Things Are Gonna Get Ugly by Hillary Homzie Page B

combination for any girl.
    â€œSo, class, you want to know what Dadaism is really?” says Ms. Stuckley, glaring right at me. “It’s actually a cultural movement started in Zurich as an antiwar protest during World War I. Artists created works rejecting the standards of the time.”
    Whoa! Wow. That’s what I was thinking in my head. Me! My brain! I actually knew the answer and even a little better than Ms. Stuckley. What else does Ernestine know? I’m starting to feel a little curious. Weird.
    Phone Tag
    When I get home, there’s a message on the phone. I scroll through the caller ID numbers, and I see the familiar L.A. area code. Dad. I am pleased. It’s Friday afternoon. A whole two days before Sunday, our day to talk.
    I play the message. “What’s up? It was good to hear your voice. You sounded upset and that had me all freaked. I can’t wait to see you on your b-day.I can’t believe you’re going to be the big one and four. You’re making me feel old, girl. I gotta tell you about this TV show that we saw filming in Santa Monica. Reminded me of Arrested Development mixed with Entourage . You would have loved it, totally. Talk to ya lat-er.”
    Holding the rock that I picked up from our old yard as a souvenir, I call him back, but I get the machine and his voice mail on the cell. “Call me,” I plead.
    I can’t believe it! We missed each other. On the counter, I spot a plate of nachos and pop a cheesy chip into my mouth and taste…meat. I haven’t eaten meat in, like, six months and now I’m shoveling the chips into my mouth. I’m so hungry I can’t stop eating. Maybe I want to get sick. And it’s not like I need to worry about getting a cramp at swim practice because I don’t have swim practice anymore. Ernestine apparently doesn’t worry about keeping in shape.
    Shoving another cheesy, meaty chip into my mouth, I glance over and see Mom, who is on the computer going over her most recent shots of the Culler twins in their Teletubby outfits. The desk space in front of her computer is littered with scraps of paper, pieces of chewed gum, bags of sesame sticks, various wrappers, pens, bills, and tissues. Behind thecomputer she has stacks of paper and notebooks filled with photos. There’s so much mess, I didn’t realize she was in the room. Usually, she’s out doing her photography stuff. It feels so weird to have her here with me. I’ve gotten so used to being by myself after school that part of me feels really happy and the other part resents the intrusion.
    I wait for the I told you so , but she doesn’t say anything about Dad. I almost liked it better when she RANTED because it was like he was still around. Now, it’s like he never existed at all.
    If I divorce—but that SO won’t happen because I’m going to make sure it’s the real deal before I take the plunge—but if I do, and that’s a big IF, I’ll make sure to talk about my ex and have a couple of photos up, because it’s not like he’d be dead or anything.
    Just look at her. Mom clicks and scrolls using her latest Photoshop software. It’s three thirty and she’s still in PAJAMAS and hasn’t run a brush through her hair. Can you blame Dad for leaving her for Big Lips, who was twenty-six and wore Juicy jeans? Not that he’s with Big Lips now. But that’s a whole other story.
    Mom notices me for the first time, I think.
    â€œHow was school?” she asks.
    â€œGood,” I say. Would it do me any good to tell her the truth?
    Prove It!
    It’s Sunday night, and I stare at the first problem in the algebra set and feel lost. I’m not sure what happened to Saturday. Spent it mostly hoping that my life would change back.
    It didn’t.
    Did I ever figure out what FOIL stands for? No. Wait a minute. Friday, in Stuckley’s class some part of part of my brain did know what