Trauma Queen Read Online Free PDF

bars and Tootsie Rolls.”
    â€œAnd Kennie threw up.”
    â€œBut not from the chocolate. From the excitement.” Mom got up and did a yoga stretch. Downward Dog, or some semi-alarming name like that. “Anyway, Emma, the moral of the story is, you’re welcome to stay for dinner. If you don’t mind shameless self-indulgence.”
    â€œWhy would I mind?” Emma said, laughing.
    A few minutes later, Mom went back out to Stop & Shop. When she came back, she called us all to the table and passed out Dove Bars and Twizzlers and Tootsie Rolls and Milky Ways. (The Twizzlers were mainly for Kennedy, who was still a little shaken from the last Chocolate Night.) We drank gallons of milk and Emma told hilarious stories about her four slobby brothers, like the time the oldest one, named Seth, microwaved an unopened can of SpaghettiOs and almost incinerated the house. By seven thirty there were candy wrappers all over the kitchenette and we were feeling a little sick. But at least Mom was laughing along with the rest of us, which was the whole purpose of Chocolate Night.
    Only then, unfortunately, Trisha Hartley showed up.

Terrible Manners
    When I was a little kid, I thought my mom was the coolest mother in existence. No, I knew she was. Because everybody said so.
    I remember one time in second grade when all the parents were supposed to come to our classroom and talk about their jobs. Matt’s mom went first and talked about how she was a dermatologist, and how you should always wear sunscreen. Will’s mom talked about working in a bank. Emma’s dad talked about marketing, only it was so boring I didn’t listen.
    And then Mom walked to the front of the classroom.
    And started taking off her clothes.
    Everyone gasped. Until they realized that under her clothes was a scuba-diving outfit. Which was cool all by itself, really.
    But then she reached into a giant tote bag she’d brought, and took out three beach towels, which she carefully spread on the floor. She placed a chair on the beach towels and sat down. Then she grinned at the class and held up a giant bottle of imported olive oil. She twisted off the cap slowly, and before anyone could stop her, she poured some of it into her mouth.
    â€œEww,” said the class.
    Except she didn’t just drink it. She also poured it all over her scuba-diving outfit. In her lap, down her chest, even on her arms and legs. She also poured some of it onto her hair, and let it drip down her face. She was so oily and shiny under the fluorescent classroom lights that she practically glowed.
    At first no one knew what to say. “What’s your job?” a kid named Bradley Miller called out. “Are you a weirdo?”
    Mom shook her head. Oil spattered on the towels.
    â€œEww,” said the class again, louder this time.
    â€œAre you a grease monster?” Sean Koplik asked, laughing so hard he fell out of his chair. “Are you a french fry?”
    â€œNope,” Mom said.
    â€œAre you a weirdo?” Bradley repeated.
    â€œMs. Bailey?” Our second-grade teacher, Mr. O’Neill, was young and fun, but he was definitely getting a little nervous. “Can you please give us a clue about your profession? We’re kind of stumped here.”
    Mom grinned. “I’m the United States.”
    The class stared.
    â€œI’m guzzling oil,” she explained. “And making a big mess. Isn’t that silly?”
    The class roared. I mean, if you want to get a whole bunch of seven-year-olds to instantly fall in love with you, Mom had the secret formula. They clapped and jumped out of their seats and begged her to keep pouring oil over her head, but finally she wiped herself off with some paper towels and explained that she was sort of an artist, but not the easel type. She did performance art, she explained, using her body to make you see boring, everyday things in a surprising new way. “And possibly even think a