One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies Read Online Free

rims of my eyes turn redder than my hair
and my cheeks get hideously splotchy.
    Just like they are right now.
I need to splash some cold water on my face.
So I push open the door
to what I assume must be my bathroom—
and get my mind severely blown.
    Boy, I wish Lizzie could see this place.
She would
not
believe it.
I mean there’s a sunken tub in here.
And a separate glass shower.
And a sauna. And a steam room.
    Oh, and did I forget to mention the bidet?
Lizzie would think it was hysterical.
She’d probably be trying it out right now.
God, I wish she was here.
I wish Aunt Duffy and Ray were here.
    What’s the point of having
a bathroom that could be featured
on
MTV Cribs,

when there’s no one around I care about
to show it to?

    Dinner
    I thought there’d be a butler.
Some guy with an English accent
and white gloves, hovering
with assorted silver trays,
    lifting off shining domed lids
to reveal steaming … steaming …
Oh, I don’t know.
Steaming crumpets or something.
    But it’s just Whip.
And me.
Surrounded by
an acre of kitchen.
    Just Whip.
And me.
And at least one of every cooking device
known to mankind.
    There’s even a spatula that automatically
flips pancakes when you press a button.
Which Whip happens to be demonstrating
at this very moment.
    He looks like
such
an idiot in that apron,
going on and on about
how his macadamia nut pancakes
are renowned the world over

    and about how if he hadn’t been an actor
he probably would have been a chef
and about how tangy the oranges from his trees
are at this time of year
    and about how he gave his assistant
the weekend off
but I’m going to love him when I meet him
because he’s a real hoot
    and about how it’s fun sometimes
to have breakfast for dinner, isn’t it?
And on and on and on and on …
until the doorbell rings.

    Whip’s Up to His Elbows in Pancake Batter
    So he sends me to see who it is.
I swing open the door, and practically fall over—
there, standing right in front of me,
is Cameron Diaz.
    She grins when she sees my jaw drop,
and explains that she lives next door.
Cameron Diaz is my next-door neighbor?!
    Then she says she’s so glad to meet me.
She says Whip’s told her all about me.
Cameron Diaz knows things about me?!
    She says she hates to be a bother
but she was wondering if Whip
could loan her some vanilla extract
for this birthday cake that she’s baking for Drew.
Drew Barrymore?!
    Then she breezes right past me straight toward the kitchen,
like she’s been here a million times before.
Whip lights up when he sees her
and sweeps her into a hug.
She kisses his cheek.
    She only stays a minute,
but it’s plenty long enough for me to ask
myself the weirdest question of all time:
Is Cameron Diaz going to be my stepmother?

    After She Leaves
    I take a bite
of Whip’s famous pancakes
    And they’re delicious.
There’s no denying it.
    But I’d like to ram the whole perfect plateful
right down his throat.
    Mom
was a terrible cook.

    In My New Bed
    There’s a full moon tonight,
drifting through the sky
like a sad ghost
    gazing down at me
with these real soft eyes,
as though it understands …
    How pathetic is that?
The only person on the entire West Coast
that I can actually relate to
    is the Man in the Moon.

    She’s Trying to Get Out!
    I can hear her nails
scratching against the inside of the coffin,
hear her thrashing and kicking
and gasping for air that isn’t there.
    My mother’s not dead!
She’s been buried alive!
I’ve got to get her out!
I claw at the heavy lid till my fingers bleed.
    I heave my whole weight
against the smooth-as-skin wood,
over and over again.
I can hear her moaning, “Ruby … Ruby … Ruby …”
    Suddenly
her hand bursts a hole through the lid
and grabs on to my wrist
with slimy, rotting, horror-movie fingers.
    She starts laughing insanely,
trying to pull me down into the coffin with