by Mary Amato
Dear Diary:
Days like this should be against the law.
First of all, I hate Mr. Justin Haxer. He didn’t post the cast list until after school, so I had to wait all day. Ms. Young always posted the cast lists before school so you could see the results right away.
I had to start the day by bringing my forged note to the office. When I handed it to the secretary, my stomach was busy tying itself into a knot. All day I waited for The Troll to call my name over the intercom or to come and put me in handcuffs.
The last bell finally rang, and I thought I’d die before I could get to the drama room. A crowd was already pressing against the door where the list was posted. Melinda Bixby was squealing like a pig. I squeezed in.
Melinda got the part of Annie. Denise got the part of Helen. I was on the bottom of the list . . . as one of the “blind girls.”
Denise and Melinda—both eighth-graders—were jumping up and down.
“Annie!” Denise cried.
“Helen!” Melinda cried.
They hugged and squealed. “This is going to be so much fun!” Melinda said.
“I knew you’d get the part,” Denise cried.
The knot in my stomach felt like a dead reptile.
Me—a blind girl? The blind girls were only on for a few seconds in the very beginning of the play. They were little kids. They weren’t important.
There were a few other seventh-graders standing around. “Congratulations, Frankie,” Beth said. She never made anything but chorus, and this time she didn’t make it at all. “You’re so lucky.”
I stared at her. Congratulations? For what? For being a blind girl? If she really was best-friend material she would be shouting at Mr. Horrible Haxer right now, telling him that the part of Annie Sullivan should have gone to me. What was wrong with him? Was he blind?
Mr. Haxer opened the door, and everybody started talking at once.
He made a few announcements, which I couldn’t listen to because my entire being—including my eardrums—was filling up with hate for him.
He headed to the teachers’ lounge, and I stopped him before I knew what I was going to say. And then it just came out: “I can’t be in the play.” I realized as soon as I said it that it was true. There was no way I could go to all those rehearsals and watch Melinda Bixby play the miracle worker.
“Why not?”
“My dad won’t let me.”
He looked puzzled and pulled me over to an empty part of the hallway where we could have some privacy. “Why? Is there a conflict with rehearsals?”
I nodded.
“What is it? Maybe we can work it out.”
“No, I have to baby-sit my brothers after school every day.”
“I’ll talk with your dad. I’m sure—”
“No, don’t!” That came out sounding a little panicky. So I added in a mature, perfectly Annie Sullivan voice, “I’m afraid that would be a tragic mistake, Mr. Haxer. He is under a lot of stress, and you shouldn’t bother him.” I should have stopped right there, but I’m like a freight train now—once I get started I’m hard to stop. “I’m afraid my dad is having a nervous breakdown.”
Mr. Haxer looked shocked. “Oh Frankie, I’m so sorry to hear that.” He touched my shoulder. Yesterday my heart would have melted under that touch. Now my heart was as cold and stiff as a garbage-can lid.
“How can we help?” he asked.
I stepped away. “He wouldn’t want anybody to know. I’m just telling you because . . .”
He stepped closer and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You should talk with Ms. Trolly, the guidance counselor, about all this, Frankie. That’s what she’s here for. She can—”
I pulled away. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I have to go now and pick up my brother.”
I didn’t start breathing until I got out the door.
The last part is true. I have to walk over to the elementary school to pick up Nutter. The only problem is that I have collapsed in a heap by my school’s backdoor and I cannot get my legs to work. How can I possibly go on living?
7:55 P.M.
Life is cruel. I have locked myself in my room right now, and nobody cares. This whole thing with Ratlady is giving me a nervous breakdown. I don’t know how I’m supposed to handle it when the rest of my life is falling apart. Not one single member of my so-called family asked me about the audition. Can you believe it?
I hate Ratlady. I hate my family. I hate junior high. I hate my life.
Here’s what happened after my last entry.
I dragged myself over to the elementary school. As usual, Nutter was waiting for me by the flagpole, wearing that stupid koala backpack.
Skinny Skip ran past us without saying a word. He never waits for me and Nutter. He just runs as soon as the bell rings because he’s now old enough to walk home by himself.
“Guess what I made today?” Nutter showed me a piece of black paper with a small white shape pasted on it. “Guess what it is?”
“I don’t want to guess.”
“I’ll give you a clue. It mourns like this.” He raised his arms and started moaning.
“It’s a ghost. Ghosts don’t mourn, Nutter. They moan.”
Nutter had to run to catch up with me. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. You can have it, Frankie.”
“No thanks, Nutter.”
“You’re in a bad mood.”
“Yep.”
“How come?”
I pulled Nutter across the road, not saying anything.
“Well, I’m in a great mood.” Nutter kept talking. “I figured out what I’m going to be for Halloween. I’m going to be a big daddy koala with lots of fur so I can carry my baby koala on my back.”
“A big koala costume is too hard to make.” I glanced at the picture he was holding. “You have to be something easy. Be a ghost.”
“Dad can make me a koala costume.”
“He’s way too busy, Nutter. Stop focusing on that stupid koala backpack.” We cut through the park, marching over the wooden bridge that goes over Dead Man’s Creek. Nutter usually begs to stay and act out the Billy Goats Gruff or the Magic Fish story, but today he didn’t say a word. I think he was afraid that if he did I’d bite his head off.
When we got home, Skip pounced. “Dad got a package from the zoo and so did you, Frankie.” He held up two large, padded envelopes. “You got a book.”
“Is there one for me?” Nutter asked.
“Nope,” Skip said.
I grabbed both envelopes.
“Who’s it from?” Nutter asked.
I looked at the package addressed to me. Sent Express Mail from the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., on Friday, October 17. Inside was a book about naked mole-rats.
Skip and Nutter stared at the picture on the cover. “What is it?” Nutter asked.
“It’s the first-prize winner of the Ugliest Animal in the Universe,” Skip said.
“Cool.” Nutter grabbed the book.
“Check out those teeth!” Skip exclaimed. Then he read the small note stuck to the cover.
Dear Frankie:
This book is for you and your brothers. I like reading as much as I like taking care of naked mole-rats. I hope you do, too.
Nonfictionally yours,
Ayanna
“Who’s Ayanna?” Nutter asked.
“She’s a mean rat lady who Dad met in Washington, D.C.”
“She doesn’t sound mean to me,” Nutter said.
“She’s a businesswoman or something,” Skip said. “She’s helping Dad to sell his stuff in Washington.”
“What?”
Skip shrugged and pointed to the envelope addressed to Dad. “A good spy opens all mail.”
Nutter opened the book to a picture of naked mole-rats rolling around in their own poop. “Look at this!”
While they dived into the book, I took Dad’s envelope into my room and closed the door. The staples had already been taken out and new staples put in. Skip was
pretty quick.
I took the staples out and opened the envelope. There were a bunch of pamphlets from the National Association of Musical Instrument Makers and a letter.
Dear Robert:
Enclosed are the materials you accidentally left on the feeding-station cart in my office.
After work today I stopped by that great music shop that I told you about (right around the corner from my apartment). They carry hammered and mountain dulcimers—none of which look as beautiful as the photos of yours that you showed me. I told them about your work, and they’d like you to contact them. I’ve included their card along with the pamphlets.
Fan-atically yours,
Ayanna
Skip thought she was a businesswoman.
Wrong.
I could see it all now. Ratlady didn’t care about business. She wanted Dad to move to Washington and sell his instruments at the music shop around the corner from her apartment so that she could be with him. I put the pamphlets back into the envelope and stapled it shut. No need for Dad to see the letter or the business card, so I pocketed those.
When Dad got home I expected him to ask me right away about the audition. But Skip and Nutter showed him the book from Ratlady, and he completely forgot about me.
“How nice.” Dad flipped through the book.
“So, who’s the person who sent it to us?” I asked innocently. I wanted to hear it from him.
“She’s just a person who works at the zoo. She helped me pick out your souvenirs.” He was trying to make it sound like she was some cashier or something.
“I like her already!” Nutter exclaimed, hugging the furry little head of his koala backpack. Then his eyes lit up. “Hey, I want to send her something.” He ran to the kitchen and back. “See?” He held up his ghost picture.
“That’s a stupid idea, Nutter,” I said.
Nutter looked at me as if I’d shot him in the heart with a spear.
“It’s a stupid idea because you gave the picture to me,” I explained.
He scowled. “You didn’t want it!”
Dad took the picture, ignoring me completely. “I’ll send it as a thank-you card.”
All through dinner I kept waiting for somebody to ask me about the audition. Nobody did. I swear I could be walking around with one leg chopped off and nobody would notice. After dinner Dad played poker with Skip and Nutter. I refused to play, and they all complained about what a bad mood I was in.
“She was in a bad mood when she picked me up at the flagpole,” Nutter added.
“I’d be in a bad mood if I were her,” Skip said.
“Why?” Dad asked.
“Because if I were Frankie, I’d be as ugly as a naked mole-rat!”
They all laughed.
“You think that’s funny?” I yelled. “If I said that to Skip, I’d get grounded.”
Dad waved it off. “Skip wasn’t serious, Frankie. It was just a joke.”
“I hate this whole family!” I yelled, and locked myself in my room.
Of course they let me go. They just kept playing their happy game. Who cares about Frankie? Who cares if Frankie ever comes out of her room again? The house is better off without her.
Here I sit. Here I will rot.
8:40 P.M.
Things are even worse.
About fifteen minutes ago the phone rang.
I thought about who it could be. Ratlady? The Troll? Mr. Haxer? The volunteer fire department wishing me a happy birthday?
“Frankie,” Dad called, “it’s Beth.”
“I don’t want to talk. I have to work on a stupid science report.”
He must have hung up because after a few minutes the phone rang again. This time he didn’t call for me. I crept out the door. Quietly I picked up the other phone. I recognized the voice immediately. It was a beautiful voice from the past: Ms. Young.
“Do you have a minute to talk about the play, Robert?”
“What play?”
“The junior high school play . . .”
Mr. Horrible Haxer must have told Ms. Young about Dad having a nervous breakdown. I could hear it in her voice; it had that careful sound that people use when they’re talking to sick people. What would she do? Would she tell Dad that she knew about his nervous breakdown? I cupped my hand over the receiver so they couldn’t hear me breathing.
“I wanted Frankie to know how proud I was that she got cast,” Ms. Young went on. “Seventh-graders rarely get in.”
“I forgot about the play!” Dad said. “She didn’t even tell me she got in. How nice of you to call. It’ll mean a lot to her. You were her favorite teacher, you know.”
“Well, I’m a little worried about . . .” She didn’t know what to say. Please don’t say anything about a nervous breakdown, I prayed. “I was wondering if there was any way to make it work so that Frankie could be in the show. I think it would be very good for her.”
“Of course she can be in the play.”
“She can? You’re sure it’s not too much trouble for you to arrange? Frankie told Justin Haxer that you needed her to baby-sit every day after school. And if you need some help working that out, I’m sure . . .”
Justin, I thought. Ms. Young should know that his real name is Horrible.
“I know how important these school plays are to Frankie,” Dad was saying. “Of course we’ll work things out here.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. May I speak with Frankie?”
I hung up the phone and ran into my room.
“Frankie!” Dad called up the stairs. “Ms. Young wants to talk to you.”
“I can’t talk right now,” I yelled back.
I waited a few seconds; then I crept back out and picked up the phone.
“Sure,” Dad was saying. “We’ll talk it over. How many rehearsals a week?”
“Justin will write up a rehearsal schedule. It won’t be that many. She has a very small part. I’m glad you don’t feel overwhelmed by this.”
“Overwhelmed? Why should I feel overwhelmed?”
“I really didn’t want to bother you, but I can’t help feeling that it’s important for Frankie to participate.”
“No, I’m glad you called. I can arrange baby-sitting.”
“Great! I’ll tell Justin.”
As they said their good-byes, I hung up and ran into my room.
A few minutes later I heard Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. He knocked and waited. When I didn’t say anything, he knocked again.
I put my pillow over my head. “I can’t talk right now.”
“That was Ms. Young on the phone. She said you got in—”
“I know.”
“Frankie, you can be in the play. You know that. Why did you tell Mr. Haxer that you couldn’t?”
“I don’t want to be in the play.”
“What?”
“I already told Mr. Haxer that I’m not doing it. So just stay out of it.”
“I don’t understand. Open the door, Frankie.”
I didn’t move.
“Can we please talk about his face to face?”
I threw my pillow at the door. “Why? You don’t care.”
“Don’t snap at me, Frankie. I do care. I’m trying to help.”
“Well you can help by leaving me alone.”
There was silence again. He didn’t know what to do. If I was a dad, and I had forgotten to ask my daughter about an audition, and my daughter was this upset, I wouldn’t leave her alone. I’d cut a hole through the door, or I’d get a ladder and climb through the window. I’d think of a million and one ways of finding out what was wrong and cheering her up.
He cleared his throat, something he does when he doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t get it, Frankie. What’s going on?” he finally asked.
I didn’t answer.
“Of course you don’t have to be in the play if you don’t want to be. But I don’t understand why you don’t want to be. Let’s talk about it.” He waited for a response. After a
minute he said, “Well, I’m going to tuck Nutter in, and then I’ll be downstairs if you want to talk about it.”
His footsteps thudded down the hall.
I picked up the copy of The Miracle Worker from the library and threw it at the door. Then I picked it up again, and I watched myself tear out page after page after page. I’m not really doing this, I thought, but I really was. Why did Ms. Young have to call? I hate her and Mr. Haxer and Dad and Melinda and Denise and everybody. Even Beth.
9:15 P.M.
I have to write again. Here’s what just happened. After I desicrated (desecrated? decimated? deseminated?) the stupid book and poured my heart out in these pages (crying all the while), I heard a little scratch at the door. Right away I knew it wasn’t Dad.
“Frankie!” It was Nutter’s whisper. Then a piece of paper slipped under the door.
“It’s a magic word,” Nutter whispered. “You have to open up.”
I opened the door a crack. Nutter slipped in, his eyes drawn to the crime scene on the floor. “This is bad,” he whispered.
I sat on my bed. “I know.”
He climbed up beside me and just sat there, next to me. I felt like I was going to cry again if I looked at him or talked to him, so I stared at the back cover of The Miracle Worker. Then something brushed my shoulders, and I turned to see that he was trying to put his koala’s furry arms around my back. Nutter’s face was so close to mine, all I could see was his big chocolate eyes through my tears.
He whispered, “You can sleep with him tonight.”
My throat closed up and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“That’s okay, Nutter,” I managed to say. “You sleep with him. Come on; it’s way past your bedtime. I’ll tuck you in.”
I opened the door and Skip tumbled in, his camera and night-vision binoculars flashing.
“Hey,” Nutter yelped. “You were spying on us!”
“Got ya!” Skip yelled, and ran. Nutter chased him, and I chased them both.
How can something make you feel better and make you cry harder at the same time? Nutter’s little face up close to mine made me feel better, but it also made me miss Mom more somehow. She died so long ago, I bet Nutter doesn’t even remember her. That just isn’t right. And it isn’t right that Nutter and Skip and I have to cheer each other up. She should be the one cheering us up. If she were here, she would have asked me right away how the audition was. Why can’t she just come back?
