the kids there

  tear into them like it’s Christmas morning

  and start building a city together,

  something inside me yawns and stretches

  and starts to come back to life.

  Then we drive to The Farms market to buy

  three huge turkeys with all the trimmings,

  and we bring it over to Turning Point Shelter,

  where no one seems at all surprised

  when Whip commandeers the kitchen.

  I stand here next to Max,

  peeling potatoes,

  and watch Whip send away

  the television camera crew

  that seems to appear out of nowhere.

  I watch Whip stuff those turkeys

  like he really knows what he’s doing.

  I watch him spend the entire day

  playing charades with the people

  who live here.

  And when we finally sit down

  to Thanksgiving dinner with them,

  my father’s eyes are shining brighter

  than two of those lights that they

  aim up into the sky at movie premieres.

  As if being able

  to make these people happy

  is making him happier

  than if he’d just won

  an Academy Award.

  And I can’t help thinking

  that if I didn’t hate him so much,

  I might even be feeling something

  almost like like for him,

  at this particular moment.

  Monday Mourning

  We’re sitting here in our usual circle,

  sharing the dreams we had

  during Thanksgiving vacation,

  when the dean makes an unexpected appearance,

  wearing sunglasses

  and an oddly grim expression.

  She tells us that last night

  some Lakewood kid I never met

  lost control of his car.

  This kid, Devon, wrapped his Jeep around a palm tree

  at the corner of Sunset and Bedford.

  And was killed—instantly.

  I listen to the collective gasp.

  Then to the stunned silence.

  Then to the sound of Feather bursting into tears.

  And pretty soon,

  everyone’s hanging on to everyone else, weeping.

  Everyone but me, that is.

  Big surprise, right?

  This not being able to cry thing

  is getting to be a real pain in the butt.

  Wyatt and Colette and the other kids

  must think my heart’s made of cement

  for me to just be sitting here like this,

  totally dry-eyed.

  School’s Cancelled for the Rest of the Day

  Waves of kids are spilling out of the buildings

  and rolling down the sidewalk,

  toward the Tree of Death.

  I watch them drifting off together,

  with their arms around each other,

  and I feel so left out.

  Left out of their grief.

  Left out

  of knowing Devon.

  I watch them drift away from me,

  thinking about how much I like that name—

  Devon.

  Thinking that maybe

  I would have liked Devon,

  if I’d had the chance to meet him.

  Maybe I even would have fallen in love with him,

  and he would have fallen in love back,

  and we would have gotten married and had kids.

  Maybe the course of my whole life

  has been altered by Devon’s death.

  Maybe my entire destiny’s been destroyed.

  And I don’t even know it.

  On My Way Home from School

  I see a broken beer bottle,

  its thousand shattered pieces

  glittering the sidewalk.

  And completely out of nowhere

  this tidal wave of sadness

  comes crashing down ov
er me.

  What the heck is the matter with me?

  Why am I standing here like a jerk

  feeling sorry for a bottle?

  I stare at all those shards,

  glinting tragically in the sun,

  and my heart just about splits in two.

  Poor smashed thing.

  So demolished, so devastated,

  so smithereened …

  What’s up with me?

  Have I gone

  absolutely nuts?

  Don’t answer that.

  Oops

  Jesus H. Christ.

  I don’t believe this.

  I just tripped Whip’s burglar alarm.

  And it sounds like a thousand airplanes

  are roaring in for a landing on a runway inside my skull.

  Which must be cracked or I wouldn’t

  have forgotten to deactivate the alarm

  after I opened the front door.

  And I wouldn’t have forgotten

  what Whip said to do if this ever happened.

  I do remember him saying,

  “Don’t worry about it.

  If that ever happens, you just—”

  But the rest of his sentence seems to have

  escaped me for the moment.

  Which is what I wish I could do right now.

  Escape, I mean …

  I fumble in my backpack for my cell.

  I yank it out and punch in Whip’s number.

  “How do I turn this thing off?” I shout.

  Whip tells me the password.

  I hang up fast

  and enter it into the box on the wall.

  Suddenly—

  SILENCE.

  Oh, Sweet

  Here come two goons

  from Safetech Security.

  My knights in shining fake police uniforms.

  But—man!

  Those guns they’re waving around

  don’t look so fake …

  Oh my God!

  These wannabe cops

  think I’m a crazed fan!

  “But I’m not his stalker,” I try to explain.

  “I’m his daughter.”

  “Whip Logan doesn’t have any kids,” says one.

  “Yeah,” says the other one.

  “You can’t pull the sheep over our eyes.”

  “Don’t you guys ever read Us?” I ask,

  punching in Whip’s number again,

  while my heart does a crazed drum solo.

  When he answers, I pass the phone

  to Idiot Guard Number One, who goes pale,

  and passes it to Idiot Guard Number Two.

  Even from a few feet away,

  I can hear what Whip’s shouting at him.

  I didn’t know he even knew words like that.

  Then the guy sort of ducks his head at me,

  almost like he’s bowing to royalty,

  and hands the cell back to me.

  Whip asks me

  what I’m doing home at this hour.

  So I tell him why the dean cancelled school.

  Right away, he switches on that deeply annoying

  concerned-parent voice of his

  and says, “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Sorry? I don’t think so.

  Not nearly as sorry as he should be.

  For not nearly enough reasons why.

  Suddenly,

  I feel like flinging my phone

  into the fishpond in the foyer.

  Then he says, “Listen, Ruby.

  Don’t go anywhere.

  I’ll be home in half an hour.”

  Oh. Goody

  After Dumb and Dumber Slink Away

  It strikes me

  that I’ve never been alone

  in this house before.

  And it’s giving me the serious creeps.

  It feels like I’ve been locked inside

  a department store after closing time.

  It’s way too quiet.

  I don’t want to be here.

  I’m suddenly struck by a wild thought:

  Maybe I could pack a bag before Whip gets home

  and catch a bus heading back east.

  Maybe I could get there before the snow melts!

  That’s what I’ll do.

  I’ll catch a bus.

  Or maybe I could even take a plane!

  I race to my closet and yank out my suitcase.

  I start stuffing my clothes into it,

  but then it hits me—

  I might be able to get there

  while there’s still plenty of snow …

  But there’d be no Lizzie,

  no Ray,

  no Aunt Duffy,

  no Mom.

  Dear Mom,

  How are things in Decomposeville? LOL Things continue to suck here. This kid from my school got killed in a car crash. Or maybe you know that already Maybe he’s up there in heaven with you right now, playing Twister …

  Anyhow, He-who-shall-not-be-mentioned is apparently rushing home at this very moment. I think he’s under the mistaken impression that I need to be consoled. Couldn’t you use a little pull and arrange for him to get a flat tire? I am so not in the mood to deal with him right now. Or ever again, for that matter. And I feel the same way about you.

  After you died, Lizzie told me that as time passed, I’d start thinking less and less about you. She said that eventually I’d be able to forget about you and just get back to my life. But it seems to be working the other way around. I’ve been thinking about you more and more lately. I keep reliving the whole thing. Finding out you’re sick. Watching you waste away. Holding your hand when you die. The funeral. Everything. It’s like a nightmare that plays in my head all day long. A nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

  I wish you’d quit haunting me, Mom. I wish you’d quit haunting me and leave me alone. Forever!

  Ruby

  A Few Minutes Later

  I’m just sitting here,

  rereading all my old e-mails from Lizzie and Ray,

  thinking about how I should have seen it coming,

  how it should have been obvious

  to anyone with even half a brain cell.

  “Trust me,” Lizzie was always saying.

  “Trust me. Trust me …”

  What a total numbskull I was.

  Suddenly Whip pokes his head through my door

  and asks if he can come in.

  But he doesn’t wait for me to answer.

  He just walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  Which I instantly shake off.

  When’s he going to get that I hate that?

  “Did you know the boy who was killed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Has his death stirred up some stuff for you?”

  “Should it have?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “I just thought it might have reminded you

  of your mom’s death …”

  “Well, you thought wrong,” I snap.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  There’s that word again.

  Then he says he’s got to go back over

  to the set for a few more hours.

  And he says he’s taking me with him.

  “I’m just not comfortable leaving you alone here.

  When no one’s home, it gets way too quiet.

  It can give a person the serious creeps.”

  I can’t stand it when he does that.

  On Sound Stage 34 at Paramount Pictures

  Boy, am I glad to see Max beaming at me

  from the middle of this mob of strangers.

  They’re gawking like I’m some kind of freak.

  He takes me by the hand

  and pulls me over to sit next to him on these

  two canvas chairs with ridiculously long legs.

  Max’s name has been printed in black letters

  on the backrest of his chair.

  My chair
says: WHIP LOGAN.

  And, oh my God!

  Right next to us is a third chair that says: EMINEM.

  Suddenly, Whip’s standing in front of me

  introducing me to the real Slim Shady himself.

  He smiles, shakes my hand, and says, “’Sup?”

  “S’all good,” I say,

  acting way more cool than I’m actually feeling.

  “You guys want to grab some lunch?” he asks.

  And as the four of us head to the commissary

  (which is movie-studio-speak for “cafeteria”)

  Max whispers to me, “You’re the reason

  that Whip decided to even do this picture.

  He knew you’d like to meet his co-star.”

  I glance over at my father.

  He’s talking to Eminem, but he’s smiling at me.

  And I can’t help smiling back.

  Two O’clock in the Morning

  I’ve been lying here on my bed,

  trying to fall asleep for hours.

  But I can’t stop thinking about that kid Devon.

  Which doesn’t exactly make any sense.

  Because, I mean,

  I never even met the guy.

  So how come every time I close my eyes

  I see his car veering out of control

  and heading straight toward that tree?

  How come I keep hearing

  the screaming screech of his tires?

  Keep seeing his eyes tripling in size?

  Keep seeing his foot

  slamming down hard on the brake,

  the stripes of burnt rubber scarring the street?

  How come I can’t stop hearing the dull thwomp of his Jeep

  crunching into the trunk of that tree?

  And the sudden echo of the silence after?

  Why does Devon’s death scene

  have to keep playing in my head like this,

  over and over and over again?

  Why can’t I switch off the DVD in my skull?

  Suddenly

  My telephone rings.

  Who would be calling me at this hour?

  I pick it up

  and a familiar voice says, “Ruby?”

  My heart does a somersault

  and leaps up into my throat.

  It’s my mother!

  How weird is that?

  It can’t be my mother.

  But it is.

  And she’s acting like it’s perfectly normal

  for a dead person to be talking on the phone.

  She’s asking me how I’ve been doing,

  and what the weather’s been like.

  We aren’t really talking

  about anything special.

  But it doesn’t matter what she’s saying,

  as long as I’m hearing her voice.

  Then she asks me,

  “How’s your father doing?”