Boy Proof Read Free Page B

the kitchen. I was probably screaming all the time, making them even more tired and annoyed.
    “I can’t believe that man-child won an Oscar before I did,” Mom always says.
    And I always remind her that she has never even once been considered for an Oscar, much less won one.
    Freaks shouldn’t breed,
I think, looking at my dad while he works.
They end up having freaky kids like me.
    But as far as I can tell, as dads go, he’s a good one. Every Tuesday I make my way over to his creature shop and we make stuff in silence. He even has the Victoria Tuesday clause put into his contracts, so when he’s working in town we don’t have to miss a date. It helps that he has a whole team of assistants.
    “How’s school?” he asks.
    “Fine,” I say.
    “How’s your mom?” he asks.
    “Fine,” I say.
    “Do you have any boyfriends this week?” he asks.
    “Nope,” I say.
    “Well, you’re a catch,” he says. “I wish I had known a girl who could design an alien exoskeleton.”
    I don’t remind my dad that boys like that are total dorks.

    I’m reclining like a woman in a Matisse painting. I flick through the channels, jumping between the evening news on three different stations.

    “What’s the news?” Mom says, shoving me over on the couch and pulling her salad out of the takeout bag. She pulls out my sandwich and hands it over.
    “It’s all doom and gloom.”
    “Oh, well. Did they announce the Screen Actors Guild nominees?”
    “No.”
    I unwrap my sandwich and take a big bite.
    “How was school today?” Mom asks, shifting full gear into mom mode.
    “It sucked shit,” I say.
    “That is not the language a young lady uses,” Mom informs me.
    “I’m not a young lady,” I say. “According to some new kid, I’m some kind of autocrat.”
    I grab my sandwich and get up so I can go eat alone in the privacy of my room, but she follows me down the hallway and she’s talking, saying something that she probably thinks is important. I’m sure it’s not, so I slam the door in her face as a response. Then I throw myself down on the bed and put my pillow over my head. Three, two, one . . .
    The door opens and Mom barges into my room.
    “Victoria —”
    “It’s
EGG
!!!” I scream. Maybe this time she will hear me.
    “I’m not going to call you Egg,” she says. “That’s not the name I gave you.”
    “Well, Ursula’s not your real name. Some agent gave you that name,” I say.
    “That’s different. It’s a professional name, not an item of food,” Mom says.
    I scream into my mattress.
    “I’m meeting a director for drinks later,” Mom says cheerfully.
    “I don’t care,” I say.
    Her weight makes the floor creak. She’s put on some pounds since her glory days as the hot chick on the eighties TV show
The Nemesis.
She hasn’t had a real role in years. She still looks like a model, though. My mom is gorgeous by anyone’s standards. She is the total polar opposite of me.
    She’s standing there, waiting, hoping that I’ll be impressed. She’s hoping that I’ll say what she always wants me to say to her before an audition or meeting. Even though I don’t want to say it, I turn my head from under the pillow.
    “Break a leg,” I mumble.
    I can see Mom smiling upside down. She’s so happy I said it. She thinks it’s going to bring her luck.
    “I have a good feeling about this one. I’ll be back later. Please be home when I get here.”
    I wave for her to go, go! GO! Move away! If I had a Helgerian laser like Egg does, I’d blow her out of my room.
    I stay on my bed until I hear the jingle of her keys, then the click of her high heels down the hallway. Then the door closes, and the lock snaps shut.
    When I am sure she is gone, I log on to my computer. I set my play list on shuffle. Strains of Ella Fitzgerald fill the room. I surf over to the Zach Cross–
Terminal Earth
message board. No news today. He must still be in New Zealand filming the sequels. I check out some other sites of