Well, I haven’t found another mouse since my last posting (Kill Bill Volume 3: Coming Soon to a Cutlery Drawer Near You), so I thought it might be time for a little silliness. Here, I’m posting chapter 1 of my early teen novel, The Day I Washed My Face in the Toilet. If it catches your eye, and if you might consider posting a quick review on amazon (no obligation, of course!), please let me know and I’ll send you a free copy of the book. I hope this gives you a giggle. I also hope someone can explain why I can’t indent paragraphs in a blog – urgh!
Chapter 1: We call him Dementia Boy
Edward was naked, of course, except for the polka dot bandana he always wore like a mask on these special occasions. And he was using the upstairs bathroom window, this time — the puny one over the toilet — so I should have been spared the worst of the show. No such luck. By climbing on the toilet and turning his back to the window, he could press his butt against the glass, mooning me (and anyone else who happened to be looking). Then he’d crouch, spin around and wave — Dementia Boy in a polka dot mask — before starting his I’m-a-dork routine all over again.
Butt…polka dots…butt…polka dots…
If anyone discovered a drug that could cure what was wrong with my brother, they’d make millions.
“Oh, they’ll be fine on the plane alone,” Mom said. “Monica’s 14, now, so she can keep an eye on Edward…can’t you, Monica?” Mom was looking at me and smiling, but not with her real smile. It was her tight, fake smile. It was her If old Mrs. Frieson sees what Edward’s doing in that window, she’s going to have another stroke smile.
“Besides, it’s only eight hours to England — he’ll probably sleep through most of it,” she added, nodding like mad, trying to get me to agree.
Butt…polka dots…butt…polka dots…
“Sure, Mom, he’ll have no trouble sitting still for eight hours, as long as we kill him, first,” I said.
Okay, that’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I just smiled — my own version of the tight, fake smile — as I slowly shuffled to the left, trying to get old Mrs. Frieson between me and the window so she’d have her back to Dementia Boy. Mom shuffled along the sidewalk beside me, following my lead. It looked like a scene from one of those wild animal shows where a predator slowly circles its prey…except these predators were two crazed, smiling idiots, and the prey was a balding 82-year-old woman hunched over a walker.
Butt…polka dots…butt…polka dots…
“Well, I just don’t think it’s smart to let children fly all that way on their own,” said Mrs. Frieson. She glared at my shuffling feet, then moved her walker so she could face us again.
“Mom’s flying over in a couple of days, after her last surgery,” I said. “And we’re staying with my grandma. We’ll be fine.” My mom’s a pediatric gastroenterology nurse. That means she takes care of kids after doctors have been poking around in their bellies trying to make their intestines work properly. You don’t want the details, believe me.
Butt…polka dots…butt…polka dots…
“But where does your grandmother live? Is she near the airport? How will you even find her? This is ridiculous!” Mrs. Frieson thumped her walker on the sidewalk for emphasis — I hadn’t seen her this wound-up since she found Edward’s dead spider collection in the mailbox.
If I’d had the nerve, I’d have told her it was none of her business. After all, she’s only our landlady. But I didn’t have the nerve. And she’s our landlady.
“She’s in a little town called Old Warden, near Bedford,” Mom said. “And she’ll pick them up at the airport. It’s really no problem.”
Mom’s fake smile slid off her face as the bathroom window flew open.
“Actually, Old Warden isn’t a town, it’s a village!” Edward yelled through his polka dot mask, his scrawny chest hanging out the window. Even if puberty was incredibly kind to him, Edward was never going to be Tarzan material. “In England, a group of houses is called a hamlet. If there’s a church, it’s called a village. If there’s a market, it’s called a town. If there’s a cathedral, it’s called a city…”
Mrs. Frieson stared up at Edward with that glazed-over look that people get whenever he starts spouting facts. If there’s anything worse than a demented kid, it’s a demented kid who’s also a walking dictionary.
Suddenly, her eyes flew open. “Is that boy naked?” she asked.
“Um, well, yes…he’s…he’s a little precocious,” Mom said. As if on cue, Mom and I both made a break for it, scuttling toward the front door. “I have to get these kids packed!” Mom called over her shoulder. “Have a great weekend!”
“Precocious! What’s that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Frieson called out.
“It means he’s a pain in the neck,” I muttered, as I latched the door shut behind me.
Mom ran up to the bathroom to make Edward put on his clothes. Seriously, how many 10-year-olds do you know who need to be told to wear clothes? If he wasn’t such a great chess player, I would have drowned him in the tub years ago.
I’d had enough drama, so I went to my room to get packed. Big mistake.
The smell of hair spray took my breath away. Probably a good thing, too, because what I wanted to say wouldn’t have scored any bonus points with “Please Get Along, Today” Mom. You’ve heard people talk about walking into a room where it looked like a bomb had gone off? Well, a bomb had gone off — a bra bomb. There must have been a dozen of them scattered all over the floor…plus a bright pink one dangling over my desk chair. My desk chair. And standing in the middle of the whole mess was Shelley, wearing the only bra she hadn’t pitched across the room like a Frisbee.
“None of these stupid things fit anymore!” she yelled, waving her arms at her abandoned bra collection. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Don’t look at me,” I muttered. I hooked one with my foot and kicked it onto her bed (I thought that added a nice dramatic touch, actually).
Okay, I suppose I could have been nicer. Having The Incredible Expanding Chest couldn’t be easy. Shelley had officially reached the farthest edge of the sexy scale this year. Soon she’d be skidding right into “buxom cow” mode. But, really, she was asking the wrong person for sympathy. True, I was finally buying regular-sized bras. But I could probably still fit comfortably into my old training bra — not that I was going to depress myself by trying — and I probably wouldn’t have had any trouble running braless, either.
It was as if the gene fairy had been sick and tired of divvying things up fairly by the time she got to our family, so she just split the motherload right down the middle without giving it a second thought. Big boobs for Shelley…flat chest for me…long, slim legs for Shelley…short, dumpy legs for me…shiny blonde hair for Shelley…frizzy brown hair for me…perfect complexion for Shelley…straight A’s for me…
Okay, so it wasn’t entirely bad. Me and my dumpy legs had won the 8th grade science award this year — while there was a pretty good chance Shelley and her colossal boobs were going to end up working at some fast food joint after high school. But once (just once) I’d like to have to worry about whether a guy was only interested in me because of my looks. Seriously. Just once.
I made a sharp right and headed for my half of the room, holding my breath to avoid the hair spray fumes until I could get the window cranked open. Then I grabbed the bra she’d tossed onto my chair — my chair! — and sent it flying back onto her bed. The big ones fly surprisingly well.
Not that Shelley noticed. Now she was on a rampage, rummaging through her stuffed, overflowing dresser and muttering under her breath. But loudly under her breath, of course…one of Shelley’s mottos: if you’re going to rant, it’s important to speak clearly so your unwilling audience can hear you.
“These are all old lady undies,” Shelley complained, as she pulled out a baggy pair and shook them, hard, to knock off the socks that were stuck to them. Drama Queens love static cling — it really adds to their performance.
“Cripes, Shelley, we’re only there for nine days — who’s going to be looking at your underwear?” I asked. “Besides, you’d have tons to wear if you did your laundry once in a while.”
“Aaaarrrggghhhh…there’s lots here, it’s just that none of it’s sexy,” she said, flinging a handful of mismatched socks over her shoulder. “We’re going to London. I want to look sexy!”
“We’re going to Old Warden,” I muttered. “It’s almost two hours away from London — read a map once in a while.”
Shelley started throwing clothes into her suitcase — and when I say throwing, I mean throwing. Shelley didn’t believe in folding anything. I opened the top drawer of my dresser. Bras on the left, underwear stacked neatly in the middle, socks in layers on the right. Why couldn’t Shelley see how much easier life was when you could actually find things — like socks that matched and bras that fit? Why couldn’t she see how much nicer things looked when they were organized?
Mom scurried past the door with Edward’s suitcase. “Please do not let Auntie Gay bully you into packing up Grandma’s things before I get there,” she said. “Grandma’s really upset about the idea of moving into an old folk’s home, so I want to smooth things over before we ask her to make any changes.”
Close behind her — crouched low and scuttling down the hall warrior-style — was Edward. He was wearing a black t-shirt, black shorts, black socks and a black cape. He had his old bow and a bunch of arrows tucked under his arm (not real arrows, of course — Mom’s not nuts — his arrows had suction cups on the tips). As Edward followed Mom silently past the door, he never even glanced in to see what Shelley and I were doing. He never took his eyes off of Mom’s back. Stealth Boy had targeted his prey.
I tucked two bras, five pairs of undies and five pairs of socks into the corner of my suitcase. I’d pack light and use Grandma’s washer.
“Crap!” Shelley had yanked her sweater drawer out so far that it had dropped right onto her foot. Apparently, even divas need to show some restraint.
“And please don’t let Auntie Gay make you do a ton of work to get things ready for her wedding,” added Mom, as she raced past the door with an armload of Edward’s clothes. “Honestly, I think she’s lost her mind — having such a huge wedding when she’s 64…it’s silly!” Stealth Boy followed close behind, bow and arrow poised.
I slid the second drawer open. T-shirts. All folded neatly and color-coded, lightest ones on the left, darkest ones on the right. I pulled out one of each color so I could be sure to blend in.
“She’s already picked out matching bridesmaid dresses for us — can you imagine?” Mom called from Edward’s room. “She hasn’t even seen you in four years. What makes her think she knows…Ouch! Dammit, Edward! Put those arrows away right now!” Stealthboy had struck.
Third drawer. Sweaters. Favorites folded neatly on the left. Baggy, premenstrual, “don’t look at me I feel ugly today” sweaters on the right. I pulled out two of my favorites — no risk of PMS this week, and from what Mom had seen on the weather channel, it was going to be pretty warm over there, too.
“I hate packing!” Shelley muttered. No kidding. Now she was on her hands and knees, pulling dirty jeans and shirts out from the back of the closet. “I’ll be doing laundry all night — you just watch!” I had no intention of watching, actually.
Bottom drawer. Pants and shorts. This one was easy. Shorts meant shaving — a lot of shaving. Ankles to undies shaving. Wearing pants meant just mowing down the worst of the fuzz tonight, then one more touchup the day of Auntie Gay’s wedding. I picked out my three best pairs of jeans. Done — except for the bathroom stuff, of course.
Thunk!
I have to admit, Edward is fast. I yanked the plastic arrow off my forehead and threw it back at him as I headed down the hall. True, there was a chance he’d shoot me again. But there was also a chance he’d go after Shelley, instead — and I’d always wondered what he’d look like with his head stuck in the toilet.
Our bathroom…picture a tiny room crammed with everything they sell in Walmart’s beauty department, then add enough bathtub toys to make Mickey Mouse vomit, and you’ve pretty much got it pictured.
The tub was half full of old, faded, water toys — one of the many things that Edward was obsessed with and simply could not throw out. And then there were the baskets — six of them crammed onto the tiny countertop, overflowing with Shelley’s nail polish, makeup and skin care stuff. Plus a blow dryer, a straightener (for when she hates her hair because it’s too wavy), a curling iron (for when she hates her hair because it’s too straight), brushes, combs, gels, clips…
Seriously, if you wanted to know what color the counter was, you’d need a shovel.
Mom and I have one drawer each. And that’s enough, too. All I desperately need are my tweezers. If not for my tweezers, I’d have one big furry eyebrow — like a dead ferret draped across my forehead.
I quickly packed — brush, hair bands, soap…you know the drill — then headed downstairs. My toothbrush could wait until after breakfast tomorrow. Until then, I’d keep it tucked away in its usual safe spot at the back of my drawer. And actually, that’s not as weird as it sounds. True, most people leave their toothbrushes on the counter, but think about it: there’s a toilet in the bathroom, and every time someone flushes it, bacteria fly up into the air. Do you want your toothbrush lying there with toilet water raining down on it? That’s disgusting. No, mine stays hidden at the back of my drawer. Mine stays clean, thanks.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!…
I raced down the last few stairs just in time to see Mom throw open the front door. It was old Mrs. Frieson. Her hair — what was left of it, anyway — had been blown straight up by the wind. Her face was bright red. Her baggy old sweater was falling off her shoulders and she was holding onto her walker with one hand and waving a crooked finger at Mom with the other. She didn’t look like she was going to have a stroke, anymore — she looked like she’d just had one.
“That boy of yours is on the roof,” she sputtered. “And he’s naked again!”
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