One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

  Even more than he thought it would.

  I like hearing that.

  He says, “You’re haunting me, girl.

  Every night, when I try to fall asleep,

  I see your face floating in front of me,

  your killer green eyes staring into mine.”

  I like hearing that, too.

  And I like that he says he misses my freckles.

  “All three thousand nine hundred

  and seventy-one of them.”

  Ray’s so funny. And so far away.

  I slide his drawing of Ruby’s Slipper

  out from underneath my pillow,

  and hug it to my chest.

  I Can’t Go on Like This

  I’ve got to hear his voice—right now!

  I grab the phone and punch in Ray’s number.

  I hear it connect and start to ring.

  I can picture the phone in his room,

  lying on the nightstand next to his bed.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Why isn’t he picking up?

  Maybe he can’t get to the phone.

  Maybe he’s in the shower.

  Maybe he’s in the shower

  and he’s completely covered

  with suds right now.

  Maybe he’s even fantasizing

  that I’m in there with him at this very moment

  and we’re both covered with suds.

  Ring. Rinnng. RINNNNG.

  Come on, Ray, hear the phone.

  Hear it.

  Now I can picture him cocking his head …

  listening … “Is that the—?”

  He hears it!

  He grabs a towel

  and races to the phone

  because somehow he knows it’s me.

  He just feels it.

  And he can’t wait another second

  to talk to me—

  “Hello?” I suddenly hear

  on the other end of the line.

  “Ray!” I cry.

  “Nah,” the voice says.

  “This is his brother.

  Ray’s not home.”

  Oh Raymeo, Raymeo,

  Wherefore art thou, Raymeo? I tried calling you just now, and you weren’t there, ??? Why weren’t you sitting by the phone waiting for my call?! Just kidding. I know you have a life to lead. But I REEEEEALLY wanted to hear your voice. So if you get this e-mail before you go to sleep, CALL ME!

  If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll sneak into your dreams later on and kiss you good night. Maybe I’ll even do more than that …

  Love,

  Rubiet

  P.S. I liked what you said about my face floating in front of you and about missing my freckles. I miss your freckles, too. All three of them.

  Dear Rubinowitz,

  Cameron Diaz lives next door?! Whoa! What’s she like?

  The first day of school wasn’t any fun without you. Ray’s in my math class. But, unfortunately, Amber is, too. You were so right about her. She’s such a slut. She dropped her pencil (accidentally on purpose) right in front of Ray’s desk and then leaned way over to pick it up so he could see right down her shirt. But don’t worry. I was watching him closely, and he didn’t even notice. Trust me.

  Oops. GTG. The Evil Stepmom’s screaming at me to get started on my homework. She is such a controlling bitch! I can’t believe I have to live through ten more months of school before summer vacation. I can’t do it without you. Come home right this minute!

  Love,

  Lizanthamum

  P.S. I forgot to tell you - when Ms. Welford wasn’t looking, Ray passed me a note that said “I miss Ruby.” That guy is SOOOOOOO sweet!

  P.P.S. Say hello to Cameron for me.

  P.P.P.S. Cheer up!

  Dear Lizabeth,

  Easy for you to say. But I guess I’m not that depressed, considering that the biggest tart in the entire galaxy is trying to steal my boyfriend while I’m stuck here in Less Angeles, 3000 miles too far away to do a single thing about it.

  I’m not that depressed, considering that my aunt Duffy’s just informed me that she’s totally deserting me to go running off with her idiotic new boyfriend and she won’t even be able to communicate with me for at least six months.

  I’d say I’m doing reasonably well, considering that all the girls at my new school look like they just stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog, and I have a zit on my nose the size of a giraffe.

  I’m not that depressed, considering that Whip Logan’s ego is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records, my best friend lives on the other side of the planet, and my mom’s still dead.

  Well, maybe I am a little depressed.

  Love,

  Ruby

  P.S. I’ll say hello to Cameron for you, if you’ll kill Amber for me.

  Dear Mom,

  How are things in the after life? Is there an after life? LOL.

  I got one of those “Returned mail: Host unknown” e-mails from AOL after I wrote you the first time. It said that your address had “permanent fatal errors.” Ha! I’ll say. That permanently fatal part is what I hate the most about death.

  Sometimes, I still can’t believe that you’re never coming back.

  Love u 4 ever,

  Ruby

  I Had My Recurring Dream Again Last Night

  The same dream I’ve been having

  ever since I can remember.

  It’s the one where I’m about two years old

  and I’m at the Franklin Park Zoo,

  holding hands with this real tall man.

  I’m not exactly sure who he is.

  But I’m holding this man’s hand,

  and it feels nice and warm and dry.

  We’re standing in front of the monkey cage,

  watching all these funny red monkeys

  eating bananas and swinging from branches

  like tiny, furry acrobats,

  and I’m feeling like I could

  just stand here watching these monkeys,

  holding this man’s nice, warm, dry hand

  forever.

  And at this point in the dream,

  the smallest monkey always opens its mouth

  and lets out a howl,

  a howl louder than any howl could possibly be,

  a howl that slices through me like a chain saw.

  And all the other monkeys start howling too,

  and they howl and howl and howl,

  until I feel like I’ll explode with the sound.

  And I try to run away,

  but my legs are paralyzed.

  So I just stand there,

  letting the howls rip through me.

  And that’s when the tall man reaches down,

  scoops me up in his arms,

  and whispers, I’ll keep you safe.”

  He whisks me away from the earsplitting noise,

  to a quiet place.

  And that’s when I always put one of my chubby

  two-year-old hands on each of his cheeks

  and press my forehead against his.

  It feels nice and warm and dry.

  Just like his hand.

  And then I wake up.

  So, Fritz

  What do you think I should be?

  The monkey?

  The man?

  The nice, warm, dry hand?

  The cage?

  The howl?

  Or the banana?

  Doing Gestalt Therapy on Myself Seems So Lame

  But, heck.

  I wouldn’t mind having

  an epiphany of my very own.

  So I guess I’ll try being the banana.

  I feel like an absolute idiot doing this,

  but here goes:

  I am the banana.

  I am the banana

  and the monkey is eating me.

  The monkey is devouring me,

  bite by bite.

  I am disappearing

  into the stomach of th
e monkey.

  I am disappearing.

  I am being digested.

  I am turning into shit.

  My life is turning into shit.

  My life is shitty?

  Geez, what’s that supposed to be?

  An epoophany?

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  It’s the Second Day of School

  And Whip still wouldn’t let me walk there.

  Even though I practically

  got down on my hands and knees

  and begged him.

  He just popped me into this

  1938 Pontiac woody station wagon

  with these perfect birch panels,

  and said, “Aw, come on, Ruby.

  Indulge me …

  I’ve been missing out on doing this for years.”

  As if I could care

  about what he’s

  been missing out on.

  The Next Few Days Just Sort of Blur By

  Like I’m riding on a train

  through the pouring rain

  trying to see out the window

  wearing someone else’s glasses.

  Every day, when I get home after school,

  the house is crawling with strangers.

  And Whip insists on introducing me

  to every last one of them.

  He puts his arm around my shoulder

  and says, “I’d like you to meet my daughter.”

  His daughter, he says,

  like he owns me.

  I meet Whip’s tailor,

  Whip’s interior decorator,

  Whip’s chiropractor,

  and Whip’s psychic.

  I meet his lawyer, his agent,

  his masseuse, his business manager,

  his business manager’s masseuse,

  and his agent’s lawyer.

  I meet his broker, his gardener,

  his housekeeper, his homeopath,

  his acupuncturist, his manicurist,

  and his violinist.

  Okay.

  He doesn’t really have a violinist.

  I was just messing with you.

  But he does have all those other people.

  It apparently takes

  half the population of Lost Angeles

  to keep Whip Logan functioning.

  This guy’s entourage has an entourage.

  And Most of Them Seem Like Kiss-ass Jerks

  But this one guy named Max is okay.

  Whip introduces him as his assistant

  slash personal trainer

  slash all-round lifesaver.

  He’s the only one

  out of that whole pack of hangers-on

  who doesn’t tiptoe around Whip

  like he’s breakable or something.

  And he actually seems interested

  in getting to know me.

  Even asks me how I like California.

  And if I miss being back east.

  He’s the only one

  out of all of them

  who gives my hand this little squeeze

  and says he’s so sorry about my mother.

  The only one who offers to pulverize Whip

  if he gives me the slightest bit of trouble.

  He’s just kidding,

  but it still makes me feel good.

  He’s this big bearded bruiser of a guy,

  with a voice more gravelly than Hagrid’s,

  and that name that makes him sound like he

  sits around all day playing poker and smoking cigars.

  But he can’t fool me—I know he’s gay.

  How Do I Know?

  My gaydar.

  I was born with it.

  It’s my sixth sense.

  I think I inherited it from my mother.

  Sometimes I know a guy’s gay

  even before he does.

  It’s just this ability I have.

  My mom had it, too.

  She used to say it didn’t have anything to do

  with how they held their tea cups

  or their taste in music

  or things like that.

  She just knew.

  It was something else,

  she used to say.

  Something she could smell.

  I guess by now you’ve figured out

  that Mom was prejudiced against gays.

  Of course, she never would have admitted it.

  I even hate to admit it about her.

  But she definitely was.

  How did I know?

  Let’s just say

  it was something I could smell.

  I Wonder If Max is Trying to Hide It

  Or if that’s just how he is.

  Not all gay guys are swishy, you know.

  Not all of them lisp.

  That’s just a myth.

  When we’re alone,

  I ask him if he likes Streisand,

  to let him know

  that I know he’s gay.

  He says he prefers Eminem.

  Says the guy’s a true poet.

  Which is exactly how I feel,

  actually.

  He says he doesn’t have much of a knack

  for interior decorating either,

  in case I was wondering.

  And then he grins at me, and winks.

  Whip’s such a lug.

  I bet he doesn’t even realize Max is gay.

  I’d sure like to see the look on that

  famous macho face of his when he finds out.

  But Max’s

  little secret

  is safe

  with me.

  Dear Mom,

  How are things in the casket? Not too damp, I hope. ☺

  I’ve met the coolest guy. He works for He-who-shall-not-be-mentioned. His name is Max. I’m not going to tell you about him though, because you wouldn’t approve. And no, it’s not a love thing. So you don’t have to worry about any hanky-panky … Speaking of which, you aren’t like all-knowing now, or anything, are you? I mean, you can’t see every move I make down here in Hollyweird can you? If so, quit snooping and get a life. JK.

  Love u 4 ever,

  Ruby

  My Phone Rings

  I pounce on it.

  “Hey, Rubinski,” a raspy,

  Marge Simpson-esque voice says.

  “How the heck are you?”

  It’s Lizzie calling!

  Good old Lizini,

  darling Lizabella,

  dearest most wonderful Lizeetheus!

  (Okay. So maybe I’m overdoing it.

  But until I heard her voice,

  I didn’t realize how much

  I’d been missing it.)

  Lizzie tells me

  how miserable she is without me

  and how miserable Ray is without me

  and about all of Amber’s latest tacky moves.

  And I tell Lizzie

  about Lakewood and about Max

  and about Colette and about

  what a pitiful excuse for a father Whip is.

  I even tell her

  about those e-mails

  that I’ve been sending

  to a certain dead mother.

  “Do you think I should seek

  professional help?” I ask her.

  “Most definitely,” she rasps.

  “Dr. Lizzie Freudy, at your service.”

  Then she laughs,

  that perfect rumbly laugh of hers,

  and I miss her so much

  I can hardly bear it.

  But Suddenly She Says She’s Got to Go

  “Because The Evil Stepmom is suffering from

  severe Pre-menopausal Hormonal

  Haywire Disorder,” she explains.

  “And trust me, if I don’t quit talking to you

  and go help her in the kitchen right now,

  my ass is grass.”

  That’s not hard to believe.

  I can hear her stepmom howling at
her

  louder than the monkeys in my recurring dream.

  So we say quick good-byes and hang up.

  I feel a pang in my stomach,

  like someone just handed me some Sour Skittles

  and then grabbed them away again

  before I even had a chance

  to pop a single one of them into my mouth.

  I just sit there,

  staring at the silent phone in my hand.

  Then I do the only sensible thing:

  I call up Ray.

  He Answers the Phone

  When he hears my voice, he almost shouts,

  “Whoa! Is this really you, babe?”

  And I practically swoon.

  It’s as though I can feel his voice,

  feel his words brushing against my cheek,

  his lips brushing against my ear,

  his tongue brushing across my …

  “Dooby?” he says. “You still there?”

  And I realize I haven’t been listening

  to a word he’s been saying.

  “I’m still here,” I say.

  “But I wish

  I was there.”

  “How’s the Weather in Tinsel Town?” He Asks

  “What weather?” I say.

  “It’s raining cats and dogs here,” he says.

  “Listen.”

  I hear the sound

  of a window being shoved up.

  Then I hear the rain.

  So clearly—like it’s coming down

  right outside my window.

  My eyes threaten a storm of their own.

  “Remember that night last summer

  when we went to see the movie

  about the hurricane?” I say.

  “And when we went outside afterward, it was so funny, because it was pouring and we felt like we were in the movie?”

  “How could I forget it, babe?” he says.

  And for a few seconds

  we share a delicious silence,

  remembering together

  how he threw his coat over our heads and

  we ran down the sidewalk joined at the hip,

  and then he pulled me under an awning,

  and we kissed and kissed and kissed

  while lightning strobed the sky.

  “Mmmm,” he says. “That was the night

  that your dress shrunk two sizes.

  Right while you were wearing it!”

  “I dreamt about that night last night,” I say.

  “Only in my dream,

  we did more than kiss …”

  Then he murmurs

  in this real husky voice,

  “You’re driving me crazy, woman …”

  “God,” I say.

  “I wish Thanksgiving was tomorrow.”