Queen of the Toilet Bowl by Frieda Wishinsky Page A

rid of my stuff. I need all of it.”
    â€œThere’s a fine line between a collection and a pile of junk,” said her mother.
    â€œHow can you call my stuff junk? It’s unique and I love it. Every bit of it.”
    Liz’s mom sighed. You could tell they’d had this discussion before.
    â€œAnyway,” said Liz curling her arms around a pillow. “Clutter is my style.”
    â€œI wish you’d get a new style,” said her mom. Then she turned to go. “Seeyou later, girls. And Renata, you really do have a lovely voice. You should do something with it.”
    â€œSee,” said Liz. “I told you your voice was amazing. Now you have to try out for the school show.”
    â€œI can’t,” I said. “I can’t sing in front of anyone else.”
    â€œGuess what?” said Liz. “You just did.”

chapter two
    â€œOhmygod! Her mother’s a cleaning lady?”
    I heard the words first, then the laughter.
    I stared into my opened locker. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t let them find out I was here. I wanted to melt into the darkness inside my locker. I wanted to curl up in the soft cotton of the sweater sprawled across the locker’sbottom and stay there until they left. Stay there forever.
    I knew the voices. Darleen and Karin. Karin with an i instead of an e, and a smile as tight as a fist. Karin with her straight blond hair and her ring-covered hands. And Darleen, who never left Karin’s side, tall and gangly with long, pointy nails.
    They were so different from me with my thick bundle of curly black hair and bitten-down nails.
    â€œWhere did you hear that?” asked Darleen.
    â€œFrom my aunt. Renata’s mother cleans her house,” said Liz.
    â€œHow can her mother stand cleaning other people’s dirty toilets? I’d rather be shot dead than clean my brother’s bathroom. It’s not fit for pigs.”
    â€œI know,” said Liz. “It’s disgusting.”
    Their locker doors slammed shut with a sharp twang.
    â€œLet’s go. My mom’s picking me up for a dentist appointment,” said Karin.“You have no idea how much I hate the dentist.”
    I listened as their footsteps echoed down the linoleum floor.
    Silence.
    I peeked from behind my locker. They were gone. The hall was empty.
    I leaned against my locker door and tried to stop shaking. But the shaking wouldn’t go away. Not on the bus ride home. Not until I reached our apartment. I’d never told anyone at school what my mom did for a living, and now everyone would know.
    Mom was home from her job uptown. I could smell rice and beans simmering on the stove. She was in the kitchen slicing tomatoes.
    â€œRenata, I need you to call one of my ladies for me,” she said in Portuguese.
    I had to phone people for Mom. Her English was still rusty.
    â€œWho do you want me to call?” I asked.
    â€œMs. Powell. I can’t clean her housethis Friday. I have to take your brother to the doctor for his shot.”
    I didn’t understand why Mom called the women she worked for her “ladies.” They weren’t “her” ladies. They didn’t care about her. She wasn’t important to them except to sweep, dust and wash their floors and sinks. Maybe her favorite, Ms. Lucy, cared a little, but the rest didn’t. If Mom disappeared off the face of the earth, all they’d worry about was finding another cleaning lady, especially Karin’s aunt, Ms. Powell.
    I knew before I dialed that Ms. Powell would hate having her schedule changed. “Well,” she said, her annoyance crackling through the phone. “If she really has to, I guess I’ll just have to manage, but I hope this isn’t a regular occurrence.”
    I imagined her face scrunched up like a prune. Mom said she wasn’t so bad, but Mom always said that. That’s what made me so angry. Mom never complained.
    â€œWe’re