Life Is Funny by E. R. Frank Page A

telling my mother the time, date, and place of my shoot: two weeks away in the city. I stare at the answering machine for a long time. I play the tape again. Then I dial the phone.
    â€œThis is Grace Sanborn,” I tell the secretary at my agency. “I got a call about the Future commercial.”
    â€œOh, yes, Grace. Congratulations.”
    â€œDid this get okayed by my mom?”
    The secretary laughs, the same laugh I’ve heard teachers use with me after parent-teacher night.
    â€œAbsolutely,” the secretary says. “We’ve been talking with her all day.”
    *  *  *
    China sees my ankle while we’re getting dressed after gym. She slams me up against a locker.
    â€œWhat the fuck is that?” she whispers, pinning me against the metal. The round lock digs into my back. Some of the other kids start to gather around. People love a fight.
    â€œGet off me,” I say. “Everybody’s looking.”
    â€œWe’re supposed to go to college,” she hisses.
    â€œCome on,” I say, wriggling a little to shake her off. It doesn’t work.
    â€œFight,” some eighth graders begin to chant. “Fight. Fight. Fight.”
    That lock is killing me.
    â€œYou can’t go to college if you’re all fucked up,” she breathes, mean, into my ear.
    â€œPlenty of fucked-up people go to college,” I tell her. Her breath smells like mint gum. “My mother went to college.”
    She slams me again, and my head smacks backward.
    â€œBitch,” she tells me, and then she’s crying.
    Ms. Evans and Ms. Lumus pull us apart and break up the crowd. China won’t stop crying, and I can’t start.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I keep telling her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    *  *  *
    In my imagination I tell my mother everything.
    I had a fight, sort of, with China today.
    You did? What about?
    It’s kind of hard to say.
    Try anyway.
    You might get upset.
    I won’t this time. I promise.
    She was pissed at me because I did something weird and bad.
    What did you do?
    I don’t want to tell you that part yet.
    Okay. Why did you do it?
    Because you make me so mad all the time. And you never listen to me. You don’t like me.
    Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I do like you. I love you. I’ll try harder. I really will.
    I’m scared to tell you the other part.
    Which part?
    The thing that I did.
    Just try.
    Okay. I cut myself.
    What do you mean, you cut yourself?
    I made scratches in my ankle on purpose with a razor blade.
    Why?
    I don’t know.
    I’m not really sure what happens after that.
    *  *  *
    On the morning of the shoot, our bell rings while my mother’s in the bathroom. Our buzzer doesn’t work, so I have to run down the two sets of stairs.
    â€œWhat are you guys doing here?” I ask.
    â€œWe wanted to wish you good luck,” China says. We’ve had a weird truce since the fight. We talk and don’t talk at the same time. Ebony’s been filling in the gaps, jabbering a mile a minute and calling us all kinds of bitches. She’s still cutting herself, and China hasn’t told on her yet. I haven’t cut myself again, but I’ve sat with Ebony a few times to watch her. It always makes my mouth water.
    â€œWhen you get famous, you better remember us little people,” Ebony tells me.
    â€œI wish you guys could come with me,” I answer, meaning it.
    â€œGrace!” We hear my mother shriek from two flights up.
    â€œNo, thanks,” China says, and we crack up.
    *  *  *
    My mom and I are trapped in a cramped room for hours before anyone comes to get me. I don’t have a book or a magazine or anything. Neither does my mother. There’s a makeup mirror lining one wall. It has small bulbs framing it, all the way around. My mom and I keep looking at each other’s reflection in that