Trauma Queen by Barbara Dee Read Free Book Online Page A

there was a definite limit: At a certain point in her act, she’d clean herself up and explain her message. Which was usually something about The Evils of Consumerism or Eroding Constitutional Values or The Perils to Our Planet. (Although sometimes, of course, it was just Aren’t I Creative? Buy Tickets to My Show.) Anyway, what you have to understand is that I was completely in the dark about Saturday night, November 30, which was the world premiere of Mom’s new performance piece.
    Entitled Nu-Trisha, Mother of Doom .

Point of View
    Emma, Mrs. Hartley, Kennedy, and I were seated at a sticky little table in the back of the Two Beez Café, watching the regular bunch of Saturday performers get up in front of the mic: Joey Something, who played acoustic guitar; Amanda Somebody, who sang Carrie Underwood; some angry high school girl, who rapped about her cheating boyfriend. I wasn’t sure why Mrs. Hartley had even come (Curiosity? To make sure Emma wasn’t eating garbage?). But whatever the reason, she frowned when Mom stomped into the spotlight with spray-painted yellow hair, pink smears on her cheeks like warpaint, and a turquoise sweater with glow-in-the-dark cables. And as soon as Mom thundered, “GREETINGS, MORTALS. I AM NU-TRISHA, MOTHER OF DOOM,” my stomach knotted up, and I thought I might literally faint.
    â€œJust go,” I whispered to Emma. “Leave now .”
    â€œWhy?” Emma said. “She’s a riot.” She grinned as Mom—I mean, Nu-Trisha—smashed some veggies together and hurled them at one of our big soup pots.
    â€œIt’s not going to stay funny,” I insisted. “Please just trust me on this, okay?”
    â€œIs this supposed to make sense, Marigold?” Mrs. Hartley asked. “Because I truthfully don’t understand what your mom’s trying to do up there.”
    â€œShe’s smashing vegetables,” Emma whispered.
    â€œI can see that. But is there a point?”
    I breathed. Mrs. Hartley didn’t get it; maybe everything would be okay. “It’s just dumb. Don’t feel you have to stay, Mrs. Hartley. Really, Mom totally won’t mind if you guys walk out.”
    â€œBut she invited us,” Mrs. Hartley protested.
    â€œBecause she felt bad about Chocolate Night. And it was extremely nice of you to come tonight, but now you can both leave. Please. ”
    Kennedy had been watching Mom with the same patient look she always had at these performances, but now she poked me in the ribs. “You shouldn’t be talking, Mari. It distracts Mom.”
    â€œGood,” I muttered. “I hope it does.”
    Suddenly Emma figured out what was going on. Her face got pale; I could tell even though the Two Beez was pretty dark. “Come on,” she said to her mother. “Let’s get out of here.”
    â€œJust leave?” Mrs. Hartley asked. You could tell she’d never walked out on anything before, and considered it Terrible Manners.
    Emma stood. So then Mrs. Hartley got up too.
    Sorry, I mouthed to Emma, but she didn’t even look at me.
    They headed quickly toward the door, Mrs. Hartley first, Emma following right behind. And then there was a loud boom. Mom was banging with a ladle on the veggie pot. It sounded like thunder.
    â€œHALT, MORTALS. ARE YOU WALKING OUT? NOBODY WALKS OUT ON NU-TRISHA.”
    Ulp, I thought.
    â€œ I SET THE STANDARDS FOR BEHAVIOR. I PASS JUDGMENT ON ALL MOTHERS. I FIX BALANCED MEALS.” She threw a tomato at the soup pot. “AND I INTEND TO OFFEND.”
    Mrs. Hartley froze.
    Then she flew out the front door of the Two Beez Performing Arts Café, with Emma running after her.
    For maybe three seconds there was total silence. Then Joey the Guitarist and the high school rapper burst out laughing. Beau and Bobbi, sitting by the kitchen, started laughing too. Even the waiters were laughing.
    Not me, though. “Oh, Mom, how could you?” I