Chapter One chapter one THE FIRST LINES OF BOOKS are so phony. It's like they trick the reader into reading the whole book with one sparkling good sentence. Truth is, the beginning of a book doesn't make a book great. It's the ending that matters most. Which is why I read the last page before I read the beginning. Because if there's one thing I hate most in the world, it's surprises. I've already had too many surprises. Like when we had to move from Manhattan to Rhode Island. Or when my cat, Rascal, ate rat poison and died. Or when my mom took my sister to Ryan's Arcade and not me. Or when my dad left without saying goodbye. I don't want any more surprises. This morning is no different. I crack open the end of The Old Man and the Sea , my newest book from the library. I can't wait to get started. I've got twenty-three minutes before we leave for school. Knuckles knock against my bedroom door, and Minerva says my name. "Bag." I ignore her and focus on the last page. "... looking down in the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw..." "Bag," she says again. Old hinges bend and squeak as she opens my bedroom door. My eyes stay on the book. "Leave." "Mom wants to talk to us," she says. I grunt and glare at my sister. It's School Spirit Day, and she certainly plays the part: flat-ironed hair, skinny lips, curvy hips, and an unwrinkled cheerleading uniform. Only, this morning I see something different about her polyester skirt. I notice a small burn hole near the hem, no bigger than a pea. "Girls!" Mom shouts. "See, Bag," Minerva says. "Told you." "Fine." I tuck The Old Man and the Sea under my arm and follow my sister down the hallway. Random Thought 929.4 My real name is Margaret. When I was little, back when my dad was around, he started calling me Maggie. Minerva quickly changed "Maggie" to "Baggie." Then somewhere along the line "Baggie" got shortened to "Bag." When we first moved here, I thought about using "Maggie" again, but then that would remind me of my dad and our old life in New York. So I told everyone my name is "Bag." Here's what I've learned about names: Once they stick, they stick for a really long time. The kitchen is the same as always. A disaster. Next to the sink there's a bowl of garbanzo beans, on the counter there's oodles of pita triangles, and the kitchen table is covered with juice boxes, packets of olives, and cheese squares. Mom is, once again, running late. Every morning she makes lunches to sell at private schools in Providence. Every morning she barely finishes. Mom chops cherry tomatoes on a wooden cutting board, which is resting on top of the oven. She hacks into the tomatoes, while I check to make sure the oven is off. (It is.) Then I look at her face, expecting to see her usual frown. But today Mom smiles a huge, happy grin. "Do you need help?" I ask. "Mom," Minerva cuts in. "How are you this far behind?" "Just about to make the hummus!" Mom leaves the tomatoes on the cutting board and moves to the garbanzo beans on the counter. "Mediterranean Medleys," she says. "They'll be done in a jiffy!" I clutch my book as Minerva groans and says to me, "Are you seriously wearing that? On School Spirit Day? It's so rude." "School Sprit Day is an optional activity." I look down at my favorite tee, a Salvation Army find with soft white cotton and big black letters that say I DON'T PLAY SPORTS. It's totally something my dad would wear. Like me, he loves an ironic T-shirt. On the other hand, Mom and Minerva do not like ironic T-shirts. They prefer skirts and dresses and fancy low-cut tops that show off their curves. "You can borrow something from my closet," Mom says to me. "I've got a light blue sweater that would look great on you." "No thanks," I say. "Big mistake." Minerva won't look at me, as if the sight of me in the T-shirt is already causing her embarrassment. Mom sighs. Obviously my mom and my sister will never understand the charm of my T-shirt. I plop down at the kitchen table. That's when I notice Mom's headshot under a pile of cheese squares. Her bright white smile pops out like a high-beam flashlight. Seeing the picture surprises me. I didn't know she still kept them. Mom hasn't acted in years, not since her soap was canceled. I stare at the photo, and a shudder runs up my neck. The headshot is completely out of place, kind of like the burn that's on the hem of Minerva's skirt. Random Thought 790.2 Mom's soap was called The Rich and the Radiant . She was one of the stars, but there were lots of stars, and maybe that's the problem with soaps: too many people all in the same place, all at the same time, all needing to feel like the most important. "Minerva," Mom says. "Can you put the tomatoes into Tupperware?" At the sound of her name, Minerva jumps to action. It's weird. My sister never helps. Usually she's too busy ironing her cheerleading uniform or brushing her hair until it shines like a stick of melted butter. Minerva uses the elastic band she keeps on her wrist and ties her long hair into a ponytail. Why is she so eager? "Just a scoop," Mom tells her. "Bag, you can put the cheese into the crate?" I set down The Old Man and the Sea . I'm so far behind. I read my two previous library books, Ask the Dust and The Catcher in the Rye , in record time. I look at The Old Man and the Sea longingly. Then I toss the cheese squares into the large crate that's on the floor. There's no way I'll be able to read the last page before school. I grind my teeth together knowing this cheese job is setting my reading schedule even further behind. I wish Ridgley were here. He could give a performance of The Old Man and the Sea and read it out loud while I pack the cheese. Ridgley is a thespian . At least that's what he calls it. Before I met Ridgley, I thought the word was "actor," but Ridgley says "thespian" sounds way more interesting. I toss another cheese square into the crate and smile thinking about Ridgley being here, reading to me. But it's a silly thought. He's never come to my house before, even though I'd like him to. With each cheese square I pick up, I see more and more of Mom's old headshot. Her chin, her ears, her nose, her blond hair that looks just like Minerva's, her unwrinkled forehead that now has wrinkles, her long fingers, her eyes. Her hazel eyes that have more gray than green and remind me of a forest at night. "Is this the right-size scoop?" Minerva holds up a spoonful of diced tomatoes. Her diction is perfect. Her tomatoes are perfect. Her impromptu ponytail is perfect. "Looks good," Mom says without really looking. Minerva places the diced tomatoes into the Tupperware container. At the same time, Mom plops down a gob of hummus and tosses in a piece of pita. They work side by side as Mom says, "Now, girls, there's something I'd like to talk to you about." Oh great. Whenever Mom begins a sentence with "Now, girls, there's something I'd like to talk to you about," she doesn't want to talk about anything. She wants to tell us something, and the thing she wants to tell us is bad. Like when her soap was canceled and we had to move from Manhattan to Rhode Island because our apartment was too expensive, or when we completely ran out of money and she stopped auditioning and started making school lunches, or when she told Dad he had to move out, or when the doctor told her I was dyslexic and I needed special help with reading. I toss a few juice boxes into the crate even though Mom didn't ask me to. They need to be loaded, and I'm not looking forward to what she's about to tell us, so I figure I'll feel better if I'm only half listening. "I booked a job," Mom says. "A job. Huh. Well, that's not so bad." I toss more juice boxes into the crate. "Not so bad?" she says. "It's great!" "What new school are you delivering to?" I ask. "Not that kind of job," Mom replies. Oh no. I glance at her headshot. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. "A lead role!" Mom cries. "It's a great role. There's this memoir that came out a while ago. Have you heard of it? The Glass Castle . The parents are homeless, and they're adapting the book for the stage, and I got the part. I got the part of the homeless mother!" "The homeless mother?" I look at Mom's beautiful headshot, which is as far from looking homeless as a person could get. Then I look at Mom scooping blobs of hummus. She's got her frizzy morning hair, and she's wearing a fleece bathrobe. Her headshot and her real self barely look like the same person. Mom squeezes Minerva's arm. "Aren't you girls excited?" I don't respond because I'm not excited. After Mom's soap ended, she started auditioning for off-Broadway plays in New York. It was terrible. Either she wouldn't get the part or she would get the part, she'd start rehearsals, and she'd be really upset with the production of the play. It was a lose-lose situation. I don't want her to get her hopes up again. Minerva's mouth turns down, like she's thinking the same thing. "I didn't know you were auditioning." Mom goes back to plopping gobs of hummus into the Tupperware containers. "My ex-agent called and said it was the part of a lifetime. I mean, it's not Broadway or anything. The play's at the Center Stage Theater." "Center what?" Minerva asks. "The Center Stage Theater. It's in Providence." Mom chucks her hummus spoon into the sink. "God, wouldn't it be great if this part got us back to New York?" I pick up Mom's headshot. "The part of a homeless person?" "It's a wonderful role," Mom tells me. I'm holding the headshot with a clenched fist. The photo wrinkles in my grip. I drop it onto the table because I don't want to get in trouble for ruining her face. I look to see if Mom sees, but she's focused on the Mediterranean Medleys. She puts more pita triangles into the Tupperware containers and sort of looks like a normal mom even though I know she isn't. I don't want to watch, so I stare at the kitchen wall instead. It's covered with Mom's handwriting. The notes started last year. She writes them directly on the wall. I find the first note she wrote next to the light switch. Bag's birthday . I think she wrote the note to remember to get cake and wrap presents, which was nice. But it's not her only note. My eyes move to the note about the dentist, the note to get a wax, the note about a delivery. Her handwriting is messy. Bake sale brownies, I think one says? My eyes move to the wall next to the fridge. Bottle recycling. Vendor drop. On the wall near the sink she wrote, Insurance card. Above the toaster, a new note: Call Tom My eyes stay stuck on the loopy letters. Call Tom . I didn't notice that one before. When did she write it? Did she call him? What did he say? Does he want to come home? Does he know about her play? Does he miss us? Does he miss me? I stare at the name as if it could belong to anyone, when really the name belongs to him. My dad. "Do you have to take the part?" Minerva asks. "I already did," Mom says. "Without talking to us?" Minerva places a scoop of tomato into the Tupperware, and a speck splashes up and hits the arm of her cheerleading uniform. "Ugh," she moans. "It's not like I signed a contract." Mom slaps the lids onto the Tupperware while Minerva rushes to the sink and wets the sleeve of her shirt. At the same time, I start chucking the juice boxes into the crate again. They slam on top of each other, and I feel a tiny bit better. "Look," Mom says. "Opening night is a month from now, which is going to be so exciting, but rehearsal times are tricky. Rehearsals are weekday afternoons. I won't be able to pick you up after school." "What do I care?" Minerva says from the sink. "I have cheerleading." "Hold on," I say. "What about the library?" "Well..." Mom turns to me. Her forehead wrinkles, and her hazel eyes peer into mine. "I was wondering if you could go to the library at school?" "The library at school is only open during the school day." She rubs her forehead and gets a smudge of hummus on her brow. "Mom, I need you to drive me to the public library. It's where I do my best reading." "Sweetheart, I won't have time." "I'll walk." "Don't be silly. The public library is miles away." My heart beats inside my throat. "It's only a month," Mom explains. "After opening night the shows will be in the evenings. Then I can drive you." She leans her butt against the counter. "It's been such a hard year, and this is good news. This is really good news for us." I want to tell her that the play isn't good news for us. It isn't good news for her. I want to remind her of the off-Broadway shows. I want to tell her this, but I don't want to make her mad. So I stare at the messy writing that covers our kitchen walls. Bag's teacher conference. Snow tires. The more I stare, the more the walls seem to cave in around me. The room grows smaller as I pull my T-shirt away from my neck. Rent. I see how much she does for us. I also see the enormous mess she's made of our kitchen. "Why not use Post-its?" I motion to the mess of a wall. "I've told you this before, Mom. Post-its make everything organized." "Oh, I guess it's easier this way. Really all I need to do is write myself reminders, and then I never look again. It's the writing that helps me remember." "That doesn't explain why you don't use paper," I say. "Or a dry-erase board." Mom stacks more Tupperware boxes in the crate. Then she throws her hands up in the air. "You know what, there's a lot to be said for creative expression, Baggie. Get out of your head and into your body!" "Isn't my head part of my body?" I ask. Mom claps her hands together as if she's scooping up a good idea. "Maybe you could join cheerleading with Minerva," she says. "That would shake things up!" "Absolutely not," I say. Minerva begins to laugh. She laughs hard, bends over, and clutches her stomach. "Bag as a cheerleader!" she cries. "Stop it! I'm going to pee my pants!" I narrow my eyes at her. "Like that time in New York when Mom had to bring an extra pair of shorts to school?" "You little..." Minerva lunges at me, but I dodge out of the way. "Minerva. Bag." Mom puts the last Tupperware box into the crate. "That's enough. Come on, girls. Let's get this food into the truck." "I'm not going to cheerleading," I say to Mom. "I'll find somewhere to read at school. You can pick me up after your rehearsal." "Sounds good." Mom hefts the large crate into her arms. My sister doesn't say another word. She picks up a crate and pretends like everything is fine, when the truth is, we couldn't be further away from fine. Random Thought 177.3 Minerva looks good on the outside, but on the inside she's all mixed up. Like, when Dad left, she didn't cry or anything. She went on acting like everything was the same. Here's what I know about my sister: She's the perfect first line of a book, and the rest of her doesn't make any sense. Excerpted from Bad Cheerleader by Alex Thayer All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
