My Messed-Up Life Page 6

  Which brings me to my final point. I understand that you think you’ll never have kids. Well, George, I can offer you the best of both worlds. You would have none of the muss and fuss of babies because you would be adopting two older daughters. As I mentioned, I am twelve and my sister, Rosie, is five. I believe we would make excellent stepchildren, and we would call you whatever you like, whether it’s George or even Dad.

  I am enclosing a photo of my mom so you can see that I’m not lying about her looks. I would appreciate a speedy response.

  Sincerely,

  Violet Gustafson

  I called Phoebe into the room when the letter was done. She read it through, and together we made a few adjustments. ‘This is really good, Violet,’ she said, and I could tell she meant it. ‘He’d be nuts not to want to meet her after he reads this.’

  We printed the letter in Cathy’s home office. Then we realised we needed George’s address, so we Googled him again. His home address didn’t seem to be listed, so we had to settle for his management company instead. I addressed the envelope to Mr Clooney, care of his manager. We put about six stamps on the envelope, just to be safe.

  Last but not least, I pulled out a photo from my jacket pocket. I’d taken it from the front of the Wedding video at home. Sure, it was a little dated, but I wanted a picture that would make a good first impression. Phoebe handed me a pair of scissors. I sliced Dad out of the photo, crumpled him up, and threw him in the garbage. Then I slipped Mom carefully into the envelope.

  Phoebe and I put on our jackets and walked to the mailbox on the corner. For once, it wasn’t raining. And as I dropped the envelope into the box, the sun broke through the clouds.

  8

  We had gym with Ms Baldelli for first period on Monday mornings, so I took Rosie to her kindergarten class while Phoebe headed to the changing room. Rosie was wearing her fairy wings again. I’d managed to fix the tear with a piece of duct tape. At first, Rosie hadn’t been convinced.

  ‘It doesn’t look very nice,’ she’d said.

  ‘What if I put a matching piece of tape on the other wing?’ I’d suggested. ‘That way it will look like a matching silver marking.’ That had done the trick.

  As I put her backpack into her cubby, she whispered to me, ‘That’s Isabelle, the girl who tore my wings.’ I glanced over. Isabelle was a few cubbies down. A couple of girls were gathered around her, and she was showing them her shoes. They were pink, and when she walked, little lights lit up around the heels.

  Then she spotted Rosie. ‘What’s that on your wings?’ she asked.

  ‘Silver marking,’ Rosie replied.

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s tape!’ Isabelle retorted. ‘It looks dumb.’ Then she turned her back on Rosie and bounced up and down on her shoes.

  Rosie took her wings off and handed them to me. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to wear them today.’ She stuck her thumb in her mouth and headed into class.

  I wanted to throttle Isabelle. Or at least pinch her, hard. Instead, I smiled as I walked past her and her little posse.

  ‘Great shoes,’ I said. ‘If you’re three.’

  Yeah. I know. Putting down a five-year-old is cheap, but it still felt good. I left the room with a spring in my step, slinging Rosie’s wings over my shoulder, and smacked right into Jean-Paul.

  ‘Hey, Pamplemousse. You plan on flying away?’ he asked, glancing at the wings.

  Pamplemousse? ‘They’re my sister’s.’

  ‘They go with your shoes,’ he continued, indicating my pink and white polka-dot high tops. ‘You love Converse, huh?’

  I nodded. ‘I have six pairs.’ We started walking down the stairs together toward the changing rooms, and I tried to remind myself that this was an entirely normal and non-meaningful thing to do and that my body could stop feeling all tingly.

  ‘Where do you get them?’

  ‘My dad sends them to me from L.A. They’re cheaper there.’

  ‘Your folks are divorced?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Mine, too. My dad’s still in Winnipeg.’ We arrived outside the changing rooms. ‘Well. See you in gym,’ he said, then he made a face. ‘I hear we’re doing line dancing.’

  I pushed open the door to the girls’ changing room. Phoebe was already in her gym shorts. I must’ve looked like I was in shock or something because she said to me, ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I said. Then, as nonchalantly as I could: ‘Jean-Paul just talked to me. He called me Pamplemousse.’

  ‘He called you Grapefruit! That is adorable!’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘He was just being nice.’

  Phoebe simply smiled, an annoying smug little grin.

  ‘Hey, Violet.’ Ashley and Lauren appeared from around the corner, where the mirrors were. I could tell from their faces that they’d been slathering on make-up. For gym.

  ‘Guess who I saw this morning?’ Ashley continued, smirking.

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Your mom. Outside Bean Around the World.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, she was making out with some dorky-looking guy with red hair.’

  Oh. I pulled my gym shirt over my head, hoping to hide what I knew was a bright red face.

  ‘Your mom gets around, doesn’t she?’ Ashley said. ‘Remember last year, when she dated our sub?’

  Groan. As if I could forget.

  •••

  What happened was this: In sixth grade, we’d had a sub for a few weeks. His name was Paulo Cassini, and he filled in for our teacher while she dealt with a family emergency. Mom met him at parent-teacher night, and he started making eyes at her. Right in front of me. Right in front of a few of the other parents. It was barf-inducing.

  They only went out a handful of times because he was a Dungeons and Dragons fanatic, and it was all he ever talked about. Their short dating history might have remained yet another yucky-but-brief Gustafson Family Secret if Ashley and some of her friends hadn’t seen them together at the Park Theatre one night, standing in the popcorn line, holding hands.

  Honestly, parent-teacher dating should be outlawed.

  •••

  ‘If I were you,’ Ashley said now as she applied one more layer of lip gloss, ‘I’d want my mom to nip the PDA in the butt.’

  ‘Bud,’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nip the PDA in the bud. You said butt.’

  Ashley gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Come on, Lauren,’ she said, and Thing Two obediently followed Thing One out of the room.

  Claudia was sitting next to Phoebe, wrapping her big wad of gum in a piece of paper so she could reuse it later. ‘You’re lucky,’ she said to me. ‘I wish my mom was still playing the field. She hooked up with my stepdad two months after my dad left. He’s a total jerk-face. Soon as I’m sixteen, I am out of there.’

  The door to the gym swung open, and Ms Baldelli blew her whistle. ‘Girls, get a move on!’

  We were spared doing line dancing because Ms Baldelli forgot her CD player. She made us play dodge-ball instead. Every ball I threw was aimed at Ashley’s head, but no matter how hard I tried, I never hit her.

  But she got me in the nether regions. Twice.

  •••

  ‘So, Violet. What do you think of this new guy your mom’s seeing?’ Karen asked me, without glancing up from her laptop. She was sitting in one of the salon chairs, her feet crossed under her. Phoebe and I sat beside her at my mom’s workstation, flipping through copies of US magazine and Entertainment Weekly. Rosie sat in her favourite chair farther down, spinning in circles. Once in a while, I would glance up at George Clooney’s grinning face and try to send him positive vibes.

  I looked straight at Karen and pretended to stick a finger down my throat.

  ‘You don’t like any o
f your mom’s boyfriends,’ Karen replied.

  ‘That’s because they’re all losers.’

  ‘Hey. I set her up with some of those so-called losers.’

  ‘Yeah, and they were the worst ones of all.’

  Karen gave me the hairy eyeball, but she didn’t contradict me because she knew I spoke the truth. She’d set my mom up with Carl, the first guy Mom had dated post-Dad. He seemed like a sweet funny guy at first. But Mom quickly found out that he went all Jekyll and Hyde when he drank. After she told him she didn’t want to see him any more, he showed up at our house one night, drunk as a skunk. Mom wasn’t home. When I refused to let him in (duh), he picked up a rock and hurled it through our front window.

  The Brights saw it happen. They were the ones who called the cops. We never saw Carl again.

  Karen was also the one who set my mom up with Jonathan. In some ways, Jonathan had been the worst of all.

  ‘She seems to like him,’ Karen said now. ‘What’s his last name again? Frankfurter?’

  ‘Wiener,’ I said. ‘Dudley Wiener.’

  Karen cackled. ‘That’s a truly unfortunate name.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be working or something?’ I said. My mom was helping Mohamed give a woman a perm a few chairs down.

  ‘I’m here if the students need me,’ she replied. ‘I’m just checking my Facebook page. Speaking of which, how come you haven’t friended me yet?’

  Phoebe and I peered at each other over our magazines. We were both on Facebook; all the kids at school were. Personally, the thrill of Facebook had worn off pretty quickly for me, possibly because I had just nine friends and one was Phoebe and one was my mom. I only checked my page about once a week. So when I’d logged on last week and seen 1 friend request, I won’t lie, I was kind of excited. Until I found out the request was from Karen. The urge to hit IGNORE was overwhelming. But instead I hadn’t hit CONFIRM or IGNORE. I just logged out instead.

  ‘Oh,’ I lied, ‘did you try to friend me? I haven’t been on in such a long time.’

  ‘Well, friend me back. I’m about to break the three hundred mark.’

  Honestly, it was hard to believe Karen was in her late thirties sometimes.

  Mohamed had just put his client under a hair-dryer, so Mom came and joined us. She was wearing a shirt that covered her spare tyre today, which was a relief.

  ‘Do you want that trim now?’ she asked me.

  ‘Sure, thanks.’

  Karen made a face as my mom started trimming my hair. ‘It looks better longer, Violet. You should let it grow out. Boys like girls with long hair.’

  ‘Then this is perfect because I don’t want boys to like me.’

  ‘Why? Are you gay?’

  ‘Karen—’ my mom began.

  ‘I’m not gay,’ I replied. ‘I’m just not interested.’

  ‘Seriously? Man, I was boy crazy by the time I was five,’ Karen said, chuckling at the memory.

  ‘Yeah, and look where that’s got you.’

  Phoebe snorted from behind her magazine. Karen opened her mouth to retort, but Mom cut her off. ‘Enough, you two. Violet, remember you have to call your dad when you get home.’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m serious. After making your sister lie for you yesterday...’

  ‘She didn’t lie. She said, She says she’s not here.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me. He’s expecting your call after school today.’ She tugged gently on my ear. ‘You can’t avoid him for ever, Violet. You need to clear the air.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you still haven’t apologised?’ asked Karen, incredulous.

  ‘Shut up, Karen,’ I replied. Which was just another way of saying no.

  •••

  When we got home, I gave Rosie a glass of milk and a granola bar from the Costco mega-pack in the cupboard and sent her down to the basement to watch a video. Then I ran upstairs to my bedroom and grabbed my Magic 8 Ball.

  Phoebe was already sitting on the gold couch when I came into the living room. I sat on the red couch.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Phoebe asked.

  I shrugged. ‘It’ll keep things interesting. Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  I picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Hello?’ I heard my dad’s voice on the other end. So did Phoebe, since I had us on speakerphone.

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Violet, is that you? We have call display.’

  I shook the Magic 8 Ball. ‘It is decidedly so.’

  ‘I’m glad you called. We have lots to talk about. How are you?’

  I shook it again. ‘Ask again later.’

  There was a pause. ‘Hey, I’m directing an episode of Glamour Girl starting next week. Isn’t it your favourite show?’

  It was. But since the Magic 8 Ball was providing my answers, I said, ‘Don’t count on it.’

  There was another pause. I could tell he was trying really hard not to sound frustrated, which gave me a great deal of satisfaction. ‘Yeah, I guess your favourite shows change all the time. Too bad, I got you Carly Joseph’s autograph.’

  Phoebe and I looked at each other, our eyes wide. We loved Carly Joseph.

  ‘Maybe I’ll send it anyway. If you don’t want it, Rosie might.’

  ‘It is certain.’

  There was another pause. ‘Are you answering me from a Magic 8 Ball?’

  ‘Signs point to yes.’

  ‘Well, cut it out, OK?’ he said, and this time he didn’t hide his frustration. ‘We have to talk about what happened when you were here. Jennica’s still really upset, and no wonder. You owe all of us an apology, Violet. Especially your little sisters.’

  I shook the Magic 8 Ball. ‘My reply is no.’

  Dad took a deep breath. ‘Look. You and your sister are supposed to be coming down for March Break. But until you apologise... I can’t allow it.’

  To be honest, this stung a little, but I kept my expression neutral for Phoebe’s sake.

  ‘How could you have done it, Violet?’ he continued. ‘They’re two years old. They’re your sisters, for crying out loud!’ He sounded genuinely upset now.

  Phoebe covered her face with her hands, peering through the cracks between her fingers like she was watching a horror movie.

  I didn’t answer. Part of me wanted to shout that of course I was sorry, that I knew it was a terrible thing I’d done. But part of me wanted to shout that what he’d done to us was so much worse, and nobody had ever made him apologise.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’m done. Just remember that I love you.’

  I shook the ball one last time. ‘Highly doubtful,’ I said. Then I hung up.

  Phoebe looked at me, a cushion crushed against her chest. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That was better than TV.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re truly awful.’

  But the way she said it, I could tell it was a compliment.

  9

  After Dad moved to Los Angeles to be with Jennica, I made like a turtle and went into my shell. I spent most of my spare time alone in my room, reading or doing weird obsessive reorganising of our clothes, our books, our toys. When I was done with the stuff in our room, I’d sneak into Mom’s room and organise her shoes by colour, or line up everything in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom according to size. It wasn’t so much about cleaning as it was about wanting everything to be in its proper place.

  Phoebe tried to pull me out of myself for the first couple of weeks, but when she realised it wasn’t working, did she abandon me? No. She’d just come over with a book of her own, and the two of us would read in my room for hours without talking. If I needed to take some time out to reorganise all the towels and sheets in our linen closet, she wouldn’t say a word. We traded books we liked, and by the end of those first few months, I’d read the Narnia se
ries, the Alice, I Think trilogy, plus everything Judy Blume and Roald Dahl had ever written.

  Mom was worried about me, but she had a lot of other stuff on her plate. She had to look after Rosie; she had to think about going back to work; and she was dealing with her own grief. At first I thought grief was a weird word to use because it wasn’t like my dad had died or anything. But Amanda explained to me one night that grief was the perfect word.

  ‘Your mom has suffered a big loss. You all have.’

  I didn’t tell Amanda that I sometimes wished Dad was dead. Killed in a car crash, or struck by lightning. I thought it would be easier to grieve if he was dead and buried, instead of alive and well and living in L.A. with a bimbo who was about to give him a new set of children to love.

  Eventually, on Amanda’s advice, my mom sent me to a therapist to help me work through my feelings. The therapist’s name was Dr Belinda Boniface, which was a pretty fabulous name. She was nice enough, I guess. I only went a handful of times because Dr Belinda Boniface charged a lot of money for her services, which didn’t make a lot of sense to me since all she did was ask questions and watch me play with dolls.

  One day she asked me to draw a picture of our family. This is what I drew.

  She noticed that my dad wasn’t in the picture, so she asked me to draw a picture of him. This is what I drew.

  Afterward, Dr Belinda Boniface told my mom that these drawings indicated that I was feeling a lot of anger toward my dad.

  Duh, I remembered thinking. I hardly needed expensive therapy for someone to tell me that.

  10

  ‘What’s your alias?’ I asked Phoebe.

  ‘Nancy,’ she said.

  ‘As in Drew?’

  ‘But, of course.’

  ‘And what are you looking for?’

  ‘A gift for my mom’s birthday.’

  It was a Tuesday night, and Rosie and I were hanging out at Phoebe’s house. We’d just demolished one of Cathy’s delicious stir-fries and were working our way through wedges of Günter’s apple pie. We’d come by after school so I could do a couple of loads of laundry, and when Cathy had heard that my mom was going out with Dudley again, she’d invited us to stay for dinner.