Part 2 (1/2)
3.
”LEMON!”
My eyes flashed open as Dad knocked on my door and added, ”Rise and s.h.i.+ne!”
I saw my clock and started cursing.
It was too late for a shower, which I desperately needed. It was also too late to figure out a better costume for my presentation or, obviously, a change of topic and thesis for my end-of-year twenty-percent-of-my-grade social studies project. Not that I was ever considering dumping Gouverneur Morris, my one-legged s.l.u.tty brilliant hideous hero, but still. As if it's not bad enough to have my paper (another twenty percent of my grade) dissed by the teacher in front of the cla.s.s yesterday-well, and then shredded by me-I now had to present it, in all its Bglory, to my whole cla.s.s.
In costume.
As the one-legged hideous s.l.u.tty genius himself.
A normal person (Phoebe) would have done somebody easy. Actually, Phoebe would probably do a movie star so she could go in looking even more beautiful than usual. Quinn did Galileo last year. She just wore her hair in a bun and held a pendulum. She had hers totally memorized, of course, having practiced it in front of Mom and Dad a thousand times.
Not only was Jade's Eleanor Roosevelt costume perfect, she even had a great bonus prepared. I had helped her make little business cards to hand out to everybody after her project with a quote: ”Do one thing each day that scares you.” E. Roosevelt. ”Do one thing each day that scares you.” E. Roosevelt. Did I have handouts? No. I had a plunger. Did I have handouts? No. I had a plunger.
”Why didn't you wake me earlier?” I yelled to anybody who was listening. Or wasn't.
I whipped open my closet to find my loose brown cords and the white blouse I had ”borrowed” from Quinn, who sometimes does dress, luckily, like an eighteenth-century guy, all frills and velvet. Usually just for piano concerts, but I am convinced she actually enjoys it.
”Who took the plunger?” I screamed, when I realized it wasn't beside my couch where I'd left it. ”I need the plunger!”
Dad wandered by with some crack about stuffing up the toilets. He thinks he's such a guy, so laid-back and cool.
”It's for my costume, dude! I have a project today?” If it had been Quinn's project, the whole family would've been expected to be gluing cardboard buckles onto wingtips, but since it was my project, it was obviously a joke.
”Where the f-”
Before I could finish, our housekeeper, Gosia, was at my door with the plunger. I grabbed it from her. ”I left it here on purpose,” I told her.
Gosia raised one perfectly tweezed eyebrow and tiptoed silently away toward the back steps, down to deal with lunches. She totally favors Phoebe. Maybe it's a straight-s.h.i.+ny-hair/perfect-skin/skinny-girl-bonding thing. Or that Phoebe doesn't scream at her. Not sure which.
I'd had an idea about doing a ponytail-flip thing to make myself look more like Gouverneur Morris, but my hair, like the rest of my life, was refusing to cooperate. I had the scissors out from under the sink and in my hand before I talked myself down off that crazy ledge, reminding myself of past horror shows that were the result of self-induced haircuts. I tucked the huge ma.s.s of it all into the cap I had taken from Dad's closet. It was completely anachronistic, but would have to do because Dad didn't actually own any tricornered hats. Or if he did, they were all in the kindergarten cla.s.sroom where he is king and jester all rolled into one.
I made my bed, straightened my room in three seconds flat, and flew down the back stairs to hit the kitchen just as Quinn was threatening to leave without me. Gosia thrust a disgusting nutrition bar into my bag as we left.
”Are you seriously getting on the bus with a plunger?” Quinn asked.
”You are so mean,” I said. ”It's my peg leg.” I tried to demonstrate but almost fell over, and had to jog to catch up to her. ”The bus isn't even there yet.”
”And where's your hair?” she asked.
”Am I repulsive?”
”Yes,” she answered.
”Awesome,” I said. ”Thanks. After I spend the night finding your c.r.a.p for you.”
That got her attention. ”You found the baby monitor?”
”I left it on your desk!”
”Oh,” she said. ”I didn't see it.”
”Maybe if you ever filed a paper, you'd-”
”Shut up, Allison,” she said.
”What kind of project are you doing with a baby monitor, anyway?”
”Nothing.”
”I don't see what you could make for chemistry with a baby mon-”
”It's not for science, okay? Jeez, Al, you almost touched me with the plunger.”
”Sorry!” I held the plunger down. We were steps from the bus stop and, of course, no bus in sight. She always worries we'll miss it, so we're always there way early. ”So then, why did you need the baby monitor? To spy on somebody?”
”Yes,” she said.
I stopped arguing, stopped swinging the plunger, stopped everything. ”I was kidding,” I said. ”Are you?”
”No,” she said.
Quinn is the most straight, moral person who ever walked G.o.d's green earth. She doesn't curse or cheat; she doesn't even whine or complain or eat ice cream right from the container. She works hard and plays by the rules. She flosses, for goodness' sake. She would never spy on anyone. ”Who are you spying on?”
”You can't say anything.”
”You know me,” I said. ”I would never tell; you know that.”
”True. Okay. Mom and Dad,” she said.
”Oh.” I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or disappointed it wasn't me. ”Why are you-”
”What was that?” Quinn asked. ”Did you just turn your phone off?”
”No,” I said. ”You paranoid spy. That was yours.” But when I grabbed my phone out of my pocket to check, it was off. ”Weird,” I said, and tried to turn it back on. Nothing.
”Maybe it's dead.”
”I charged it last night,” I started to protest, but then it turned back on by itself, in my hand.
”You just have to hold down the thing for three seconds,” Quinn instructed me in her slow-talking way that makes it sound like everybody is stupid except her.
”I know,” I protested. ”Why are you spying on them?”