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I shove open my front door and then slam it closed before stomping through the house toward my room.
“Ramona, is that you?” my mom’s singsong voice calls from the dining room.
“Yeah,” I grunt sullenly, one foot already on the bottom stair.
“Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Wash up and come set the table, please.”
I don’t answer my mother but instead head to the guest bathroom to follow orders. But once in the seashell-themed room, I can’t help but stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Of course, Carlton didn’t want to hang out with you, I tell my mirror self, because you’re just a grubby, ugly little girl who cries.
With that, I look down blindly. Despite being so upset, I’m grateful that my tears are mostly done and that I can take a deep, shuddering breath. I scrub my hands and face with the soft coconut soap, wishing I could wash away the afternoon, too.
A few minutes later, I settle down to dinner with my mom and dad. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with my own emotions, I might have noticed that my parents are less talkative than usual. Instead, I’m stewing over Carlton and how I’m going to exact my revenge. That boy is going to pay.
But about halfway through the meal, my dad clears his throat. “Ramona,” he begins. His voice has a weird tone to it, and I look up immediately.
“Dad?”
“Your mother and I have something important to tell you.” I stare at my father, suddenly nervous. My eyes flicker toward my mom and then back to my dad as he continues speaking. Are they getting divorced? I’ve never noticed any tension between them, but then again, I’ve been so caught up in my own turmoil that I could have missed it.
“I’ve been given a promotion at work,” he says. I almost heave a sigh of relief, but catch myself quickly.
This is his big news?
“That’s great, Daddy!”
Ron nods. “It is, except for one thing.”
I stare at him, waiting. “What is it?” I ask innocently.
He and Martha exchange a quick glance. “We’re leaving Portnoy, honey, and the move’s got to happen fast. We want to get settled before the school year begins so you can start at your new school on time.”
I stare blankly at my parents as I process this information, my little ten-year-old mind flicking through what such a sudden change will mean for my life.
Suddenly, it occurs to me that I’ll probably never see Carlton again. I’ll never see him laugh the way he does when I tell a silly joke, or feel the silk of his black locks beneath my fingers. I may never talk to him again, and there’s a twinge of sadness in my heart. But then again, he made me so mad today! I’m still angry as hell, and vow to exact my revenge on the boy someday, somehow. But for now, plans have changed and I’ve got to roll with them. As a result, I smile sweetly at my parents. “So, when do we move?”
2
Ramona
The present.
I pound at my keyboard, trying to be mature and not take my frustration out on the machine, but it’s impossible. I hate this computer, and this is my way of venting. Of course, because I’m hitting the keys so hard, I keep messing up the document and have to retype my work as a result. How totally ironic.
“Ugh,” I moan aloud as I press the backspace button down hard.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
I look up to see my closest work friend, Carrie, hovering over the edge of my cubicle wall, her brown curls bobbing.
“This thing is broken,” I offer shortly.
“It could be. Take it down to IT? But what can they do? They’re so incompetent,” Carrie giggles while tucking a curl behind one ear. “And the IT people are so weird too! You know that strange pasty one who’s almost albino? He gives me the creeps.”
I shake my head at her. “So are you going to mention that to Melody or should I?” I ask ruefully.
“You mean, the witch?” Carrie shudders in mock fear. “No thanks, I’ll pass.” She frowns at me. “What’s got you so worked up, anyways?” She nods her chin in the direction of my ferocious clacking.
I groan again and press my hands against my temples, feeling a headache beginning to form. “The witch is having me retype handwritten notes she took at some meeting last week. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except that Melody wants them to look just so.”
“Just so,” Carrie repeats. We both roll our eyes mockingly because our boss, Melody Prince, is one of the most pretentious, mean-spirited, and cruel women either one of us has ever known. She’s only a middle manager at our company, but she acts like she’s the CEO. At thirty years old, the tall, skinny blonde is only eight years older than Carrie or me, but she claims she’s far more sophisticated than either of us. She’s famous around the office for liking things ‘just so,’ even going so far as to use this particular catch phrase with annoying regularity.
