My Life in Dioramas by Tara Altebrando Page A

porch—which was not a rocking chair of yesteryear—and counted cars while I waited for him. I thought maybe eight cars would pass by before he arrived.
    His bike came tearing into the driveway after the sixth car passed.
    â€œSo whatcha got?” I stood up.
    â€œLots of good stuff.” He had a shopping bag dangling from his handlebars. “At least I think it’s good stuff. Take a look.”
    He held the bag out and we sat on the front porch looking through random pieces of colored foam and fabric and foils and notecards and ribbons and wrapping paper and more. “This is great stuff,” I said. “Where did you get it?”
    â€œMy mom did a big purge of the garage a few days ago but the trash hadn’t been collected, so I raided her bags last night.”
    â€œThanks so much, Naveen.” There was a small wire pine tree, a tiny disco ball.
    â€œOh.” He reached for the bag as I started putting stuff back in. “This is the best part.”
    He peered in and moved stuff around and came out with a piece of plastic shaped like a rounded bathtub.
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “What is it? I mean, what was it?”
    â€œI think it came on a butter dish or something? Part of the packaging?”
    â€œIt’s perfect.” I studied its clear curves. “I’ll cover it in masking tape and build the shower rod out of wire, and look!” I dug through the bag and pulled out a square piece of fabric.
    â€œShower curtain!” Naveen said.
    â€œExactly! Then I just need to figure out the feet.”
    Naveen headed toward his bike. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m behind on homework.”
    I laughed. “It’s Friday , Naveen.”
    â€œI know, I know. But I don’t want to have to do it this weekend.” He pushed his bike up toward the road. “Good luck this weekend. With everything!”
    â€œThanks!”
    He took off down the road and I sat there for a while, counting more cars. Wondering where my mom was, which car number would be hers. After eight more cars passed and she still wasn’t home I went to the kitchen and found the ivory-colored masking tape in the junk drawer.
    It seemed silly at first to be making a diorama of myself in a bathtub, but after a while it didn’t feel that way at all.

18.
    On Saturday morning, when no one was paying attention, I got a few snack-size Ziplocs out of the pantry and shoved them in my jeans pocket. Then, during another free moment when my mom was in the shower and my dad was in their room sweeping up flies, I took a fork and steak knife out of the cutlery drawer and went out to the composting bin and started slicing up my stink. I’d brought down a handkerchief to tie around my face, and it at least stifled the smell of the chicken zombie rot enough that I didn’t feel like I was going to throw up.
    I put small pieces of totally gross rotting chicken in each of three bags, then threw the rest into the woods and washed the container out in the stream with apologies to Mother Nature. I’d have to get the bags up into position atthe last possible moment and somehow retrieve them after the open house so the house didn’t stink all night. It wasn’t going to be easy. I had to stay on my toes, looking for any and all opportunities. For the time being, I put the snack bags under a piece of wood in the woodpile under the back porch.
    â€œWhere are we even going today?” I asked my mother in the kitchen.
    â€œHorseback riding,” she said. “Long pants and boots. And bring a hat.”
    Excellent.

    When it was time to go, I stepped out onto the porch and smacked my head and said, “Forgot my hat.” Bernie was tying a new yellow balloon to the FOR SALE sign, adding a dangling OPEN HOUSE TODAY to two hooks on it.
    So I ran inside and downstairs to get the bags, and upstairs to hide the goods—one on top of the