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

watched until they disappeared. “I’m not gonna lie,” I said, “it’s hard , so hard, like seriously HARD, but I’m giving it my best shot.”
    Dad touched my beads. “Just as long as you’re not going to run off and join a cult.”
    â€œCult.” I looked at him, shocked. “A definite no, unless it is the cult of Coco Chanel or Vidal Sassoon. That man was a genius.”
    We walked up to a spot close to the top of the road near the gate. Dad pointed across the street. “There was a guest house there, with an elevator that went all the way down under the street and connected to the tunnels.”
    I scanned the area across the busy canyon road. I swear to God I could see it. The parties, the dresses, Houdini running as fast as he could from his ugly wife to all that fun. Man, imagine it, just imagine what could happen if I had an underground tunnel from my house to the school!
    Dad dragged me down to the grass near the street. “And check this out. Way back when this house was built in 1915, the road was much, much smaller. The property came way out; they cut back the land on both sides to widen the street, which means the entrance could be closer to the street and not directly under the house.”
    He was right, the secret entrance could be in a totally different area than I’d been looking all this time. “Oh, man, two whole months down the tubes.”
    â€œBut, but,” he said, trying to cheer me up, “look what I got!” He pointed to a monster of an excavator. “Time to do some serious digging.”
    It was huge and ugly, its metal jaws ready to tear apart the earth. “With that thing?”
    â€œOh, yeah.” Dad took off, and I followed. We got into the Caterpillar excavator and turned it on, and black smoke chugged from the exhaust. As Dad lowered its giant mouth, and it began to chew up everything in front of me, I got a seriously bad feeling, like What the heck are you doing to my lawn? Even if Houdini wasn’t around anymore, were we being majorly disrespectful and would he be totally justified if he wanted to slash me in my sleep?
    Dad yelled over the machine, “We’re looking for concrete. If you hear it or see it, put your hand up, and I’ll stop. Otherwise we could end up smashing the tunnel walls.”
    Smashing the tunnel walls? Built in the 1900s and hidden so beautifully for more than a hundred years? I couldn’t do it, no matter how badly I wanted to find them. I put my hand up. He looked at me. “Let’s stop.”
    â€œBut, but you’ve been wanting to see them all summer.” He gave me this weird look like he thought I was crazy. “I thought you’d love this.”
    Yeah, but this was seriously not cool. “On foot, with a flashlight, it’s fair. But this bulldozing”—even the word made me cringe—“it just feels wrong, like I’m a big, mean, nasty hunter with a huge gun. It’s just so, so not cool.”
    Dad said, “Okay,” and turned off the giant machine. The smoke stopped polluting the sky, and I felt Houdini wasn’t mad anymore.

Worse Than the Spanish Inquisition
    On Monday after school, I had Dr. Scales, again . I couldn’t wait to tell him all about the road I’d taken on the path to self-realization with Mama T of Calcutta as my guide.
    He kinda caught on when he saw my new outfit. I’d worked on it all Sunday. Mom took me to the farmers’ market for fabric, ribbons, jewels, and bells, and you know what? I constructed a vision Karl Lagerfeld of Chanel would have stolen and copied: Picture Mama T, and if you can’t, then Google her, you lazy people. I bejeweled a scarf like nobody’s business. I can wear it over my head, around my waist, or even as a tube top. It’s that great.
    â€œWow,” he said, “did you create this?”
    â€œI did. And all from the farmers’ market, I