I punched my pillow. Dad probably called off my visit because he didn’t want a repeat of last time. I had never told Mom what happened. The whole thing embarrassed me because I felt so weird about it.
For once, I hadn’t gone out of my way to hurt Holly. Normally, I took every opportunity I could to put Holly down in front of Dad. But this time, I hadn’t. I wasn’t prepared for the hug and it made me angry. I couldn’t explain. Not even to myself.
As for the other times, I don’t know what I thought. Maybe that if he saw I didn’t like her, Dad would come to his senses and come back to Mom.
Things used to be good. We had a lot of laughs together, and they did love each other. Before. But right before Dad left, they did nothing but argue.
They argued even more now.
Mom’s voice floated up the stairway. She must’ve called Dad and they were arguing again. But this time I knew what it was about.
Me.
I felt worse when she badgered Dad about upsetting me. He knew he had, and when she argued with him about it, he loved me even less.
Tears threatened to spill over again. I needed something to distract me. My gaze fell on the journal.
Maybe Madame Vadoma knew what she was talking about. My heart felt so full, maybe writing down my feelings would make things better. I grabbed the book and sat at my desk. The plain cover had the word Journal embossed in gold on the front. I inhaled the leather scent and felt calmer.
I opened it to the front page. My eyes bugged out. The Journal of Angela Ashby was inscribed in thick black ink. Underneath were the words Madame Vadoma told me, ‘Use it wisely.’
How was my name in the journal? It freaked me out. I had never once mentioned my name to Madame Vadoma, and even if she had listened to Mallory and me in the tent while we waited for her, she wouldn’t have known my last name. I wanted to call Mallory and tell her about the inscription, but remembered Mom was on the phone with Dad. Arguing.
I turned the page and took out my favorite purple pen. I stopped for a moment. I didn’t know exactly how a journal worked. I didn’t want to put Dear Diary—too lame. And this wasn’t a diary.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember what Madame Vadoma told me.
Write what was in my heart. But how? I had so many feelings swirling inside, I didn’t know where to start. I couldn’t concentrate with the occasional raised voice penetrating my door. I loved my parents and I didn’t want them to hate each other. Especially because of me.
I grabbed my MP3 player and shoved the headphone buds in my ears. I took a deep breath and sighed. Sometimes blocking out the world was the only thing to do.
My hand hovered over the page. I took a deep breath and pressed the pen to the page.
I hope I’m doing this right. But I got this journal from a creepy fortune-teller who disappeared, so I can’t ask anyone.
I paused to think about what I felt in my heart before scribbling more in the journal. Thoughts of Dad, Holly, Mom, and how things had changed since the divorce churned in my head. So many things I wanted to gripe about, but I didn’t want to turn the journal into a complaint book. What if Mom found it? She’d be so hurt. She had been hurt enough already. And it was all Holly’s fault for taking Dad away.
I closed my eyes and listened to the music. Holding the pen like a drumstick, I beat time with the music on my desk. Then I knew. Without trying to think about what was most important to me, it just popped into my head.
I’m tired of coming home to an empty house and having to get my own dinner and spending so much time on my own. Since I can’t undo the divorce, I want Mom to be able to stay home with me, so we can spend more time together.
The simple words drying on the page choked me. The purple ink imbued the words with a power I couldn’t describe. I had written what I wanted most. But vibrations came from the journal, mostly good, but an underlying darkness grew. I closed the journal and put it back on the bookcase. Good grief. I was getting as superstitious as Mallory. Maybe journaling wasn’t the best idea after all.
Another Monday come and gone. Mallory and I made our way to the front of the school to go home. Jimmy Simmons and his friends ran past, playing tag and calling each other names. Mallory flung a wistful look toward the bike racks where Zach twirled the dial on his bike lock.
“Race you to the postbox.” I hitched my backpack tighter. “Go.”
We took off running down the street, side by side, sneakers pounding the sidewalk. My Saint Christopher necklace slipped out of my shirt and bounced against my chest as we tore around kids on their way home. I glanced at Mallory.
She looked determined to beat me. Her hair flew out behind her like a shiny, black flag. Spotting a skateboard in time, I leaped over it while Mallory dodged a ramp. The Miller kids always left something out on the sidewalk.
Uh-oh. Toddler riding a foot-powered car straight ahead. Veering off the sidewalk, I went over the curb and ran along the dry gutter and Mallory took to the green-belt. Neither of us wanted to get yelled at by the kid’s mom for running too close to him. Once past the toddler, we converged on the sidewalk again, footsteps thumping in time with my heart.
At the park, we both cut across the grass, shaving the corner off our route. My feet squelched through the section they always overwatered. I skirted the kids’ jungle gym while Mallory ploughed through the sand. Hitting the sidewalk again on the far side of the park, we sprinted down the straightaway. A black cat sauntered across the sidewalk and sat in front of the postbox. I slowed for a moment. Why did that cat keep showing up?
My lungs burned as I put on the final spurt of speed to beat Mallory to the postbox by two steps. I stretched my hand out and touched the blue painted metal as I flew past.
My steps slowed and I went back to where she stood, hanging on the postbox, panting.
“I almost ... beat you ... that time.” She wiped the beads of sweat from her brow.
I used my sleeve to mop my face. The salt in the sweat stung my eyes. “You’re getting faster.” I slowly inhaled to help ease the stitch in my side. “You ready?”
She nodded and we walked toward home, the cat following behind. Who did it belong to?
I tucked the medal back in my shirt. I smiled; Mom wanted me to wear the Saint Christopher to help keep me safe. She said she needed all the help she could get.
My backpack hung from one shoulder as I trudged home after saying good-bye to Mallory. I turned the corner onto my street and grinned. Mom’s car sat in the driveway. For once she wasn’t going to be late. I broke into a run.
Chapter Eight - The Journal
Bursting through the front door, I opened my mouth to call out. The words froze in my throat. Mom sat at the kitchen table, crying. My backpack hit the ground with a thud.
She raised her tear-stained face. “I got laid off today. They told me I was doing a great job, but they had to make some cuts to stay in business.” She choked back a sob. “What are we going to do?”
My feet unstuck from where they were glued to the floor and I ran and threw my arms around her. “You’ll find another job.”
She hugged me so tight my ribs hurt.
“I hope so, honey. You know I’ve been trying. Jobs are scarce right now.” She took a deep breath, released me and grabbed a napkin to wipe her face. “But you don’t need to worry. I’ll get something. We’ll be okay.”
I sighed. Mom always told me to focus on the positive, so she had to set the example. But she didn’t believe it. At least not yet.
“Do you want me to make dinner?”
Mom raised her eyebrow. “And what delicacy are you planning to serve?”
I shrugged. “Well, I make a mean peanut butter graham cracker.”
Mom snorted. “Why don’t you close the front door before we have every stray cat in the neighborhood taking up residence in our living room? And I’ll make us something to eat.”
At least I made her laugh.
A bubble of happiness warred with the fea
r inside me. It was terrible that Mom had lost her job, but she’d have more time to spend with me until she got a new one.
After dinner, I washed the dishes with no argument. “Do you want to watch a movie?”
Mom looked up from the paper, where she’d circled several want ads. “I can’t. I have to keep looking for jobs.” She patted the laptop on the table next to her. “Once I go through the paper, I have to get this cranked up and see what else I can find.”
“That stinks. You can’t even take a couple hours to relax?”
She shook her head. “I can’t stop until I have another job, hon.”
I slumped on the couch and put my feet on the coffee table. So much for spending more time with her.
“Angela, take your feet off the table. You know better.” Mom pursed her lips. “Have you finished your homework?”
“No.” I huffed, rolled off the couch, and stomped toward the stairs.
I flung the bedroom door open and threw my backpack on the bed.
After pulling my history book out of the bag, I sat at the desk and cracked the pages. Why did history books have to be so boring? Exciting stuff happened, but you’d never know it from our history book. I think they forgot the story part of history.
A bland recital of facts and dates, ‘The Pandora myth first appears in lines 560–612 of Hesiod’s poem ...,’ blah, blah, blah. The tedium caused my eyes to glaze. I couldn’t believe this book made Greek mythology boring. We were reading about Pandora, which should have been exciting. It would have made a great movie. The special effects when she broke open the box would be awesome.
I closed the history book. I wasn’t in the mood, and I had until Wednesday to finish. I grabbed my math book. I scribbled down the answers to the two problems I had left. Math homework complete, I pulled out my English homework.
About halfway through, I closed the book. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Mom said not to worry about what would happen to us, but I couldn’t help it.
Mom did her best, but since Dad left, money had been tight. She had never said anything, but any time I needed something for school the grooves between her eyebrows deepened in pain. Maybe I should take back some of my new clothes.
Remembering her tears made me shaky inside. I didn’t know what I’d do if Mom crumbled. She always held us together. My heart jolted. Would we have to sell the house and move?
My gaze traveled around the room. The wild psychedelic print on the wall Mom and I picked out together. The stair step bookcase Dad and I sanded and varnished together. My grandmother’s hope-chest at the foot of the bed, where I kept all my treasures.
This had always been my room. I didn’t want to move into a strange house and have to get used to a new room.
Every well-worn and loved object had memories attached. My eyes stopped on the journal. The newest thing I owned, except for my clothes. A twinge of guilt pricked my conscience. It bugged me we hadn’t been able to pay Madame Vadoma for the reading. What if the journal was cursed because I hadn’t paid?
She gave it to me though, and didn’t ask for any money.
I closed my eyes to block the journal out. A vision of Madame Vadoma handing it to me rose in my mind’s eye. Her intense stare as she told me to use it wisely increased. Until all I “saw” was her glare. My eyes flew open.
Journaling hadn’t made me feel better last time, but maybe I needed to give it a chance.
Seeing my name in the angular, foreign-looking script still shocked me. I had forgotten to tell Mallory about the name at the front. I turned the page. My words from yesterday mocked me.
I got what I wanted, but at what price? I didn’t want Mom to lose her job. What had gone wrong?
Madame Vadoma said I had to use it with a pure heart. Maybe what I had written was too selfish. I only thought about what I wanted. Settling in at my desk, I turned the page. Maybe I should try again.
Sometimes getting what you want isn’t the best thing in the world. Mom is home tonight, so I should be happy, right? But when she’s crying because she lost her job, happiness seems kinda far away. If I could go back to yesterday and do it over, I wouldn’t want Mom to stay home with me. I’d want her to have a better job, making more money, but not have to work such long hours. Then we could both be happy.
I picked up the journal. Did I need to add anything else? A gentle rumble rippled through the journal—like holding a purring kitten. But journals don’t purr, so my hands must be shaking. I reread the words on the page.
What the heck? The entry read like I believed what I wrote yesterday made Mom lose her job. Ridiculous. I looked at the journal. Plain lined paper covered in leather. Nothing special.
Madame Vadoma must have bewitched me into thinking the journal had special powers. All the talk about the heart having power and using it wisely. Any connection to what I had written and what happened to Mom was coincidence. Nothing more. Otherwise it meant I had caused an entire company to fail.
I giggled. No twelve-year-old had that kind of power.
What would Mom say if I told her that what I wrote in the journal came true? She’d probably talk about having me see someone because of the divorce again.
I closed the journal and stared at it. Nothing. No glow. No vibrations.
Well ... I wriggled my shoulders. The memory of last night’s vibrations and the darkness creeping out from the pages made me uncomfortable. I shoved the memory down—nothing more than an overactive imagination.
Its pages didn’t call my name, or pull me inside. And the ink didn’t disappear into the page. And except for my name at the front, no one else’s writing was in it. Kinda tame for a magical object. In fact, it looked and acted exactly like a journal.
Which is exactly what it was. And a pretty measly one at that.
Moving it to the side, I went back to my English homework. Maybe writing in it did work, because I felt a little better.
“Angela!”
Mom’s voice penetrated the mists of my dream. Morning already?
“Angela, get up.”
I couldn’t be late for school already. The light through the window barely lit the room. And Mom sounded happy and not angry.
Shoving my feet into my slippers, I dashed to the door.
Mom just missed hitting me as she burst through it. “I got a call from a job I interviewed for months ago, and they want to make me an offer.”
My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. “Really?” The word trailed up into a squeak.
She hugged me. “This is the job I wanted, too. It’s with a good, established company and the benefits are wonderful.” She swung me around. “I can’t tell you how happy I am. I’d given up hope they’d call. And that they called on the day after I lost my other job makes it sweeter.”
The big smile on my face made my cheeks hurt, but I couldn’t stop. “I am so excited for you. When do you start?”
Mom’s eyes danced with happiness. “I’m going in today to do the preliminary paperwork, and they want me to start immediately.”
“Yay!”
“So you need to get ready for school. I’ll drop you off a bit early, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
Mom grinned. “I’ll get breakfast ready while you get dressed.”
I rushed through my morning routine and clomped down the stairs, as Mom finished making breakfast. Fried egg and turkey bacon sandwich on toasted English muffin. My favorite.
Mom sat at the table with me to drink her coffee while I ate. I couldn’t remember the last time we had breakfast together.
She took a sip from the steaming cup. “Did you finish your homework last night?”
I nodded and only felt a pinch of guilt. I didn’t finish the history homework. But it wasn’t due until tomorrow, so technically it became tonight’s homework.
I took a bite of my sandwich and savored it; the crunch of the bacon and the squish of the egg both cushioned by the muffin. Mom got the yolk perfect—cooked, but creamy liquid
to soak into the muffin crannies. I closed my eyes as I chewed. “Mmmmm.”
Mom laughed. “I’m glad you enjoy your food.”
“It’s the best, because ...”
She joined me.
“... it’s made with love.”
Done with breakfast, I pounded upstairs to grab my books. Still stacked on my desk from last night, I shoved them into my backpack and ran back downstairs.
Chapter Nine - Gnome Outside the Window
Sitting on the planter ledge in the middle of the quad, I pulled out my history book. I might as well get the boring reading done. A shadow crossed the page as I flipped it.
I glanced up. Cynthia.
I didn’t get it. She didn’t like me, so why didn’t she just stay away? Instead, she sought me out and picked fights. A big bully and I didn’t give in to bullying.
I stared at her, hoping she’d go away. She didn’t. Movement over by the lockers caught my attention. A black cat slunk along the lockers, then disappeared around the corner of the building.
“What are you doing here so early, Ash-Angel?” Cynthia sneered at me.
What did that even mean? I ignored her and went back to reading.
“You know what an Ash-Angel is? The opposite of a snow angel. Instead of sparkly white, it’s filthy.”
Not looking up, I shrugged. “That’s lame.” Didn’t she know if she had to force it, it didn’t work?
Her shadow loomed when she took a step forward. “Watch it, Be-Ash.”
I closed my history book and slowly clapped my hands. “Congratulations on coming up with a new insult, even if it’s just switching the syllables of my last name around. I’ll bet your parents are proud.”
She frowned and curled her fists.
“But you’d better be careful who you use it around. After all, a teacher might think you’re saying something else.” Inhaling sharply, I covered my mouth in mock dismay. “Then you might have to explain how you came up with such an endearing nickname.” I opened the history book again.
The Journal of Angela Ashby Page 5
