Like an unweeded garden

I've never had my mother give me oxygen before. It was odd. The Milborough Petfinder ran a front page story about the whole Macbeth debacle, including a joke about how lucky we all were that there was a doctor in the house (and a nurse, too: Mrs. Anderson was busy with the oxygen too). The downside is that since I was one of the last people out (damn Girl Guide training: I found myself helping people out of the building), I'm sick. Charles Wallace had taped the television news coverage of the play last night, and thoughtfully played it for me while I hacked.
"You were falling out of your costume there," he pointed out.
"Thanks, creep. Why'd you mess up the blood?"
"I thought it would be better that way. I guess it wasn't." I would have punched him but my lungs hurt. The next shot was of Mirabell being led away, announcing his plans for an all-elementary school child version of Coriolanus.
My mother had trouble deciding who she was angrier at: my uncle or at Mirabell. As Arne hadn't made me change hair colour, or done any extortion, he got a bye on this one.