One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

  “I wish it was right now,” he whispers.

  But Thanksgiving

  is still two whole months away

  . How am I going to survive until then?

  Midnight Shock

  I tiptoe down

  to the kitchen

  to try to sublimate my sexual frustration

  with a Häagen-Dazs bar—

  and find Max sitting at the kitchen table.

  In his pajamas!

  “What are you doing here?!” I ask.

  “I live here,” he says.

  “Right in the same house with us?” I say.

  “Yep. This very one.”

  “Where’s your room?”

  “Just behind that door over there.”

  “In the assistant slash personal trainer

  slash all-round lifesaver’s quarters?” I ask.

  “You guessed it,” he says.

  “My homie!”! say.

  And we slap each other five.

  Blank Book

  Feather just gave every kid

  in my Dream Interpretation class

  a blank book to write in.

  She called them dream journals

  and said that our homework

  is to record our dreams in them

  every morning when we wake up.

  I love books.

  But blank books scare me.

  It’s like all those empty white pages

  are just lying there

  waiting to pounce

  on my deepest innermost feelings

  and expose them to the entire world.

  Besides.

  There’s no way I’d ever put

  a mega-steamy dream

  like the one I had last night,

  about Ray and me in the rain and all that,

  down on paper.

  But as far as homework assignments go—

  this one’s gonna be a dream.

  Then Again

  Maybe it’s not.

  Because the most awful thing has happened:

  ever since Feather said

  that we had to record our dreams,

  I haven’t been able to remember a single one.

  Every morning we sit in a circle,

  and all the other kids open up their journals

  and read their dreams aloud

  so that Feather can help them

  to interpret them.

  When it’s my turn, I just blush and mumble,

  “Sorry. I still couldn’t remember any.”

  At which point, Feather smiles sweetly

  and says something very sixties,

  like “go with the flow” or “let it be.”

  But it’s been almost two weeks now,

  and that smile of hers is starting to look

  a little tight around the edges.

  I’m afraid she’s beginning to suspect

  that I’m a shirker …

  Heck.

  Is it my fault my unconscious

  is so unconscious?

  And Things Haven’t Gone So Well with Colette Either

  In the beginning,

  I thought we were really gonna hit it off,

  like we did when she gave me

  her guided tour of the campus.

  For the first few days of school,

  she kept calling me Sis

  whenever she saw me in dream class.

  And when Feather made us sit

  in that dumb circle and close our eyes,

  Colette and I secretly kept ours open

  and crossed them at each other.

  (Hers, by the way,

  are a different color every day.

  She says tinted contacts are her trademark.)

  Once, she even offered

  to loan me one of her dreams,

  so Feather wouldn’t think

  I was such a slacker.

  There were even some days after school

  when Colette would jingle over to me

  and invite me to go to Poquito Mas for tacos,

  with her and Crystal and Bette and Madison,

  like I was a certified member of the in crowd.

  But I always had to say that I couldn’t.

  Because Whip was picking me up.

  And after I turned her down a few times,

  she stopped asking.

  Lately,

  when she sees me in class or around school,

  she acts like she can’t quite place me.

  As though she knows she’s met me before,

  only she just can’t remember where.

  A Typical Morning in the Life of Me

  6:45 turn off alarm clock

  6:46 try to remember dreams

  6:48 fail to remember dreams

  6:49 curse loudly and beat pillow with fists

  7:00 drag self out of bed

  7:01 brush teeth, take shower, get dressed

  7:25 try to make hair look presentable

  7:29 give up on making hair look presentable

  7:30 curse loudly and beat hair with brush

  7:35 eat breakfast with Whip, while fending off his annoyingly perky chatter

  7:50 try to convince Whip to let me walk to school

  8:00 fail to convince Whip to let me walk to school

  8:01 curse inwardly and contain urge to beat Whip over head with hundred-pound backpack

  8:02 stomp out of kitchen

  8:03 toss self into car and slam door

  8:04 say something snotty to Whip about not being allowed to walk to school

  8:05 get even more pissed because he doesn’t react

  8:10 arrive at Lakewood

  8:11 get out of car, slam door, don’t look back

  Lakewood Daze

  Some days,

  when Madison sees me in the hall,

  she smiles at me and says, “What’s up?”

  And Crystal flashes me the peace sign

  and her BriteSmile grin.

  Some days,

  during herstory class,

  Bette keeps passing me these

  little slips of paper

  with yo mama jokes written on them.

  And I can’t help laughing,

  even though those kind of jokes

  aren’t quite as funny somehow

  when yo own mama

  is dead.

  Some days,

  kids I don’t even know say hello to me.

  And the guy who everyone says

  is Harrison Ford’s love child,

  actually remembers my name.

  Some days,

  instead of completely ignoring me,

  Colette bats her yellow

  (or aqua or orange or whatever) eyes at me,

  and even says, “Hey.”

  Those are the days

  it almost starts seeming

  like maybe there’s a pretty good chance

  that I might even be able to fit in here.

  Eventually.

  But most days,

  I wander around Lakewood feeling invisible.

  Like Fm just a speck of dust

  floating in the air

  that can only be seen

  when a shaft of light hits it.

  A Typical Rest of the Day in the Life of Me

  3:30 toss self into car with Whip

  3:32 say something snotty about not being allowed to walk home from school

  3:38 arrive home, leap from car, slam door, don’t look back

  3:45 wade though hordes of hanger-onners to give friendly greeting to Max, especially friendly if Whip is present to witness

  3:46 decline Whip’s offer for afternoon snack

  3:48 retire to bedroom and start blasting Eminem CDs

  3:50 log on to get update on Amber from Liz and write flirty e-mail to Ray, or if lucky, get phone call or IM from one or both of above

  4:50 put on bikini, grab book, head down to pool

  5:00 immerse self in book, or hang with Max,
if he’s around

  5:30 immerse self in pool - laps, if alone, Marco Polo, if with Max

  6:00 beg Max to have supper with us so I won’t have to be alone with You Know Who

  6:02 pummel Max when he says he’d love to, but he thinks it would be best if Whip and I had some time alone together because he’s actually a pretty great guy once you get to know him

  6:15 eat dinner with Whip while fending off his annoyingly perky chatter

  6:30 say something snotty about size of Whip’s ego

  6:31 note hurt expression on Whip’s face

  6:35 start thinking about apologizing to Whip

  6:36 stop thinking about apologizing to Whip

  6:50 excuse self from table and go to room

  6:51 start thinking about how much I miss Mom

  6:55 log on and write e-mail to her

  7:05 curse loudly and beat self-pitying thoughts about being motherless child out of head

  7:10 begin homework

  10:15 finish homework

  10:30 decline offer for midnight snack with Whip

  10:45 beg unconscious mind for a dream …

  6:45 … turn off alarm clock

  6:46 try to remember dreams

  6:48 fail to remember dreams

  6:49 curse loudly and beat pillow with fists

  Hey Rubinowski,

  Still e-mailing your dead mom? You are so in denial. But go for it, girl. You gotta work your way through those five stages of grief. Da soona da betta.

  And speaking of grief, Ray and I sat together at lunch today and spent the whole entire time talking about how much we missed you. Amber positioned herself at the table right across from ours and kept her legs spread so far apart that you could see her thong. But Ray didn’t even glance her way. Trust me. Not even when she knocked her lunch tray onto the floor and made this big squealy commotion to try to get his attention. He just kept on telling me about how he can hardly wait to visit you at Thanksgiving. And I can hardly wait to hear about it when he does. It’s gonna be so hot.

  Just hang on. It’ll be turkey time before you know it.

  Love,

  Lizziola

  Dear Lizzorama,

  I’ll try. But I miss him like crazy. And I miss you, too. Things really stink here. Every morning for like the past month I’ve begged Whip to let me walk to school. But he refuses. He apparently thinks I’m only saying I want to walk because I don’t want to be a nuisance to him. He keeps telling me that he wants to drive me to school. That it’s no trouble at all. That he looks forward to picking me up at the end of the day.

  I’ve tried explaining that I like to walk. That I need the exercise. That he’s ruining any chance I have at a decent social life. I’ve even tried threatening to get carsick all over his 1954 Buick Wildcat’s original red leather upholstery. But it just goes right in one of his fabulously famous ears, and out the other.

  I hate him. And I hate my life. Help!!!

  Love,

  Ruby

  P.S. Hey. I said hello to Cameron for you. But you didn’t kill Amber for me. How come she’s still alive? Couldn’t you at least maim her? I thought you were my friend …

  Two Against One

  I tell Max

  it’s causing me unendurable agony

  how Whip keeps insisting on

  driving me to and from school every day.

  A few minutes later,

  I overhear Max telling Whip

  that he ought to let me walk

  and stop treating me like a child.

  Whip tells Max

  I am a child

  and that the world is crawling with perverts

  and he’ll be worried sick if he lets me walk.

  Max tells Whip

  he’ll just have to live with that

  because I’m fifteen years old and

  he’s behaving like an overprotective idiot.

  Then Whip tells Max

  he’s fired.

  But it’s pretty obvious

  that he doesn’t mean it.

  Because a few minutes later,

  Whip slips into my room and tells me

  that from now on

  I can walk.

  But only if I promise

  not to talk to any strangers.

  I say, “Okay. But is it all right

  if I take candy from them?”

  Whip laughs

  and draws an imaginary number one in the air,

  as though my stunningly witty remark

  just scored me a point or something.

  I find this deeply irritating

  because I was trying to be snotty.

  Not clever.

  And he didn’t even notice.

  Thanking Max

  I tell Max I’m going to give him

  my first-born child.

  He grins and says

  that won’t be necessary.

  I tell him he’s the best friend

  a girl could ever hope to have.

  He says,

  “Yeah. I know.”

  I tell him he reminds me

  of my aunt Duffy.

  He says,

  “Is it the beard?”

  “No,” I say.

  “It’s the big heart.”

  Which I know sounds totally corny,

  but I can’t help it, it just pops out.

  And suddenly I find myself

  telling him all about how much I miss Duff,

  and about how I can’t even call her

  or write to her or anything

  because she’s off on that endless dig

  with that idiotic archaeologist of hers,

  and about how severely pissed off I am at her

  for disappearing right when I need her most.

  “That woman sounds like such a bitch!”

  he says, in this real swishy voice.

  “How dare you compare me

  to that nasty, self-centered slut?!”

  Which cracks us both up.

  And after this,

  whenever we’re alone,

  I call him Aunt Max.

  Walking to School for the First Time

  Someone’s written

  “Lotus loves River”

  into the cement on the sidewalk.

  A Barbie-doll-sprung-to-life

  is jogging toward me

  screaming hideous things into a cell phone.

  And here comes Ken on Rollerblades,

  the gold ring in his navel

  sparking with sunlight.

  Cameron just zipped by on a shiny yellow bike,

  gave me a friendly wave,

  and shouted out, “Hey, Ruby!”

  And I could swear

  I just saw Johnny Depp

  behind the wheel of that silver Porsche.

  If I had a dog named Toto,

  I think you can guess

  what I’d be saying to him right about now.

  Ignorance of the Law

  I’m crossing Sunset Boulevard,

  dodging all the Mercedes and Jaguars,

  when I hear the thin scream of a siren.

  I turn to look.

  A police car’s coming up fast,

  flashing its liquid lights.

  I glance around to see who they’re after

  and suddenly realize who they’re after

  is me.

  The cop leaps out looking like a model—

  dark glasses, deep tan,

  dangerously white teeth.

  “You weren’t in the crosswalk,” he says,

  seductively raising one eyebrow.

  Then he presses something into my hand.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I just got a ticket for crossing the street.

  Which, of Course, Made Me Late to School

  So I’m sprinting across the Lakewood lawn,

  trying to get to my dream class

  before the first period gong rings,


  when I notice

  at least a dozen other kids

  racing to their classes, too.

  But all of them

  are using the sidewalk

  that borders the grass.

  There aren’t any signs posted

  warning us to keep off of it.

  So what’s up with all these airheads?

  Didn’t anyone ever tell them

  that the shortest distance between two points

  is a straight line?

  Then suddenly

  I’m surrounded by an army of sprinklers,

  hissing up from the ground all around me.

  And,

  in one split second—

  my T-shirt reveals all.

  I Slosh the Rest of the Way to Class

  And drip into the back of the room

  with my arms folded tightly across my chest,

  willing myself to be invisible.

  But it must not be working.

  Because Colette spots me.

  Instantly.

  And instead of

  looking right through me,

  like she usually does,

  instead of

  doing something way juvenile

  like bursting out laughing,

  instead of pointing at me and shouting out,

  “Looks like Wild Child’s the winner

  of our wet T-shirt contest,”

  she just slinks over to me

  with her sequined black leather jacket

  and helps me slip into it,

  before anyone even

  notices the fact

  that I’m not wearing a bra.

  After Class

  When I try to express

  my undying gratitude,

  Colette just grins

  and puts her multi-ringed finger

  up to my lips to shush me, saying,

  “That’s what sisters are for, right?”

  “What do you mean, sisters?”

  I want to say.

  “You’ve been pretending I don’t exist

  for weeks now.”

  But I just nod and smile,

  wondering why she’s being so suddenly nice.

  And it’s like she can read my mind

  or something, because she says,

  “Same thing happened to me once.

  Only no one loaned me their jacket.

  My nipples became legendary.

  It wasn’t even funny how mortified I was.”

  Then she jingles toward the door,

  glancing back at me with her pink eyes,

  (yep—today they’re pink)

  and says, “Why don’t you just

  keep it till lunch

  and give it back to me then?”

  So That’s Exactly What I Do