Don't You Dare Read This, Mrs. Dunphrey

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Matt snuck up behind me then and grabbed me around the waist. He held on so tight I could hardly breathe.

  “Mom’s gone,” he said. He looked terrible—hair all messed up, eyes all puffy from crying, lint all over his shirt.

  “Yeah, she’s gone,” I said. “So what? What’d she ever do when she was here?”

  I sounded really mean, because I was scared, I guess. He started crying harder, like I’d hit him or something.

  “Hey, don’t cry,” I said. “I’m not saying I didn’t like Mom. But we’ll do okay without her. That’s all.”

  “Will she come back?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t count on it. Then you’ll be happy if she does. Okay? In the meantime—you know I’ll never leave you.”

  That seemed to make him feel better.

  “She left us some money, didn’t she?” he asked.

  I hadn’t even thought of that. We went over to the kitchen drawer where Mom always keeps an envelope of money. It was empty, of course.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I make lots of money at the Burger Boy. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I kept talking to Matt like that—telling him how good everything was going to be, how I’d take care of him and it’d be like an adventure, just him and me. And by the time I got him to brush his teeth and crawl into bed, he was even giggling.

  Then I came back to my room, and I started thinking about how I don’t make enough money at the Burger Boy to take care of everything. I don’t even know what bills Mom has to pay. Do they come in the mail, or do you have to go to the electric company and stuff to pick them up?

  I told myself, maybe Mom will be back tomorrow, and all this will be silly.

  But I couldn’t really believe it, you know?

  I probably sat on my bed, worrying, for about an hour. And then I did something really strange. I dug back on the floor of my closet and pulled out the old, mashed afghan Granma had me working on before she died. The crochet hook was on the closet floor, too, under some old T-shirts, and I figured out how to put it in the yarn and crochet. I had to really concentrate—in, loop, out, loop, out, out—I’m surprised I remembered at all. The afghan smelled a little bit like the lavender soap Granma used to use. But I didn’t really think about that while I was crocheting. I didn’t think about anything for a long time. It was kind of comforting.

  I don’t know how long I crocheted, but eventually I had to stop. And then I started worrying again.

  Why didn’t Granma teach me something smart, like paying bills, instead of how to crochet?

  February 15

  DON’T read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  Mom’s still not back. I think I was right—she is gone for good.

  What I’m scared of most is that someone will find out. Last Friday, when I first saw Mom’s note, there was a part of me that wanted to call one of my friends—Chastity, probably, because when you come right down to it, she’s the nicest—and tell her everything and ask her what to do. I’m so glad I didn’t, though. She would have been all nice and sympathetic on the phone, or maybe told me everything was great—” Hey, that means you won’t have anyone to boss you around? What’s the problem?” But then the minute I’d hang up, she’d be on the phone to Rochelle or Sandy or someone else, saying, “You’ll never guess what happened to Tish. Her parents are so screwed up …” It’d be embarrassing. Everybody in the whole school would know the next day.

  And then things could get even worse. I didn’t even think about what could happen if adults knew. But today at lunch Rochelle started telling about this freshman—Cashaundra Somebody—whose parents died in a car crash over the weekend. This Cashaundra has three or four brothers and sisters, and there weren’t any relatives to take care of the kids, so they all got split up and put in different foster homes.

  Matt and I don’t have any relatives to take care of us, either. Granma and Granpa are both dead, and Dad’s mom and dad moved away a long time ago. I think they disowned Dad or something. (Who can blame them?) I don’t ever remember even meeting them. And if they don’t even care enough to meet me and Matt, you think they’re going to want to take care of us? So it’d be foster homes for Matt and me, too. If anybody tried to split us up—I’d kill them.

  I’m so glad I was smart enough to tell Matt not to tell anyone—not his friends, his teacher, anybody—that Mom was gone.

  I don’t think he has any friends, anyhow. I just hope he doesn’t let it slip to his teacher.

  February 17

  DON’T read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  All week I’ve been real jumpy, scared someone would find out, scared some bill would come I couldn’t pay, scared of everything. But it’s weird, life is going on just fine without Mom.

  Last night I got the nerve to call Mom’s friend Brenda, to kind of feel her out and see if she knew anything. I pulled this trick we used to play on people back in junior high—I pretended she was the one who called me, and I was just talking to be polite. Back in junior high, Sandy used to be real good at confusing people, doing that. I remember she made Jenny Marlin cry one time with that trick. I wasn’t sure Brenda was dumb enough to fall for it, but it worked. (I think she’d been drinking when I called.) What I got out of Brenda was this: Mom quit her job at Haggarty’s, but she told everyone it was just because she got a better job somewhere else. (Yeah, right. She’s lucky she never got fired at Haggarty’s, the way she kept taking sick days.) Last Brenda heard, Dad was somewhere out west, California, maybe. Brenda didn’t know anything about Mom going to find him. She just thought Mom had gone kind of snobby since she got this other job.

  The funny thing is, right before we were hanging up, Brenda said to me, “Well, I just called to tell your mom she shouldn’t forget all of us at Haggarty’s, just because she’s making twice the money now. Tell her to stop in and say ‘hi’ sometime, if she wants to keep her friends.”

  Am I good, or what?

  Guess I have to give Mom some credit for fooling Brenda, too. Except, Brenda’s a pretty dim bulb.

  At least I know now for sure—or pretty sure—that nobody’s out there nosing around, finding out about Mom leaving us, wanting to split Matt and me up.

  Tish,

  You only have three entries this time, but your first one is so exceptionally long that I’ll give you full credit, anyhow. Try to write four entries next time, okay?

  February 23

  DO NOT read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  I’ve been so scared.

  I handed this in on Friday, and then the next period it hit me—how could I have been so dumb? I was trying so hard to keep it secret that Mom had left, and then I’d given Mrs. Dunphrey this notebook, with an exact description of everything, of Mom leaving, of me trying to take care of Matt, of me worrying about the bills. Everything. I know she’s not supposed to be reading this, but what if, just this once, she had?

  Sitting in history class, I got to feeling so panicky, I started sweating. Chastity leaned over and asked me if I needed to go to the nurse.

  And then Mrs. Dunphrey handed this back today, with just the note about how many entries I had. Like that matters.

  For a while, I was thinking I just wouldn’t write any more in here, or I’d stop handing it in, or something.

  But you know, it does make me feel a little better to write, since I can’t talk to anyone. I mean, I can talk to Matt about Mom being gone, but I always have to be cheerful around him or he’ll start crying. So maybe I will keep writing. I don’t know. It’s not the biggest thing on my mind right now.

  I’ve been trying not to spend any money since Mom left, because I’m scared we’re not going to have enough. I told Sandy and Rochelle and Chastity I was going on a diet, so they won’t ask questions when I don’t get anything to eat for lunch. But then Rochelle said, “At least get a diet Coke out of the pop machine—hey, get me one, too.” And then Sandy and Chastity wanted some, too, and you know they didn’t pay me for it. So I had to spend al
most three dollars—more than I would have spent on lunch.

  Three dollars may not sound like much, but that’s almost a whole hour of work at the Burger Boy. How much is the heat bill going to be? How much is the phone bill? What other bills am I going to have to pay?

  Then Matt came home with this note about how his class is going to some field trip, and he needed a permission slip signed and five dollars for admission to the museum and lunch while they’re there. I can forge Mom’s signature, no problem, but I couldn’t find more than $4.50 to give him, not even after looking for change in the couch after he went to bed.

  February 24

  Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  I was ready to kill Matt tonight. We were watching MTV together, when that news guy, Kurt Loder, started talking about how much money all the big singers have. It was making me a little sick—what’s so great about, say, Madonna, that she has millions and millions of dollars while I’m wondering if Matt and I are even going to have enough money for groceries next week? But Matt started giggling and said, “With Mom’s money, we’re about as rich as them, aren’t we?”

  “In your dreams,” I said, and threw one of Granma’s crocheted pillows at him. “You saw that empty envelope.”

  “No, really,” Matt said. “That was a big check Mom left, wasn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?” I sat up straight. Matt gets confused about things sometimes, but he really seemed to think Mom left us something besides a note. Because Matt’s been so scared of everything, I’ve been very careful not to mention money or anything else I’m worried about. But now I wanted to grab him by the shirt and hold his face up to my face and stare him right in the eye, just like people always do in the movies when they want important information.

  “I tried to tell you, but you said you had enough money from Burger Boy. Then after that I thought you knew—didn’t you?” Matt gave me a quick, nervous glance. “Mom didn’t pick up her paycheck, you were supposed to. I think there were some other checks, too …”

  I took a deep breath. I didn’t explode like I wanted to. I started asking Matt really, really easy questions. After about a half hour, I finally got the whole story:

  I guess Mom was still here when Matt got home from school the day she left. He was hungry and started looking for the new groceries—Mom usually goes shopping on Fridays, right after work, because that’s her payday. But he couldn’t find anything. So he asked Mom and she said she’d forgotten to pick up her paycheck. He started bugging her to go to the grocery right then, but she ignored him, so he went to play in his room. After a while, she came in and kissed him and said, “Good-bye. I forgot to write this down—tell Tish to pick up my paycheck and ask for all my vacation money, too.” Matt figured Mom was just going to the grocery.

  “Didn’t you think at all?” I couldn’t help saying. “Why would Mom write something? Why would she want me to pick up her check if she was going to Haggarty’s?”

  I was suddenly so mad I could barely see—here I’d been worrying so much about money when we had lots of it all along. How could Matt have gone almost two weeks without telling me? I was mad at him, too, because he didn’t figure things out and stop Mom from leaving—I mean, she never would have kissed him if she was just going down to Haggarty’s. And I think I was mad because Mom did that to Matt, acting like she was just going to the store, when she was actually leaving us. And maybe a little of my mad was because Mom didn’t even kiss me, just left that stupid note.

  But it didn’t do me any good to yell, because as soon as I did, Matt’s lower lip started trembling and his eyes got all watery.

  “I’m not smart like you,” he said. He blinked and that made the tears spill out onto his cheeks.

  “Okay, okay.” I had to take another deep breath and remind myself it wasn’t Matt’s fault Mom left. “I’m just glad you’re telling me about this now. You’re sure Mom said that about the vacation money?”

  Matt nodded. “So we are rich?”

  I rolled my eyes. But I was done being mad. So Mom did leave some money for us. Maybe she’s not so bad after all. She must be planning to come home before the money runs out, right?

  February 25

  Don’t read, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  I was so excited about Mom’s checks I decided to skip school this morning to go pick them up. I wrote out a long, long grocery list and was going to buy things like Snickers and Coco-Puffs as special treats for Matt and me. I waltzed into Haggarty’s like I owned the world. But guess what? Mom called in sick so much they said she’d run out of sick days and used up all her vacation days, and then some. So they didn’t owe her anything.

  Except—I don’t know. The assistant manager may have been lying just because he didn’t want to give me Mom’s checks. The first thing he told me was that Mom’s the only one “authorized” to pick up her paychecks. He didn’t tell me that thing about the sick days until I started yelling. And then, everything I said, he kept saying, “Really, it’s not appropriate for me to discuss this with anyone but your mother.” I was so mad. I wanted so bad to yell, “Oh yeah? What if she’s in California?” But of course I couldn’t.

  I hate Mom. I don’t care if she ever comes back.

  February 28

  Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  It’s really late, and I can’t sleep again, for worrying. All these bills have started coming in the mail—even more than I thought. I mean, I didn’t even know people had to pay for water, and the city wants almost $20 just for that.

  Almost all the bills say they don’t have to be paid until the middle of next month. I hope I can figure out something by then. Maybe Mom will even come back before then. (Yeah, right.)

  At least one of the bills, the one for Mom’s credit card, kind of solved a mystery. Guess what? All those big presents Dad got us—even that dinner at Shoney’s—he put on Mom’s credit card. I bet he’s the one who took Mom’s “missing” Christmas money, too. What a nice guy, huh? There were lots of other things on the bill, too—lots of bar tabs at the Alibi Inn that I know were Dad’s, not Mom’s, because Mom can’t drink more than one beer without falling asleep. And it looks like the card was maxxed out the day after Christmas. So Dad just left when he couldn’t use Mom’s card anymore. It wasn’t my fault at all.

  At least, that’s what I want to think. If it’s not my fault Dad left, it’s not my fault Mom left, either.

  So why do I still feel guilty every time I see how sad Matt looks? Why do I feel like I deserve to have all these problems—keeping everything secret, not having enough money, always worrying about Matt?

  Everything’s so screwed up.

  I crocheted a little bit more on the old afghan tonight after Matt went to bed. It’s strange how that makes me feel better. Some, anyway. I guess it’s about the only thing I have left to remind me of Granma.

  For some reason, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the day she died. It was summertime, and I was out in this vacant lot behind our house playing hide-and-go-seek with this neighbor girl, Misty Tyler. I heard Mom in the house scream out, “Help! Somebody! Call an ambulance!”

  I got up and ran inside, and Misty yelled, “Wait! I didn’t find you yet!”

  By the time I got to the house, one of the neighbors had gotten Mom calmed down and called an ambulance. I shoved my way back to Granma’s room—it’s Matt’s room now—and she was lying on the floor, not moving. It’s weird. I hadn’t seen Granma fall or anything, but I could picture just how it would be, her legs going limp like a piece of yarn, her falling sideways until her knees, her hips, her elbows, then her head hit the ground.

  I don’t know, maybe it had happened before.

  This time, I stood there saying, “Granma, Granma, Granma,” until finally she opened her eyes.

  “Tish,” she kind of whispered. “Find—find Matt.”

  I went back to my room—Matt and I shared then—and he was hiding under the bed. By the time I got him pulled out, t
he ambulance people were there and they kept saying, “Out of the way, kids.” So I didn’t get to see Granma again. Mom called us from the hospital that night and told us Granma was dead.

  It’s so odd. Before Granma died, I wouldn’t have said I felt safe. I wouldn’t have said I felt good about my life. But after she died, it seemed like if she was just alive again, everything would be fine.

  It’s like I’d been walking a tightrope with a big safety net underneath me, but I never really thought about the net until someone took it away. And then every single step scared me to death.

  Maybe I keep thinking about Granma dying now to remind myself—it was worse to have her die than to have Mom leave.

  March 5

  Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  This is due next period, so I have about forty-five minutes to decide whether I’m going to hand it in or not. It’s such a crazy thing to worry about—I mean, I’ve never in my life done homework for any reason except to hand it in. (And a lot of times, I don’t even do it then! Ha, ha.) I just don’t want Mrs. Dunphrey “accidentally” reading this. I could be like Sandy and just skip it. But I keep telling Matt to act normal, like nothing’s changed, so no one gets suspicious. I’ve always handed this journal in. If I don’t, will Mrs. Dunphrey start being nosy?

  I wish I could decide something. Why do even stupid things like this have to be hard now?

  March 7

  Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.

  Oh, great, that was really bright of me. I decided not to hand this in, so of course Mrs. Dunphrey had to ask me to stay after class on Monday. She started doing this whole concerned-teacher routine, about how she realized I could be a little, uh, erratic with my work at times, but I’d always been faithful handing in my journal—was there something wrong? Was there anything I wanted to talk about?