I gave her this big story about how, silly me, I’d just forgotten to hand the notebook in on Friday, and I didn’t remember until Saturday, when I saw it still in my stack of schoolbooks on my desk at home. I gave her the notebook and flipped through the pages for her—real quick, so she couldn’t read anything—and she said, wow, you really did write a lot. Six entries! And almost all of them extremely long!
I must say, I was a great liar, I acted so worried that I’d forgotten to hand it in when I had done all the work. Mrs. Dunphrey ended up telling me she’d give me partial credit, because I had written so much, but she had to take off something for it being late. Then she gave me this little lecture about how she was sure I was capable of much better work than I was actually doing in her class…
Geez, Mrs. Dunphrey, chill. How can you care so much about something as stupid as this journal? Or my grades? I mean, you’re lucky I even bother to show up for class. School ranks about 1,001 on my list of concerns.
I’ve been thinking lately, maybe the answer to all Matt’s and my money problems is for me to drop out of school. What am I getting out of school, anyhow? All this time I’m sitting in worthless classes, I could be earning money. I sure don’t love my job at the Burger Boy, but if I went to full-time there, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about the bills. It seems like every single one of them is due next week. What happens if they don’t get paid? Would the electric company shut off our heat? It’s been really cold lately. I mean, Matt and I could freeze.
March 11
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Do you know how stupid the world is?
I went in to Mr. Seagrave this afternoon, and told him what I wrote about Tuesday—I mean, I sure didn’t say I was worried about paying the bills because Mom left us, but I did say I wasn’t getting anything out of school and I was thinking about dropping out so I could work full-time at the Burger Boy. He got this real serious look on his face and said, “Tish, you can’t do that.”
That made me mad right off—I was expecting this big lecture about how no one should drop out of school. I was ready to say that what I did with my life was my own business, and if I wanted to drop out, that was my problem, not his. But he didn’t say anything about how it was bad to drop out of school. Instead, he said Burger Boy had a policy that it wouldn’t hire people without high school diplomas.
Wait a minute, I said, I don’t have a diploma, and I’ve been working here since I turned fifteen.
And then he explained how that was different—obviously teenagers working part-time wouldn’t have their diplomas. But for adult full-time employees, Burger Boy expected a certain level of educational achievement, and that level included, at the very least, a high school diploma.
I couldn’t help getting smart-alecky. I think I said something like, how would a high school diploma help me flip burgers? Since when does it take twelve years of school to know how to clean a toilet?
I have to say, Mr. Seagrave was real patient. He never once resorted to that adult trick of saying, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” I think he knows the rules are stupid, too.
But none of this solves our problems.
Tonight I yelled at Matt for leaving the light on in his room while he was in the living room watching TV. We can’t pay for all that energy, I told him. I got him so scared he started to cry.
And then I felt bad. What’s one light matter? With what I’ve saved out of my Burger Boy checks since last month, we can barely pay the $20 water bill, let alone anything else. We might as well enjoy ourselves. I told Matt go ahead, turn everything on. I went around flipping switches—I turned on all our lights, all our radios, everything electric. I even turned on the fan, even though it’s freezing outside.
That little tantrum scared Matt, too. He just cried harder.
I don’t know what to do. If I didn’t have to act grown up for Matt, I think I’d cry, too.
March 15
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I called the electric company today, and made up this story about how I’d just lost my job and I wasn’t going to be able to pay my bill this month. I didn’t give my name or anything, and I tried to sound like a grown-up. I got transferred about six times, until finally I got some kind of caseworker. She asked why I wasn’t getting unemployment (I said, “I don’t know”—pretty dumb answer, huh?) and then she started giving me the names of all these agencies and stuff that could help me. She was all ready to arrange appointments for me. She kept asking my name so she could make the appointments. I was getting pretty panicked and was about to hang up—I started thinking, what if they trace their calls? It happens on TV all the time. Then suddenly she put me on hold for a minute, and someone else picked up the phone. I told my made-up story again, and this time the woman said, “Honey, I’m not supposed to be telling people this, but I know how things can be.
If you just send in any money—five dollars, say that establishes what we call an intent to pay, and we won’t cut off service. Then when you’re back on your feet, you can catch up your payments.”
I was so happy, I probably told that woman “thank you” about sixty times. She practically had to hang up to get me to stop.
I have enough money to send five dollars for each of the bills. I hope the phone company and everyone else does things like the electric company. But the electric’s the most important. It got down to fifteen degrees last night. Why can’t it be warm?
I might as well ask, why can’t I have normal parents who stay with their kids and take care of the bills themselves? Why can’t Granma still be alive?
March 17
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I sent back all the bills with the five dollars in each. Everything seems to be going okay now. It’s even getting warmer. I forgot to wear green for Saint Patrick’s Day, and Roger Amway pinched me hard, but who cares? Matt was smart enough to remember what day it was, and he said nobody pinched him at school because he put some green marker on his hand.
Who needs Mom? Who needs Dad? We’re doing fine, just Matt and me.
Tish,
Good. I’m glad you remembered to hand this in on time!
Would you mind letting me read one of your entries again soon?
March 24
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I know, I know, you want to read another entry. But hey, I don’t have the time to make up something else. I don’t know why I bother writing in here at all. Except that now it kind of seems like this journal is my friend. And at the moment I really don’t have any others.
Sandy and Rochelle are real mad at me. We got in this big fight at school on Friday because I said I couldn’t go to the mall with them that night. They said all I do anymore is work or stay with Matt—” What’s so exciting about an eight-year-old?” Sandy asked. Then Rochelle had to say something really mean: “Maybe Tish likes younger men.” And Sandy said, “Maybe she’s got something else going on—who is it, Tish? Roger Amway? Bud Turner? Both? How many guys are you screwing?”
I should have just walked away then—that’s what Granma would have told me to do. But not me. I had to go and slug Sandy. She just makes me mad—her parents give her everything and she acts like it’s nothing and then she goes and makes fun of me and Chastity because we don’t have as nice clothes or anything …
Well, anyhow, I hit her pretty hard, and then she hit me back and Rochelle was kind of helping. Really, all Sandy did was scratch. She’s such a sissy. But then she yelled out, loud enough for everyone in the cafeteria to hear, “Nobody’d screw you, you stink so bad.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“She means you stank,” Rochelle said. “Pee-you. When was the last time you took a shower?”
I’d taken a shower that morning, but it was about the sixth time I’d worn my jeans and sweatshirt without washing them, because I never have time to do the laundry. (That was one thing Mom did do. Usually.) Do I really stink
?
I didn’t care then, I just wanted to shut Rochelle and Sandy up. I started hitting both of them at once, frantic-like, like some speeded-up cartoon character. They backed off a little, but not before Mr. Tremont came over saying, “What is this? A cat fight? Is there trouble in the gum-cracking brigade?” He acted like the whole thing was a joke. But he made all three of us go down to the office, and we all got a week’s detention. So Matt has to walk home by himself all this week, and I had to get some of my hours changed at the Burger Boy. That means even less money.
Sandy and Rochelle still aren’t talking to me, and I sure don’t want to talk to them if they’re going to be so mean. Since Chastity’s been out sick all week, I don’t have anyone to hang out with.
But you know what? It felt real good to haul off and hit Sandy and Rochelle. I wish I’d hit them each about ten more times.
March 26
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Chastity’s back at school now, and she made Sandy and Rochelle and me all apologize. I asked Chastity if she thought I smelled bad, and she said of course not, that was just one of those things people say in a fight. I am going to do the laundry more often, though.
Sandy and Rochelle still aren’t being real nice to me—they whisper all the time behind my back—but they will talk to me now. The only thing is, I had to agree to go with them to the mall tonight to get them to shut up about how I never do anything fun anymore. I was scheduled to work, so I called in sick. Bud took the call, and I know he didn’t believe me.
I’m so stupid. I should have stayed mad at Sandy and Rochelle and asked for extra hours at Burger Boy. Right now, I need money more than friends.
Maybe I just won’t eat next week.
March 27
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
When I was getting ready for school this morning, Matt came in and said he didn’t have any clean underwear. I couldn’t believe that, since I stayed up until 3 A.M. last night doing the laundry. I went into his room with him, and looked in his drawer, and he was right, there wasn’t any underwear there. I asked him if he’d been putting his underwear in the dirty clothes basket. I tried to be nice about it, but I was so tired maybe I sounded mean … He started crying right off. That made me mad, and I wanted to hit him almost as bad as I’d wanted to hit Sandy last week. Why is Matt such a wimp? After about fifteen minutes, he finally pointed under the bed. I crawled down there and sure enough, there was every bit of underwear Matt owns. I should have been able to smell it. Matt finally told me he’d been wetting his bed almost every night, but he was so ashamed he just hid the underwear. I looked at his sheets and they were all stained and stinky, too. It was gross. I blew up and yelled at Matt—why was he wetting his bed now? Didn’t he know he was too old for that? Did he think I had time to change his sheets every night?
Matt just cried harder, and I got to feeling terrible. It’s not like Matt is wetting his bed on purpose. I told him, to make it up to him, we’d both stay home from school, and I’d play games with him all day and fix him whatever he wanted for lunch, and we’d just have fun together.
I didn’t remember until after school would have been out that I was supposed to have two tests today. It’s not like I would have done very well on them, anyhow.
March 30
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Matt and I didn’t go to school today either. It felt so good just to sleep and sleep and sleep. I didn’t get up until noon. Someone from Matt’s school called to check up on him, but I just pretended to be Mom. I gave them some big story about how Matt had a horrible fever. And it wasn’t really that much of a lie, because he does have a bad cold.
Nobody called from the high school to check up on me.
Today would have been as great as yesterday, except that, when I went to fix lunch for Matt and me, I couldn’t find anything except Cheerios—no milk—and some icky kinds of soup that Mom must have bought for Dad. (Who else would eat something as sick as split pea?) So I guess I’ll have to send Matt to school tomorrow so he’ll get lunch. I don’t get paid until Friday, and I’m all out of cash.
I decided to call the Burger Boy and see if I could get more hours. Guess what I found out? Mr. Seagrave got a new job somewhere else. That wouldn’t matter so much except for who’s going to replace him—good old Bud Turner. Gag, gag, gag. The person I talked to, Lexy, made some crack about how that would be great for me since Bud’s always had a crush on me. I didn’t tell her Bud’s been real mean ever since I said I wouldn’t go out with him. I hate the thought that he’ll be my real boss, and I won’t be able to go to Mr. Seagrave anymore.
April 1
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Back when I was Matt’s age, this was the day everyone was scared of—April Fool’s Day. I never got tricked, but lots of people did. Mean tricks, too, like lids on catsup bottles being unscrewed so the next person who used them got a lapful of catsup.
When I saw the mail today, I expected someone to jump out from somewhere and say, “Gotcha! April Fool’s!”
But all the letters were real.
First, there were a ton more bills. It looks like Mom was playing that little five-dollar game herself with the electric company and the phone company and everybody else for a long time now. I got two bills today that said, “Final notice—pay in full or service will be cut off.”
At least it’s warmer outside now, so Matt and I won’t freeze. Being without electricity can’t be that bad, can it?
Anyhow, besides those bills, I got something that said “Notice of Property Tax.” It’s for something like $200, and when I read the fine print at the bottom, it said our house could be taken away if we don’t pay.
Where am I supposed to get $200?
Then—and this really takes the cake—on top of all that, Mom sent us a postcard. It was of a beach somewhere in California, and she had written all about how she and Dad are back together now and happy, blah, blah, blah. At the bottom, it said, “Hope you and Matt are okay. I’ll try to send some more money soon. You have enough for now, don’t you? Love…
Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot. You’d better send that money fast, or the mailman will have to deliver it to us on the streets. And why’d you ask a question without a return address or phone number so we could answer?
I would have hidden the card from Matt, except he was the one who got the mail. Of course he started crying. And of course that made me mad and I yelled at him.
Sometimes I think maybe he’d be better off without me. I’m not taking very good care of him at all. His cold is worse, he’s still wetting the bed, and he cries every day. But then tonight, he crawled up in my lap (even though he’s really too big) and said he was glad I stayed with him.
After Matt was in bed, I crocheted a lot. But for once it didn’t help me keep my mind off anything.
Anyhow, that stupid afghan is just about done.
Tish,
Wow—you did an extra entry again. Great! But can’t you let me read one sometime soon?
April 7
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Oops—I didn’t mean to write five entries last time. At least Mrs. Dunphrey thinks I’m doing something right. Everything else is going wrong.
I got fired today.
The thing is, I didn’t even do anything. When I went in to work, Bud told me he wanted to see me back in his office. And when I got there, he shut the door and said, “Tish, we’re not going to need your help anymore.”
I was real stupid—I kept saying, “What? What do you mean?”
He said since he’d taken over he’d found that the restaurant was definitely overstaffed, and he needed to let a few people go to keep the overhead low.
Yeah, right. Then why was I the only person fired?
I asked if he wanted me to work my regular shift tonight—I thought maybe I could be real nice to him and talk turn into letting me keep my job. But Bud just said, “That won’t be nec
essary.” And then he gave me my last paycheck and told me good-bye.
He looked so happy firing me, I wish I’d punched him. Right in his pimply nose. But Granma would have been proud of me—I was real dignified. I said, “Fine. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
If he could lie, so can I. I know he was just getting back at me for not going out with him back in the fall.
I haven’t told anyone yet—I know Rochelle would tell me to file some sex discrimination suit or something. But I can’t have anyone nosing around. And wouldn’t I have to hire a lawyer for that?
Without my Burger Boy money, I can’t afford anything.
Tomorrow I’m going to go look for another job. Wendy’s has got to be hiring. Or McDonald’s. Somebody.
April 8
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I was wrong. Nobody is hiring. At least not now. I went to every fast-food restaurant in town—and don’t think that’s easy, when you have to go by city bus. I filled out probably twenty applications. Daddy-O’s said they might be hiring in a month, and Hardee’s said they might have some openings in the summer. But that was it. Great. What am I supposed to do until then?
Tomorrow I’ll apply at other places. K-Mart. Wal-Mart. All the stores at the mall.
The thing is, who’s going to hire me anyhow when they find out I was fired from my last job? It’s not like Bud would give me a good recommendation.
Oh, one more thing—when I got home, the phone didn’t work. I went next door and called the phone company, and the woman on the other end put me on hold forever and then came back on and said, “The reason your phone is out is that you’re behind in your payment. When you pay your bill in full, we’ll restore service. There is a $50 hook-up fee.”
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