My Messed-Up Life Page 9

  Mom knelt down beside her. ‘I’m not happy that you keep biting this girl, Rosie. But I also understand that they’re not getting both sides of the story. Honestly, these people are supposed to be trained in early childhood education.’

  We started to eat. I had suggested to Rosie that if she told Mom about the call from Jennica, one of her dolls might mysteriously lose its head. So I was rather impressed by her courage when she announced, ‘Daddy’s new wife called today.’

  Mom dropped her fork. It clattered onto her plate. ‘Did she?’ Mom asked, in an eerily calm voice.

  ‘She says we’re still invited to their house for March Break. But she wanted Violet to say sorry for the poop first. Please please, I wanna go; they got a pool.’

  Mom looked at me. ‘Did you apologise?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly?’

  ‘I kind of hung up.’

  ‘Oh, Violet.’ She picked up her fork again.

  I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go, anyway.’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You have to maintain a relationship with your father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s your father.’

  ‘So? You were his wife, and you don’t have to “maintain a relationship.”’

  ‘That’s different and you know it. Besides, those girls are your sisters.’

  ‘Half sisters—’

  ‘Please, Violet!’ Rosie begged.

  ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘I hate going down there! I hate having to act like everything’s OK. It’s not OK! Jennica ruined our lives. Everything was perfect before she came along.’

  Mom put her fork down again. ‘Everything wasn’t perfect, Violet. Your dad and I had been drifting apart for a while—’

  I clamped my hands to my ears. ‘La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!’ I chanted, standing up so fast, I tipped over my chair. I couldn’t pick it up without taking my hands away from my ears, so I left it there and took the stairs two at a time to my room. OK, it was not the most mature reaction in the world, but, really, I wasn’t going to listen to my mom as she tried to reinvent history.

  I picked up Rosie’s doll Roxanna from her bed, popped her head off, left her decapitated body lying on Rosie’s pillow, and hid the head in a shoe box at the back of the closet. Then I rearranged all of our clothes in order of the colour spectrum, thoughts racing through my head.

  They did not have problems. They had been perfectly, utterly happy.

  Hadn’t they?

  14

  My bad mood flowed right into Friday. Jean-Paul still wasn’t at school. I got a C on my maths test. It was raining cats and dogs on the way home, and I ruined my brown suede Converse shoes when I accidentally stepped into a giant puddle.

  Once we were inside, I picked the mail up from the floor and had a quick look. There were two bills and one brown eight-by-ten envelope.

  From Los Angeles. With a sticker in the top left corner that read From the Office of George Clooney.

  My heart started to race.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Rosie. ‘Can you make me a snack?’

  ‘Get your own snack,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not your servant.’

  ‘You’re a poop-head,’ Rosie said matter-of-factly before she tore off into the kitchen.

  I could hardly breathe. Carefully I tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter inside.

  Dear Violet,

  Thank you for your fan letter to George Clooney. Unfortunately, due to the volume of fan mail he receives, we must respond with a form letter.

  However, please be assured that George appreciates the time you took to write to him, and as an expression of his gratitude, we have enclosed a signed eight-by-ten glossy of him for your collection.

  Sincerely,

  The Office of George Clooney

  ‘A form letter?’ Phoebe said when I called her. ‘Violet, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Rmph,’ I muttered. I was sprawled out on the red couch, beyond depressed.

  ‘You know what I think? I think George never even saw your letter. I think his manager just handed it off to an assistant or something.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ I heard the key in the lock. ‘Mom’s home. I’d better go.’

  ‘Right. The official Gustafson Girls’ Night. Maybe that’ll cheer you up,’ said Phoebe. ‘We’ll strategise tomorrow.’

  I put down the phone, dragged myself off the couch, and shuffled into the foyer. ‘I hope you got a comedy,’ I said to my mom. ‘I could use some laughs—’

  I stopped midsentence. Mom wasn’t alone.

  ‘Violet, I told Dudley he could join us for movie night. I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. The Wiener shifted nervously from foot to foot beside her, clutching a bag of take-out food from Zipang.

  ‘It’s not called Movie Night. It’s called Girls’ Night,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe I should just go—’ Dudley began.

  ‘No, stay!’ shouted Rosie as she ran in from the kitchen with what looked like chocolate ice cream smeared all over her face. ‘I want you to stay. So does Mom.’ She looked at me hopefully. ‘So does Violet. Right, Violet?’

  I just rolled my eyes.

  ‘I brought you girls a box of Purdy’s Chocolates,’ he said, holding it out to us. ‘Vanilla creams and caramels.’ Purdy’s vanilla creams were my favourite. Purdy’s caramels were Rosie’s favourite. Obviously Mom had fed him this piece of intel. It was a blatant and pathetic attempt to win us over, and I refused to reach for the box. Not that it mattered since Rosie grabbed it out of his hands faster than you could say pushover.

  ‘You can sit beside me for the movie,’ Rosie said to him.

  ‘Speaking of movies,’ Dudley said as we went into the living room with the food, ‘did you see the one about the cannibal who ate his mother-in-law? It was called Gladiator. Get it? Glad I ate her?’

  Mom laughed. I gazed at him stonily. ‘Let me guess. Another yard-sale find?’ I asked him, pointing at his hideous sweater. This one featured a mallard on the front.

  ‘No. Someone made it for me. I like this sweater.’ He actually sounded hurt.

  ‘It’s a lovely sweater,’ Mom said, patting his arm. Then she turned to me. ‘I saw your maths test on the hall table. You got a C.’

  I shrugged. ‘It was geometry. I hate geometry.’

  ‘Now, Violet,’ Dudley said, ‘without geometry, there’d be no point.’ He laughed at his own feeble pun. I did not. ‘Sorry, I forgot. You don’t like puns. But that’s OK. A good pun is its own reword.’

  It was going to be a long night.

  •••

  Mom had rented The Fantastic Mr Fox. Mr Fox was voiced by George Clooney, which I knew Phoebe would find interesting from a psychological perspective.

  ‘Mom met George Clooney once,’ I announced, when we heard his distinct voice for the first time.

  ‘Really? You met George Clooney?’ asked Dudley, clearly impressed.

  ‘I met a lot of actors when I worked in production,’ my mom said. ‘But George was by far the sweetest. And the hottest.’

  ‘He said he hoped their paths would cross again,’ I added.

  ‘George Clooney has good taste,’ Dudley replied, then he actually gave my mom a kiss on the lips, right in front of us. I had to force myself not to gag. ‘Actually, I get told quite often that I could be his twin,’ he joked, sticking out his nonexistent chin and giving us a cheesy smile. Mom laughed too hard, and Rosie laughed too, even though she had no idea what was funny.

  ‘In your dreams,’ I said under my breath.

  Throughout the movie, Dudley sat on the red couch, with my mom on one side and Rosie on the other. I sat as far away from them as possible on the gold couch, even
though I could barely see the TV screen. It was a good movie, but I couldn’t concentrate because, out of the corner of my eye, I could see both my mom and my sister leaning in to Dudley. He held my mom’s hand throughout practically the whole film, like a lovesick teenager. Honestly, it was all very ick.

  After the movie Mom brought out Pictionary, but I didn’t want to play. I felt sick. Mom said it was the eight vanilla creams I’d eaten. I knew better.

  So I went upstairs while the three of them played the game. I read one of the Cherub books, envying James and his sister Lauren, who were not only kid spies, but orphans too. After a while, Mom brought Rosie up to bed. I helped get her into a pair of pull-ups, and she fell asleep almost instantly. I got into my pyjamas and lay awake for as long as I could, waiting to hear Dudley leave. I thought I heard the door open and shut around midnight, just before I fell into a deep sleep.

  •••

  I woke around 3:00 a.m. with serious stomach cramps. I burped and it tasted like acid and vanilla, a truly nasty combination.

  I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. My eyes were only half-open, so I didn’t see him till the last second. He was coming from the other direction, also heading to the bathroom.

  Dudley.

  Naked Dudley.

  Well, almost naked – he was wearing pants, thank you, God.

  I screamed.

  He screamed.

  And I tried not to look, I really did, but his blinding white flesh was right there in front of me, and I couldn’t help but notice his moobs, his flabby stomach, and his hairy legs, which were too skinny for the rest of his body.

  Mom came running out of her bedroom, a robe wrapped around her.

  ‘Omigod, Violet, I’m sorry. I should have told you Dudley might stay over.’

  ‘Violet, I – I—’ Dudley stuttered.

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. I pushed past the two of them and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

  Then I proceeded to throw up every single one of those vanilla cream chocolates.

  15

  Thanks to the severe trauma I’d suffered, I didn’t manage to fall back to sleep until 5:00 a.m. It was eleven the next morning when I finally woke up.

  I got out of my pyjamas and slipped on yesterday’s clothes. I didn’t want to go downstairs. Even though I was pretty sure The Wiener would be long gone by now, I knew I was destined for one of Mom’s talks.

  I was half-right. When I got downstairs, I found Rosie in the living room, snuggled up to Dudley while he read her Stanley’s Party, one of her favourite books. I couldn’t even look at him.

  ‘Where’s Mom?’

  ‘She’s having a shower,’ Dudley replied, and he blushed.

  Good, I thought. You should be embarrassed! You should also buy some new pants and a gym membership!

  ‘Rosie, where’s Mom?’ I asked, ignoring Dudley.

  ‘Dudley just said. She’s having a shower.’ Then she looked up at Dudley with big adoring eyes. ‘Keep reading.’

  ‘You can read later, Rosie. Let’s go to Liberty Bakery and get some treats.’

  ‘Too late. Me and Dudley already went,’ she replied.

  My insides felt sour. ‘But I always go with you.’

  ‘You was sleeping,’ she said simply.

  ‘We brought you back a monster-sized scone. And Ingrid made a big fruit salad. I’ll get a plate ready for you,’ said Dudley, starting to get up.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, even though my stomach was growling loud enough for them to hear.

  ‘I wanted to mention...’ Dudley continued, and for one horrified moment, I thought he was going to bring up the traumatising events of last night, ‘... if you ever need help with your maths homework, I’m a bit of a whiz...’

  I gave him the hairy eyeball, which shut him up. Mom entered the living room a moment later, dressed for the day, her hair freshly washed.

  ‘Good. You’re up. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me for a moment?’

  Sigh.

  I shuffled into the kitchen behind her. Mom poured herself a cup of coffee. I leaned against the counter.

  ‘I want to apologise again, Violet. I should have told you Dudley might stay over.’

  ‘Yes. You should have.’

  ‘The truth is, it took us by surprise, too.’

  Ew. ‘Yeah, well. Don’t let it happen again,’ I said.

  There was a pause. ‘I can’t promise that—’

  Suddenly a sound reverberated through the house – a sound I hadn’t heard in over a year.

  ‘The doorbell’s working,’ I said.

  My mom smiled. ‘Dudley fixed it this morning.’

  From where I stood, I could see Dudley as he answered the door. Our door. It was some guy from Greenpeace, and Dudley started chatting to him about climate change. Rosie ran to join him. She leaned into him and wrapped her little arms around his leg, as if she was afraid that if she didn’t, he’d leave and never come back.

  ‘He’s going to fix the washing machine next,’ Mom continued. ‘Apparently it just needs a new thingamajig. We won’t have to do laundry at Phoebe’s any more.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You know what I meant—’

  ‘Nobody asked him to fix our doorbell.’

  Mom took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. He just went ahead and did it while I was making coffee.’

  ‘He should have asked first.’

  ‘Violet—’

  ‘It’s not his doorbell! It’s our doorbell!’ I felt tears pricking my eyes, and I hated myself for it. I jumped up and ran out of the kitchen, pushing past Dudley, Rosie, and the Greenpeace guy at the door.

  ‘You’re not wearing shoes!’ Rosie shouted after me.

  I didn’t care. All I could see was black. I felt like I wanted to punch something or someone. I felt like I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.

  At Phoebe’s house, Günter opened the front door. He took in my T-shirt and bare feet. ‘I’ll get you some slippers’ was all he said as he pulled me into their house.

  •••

  ‘You saw him naked?’

  ‘Not totally, thank God. He was wearing pants.’

  We were sitting in Phoebe’s bedroom. Günter had brought me a bowl of porridge, which I was devouring.

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Briefs. Old ones. They were all saggy in the bum.’ I shuddered at the memory. ‘He probably gets his underwear at yard sales, too.’

  ‘So, they must have, you know, dot dot dot...’

  ‘Duh.’

  I slurped up the last of the brown-sugar-flavoured milk from my porridge bowl. ‘You know the weird part?’ I continued. ‘The dot dot dot doesn’t bug me as much as the doorbell. The doorbell makes me crazy.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not about the doorbell,’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s about what the doorbell represents. If your dad was still living with you, he would have fixed the doorbell, right? That sort of stuff was his territory, as man of the house.’

  ‘I guess so, yeah.’

  ‘So by fixing your doorbell, Dudley’s acting like he’s the man of the house. It’s like he’s auditioning to become your father’s replacement.’

  I groaned; it was worse than I thought. ‘And Mom and Rosie are falling for it.’

  ‘You really dislike him, huh?’

  ‘There’s just something about him, Phoebe. He’s always this jokey kind of guy... but it’s like there’s something darker lurking underneath.’

  Phoebe thought for a moment. ‘OK, then. Here’s what we need to do. One, more detective work. And two,’ she grabbed her laptop from under a pile of dirty socks on the floor, ‘you need to write another letter to George Clooney. And write one to his manager while you’re at it.’
>
  This is what I wrote.

  Dear Sir:

  I sent your client, George Clooney, a letter a few weeks ago. Yesterday I received a form letter in response. I won’t lie: that hurt.

  It also made me suspect that you, Sir, are not actually giving him his mail. I am positive that if George had actually read my letter, he would have responded. Don’t deny it; I’m on to you.

  George deserves to read his own letters. He is not a child. Remember: you work for George. George does not work for you.

  I am enclosing a copy of the letter I sent on January 19 in the hopes that this time, Sir, you will do the right thing and give my letter to the man it was intended for.

  Thank you in advance,

  Violet Gustafson

  Dear Mr Clooney,

  Hello again. It’s me, Violet Gustafson, Ingrid’s daughter. I hope that by the time you read this, your manager has done the right thing and passed on the letter I sent you almost a month ago (I’ll enclose another copy just in case). You should really have a talk with him, George. I don’t have actual physical proof, but I’m almost positive he’s reading your mail and not even giving you a chance to see it. Maybe it’s time for a new manager.

  (George’s manager, if you are reading this right now, STOP. Take a long look at yourself in the mirror and DO THE RIGHT THING.)

  Anyway, George – please read my letter. If you detect a note of urgency in my tone this time, you would be correct. See, last time I wrote, my mom had just started dating this guy named Dudley Wiener (yes, it’s his real name). I didn’t bother mentioning him because, to be honest, I figured he’d be like the dinosaurs by now, i.e., ancient history.

  But he isn’t, George. It’s over a month later and he’s still very much in the picture. Trust me when I say she deserves so much better. So please – don’t wait a moment longer. Respond to my letter ASAP.

  With anticipation and appreciation,

  Violet Gustafson

  Phoebe and I printed the letters and put them into two separate envelopes. We walked to the corner and put them into the mailbox. Then we went back to her place to eat bagels and cream cheese from Solly’s and strategise about our next stakeout.