Confessions of a So-called Middle Child by Maria T. Lennon Page B

Now we were talking.
    Mom came over and hugged me. “How was Trixie’s house?”
    How to put this without going over the top? “ Vogue magazine worthy. Creamy perfection, only-child attention to neatness, a housekeeper called Esmerelda who served us snacks while we floated on silver and gold rafts in the rooftop pool—”
    Pen walked into the kitchen in her pajamas, opened the fridge, poured some juice. “Elitist pigs.”
    Mom interrupted. “Penelope—”
    â€œA kid being served while floating in a pool is savage,” Pen said, outraged. “We’re raising a bunch of entitled kids who use the Mexicans as labor and then want to kick them out. This country has lost its way.”
    I just stared at her. Seriously. Can I please catch a break over here; must she always fight for the little guy? What about me?
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    TRUE FACT: I did not see Esmerelda spit in any of the food whatsoever, which is what I would have done if I didn’t like the bratty kid of my employer.
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    Pen’s face got all scrunched up. “And on top of it all, I think Trixie Chalice is using you.”
    â€œUsing me?” I laughed. “Did you not hear she has a pool on her roof? A dedicated servant by the name of Esmerelda? What could I possibly have that she doesn’t?”
    â€œI’ve been watching her.” Pen inhaled like she meant business. “She’s mean, on the lower yard when you’re not around; she’s a bully, especially to Marta—” Pen paused.
    â€œNot everyone can be held to your standards of Amnesty International, Pen.” I grabbed a glass of grapefruit juice, my absolute favorite. I downed the glass.
    â€œMarta is the punching bag of the entire school because she’s from a poor family; she’s not from here—”
    Pen was getting all red and foamy like she was gonna stroke out.
    â€œI got it,” I said just to shut her up. Sure, it was all true, and I did feel sorry for Marta. Heck, I practically adopted her and her toilet every day at lunch, but wasn’t I allowed to have a little reprieve, a little rooftop fun? Ever?
    I went to the fridge. Inside were little batches of cut carrots and celery. “Oh, come on, carrot sticks?!” I grabbed the tray and shoved as many carrots as I could in my mouth.
    â€œShe doesn’t wear underwear, Pen—”
    Pen winced. “Never?”
    â€œShe says she doesn’t agree with them.” I watched Mom laugh. “So,” I continued, “if you don’t wear underwear and haven’t brushed your teeth since the other ones fell out, chances are you’re gonna get teased.”
    â€œLook, I’m not saying she’s not a perfect target,” Pen said, mellowing out. “I’m just saying I’m thinking about spearheading a group at school to stop after-school bullying.”
    How was it possible we came from the same parents? “You do that, Pen.” I got up to go, and then I remembered something. “Oh, and check this out. Trixie knows Roxy.” I watched the name fall like a grenade on the kitchen floor.
    Mom turned slowly from the stove, even dropping the spoon into the polenta, a major polenta crime. Pen’s face looked like an ugly possum caught in front of a truck. Dad and Felix pulled open the door and walked in, covered in dust from the digging, and took in the scene. Total silence.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Dad asked.
    Pen, of course, couldn’t wait to be the first to tell my story. “Trixie knows Roxy.”
    Mom shook her head. “How does she know her?”
    â€œUCLA surf camp,” I said, feeling a little tight. “They do it together every summer.”
    â€œIt’s a small world.” Dad shook his head. “I always tell you kids that.”
    â€œGet another spoon or take the polenta off the burner.” I watched the spoon drown and disappear in the bubbly goo. “And