Trauma Queen Read Online Free PDF Page A

serious, Mari. My mom’s obsessed. She never relaxes about anything .”
    â€œWhoa,” I said, slowly and neatly brushing the Pink-tastic on Emma’s ragged thumbnails.
    â€œAnd does she go after my brothers like that? Even though all four of them are total slobs? No. She cleans up after them. You know why?” She blew on her thumbs. “Because they’re boys.”
    â€œThat’s so unfair!”
    â€œTell me about it.” A very sweet mutt that Mom was babysitting named Maxie came over and licked Emma on the nose. She laughed. “Just be thankful for what you’ve got.”
    â€œOh, I am,” I admitted. “I was just kidding about switching places.” And then I scratched Maxie between the ears, which wasn’t easy to do with my own sticky nails.
    That was during the summer. By the fall of seventh grade, Emma was getting so frustrated with her mom’s constant nagging that she started eating dinner with us every Friday night, and sometimes during the week, too, when she didn’t have soccer practice. Mrs. Hartley wasn’t too sure about Mom—I could tell this by her eyebrow angle and her no-teeth smile when she asked polite questions about Mom’s “stage act.” But she had four sons who did a million team sports each, and I think she was glad sometimes that she didn’t have to rush home from whatever practice to fix dinner for Emma. So she always let Emma stay at our apartment, even though, from Emma’s side of the phone conversation, you could tell her mom was starting to put up some sort of argument.
    One Friday evening in early November, Emma and I were sitting in the living room waiting for our nails (that day, Juicy Passionfruit) to dry. Suddenly Mom walked in the front door and immediately flopped on the sofa next to Emma.
    â€œWell, girls, I give up,” she announced.
    â€œYou give what up?” I asked.
    â€œThe whole performance thing,” Mom said. “All of it.”
    I sighed. I’d heard this one before. “What happened?”
    â€œWhat do you think happened , Mari? They rejected my grant proposal.”
    â€œWho did?” Emma asked, outraged.
    â€œThe American Arts Council.”
    Emma squinted at me like Who? What? How dare they?
    I examined a passionfruit-colored pinky nail. “Did they say why this time?”
    â€œNo,” Mom said. “My guess, and this is based on pure speculation, is that they think paintball is more of a sport than an artistic medium . And they think ‘random’ is a curse word. Just my theory, of course.”
    â€œMaybe you can get the money for your show somewhere else,” Emma suggested.
    â€œHmmph,” Mom said. She put up her feet on the coffee table. She twirled her wild frizzy hair into a ponytail, then let it sproing out angrily. “What money? What show? Mari, I hate to say it, but this looks like a definite Chocolate Night.”
    Emma’s eyes lit up. “A what?”
    â€œChocolate Night,” I said. “It’s sort of a family tradition. It’s what we save for those special sucky moments.”
    Mom poked my arm. “Like the time my beloved daughter took sides with The Horrible Mona Woman.”
    â€œDad’s girlfriend,” I explained.
    Mom snorted. “Or the time I rented the Lewisville Community Theater for a special performance of Swan Lake —”
    â€œMom played all the parts,” I said. “On rollerblades.”
    â€œYou bet,” Mom said. “It was fantastic. Except for one small detail: Nobody showed up.”
    â€œGram did. And Uncle Robby.”
    â€œUncle Robby doesn’t count, Marigold. He left before intermission.”
    â€œYeah, well, he had to go to work. And anyway Gram loved it.”
    â€œBecause she’s my mother. She’s required to love it. ” Mom stuck out her tongue at me. “So after that fiasco we had a huge feast of Snickers