GAMER GIRL excerpt © Mari Mancusi

Grandma’s house was a study of crystal and glass and contained 1,153 unicorns. I knew, because I counted one drizzly, dreary Thanksgiving when we were stuck inside waiting for the world’s slowest turkey to brown. Horned beasts of crystal, glass, china, wood--she called them her “babies” and treasured them more than her dwindling life savings. (Dwindling, mainly, due to her unicorn habit…you wouldn’t believe the prices of these things from The Franklin Mint.) Whenever we’d come over, she ’d sit me down and show me her favorites.

She had a lot of favorites.

Which was fine and tolerable when we lived an hour away and saw her once a year. Over the river and through the woods and all that. But now we were living with her. In her museum like house. Surrounded by unicorns.

I suppose my story isn’t too unique. After all, more than half of marriages end in divorce, or so they say. Maybe I should count my blessings that Mom and Dad stuck it out as long as they did. Still, having to vacate our uber hip Back Bay Boston brownstone, leave my private school and friends behind, and move to Unicorn Land--all in the middle of the school year--was a bit much.
But I had no choice. Mom and Dad weren’t speaking, unless they were yelling. Neither one could afford the mortgage on the Brownstone by themselves. So they smacked down a For Sale sign and split—Dad to a smaller apartment down the street and Mom, me, and my eight year old sister Emily to New Hampshire. To grandmother’s house we go.

I can’t even begin to tell you how painful that last day at my old school was. Saying goodbye to all my beloved teachers, promising my friends I’d IM and text at every possible second, cleaning out my locker and tearing down the My Chemical Romance poster I’d stuck on the inside door on the first day of sophomore year. I’d been so full of hopes and dreams for the year back then. I was going to join the art club, write for the school paper, and, of course, make Ashley’s older brother, David Silverman my boyfriend. (Okay, the last one was a long shot, but you couldn’t blame a girl for being goal oriented, now could you?) It was going to be the best year ever.

Now, four months later, it was gearing up to be my worst.

“Maddy! You’d better get down here or you’ll miss the bus!” Grandma called from downstairs, bringing me back to my hellish reality, AKA my first day at Hannah Dustin High School. There were prisoners on death row more excited about their pending visit with the electric chair than I was about my enrollment.

I mean, hello!—first off, there was a bus. An actual bus to take me from my middle of nowhere grandma’s house to my still middle of nowhere school. Back home, I always walked. Met my friends at Dunkin Donuts for French Crullers and coffee, then giggled and gossiped all the way to the city campus of Boston Academy. Now I’d actually have to board a smelly, fume filled, environment destroying bus to get to school. At least I was getting my license in a few weeks when I turned sixteen. Though my chances of getting Grandma to loan me the car were slim to none.

My cell buzzed, scattering all thoughts of transportation. I glanced down to see the text. From Caitlin.

>>GOOD LUCK ON FIRST DAY!!

I smiled, feeling a tiny bit better. At least I still had my friends. Sure, they were further away from me now, but they still cared. I punched in Catilin’s number.

“Hey girl,” I said into the phone after she answered.

“Oh hey, Mads, how’s it going? How’s the ‘burbs? They arrest you for not wearing Gap yet? Turn your mom into a Stepford wife robot?” Caitlin had a habit of asking at least four questions in the same breath, making it impossible to answer any of them.

“Hardy, har, har,” I replied. “You are too funny.”

“What-evah. At least I’m not funny looking.”

“Haven’t looked in the mirror lately, have you?” I asked, with mock sympathy.

“I’m looking now, bay-bee. And I’m looking fine. DAMN fine.”

I grinned, picturing my best friend dancing in front of the mirror as she was known to do, flaunting all that God had given her to anyone who cared to look. Caitlin was born without an insecurity gene. She died her hair pink and got a nose ring in seventh grade. Her hippie dippie mother was totally cool with it all, too, saying that girls needed to express themselves early in life so they could blossom into healthy, self-sufficient women who didn’t need a man to complete them. (Caitlin’s mother was also divorced--after her husband ran off to Vegas with his secretary. Some believed she was still a bit bitter about the whole thing.)

Hm. Maybe my divorced mom would now let me explore the Manic Panic hair color rainbow, too. It’d be so cool to get some pink streaks in my hair. One time Caitlin and I went to Harvard Square after school and got the clip-on kind. Mom nearly had a heart attack until she found out they weren’t real.

“Madeline!” Grandma again, this time sounding more insistent.

I groaned. “Sorry, Caits, gotta run before Grandma has kittens and starts sneezing to death.”

“Okay, no prob,” Caitlin said. “Good luck today. I hope you meet tons of uber cool rock girls and sexy, sexy bad boys.”

“I’ll settle for anyone not openly worshiping the gods of Aberzombie,” I replied with a laugh. “I’ll miss you guys. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. We’ll mourn you all day and fast in your honor at lunchtime. Unless they’re serving pizza, of course. If they’re serving pizza, consider yourself gone and forgotten.”

“Fair enough. I’ll call you after school to let you know how it went.”

“Cool. Later gator.”

I pressed end, grabbed my hoodie, and vacated the Pepto Bismal colored, unicorn themed bedroom grandma had stuck me in. Pretty nauseating, let me tell you, though I couldn’t exactly complain. After all, originally she wanted me to share it with Emily. I think I would have stabbed myself with a unicorn horn if I had to bunk up with my little sis. Luckily for me, Emily wasn’t so keen on the idea either and used her big mouth to voice her displeasure. Repeatedly. So Grandma cleaned out her sewing room and declared it Emily’s. Kid had a gift for getting exactly what she wanted. I envied her that.

I started down the shag carpeted stairs and found Grandma standing in the unicorn infested living room below, a sentry guarding the path to freedom. And let’s just say her stern, disapproving look could have been picked up by a satellite camera on Mars.

I glanced around for Mom, but she was no where to be found. Must have already left for work. Not good. I bit my lower lip, knowing exactly what was coming before the woman even opened her mouth.
“You’re wearing that to school?”

“Uh…yes?” I really couldn’t think of anything else to say. I prayed I was wrong about Mom being at work and that she’d suddenly come around the corner and assure Grandma that my look was perfectly acceptable for a 21st century teen. But no luck.

Okay, fine, maybe I should have dressed a tad more conservative. We were in the suburbs after all. But image was everything in high school and I felt I needed to make the appropriate “This is who I am” statement from day one to attract the right friends. (Sad, but true.) So I’d donned a short plaid skirt, paired with Doc Martin boots and a zip-up hoodie over my Pooka the Goblin Cat baby doll tee. It said, Gothy, but approachable.

At least to me. Grandma was obviously getting a different message as she fanned herself with a wrinkly hand, shaking her head in disbelief. Eesh. You’d have thought I’d come downstairs in Britney Spear’s last VMA outfit.

“Madeline Ann, you look like a dead prostitute,” she declared.

I opened my mouth to defend and retort, but reluctantly closed it again. We’d been drilled by Mom since day one not to talk back to Grandma. After all, she’s sooo nice to let us live here. We need to respect her and her rules.

“I don’t know what kind of getup you wore back in that city,” Grandma said, spitting out the word city as if it were poison. “But you’ll find kids in Farmingdale don’t dress like that.”

It was an effort not to roll my eyes. How did she know what kids wore? When was the last time she hung out at the local high school? I’d be willing to bet it was back when Grease was still the word. I looked longingly at the front door, wondering if I could just make a run for it. Grandma was old. Had arthritis. She probably couldn’t catch me if I dashed outside and caught the bus just as it was picking up the neighbor kids down the street…

Then, as if by a miracle, I heard a beep outside. Phew.

“The bus!” I cried. “Gotta go.”

Grandma leapt in front of the door, effectively blocking my escape. For a lady approaching seventy, she sure could move quickly. “Not so fast,” she said. “I’ll drive you.” She folded her arms across her chest. “After you change.”

“But…”

“No buts. Now hop to it!”

My shoulders slumped. I wasn’t going to win this, was I? I trudged over to the stairs, my feet feeling like they were made of lead. Out the window, I caught the bright yellow vision of freedom pulling away from the curb.

“You know,” I remarked as I climbed, stair by stair, “I don’t have anything in my closet you’d possibly approve of. Seriously. Most everything I own is black.”

But Grandma had already thought of this. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she replied immediately. “You can borrow some of my clothes.”

I stopped walking. Oh no. No, no, no!

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later I’d been stuffed into a pair of bulky, pale blue “mom jeans” that came up past my bellybutton and a totally non-fitted oversized sweatshirt with—brace yourself here—frolicking unicorns embroidered on the front.

It couldn’t get worse. It just couldn’t.