Diary Two: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky

by Ann M. Martin

  “Did you complain to the people at the hotel about the menu for the banquet?” I asked.

  “Why bother? Besides, most people don’t care about the food as long as we serve a salad. Everyone in Hollywood is on a diet.”

  “Did you find more things to auction off?” I asked.

  “Not enough. They can’t call me in to be chairperson at the last minute and expect me to perform miracles.”

  I wanted to get away from Mom. I hate her attitude when she’s drinking. But I was worried that the auction would be a failure. Then what would happen to the shelter?

  “Did you tell your committee about the animal photo idea?” I asked.

  “What photo idea?”

  The knot in my stomach was tightening. I reminded her about my idea to have big photos of animals from the shelter posted at the benefit.

  “Oh, that,” she said. “It can be your project. I don’t have time.” She went behind the bar and poured herself another drink.

  Mom is falling into her usual trap. I know she’s drinking because she’s afraid the benefit will be a failure. But if she’s drinking instead of working on the benefit it will be a failure. What a mess.

  Drunk or not, Mom was right about one thing. I LOOK AWFUL. I just tried on about a thousand outfits and I look terrible in all of them.

  FAT. FAT. FAT.

  Buying new clothes isn’t the answer. Losing weight is.

  I’ve changed my goal. I’m going to lose five pounds by Saturday. I just won’t eat. My body can eat its own fat.

  I want to look like the actress Dad hired for his film. She’d look gorgeous in any of my clothes.

  I hate my stomach. Five pounds won’t be enough. But it’s a start.

  Tuesday 7/21

  12:34 P.M.

  SKIPPING LUNCH. AT front desk while volunteer goes to lunch.

  Piper was right about this job being hard work. I didn’t stop for five seconds all morning.

  I talked to her about the animal photographs for the benefit. We decided we need a really good photographer if the blowups are going to look good. Piper said she doesn’t know any professional photographers. I said I’d ask my dad to give me names of people and I’d call them.

  I was embarrassed that I asked Piper for help in the first place. She shouldn’t have to worry about the benefit. Called Dad, but he’s not at his office.

  E-mail from Zeke:

  Margaret Blume. Help! I am captive in outer space. Aliens in white shorts carrying strange weapons hit yellow balls at me all day long. No fun. Dance lesson tonight. Save me. H-e-l-l-l-l-p-p-p-p! Beg the superior powers to send rescue troops to free me. Please.

  Poor Zeke.

  12:44 P.M.

  A woman just called the shelter. She found a litter of abandoned kittens near a supermarket. She’s bringing them in. Have to go prepare a crate for them.

  9:31 P.M.

  Lost 1 pound, 4 to go.

  Busy, busy at work. The kittens are so cute. Five gray-and-white fluff balls. But they were taken from their mother too soon. The smallest one has to be bottle-fed. We named him Little Guy. Don’t know if he’ll make it.

  Dad in. Mom out.

  Mom left a note: Went shopping for dress for the stupid benefit. Home for dinner.

  She wasn’t home for dinner. She must have stopped for a drink… or two… or three on the way home. When things get bad, she likes to do that.

  Pilar made dinner. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, string beans, and salad. I skipped lunch and only ate a little supper. Dad kept nagging me to eat more.

  I don’t understand my parents. They want me to look perfect. And then they try to keep me fat.

  Mom’s phone line rang five times during dinner. I answered it in case they were calls about the benefit. It was also a way to escape Pilar’s food.

  All the messages were people calling back about things they were asked to donate for the auction. Mom had left them messages to call her after seven when she’d be home—which she wasn’t.

  I acted like I was Mom’s assistant and thanked them for returning her call. Between phone calls I found the list of people she’d called and what she wanted them to volunteer. I convinced the next caller—the owner of a fancy bakery—to donate pastries for a dessert party for thirty people.

  When I went back to the table, I told Dad about my idea for big pictures of shelter animals at the benefit and asked him if he knew a photographer who might take pictures for free. He said he’d make a few calls after dinner. “It might help your mother,” he concluded.

  I could tell he was discouraged about Mom, but he didn’t say anything more to me about her.

  Next, I told him about the e-mail from Zeke. “He’s not coming home,” Dad said. He looked at me over the rim of his coffee cup and raised an eyebrow. “I’m not raising my kids to be quitters.”

  What he meant was, “Quitters like you.”

  I decided it wasn’t the best time to remind Dad that I won’t be home tomorrow night. That I have a Vanish rehearsal.

  11:30 P.M.

  Mom just came in. I can hear her and Dad arguing in the living room. I’m not going to go downstairs. I’ll go over her messages with her in the morning. I hope she’s not too hungover to deal with it.

  Wednesday 7/22

  10:09 P.M.

  REHEARSAL WAS TERRIBLE. I mean, I was terrible. Everyone else played great, but my voice sounded weak and lifeless.

  During the break, Rico took me aside and asked me to put more energy into my singing.

  After Rico talked to me, Amalia came over. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I answered. “I know I’m not singing well tonight. The band is getting better and better. I’m not. I’m the opposite.”

  “You’re just having an off night,” Amalia said. “You don’t seem to be concentrating on the lyrics.”

  “I know.”

  I didn’t tell her that if I concentrated on some of the lyrics, like the ones for “Fallen Angel,” I would burst into tears.

  Amalia took the diet soda out of my hand and handed me one of the big chocolate chip cookies she’d made for the rehearsal. “Eat this,” she ordered. “And have a glass of milk.”

  I put the cookie down. “I don’t like sweets,” I told her.

  “What do you like to eat?” Amalia asked. “I never see you eating. The rest of us stuff our faces and you nibble on practically nothing. Maybe you don’t eat enough. You look awfully thin.”

  “Me, thin?” I said. “That’s a joke.” I didn’t like the way I sounded when I said that. But Amalia irritated me.

  Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?

  “Let’s put in another hour,” called Rico. “And you’re all invited to stay for dinner. Mom and I made Spanish rice, black beans, and fried bananas.”

  Everyone cheered.

  Everyone except me.

  “His mother is the best cook,” Amalia whispered. “And Rico takes after her. This will be a feast!”

  “I have to go home right after rehearsal,” I lied.

  Amalia asked how I would get home.

  “My dad or someone will pick me up,” I told her. “It’s not a problem.”

  I was really annoyed with Amalia now. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, is what I wanted to say.

  I didn’t sing any better after the break.

  I couldn’t concentrate on the lyrics. Too many thoughts and questions were going through my head.

  Will Little Guy live?

  Will the two photographers I called today call back? Will we have the posters made in time for the benefit?

  Is Zeke horribly homesick? I better send him an e-mail tonight.

  Is my mother out drinking? I should have stayed home tonight and helped her with the auction.

  Is Dad still angry with me for quitting my job? I have to make up with him.

  Can I ever be good enough to please my father?

  Why hadn’t Justin talked to me tonight? Is he sorry he asked me on a �
��date”?

  What can I wear for our so-called date so I don’t look like a big, fat slob?

  Justin finally talked to me after rehearsal.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I was having an off night,” I told him. “I’m sorry.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your singing,” he said. “You look pale.” He touched my cheek with his fingertips. “And you have big circles under your eyes.”

  I told him I’ve been working hard and that I was going home early to help my mother with the benefit.

  “You’re not staying for the Spanish rice?!” he exclaimed.

  What is it with everybody and food? Not everyone likes rich, greasy Spanish rice.

  “No,” I said. “I can’t.”

  I went into Rico’s house to phone home for a ride. Mom answered the phone. Reg was picking up Dad, but she said she’d come pick me up. She didn’t sound drunk.

  Something was going right.

  It’s a good thing I came home. I got Mom to do a little work on the auction. And both photographers called me back. One really loves animals and has a cat from one of the shelters. She said she’d come by the shelter tomorrow.

  Midnight

  Amalia called this evening to see how I was feeling, as if I were sick. I told her I was fine, that I just had a lot on my mind. “Like what?” she asked.

  I told her about the benefit and added, “I’m worried about my date with Justin.”

  She’s going shopping with me at the mall after work tomorrow. I’ll have my hair done at Hair Today, shop for an outfit, and buy some undereye cover makeup.

  As soon as Amalia and I hung up, Justin called. I figured he called to break the date. But he only wondered if I was okay.

  I told him I was fine.

  Then he reminded me about our date. As if I needed a reminder. He told me he’d pick me up at seven o’clock.

  He actually called it a “date.” I’m more nervous than ever.

  I lost another pound. Two to go.

  Thursday 7/23

  9:16 A.M.

  LITTLE GUY DIED early this morning. We’re sad at the shelter today.

  10:45 P.M.

  Zeke phoned me. He went on and on about how much he hates tennis camp. I just listened.

  Then he asked me about Mom and Dad.

  I told him they were fine.

  “Tell me everything,” he said. “What’s everybody doing?”

  I told him a couple of things about the benefit. But I didn’t feel like talking to Zeke. Or anyone else.

  I’m just so tired.

  Zeke wouldn’t give up. “What are they doing now?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you ask them yourself?” I asked. “They’re both here. Call back on the house phone.”

  “I can’t do that!” Zeke shrieked. “I’ll say I want to come home and Dad will yell at me for being a quitter.”

  I’d like to help my brother, but what can I do?

  I told him I was exhausted and had to get off the phone.

  Everyone is getting on my nerves today.

  After work I met Amalia at Hair Today. I couldn’t decide how I wanted Darlene to cut my hair. Finally, I followed her suggestion to have it short in the back, slanting to longer in the front. Amalia says it looks great and very “in.” I think it makes my face look rounder than ever, meaning fat, which it is.

  As we were leaving Hair Today we spotted Sunny and Ducky coming out of a lingerie shop.

  I hadn’t seen either of them in ages.

  “Cool haircut,” was Sunny’s first comment.

  “Way cool,” added Ducky.

  When I said I wasn’t sure I liked it, Sunny suggested I add a colored streak to one side. (But I used to put colors in my hair all the time. I’m a little sick of colored streaks—on me anyway.)

  Ducky said that wasn’t my style. That everyone has to go with his or her own style.

  Right. If you have a style. Which I don’t.

  Sunny studied me. “Hey, did you lose weight or something?” she asked. “You look good.”

  At last someone noticed!

  “Maybe a little,” I said.

  “You look like you’ve lost a lot of weight,” said Ducky. “Are you sure you’re eating enough?”

  “Of course I’m eating enough.” I almost added, “That’s my problem,” but I didn’t want to get into a whole discussion about food.

  Sunny is model-thin. I wondered if she’s dieting too. Or is she one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to worry about what she eats?

  I checked Sunny over to see if she’d done any more body piercing. Her ears were studded with a bunch of earrings, which wasn’t new. She was still wearing a naval ring. But she’d added something else on her stomach. A small rose tattoo with thorns and leaves curved like a half-moon around the ring. Maybe it’s one of those temporary tattoos.

  I hope so.

  Amalia asked Sunny and Ducky what they were doing at the mall.

  Sunny held up a bag. “My mom asked me to get her a new nightgown and a scarf for her head.” Then she threw an arm around Ducky’s shoulder and said, “Dad let Ducky and me out of Bookstore Jail to run this mission of mercy.” She looked around and said sarcastically, “Aren’t malls the most exciting places in the world? Almost as much fun as bookstores.” She added under her breath, “And hospitals.”

  “Do you get the idea Sunny doesn’t like her job?” Ducky asked.

  I wanted to ask Sunny how her mother was doing but decided to wait and ask Ducky when she was out of earshot. (Ducky told me Mrs. Winslow isn’t getting any better. I ache for Sunny.)

  Ducky said they were on their way to Mario’s. That it was All-the-Spaghetti-You-Can-Eat night. He asked me and Amalia to come with them.

  “Sure,” said Amalia. She turned to me and added, “Is that okay with you?”

  Food. Again!

  “I’m here to shop,” I said. “Not to eat.”

  “Maggie has a hot date Saturday night,” Amalia blurted out.

  I elbowed her, but it was too late. Sunny and Ducky were already quizzing me.

  After they had the scoop about me, Justin, and the film, Sunny said, “We’ll help you pick out something to wear, Maggie.” She looked me up and down. I had come right from work so I was wearing dirty jeans and a red T-shirt with the HCA logo. I was dressed like a jerk and I felt like a jerk. I had thought of bringing something to work to change into before I went to the mall. But I couldn’t decide what it should be.

  I may not like the way Sunny dresses, but at least she has a style. I’m a mishmash of styles, which means No Style.

  Sunny said I should go to the secondhand store and buy something retro.

  Pass.

  We went into a boutique.

  Ducky wanted me to buy tight, slim pants, a glittery T-shirt, and foxy high heels.

  Pass.

  Amalia held up a long, flowing skirt and said I should wear it with a string of beads she’d lend me. I didn’t even bother to try it on. I knew it would make me look like a balloon.

  I picked up a short brown skirt and a velveteen black top with thin black vertical stripes. I figured dark colors and vertical stripes would make me look thinner.

  I put the outfit on and studied myself in the three-way mirror.

  I thought the skirt was snug. Amalia, sounding a little doubtful, said that if I really thought it was snug, I should try the next size up (a size four!) and that she’d get it.

  I told her not to bother. I sucked in my stomach and silently vowed that it would fit by Saturday.

  I ate a salad while they gorged themselves on spaghetti.

  Amalia pointed an enormous forkful of spaghetti at me. “This is so good, Maggie,” she said. “You have to taste it.”

  “No, I don’t,” I shot back. “Leave me alone.”

  She looked hurt, but I don’t care.

  Maybe now she’ll stop trying to feed me.

  I’m exhausted.

  I’m g
oing to sleep.

  Friday 7/24

  10:02 A.M.

  GOAL: FORGET ABOUT food. Don’t eat.

  Called in sick. Staying home from work today.

  Nervous about date.

  Nervous about Mom and benefit.

  Nervous about date.

  Nervous about writing new song for Vanish.

  Nervous about date.

  Tried on skirt. It almost fits.

  2:30 P.M.

  Why can’t Pilar mind her own business?

  Mom and I were working on the benefit in her study. Pilar came in to see what we wanted for lunch. Mom said she’d have an omelette. I said I didn’t want anything, that I wasn’t hungry.

  “That’s not healthy,” Pilar said. “You’re a growing girl! You have to eat.”

  “I don’t want anything,” I repeated.

  Pilar glared at me and told my mother, “Mrs. Blume, it is not healthy.”

  “Well, you know these young people, Pilar,” Mom said. “They like to be thin. It’s fashionable.” She smiled at me and said we should go shopping for a dress for the benefit. I reminded her of all the work we still have to do if there is going to be a benefit. And that I’d rather shop for a dress next week. (My new goal is to fit comfortably into a size two by then.)

  I made loads of phone calls for Mom.

  Better go back downstairs. If I’m with Mom, maybe she won’t start drinking.

  4:09 P.M.

  I was too late. Mom started drinking at lunch. My staying home didn’t make any difference on that score. After lunch she said she was tired and went to her room. I worked on the benefit alone. I only need three more items for the auction and we can have the program printed up. Hmm. Someone has to write all those items up. Better call the HCA office and see who can do it.

  10:16 P.M.

  Lost another pound.

  I’ve reached my goal.

  The skirt fits.

  Why am I so nervous?

  NERVES

  Wired.

  Tightly wound wound tight?

  And bound

  To thoughts

  That imprison.

  My heart can’t take wing

  While I am bound

  Here