Where It Began(30)

She is in the Vivian version of maternal frenzy, seriously concerned that my so-called friends will ditch me if they notice I’m not pageant-ready, trying to save me from this sorry fate—completely ignoring the actual looming disaster in which somebody shows up and arrests me for DUI and grand theft auto.

But I am only thinking Billy Billy Billy Billy Billy, so much so that all other thoughts, scary thoughts, no-lawyer-and-the-LAPD-is-on-its-way-with-sirens-blaring-and-handcuffs-at-the-ready thoughts, oh-no-I-look-like-crap-and-my-friends-won’t-like-me-anymore-and-I’ll-be-a-Bashed-in-Face-Pariah thoughts—except, whoops, that last one is Vivian’s thought, not my thought—have no space to hang out.

Vivian is prepared to barricade the door on my behalf, but eventually, still unconvinced, she gives way for the gift-wrapped goodies, the fuzzy knitted scarf, handmade dangle earrings, and a bunch of pastel aromatherapy candles with names like “Sea of Tranquility” and “Mellow Morning.” And all right, as miserable a cynical bitch as I feel like, boyfriend-less and very likely re-invisible, it still feels kind of good to be with people who actually don’t care how I look or what I did and still like me. Even if Vivian thinks they’re a couple of losers, not unlike the reappearing Old Me with the purple and green bruises that clash with the currently nonexistent New Me’s autumn season earth tones.

And did I mention board games?

“When I’m sick, I love to play board games,” Lisa says. “And you’re really good at board games.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Grumpy, aren’t we?” says Anita, making a face that is supposed to cheer me up and cajole me out of grumpiness but doesn’t. “Sanjiv says closed head injuries can affect your mood.”

“You talked to your brother about me?”

Anita shrugs and looks somewhat sheepish.

“Come on, Gabby,” Lisa says. “You got hit on the head. This is your excuse to kick back and be a kid again! Don’t you want to play Boggle?” Well, no. Battleship? No. Connect Four? Parcheesi? Candyland? Chutes and Ladders? Hungry Hungry Hippos? Checkers? Chinese Checkers? Mah-jongg? Chess?

“We should play Husker Du?” Anita says. “After a closed head injury, we should work on your memory.”

And it’s no better when Huey tags along, either.

Because Huey, as it turns out, is such a wreck in the presence of a banged up, debilitated person such as me, he can barely hold it together for long enough to figure out who done it in a game of Clue. Or maybe it’s just the shock of being in a girl’s bedroom.

“I’d leave him out,” Lisa says, “but he really wants to see you. And I might not get to be semi-alone with a boy in a car again for years.”

“You do know that your mother is insane, right?” I say. “No offense.”

Lisa sighs but doesn’t seem all that worked up about it.

“You call that insane,” Anita says. “Hello. Have you met my mother? She’s trying to establish a perfect simulation of small-town life in Punjab circa 1958. Only in Beverly Hills. And we all know how sane that it.”

We have all been so severely indoctrinated to respect insane cultural differences that Lisa and I don’t know what to say.

“Well, at least you don’t have to cover all your hair like Asha,” Lisa says weakly.

“Admit it’s insane,” Anita says.

We do.

Ironically, Asha, albeit covered head to toe, gets to jump into Huey’s car every time they have to go do yearbook business because Huey drove down to Culver City and had a meaningful dialogue with her dad.

Whereas the mere sight of me has reduced Huey to cringing in my desk chair, barely able to push Colonel Mustard around the board.

“Boys are such babies,” Lisa says.

“You look like you’re in so much pain,” Huey says, as if this or some variant of this is the only conversation starter he can think of. “How do you feel about . . .”—he scrapes Colonel Mustard into the library where he’s been before and doesn’t need to go again—“. . . everything?”

How do you feel about everything? You have to figure that if Huey had been born into my family, Vivian would have drowned him back when he was still a pup.

“And what’s up with your left arm?” he says.

“Huey!” Lisa says. “She’s going to make a full recovery. She’s lucky it’s not worse.”

“Lucky!” Huey basically howls. “Sorry, Lisa. I admire your outlook. No—I’d say I love your outlook. But lucky is not on the list of words that describe what happened to her.”

“Hello, I’m right here. Hello. Bed to Huey . . .”

“She’s a potter and look at her left arm!” he bellows.

Just to show him that there’s nothing to discuss, I do the wrecked person’s version of slithering out of bed. All right, so I have to will myself to smile when my feet graze the floor. All right, so I am somewhat limping. But if I suck it up and make myself put weight on my left foot, my walk isn’t noticeably all that weird. And it isn’t as if this is keeping me out of jazz dance ensemble. To keep being who I am, I just need both my hands to work.

I try to button up my robe, but this does not turn out as well as you would hope.

And I go, Gabriella, you don’t need to run around buttoning things up to show off. You can always tie the brace on your left wrist. Just not in front of anyone.