“They’ll just paint over it,” she says. “It won’t last.”
“True,” I say. “But it’s here now.”
“You bitch.”
Maybe to her, she’s the hero and I’m the villain. And maybe in someone else’s tale, I’m nothing but the village idiot. I don’t care. Let them paint their own murals.
“You can always call the school board and complain. I think you have their number. And you know what? I gave them yours.”
The reporter taps Chelsea on the arm. “Excuse me. Can I get a picture of you with your portrait?”
“Well,” my dad says. “This is really something, isn’t it?” He searches for something positive to say, which he finds difficult to do when he’s not talking about his fabulous new life with Hannalore. “Your technique has improved,” he says finally. “And I see you’re still obsessed with Grimm’s.”
“Fits my worldview,” I say.
“You’re too young to have a worldview,” says Hannalore.
“We’re both very proud,” my dad says, wrapping his arm around her waist and squeezing her a little too tightly to be comfortable. “And we’re thrilled to be here, aren’t we?”
“Sure we are,” says Hannalore.
The reporter puts me next to Mr. Zwieback and snaps some pictures. I lose interest as Mr. Zwieback is giving a statement, something about my strength in the face of such daunting adversity, how the school is behind me one hundred percent, etc. etc. etc.
Seven says, “The school is behind you one hundred percent.”
“Yeah. Behind me. All the better to kick me,” I say.
Speaking of kicking, I’m afraid to ask, but I can’t help myself. Starving polar bear or not, wicked stepmother or not, Hannalore does own a gallery.
“What do you think?” I say.
She makes a so-so motion with her large, bony hand. “Melodramatic, but that’s what you’d expect from a teenager,” she says. “Autobiographical, another thing you’d expect.” She scans the mural. “None of the panels have your father in them.”
“Caught that, huh?”
She smirks. “The words are distracting.”
Seven says, “I think the words are the best part.”
Hannalore ignores him. “At best, it’s juvenilia. At worst, crap.”
“Juve-what?” June says.
“You’re very kind,” I say.
“You asked,” she says, unconcerned. I suppose she thinks it serves me right for dragging her out here to this godforsaken suburb when she could be dining on black rice with important people in Manhattan.
I say, “Well, if you can’t please everyone with your deeds and your art, please a few. To please many is bad.”
Hannalore frowns. A note hits her in the forehead and drops to the floor. She bends at the knees to retrieve it, the perfect lady. The writing is large enough for me to read:
SHOW US YOUR BOOBS!
She holds up the note. “Which of you appalling children threw this at me?”
Pete Santorini, Ben Grossman, and Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name laugh so hard that Alex chokes on his gum and Ben has to pound his back.
Seven pulls me over to the front door, away from the crowds of people. He’s brought more cupcakes for me, vanilla cupcakes with mocha icing and chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese icing.
“We don’t have much time,” I say. “If I’m gone too long, my parents will look for me.”
“Then we better make the most of it,” he says. He takes a cupcake with mocha icing and smears it across my face. “Uh-oh. Now you’re brown.”
I take a cupcake with cream cheese icing and slather it on his lips and cheeks. “And now you’re white.”
He licks his lips. “Tastes good.”
“Same here.”
“You’re just saying that,” he tells me. “It’s only the second time I’ve tried the recipe. I changed up the proportions.”
“No, it’s really good. I’ve never tasted anything like it. But if you don’t believe me, you can check yourself.”
He takes a step toward me—all six foot plus of cream-cheese-icing-slathered goodness—and kisses me. It’s a sweet kiss, not just because of the icing, but because it’s so light, so gentle, like he’s kissing me but asking my permission at the same time, is this okay, do you like this, do you like me? Yes, I think, yes. We kiss some more, not as nice, not as sweetly, until the icing on our faces mixes into the most delicious shade of topaz.
I’ve got a huge crowd now—teachers, students, even Ms. Esme. They pace back and forth in front of the mural, whispering to one another. Sometimes they glance at me and whisper some more.
They’re trying to decide if I’m crazy.
They’re trying to decide if my art is any good.
They’re trying to decide if seeing Chelsea Patrick naked is too horrible a punishment for the public.
They’re trying to decide if they believe in fairy tales.
And I want to say, listen, there’s no living happily ever after, just living happily, with the happily part relative, defined by what’s possible in the moment. And there’s a story here, one familiar and not, where a girl is freed from a tower, a sister is freed from herself, and they go to visit their grandpa. But instead of packing bread and wine, they bring him some ginger ale and maybe applesauce. And the wolves they meet along the way are soft and playful as puppies, the wicked women sing lullabies to their own reflections in their mirrors, and the huntsmen all put down their axes to chase the squirrels through the woods.
Grandma Emmy is peering up at Hannalore exactly the way you’d peer up at an underfed polar bear. Warily.
“How’s Joe?” my dad asks Grandma Emmy.
“We moved him to rehab,” Madge says. “He ate a piece of turkey and some peaches for lunch. And he walked from the bed to the bathroom by himself.”
“That’s not enough.” Grandma Emmy is still focused on Dad. “You should visit him in the hospital. He likes visitors. People make him feel like eating. Take your girlfriend, too.”
“We were married in October.”
“Whatever,” says Grandma. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To visit Joe, what do you think?”
“All of us?” my dad squeaks.
“Yeah,” says Grandma.
“Now?”
“No time like the present.” Grandma points to Mr. Doctor. “But he’s driving.”
And that’s how we all ended up piled in Grandpa Joe’s room in the rehab center on a Monday morning, watching a very nice nurse ply him with strawberry Jell-O and crackers. Grandpa Joe is thrilled to see us. Madge is delighted. My dad and my mom look like their underwear is too tight. Hannalore appears to be contemplating gnawing off her own limbs. Mr. Doctor offers to get everyone ginger ale from the soda machine. The nurse tells us all that they hope to get Grandpa back on his feet in a few weeks.
“That’s good news,” says my mom. She clutches her heart as she speaks, and Grandma Emmy pats her arm.
“Grandpa,” I say, moving to the side of the bed. “I have something for you.”
“You do?” he says. His voice is weak but not as weak as it was. “Is it something dramatic?”
“Way dramatic,” I say.
“And unusual?”
“Take a look for yourself,” I say, and pull a small wrapped canvas from my backpack. I help him rip the paper.
It is a brand-new piece. Not one I rushed, but one I’ve been working on for a while. Cenerentola Buys New Shoes. Cenerentola’s in a shoe shop surrounded by piles of high heels and sneakers and clogs. Empty boxes litter the chairs and the floor.
But she’s trying on a special pair, a pair made just for her.
Glass slippers pronged just like bird’s claws.
Well.
If the shoe fits.
Grandpa beams. “That’s mighty unusual, Tola. Mighty unusual.”
“Yeah, okay,” says Madge. “We get it. She’s an artistic genius.
But on to more important stuff. I’m starving. Anyone up for a trip to the cafeteria? Tola?”
And before I can answer, it occurs to me that, for the first time in a long long time, I feel full.
( comments )
It looks like no one’s posted on “my” blog for a while. Not surprising considering I’ve now got competition like TheTruthAboutChelseaPatrick.blogspot.com and that prom video they can’t even put on the ten o’clock news without getting fined by the FCC. But if there’s anyone out there still reading this, I thought you might want to know that some reporter is actually writing a book about my story. Or what people think is my story. This is from the press release, which some helpful neighbor shoved into our mailbox:
“The book will concern the scandal that rocked Willow Park High School, leaving a teacher jobless, a teenage girl bullied and devastated, and a community in shock. The book will use interviews from various sources, including school officials, family, friends, neighbors, and classmates, as well as commentary from the victim herself.”
Commentary from the “victim.” I think they mean me, but if they were interested in talking to the real victim, it would be Mr. Mymer. He’s the one who lost his job when the whole world lost its collective mind. After I went to the next school-board meeting and spilled my guts, I sent him a picture of the mural I painted at the school (it stayed up for two whole days). I told him how sorry I was. He didn’t write back. At least, he hasn’t yet. I suppose I don’t blame him.
Even though I’ve been talking to reporters a lot lately—they’re all over this “cyberbullying” thing, which is funny considering they’re like a decade too late—I admit the book idea is a little weird. But then so many people have said so many things about me you could write a million books and they’d all be different. What do I care? Will this book really be about me? Or will it be about what other people have decided I am? Am I really “talking” to you now, or is this just some other random idiot killing time before their favorite show is on? Is what they say about Chelsea Patrick true, or is she just another “victim”? Prom video: the unvarnished truth or someone’s nasty home experiment with Photoshop and iMovie?
I guess it’s like everything else.
You have to figure out what you believe all for yourself.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I started this novel more than a decade ago, so I owe a huge debt of gratitude to a ridiculous number of people. Thanks to Ellen Levine, über-agent, and to Clare Hutton, editor and friend. To Catherine Onder, for her patience, her good humor, and the near-heroic effort that went into the editing of this book, and to Amy Ryan and Ray Shappell for their equally heroic efforts with the design. To Gretchen Moran Laskas, Anne Ursu, Audrey Glassman Vernick, Rosemary Graham, Gina Frangello, Cecelia Downs, Karen Halvorsen Shreck, Zoe Zolbrod, Tanya Lee Stone, Esme Raji Codell, Carolyn Crimi, Esther Hershenhorn, Myra Sanderman, and Franny Billingsley for reading early (and middle and endless) drafts, giving advice, and/or providing snacks. To Cynthia Leitich Smith, Greg Leitich Smith, Katie Davis, Sharon Darrow, Gail Giles, Kathi Appelt, Sean Petrie, and everyone else at the Austin retreat back in June of ’04 who read whole or part of the book in one of its infinite incarnations (and made me laugh so much). Thanks, too, to Sheila Kelly Welch and Jessica Metro, who shared their thoughts about making art. To Linda Rasmussen, Annika Cioffi, Tracey George, and Melissa Ruby for…oh, you know. And thanks to Steve, always, always, always.
About the Author
LAURA RUBY lives in Chicago with her family. She spent much of her misguided youth writing angry, angsty poems and dyeing her hair lots of colors not found in nature. She is the author of GOOD GIRLS and PLAY ME as well as several other books for children and adults. You can visit her online at www.lauraruby.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by Laura Ruby
PLAY ME
GOOD GIRLS
For Younger Readers
THE CHAOS KING
THE WALL AND THE WING
LILY’S GHOSTS
Credits
Jacket art © 2009 by Dean Birinyi/ Istockphoto LP
Jacket design by Amy Ryan & Ray Shappell
Copyright
BAD APPLE. Copyright © 2009 by Laura Ruby. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition September 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-192711-9
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900
Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com
Laura Ruby, Bad Apple
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends