Trauma Queen by Barbara Dee Read Free Book Online

completely bonkers.”
    Mrs. Hartley looked at Mom as if she was a squished worm on the sidewalk. “You have no right to speak to me that way. Or to feed my daughter garbage. I’m sorry you didn’t get money for your stage act, but that’s no reason to stop being a responsible parent.”
    Now Mom’s eyes were enormous. “You’re saying I’m not a responsible parent? And that it’s because of my art ?”
    â€œYour art?” Mrs. Hartley actually laughed. “That’s what you call it? Standing onstage making a complete fool of yourself—”
    â€œExcuse me, Trisha, but you’ve never even seen me perform!”
    â€œI don’t have to. I’ve heard all about your performances from Emma.”
    â€œWhat?” Mom blinked first at Emma, then at me.
    â€œI didn’t tell her anything,” I said quickly. “Just about ‘LICE’—”
    â€œAnd the oil,” Mrs. Hartley said. “And the plastic surgery. And that cartoon business with Shakespeare.”
    â€œMom is very sensitive about her work,” Kennedy suddenly announced. Then she threw up.
    Everybody rushed to Kennedy’s side. She was fine, she kept saying, just too many Twizzlers. But she looked chalky white and sort of focused, like she might throw up again any minute, so Mom took her to the bathroom, and Emma dragged Mrs. Hartley out the door.
    See you Monday, Emma mouthed at me. She waved her Juicy Passionfruit fingernails and tried to smile.
    I tried to smile back. But I was terrified. All I could think was, What if Mrs. Hartley won’t let Emma come here anymore? What if she won’t let me go to their house? What if, thanks to Mom, I lose the best friend I ever had?
    I sewed a million scraps that weekend. Poke, pull, poke, pull.
    But it didn’t help.
    Monday finally came, and the first thing Emma and I did in homeroom was tell each other how incredibly sorry we were for our moms’ behavior. We even had a pretend-argument about Whose Mom was Crazier. (I said mine, although the truth was, I’d started to think Trisha Hartley was catching up in that contest.)
    We also agreed that for the next few weeks it would be better if Emma didn’t stay for supper, and that in general we should keep our mothers as far apart as possible. And that wasn’t hard, because Mom had suddenly gotten an inspiration for a new performance piece. So when she wasn’t dogwalking or unicycling or doing yoga in the living room, she was spending tons of time at the Two Beez Performing Arts Café, rehearsing this new character she’d invented, and getting feedback from the waiters. Our apartment was a total mess, but we didn’t even mind because Mom was happy.
    Two weeks later, she announced that she was ready to perform. The night before, she asked me if I wanted to invite Emma, who I knew would be thrilled at the invitation. “And Trisha might be interested too,” Mom added casually.
    â€œMrs. Hartley? ” I said slowly. “You’re inviting her to your performance ?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause, no offense, Mom, but I don’t think she’ll come.”
    â€œOh, I bet she will,” Mom answered. “She’s fascinated by my ‘stage act.’ “
    â€œ Fascinated? She thinks it’s stupid!”
    Mom just laughed. “She’ll be there, baby. You watch.”
    Now you’re probably thinking: Okay, Marigold. You know your mother is totally out of control, and capable of anything. So why didn’t you suspect that if she was inviting Trisha Hartley, she had to have some sort of warped ulterior motive?
    Because the truth is, up to this exact point, I had no idea that my mother was capable of anything. I mean, I always knew she was ready to embarrass herself. And to embarrass me, too, for the Sake of Art, and all that. But always, even when she Guzzled Oil back when I was in second grade,