by Mary Amato
10:30 P.M.
I’m going to bed now. Dad just knocked on the door again. He made me unlock it because he said it wasn’t safe to sleep with a locked door in case of fire. I unlocked it, but I wouldn’t open it. I can’t talk to him about anything.
Tuesday, October 21, 2:15 P.M.
Dear Diary:
I’m in the nurse’s office with a debilitating headache. Even my eyes hurt. Annie Sullivan’s eyes hurt often. I can’t remember why. Maybe it was stress. It is yet another reason why I should have gotten the part; I can relate. I bet Melinda Bixby’s eyes have never hurt.
Even though I am in pain, I will write down the story of my day. Another horrible day, of course. How many horrible days can a person endure? This one started at dawn.
When I woke, what lovely sight greeted me? The rosy glow of the sun? A merry robin chirping outside my window? No. The gruesome murder of an innocent book. The evidence was glaring at me: one hundred twenty-two poor pages. Ripped. Separated. Dead. And I am the murderer. Why did I do it? Why can’t I control myself?
I hid the pages in an empty tissue box and hurried down to breakfast. I expected—I don’t know—a little sympathy, perhaps, for not getting the part I wanted? But everybody just jumped on me for waking up so late.
“Hurray! Her Majesty finally woke up,” Dad said, and handed me a cereal box as if it were a box of frankincense and merr (myrr? myrrh?).
I shot him one of my fiercest looks and headed for the fridge.
“It was a joke, Frankie,” Dad said. “I was hoping you’d be in a better mood today than yesterday.”
“Me too,” Skip added, shoveling cereal into his mouth straight from the box. How does he stay so skinny when he eats like a pig?
Nutter hugged me from the back. “Dad said you’d make me a big koala costume, Frankie.”
“No way.”
“You said last week you wanted to be a ghost, Nutter,” Skip said.
“I’m done being a ghost,” Nutter said.
“But you haven’t even been a ghost yet!” I argued.
“Come on, Frankie.” Dad poured coffee into his Thermos. “He wants to be a koala. I’m really pressed for time. I got in a big order that I want to do a really good job on.”
“I’m pressed for time, too.”
“You are not,” Skip said. “I heard you say you’re not going to do the play.”
“Actually,” Dad said, “I was hoping we could talk some more about that, Frankie. I really think you should be in the play. We’ll talk about it tonight, okay?”
I didn’t say anything. My eyes had become fixated on a large envelope on the counter with Ratlady’s name. “Do you want me to drop this off at the post office?” I asked. The P.O. is right next to my school.
“That would be great, thanks!”
“Is that my ghost for Ayanna?” Nutter asked, grabbing the envelope.
“Just like I promised.” Dad took it back from Nutter and handed it to me.
As I walked the boys to the elementary school, Agent Skip Wallop suggested that we open the envelope and see if Dad wrote a letter.
I pretended to be disgusted by the idea. I feel a need to protect Skip and Nutter. I think if they were to read a love letter from Dad, they might go into shock. “Correspondence between two people should be private,” I said. I dropped them off and cut across the field toward my school. Of course when I passed the post office, I “forgot” to mail the envelope.
Beth was waiting for me at the front door. She had already heard that I had said no to Mr. Haxer, and she thought I was crazy. That’s because she isn’t accustomed to being a star. She’d probably be delighted to play the part of a tree.
First period Mr. Horrible Haxer got on the intercom and said that any copies of The Miracle Worker that were checked out of the library needed to be turned in so that the actors who have lines could use them.
“Mr. Peter?” Beth raised her hand. “Frankie and I both checked out copies. Can we go to the library and return them?”
Thanks a lot, Beth, I thought. I imagined handing the librarian the tissue-box coffin filled with lifeless pages.
“No, you cannot,” Mr. Peter said. “We have a review to get through. The test is tomorrow.”
For once I liked Mr. Battery-Operated Peter.
After the review, he gave us time to study for the test. I propped my book on my desk and opened the envelope addressed to Ratlady. There was Nutter’s ghost picture. I remember Nutter saying that it was the best thing he’d ever done, so I looked at it.
The torn white shape against the black background really looked like a little ghost. The arms and eyes were raised up sadly, as if he were moaning, calling for another ghost maybe; and yet the sky all around him was empty and black. The ghost looked so little and lonely that it brought a quick rush of sadness into my throat.
It seemed like a private thing—this picture. I hated the thought of Ratlady receiving it. What would she see? A torn piece of white paper stuck on black paper with clumpy glue? Would she think it was cute? Would she laugh and throw it away?
A letter addressed to Ratlady in Dad’s handwriting was paper-clipped to the back. I slipped Nutter’s picture into my binder and read the letter.
Dear Ayanna,
Thanks again for sending the book to my kids. Nutter wanted you to have this picture. It’s a ghost.
He is very excited about Halloween and wants to be a daddy koala so that he can carry around his baby koala (the backpack). He said he likes you already.
And the answer to our last question is no! Your e-mails to Heartstrings haven’t been distracting me from my work; they’ve been inspiring me. After your first reply on Saturday, I sat down and played like I haven’t played in years. There was a newly married couple in the shop and when I was done, they bought the dulcimer right out from under my fingers.
You’re like the sun coming up in the morning, Ayanna. Everything about you shines with warmth and light. Even your e-mails.
How can I feel this close to you when we’ve just met? How can I feel this close to you when you live so far away?
Wanting to see you again,
Robert
P.S. Look for a box in the mail soon.
E-mails to the shop? What a dirty rat. She was using his business e-mail address so that I couldn’t read their messages. And since when did he like e-mailing? I ripped the letter in half, and Mr. Peter looked up from his desk. “You’re making a lot of noise, Frankie. Do you need any help?”
“No, thank you.” I stuffed the pieces into my backpack and got out a blank sheet of paper. I knew I needed to get some problems done in case Mr. Peter decided to roam the rows. But the torn halves of the letter seemed to be shouting at me from the depths of my backpack, Dad and Ratlady are falling in love! How could I review for a test when the Big Bang of bad news was exploding in my brain?
I couldn’t stop thinking about the consequences. If they got married, would we move there or would she move in with us? I imagined our house. When other people see our house, they probably just see a messy place with lots of wood and odd things everywhere. The wood is Dad because he is a great carpenter and, of course, dulcimer-maker. We have wood floors. Big wooden bookcases. Dulcimers hanging on all the walls. The odd things are Mom. She hung a red chair from the ceiling in the living room so that it looks like it’s floating in air. She wallpapered the kitchen with postcards of the world’s most beautiful places, even though Grandpa Ted said you can’t wallpaper a room with postcards. She lackered (laquered? lacquered?) old family photographs onto the dining room table so that we’d always be eating with the whole family. She sewed brightly colored fringe onto all our pillowcases so that we’d have wild dreams.
I pictured Ratlady driving up with a moving van. She’d probably want to throw out the chair, rip down the postcards, and hang up pictures of naked mole-rats. She’d probably make us sleep on boring white pillowcases. She’d probably arrive with her own furniture, all coated with the s
mell of small mammals.
Or what if we had to move to Washington, D.C.? I’ve seen pictures. It’s all concrete. No trees. No creek. Kids take subways to school and get mugged on the playground. I wouldn’t know anybody there but Ratlady!
How could any normal dad fall in love with a stranger? Who was this Ratlady, really? What kind of person would fall in love with a guy who has:
1. Two sons who drool and have diarrhea?
2. A nose that is always full of snot because he is allergic to many things, including small mammals?
3. A tendency to say ridiculous things because of a special drug that he is on?
4. No money?
5. A crowded trailer to live in?
The lies that I’ve been telling her obviously haven’t been working. Could it be because she’s a good person who doesn’t really care about drooling or money or snotty noses? There must be something that would turn her off. What would turn off a really good person? I wanted to figure this out, but I kept getting interrupted.
I managed to get through the rest of the day by looking interested in my teachers. It’s called acting, and I am very good at it, which is why I should have been given the role of Annie Sullivan.
P.S. At lunch I had a fight with Beth. She told me that she signed up for stage crew. I can’t believe it. Why would anyone want to be involved in a play with Melinda Bixby as the lead? Beth said she thought it would be “fun” and “educational” and a way to get on Mr. Haxer’s “good side.” I felt like handing her my fork and saying, Go ahead; stab my heart. She doesn’t get it.
3:15 P.M.
Mr. Horrible Haxer just ran into me in the hall.
“Good news, Frankie,” he said. “I hear that it’s okay with your dad for you to be in the play. Come to my room to pick up the rehearsal schedule. The librarian said you already have a script, right?”
I shifted my backpack. “I can’t come. If my father told you I can come it’s because he’s ashamed of his condition. He doesn’t want people knowing that he is having a nervous breakdown, which is why it wasn’t very nice of you to tell Ms. Young.”
Mr. Haxer’s horribly handsome face turned as red as a baboon’s butt. “I only mentioned your situation to Ms. Young because she cares so much about you, and—”
I took off down the hall before he could say more.
Trying to get out of the play and keep Dad and Ratlady apart is a full-time job. As soon as I get home, I’m going to take care of things once and for all. I know I said that I wasn’t going to lie anymore, but that was before finding out that they’re carrying on a secret correspondence at Heartstrings. I have thought of something that will definitely work on The Rat. This will be the last lie.
Over and out.
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 3:45 P.M.
Subject:
Serious News
Ms. Bayo:
There is news that I thought you should know about. My father is going to get married again. The wedding date is set for Thanksgiving Day because we are all so very thankful.
She is a beautiful young woman who has many talents. The only problem is that the special drugs my father is taking sometimes confuse him. He says (and writes) things to other women, thinking that he is really saying (or writing) them to her. So if my father should ever say (or write) anything romantic to you, please ignore him for the sake of his fiancée.
You are obviously a good person. I’m sure you will do the right thing.
Helpfully yours,
Frankie
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 5:00 P.M.
Subject:
To Frankie
Dear Frankie:
Your father didn’t mention anything about a fiancée, and he certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of man to keep secrets. I can’t help wondering if you are making up things to put me off.
Can you talk to your dad about your feelings?
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 5:10 P.M.
Subject:
No!
Ms. Bayo:
I am angry and a palled by the fact that you don’t believe me. What does it take? I guess you need evidence.
No, I can’t talk to my dad about my feelings. My dad and I don’t talk about anything.
Frankie
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 5:30 P.M.
Subject:
Honesty
Dear Frankie:
I’m sorry that you are appalled by my suggestion that you created a fictional fiancée to put me off. I wanted to be honest with you about what I was thinking. I want you to be honest with me, too.
People can get into the habit of hiding their true feelings or not talking to each other. And habits are hard to break.
This reminds me of a funny thing that happened today. While all the mole-rats were huddled in their nest, I closed the nest off so that they couldn’t get out. Then I changed the direction of one part of the tunnel system. For weeks there has been a long section of straight tubing coming from the nest. But this morning I took out the straight tubing and replaced it with a section that has several sharp turns.
When I opened the “door” to the nest, the queen nudged three large workers out to investigate. They scampered out the door, as always, in a single-file line and with their eyes closed. The first mole-rat in line scampered down the tunnel and when he came to the new section, instead of following the new tunnel as it turned to the right, he tried to keep going straight—out of habit—and bumped into the wall! The other mole-rats bumped into him.
The amazing thing about mole-rats is that they make new habits quickly. I collected the three little stooges and put them back into the nest. When they came out again, they didn’t make the same mistake.
Maybe you and your dad have gotten into the habit of not talking to each other. Maybe you could both break the habit?
Habitually yours,
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 5:47 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Honesty
Dear Ms. Bayo:
I think it was mean of you to lock the mole-rats in their nest, change their tunnel, and then watch them bump into a wall. Did you ever consider that maybe the naked mole-rats liked their tunnel the way it was? Did you ever consider that they might not like someone sticking her fingers in and changing things? I think the queen should decide when and if changes are made to a tunnel system. If I were queen, I wouldn’t make any changes. Change is bad.
Concerned,
Frankie
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 5:53 P.M.
Subject:
Change Can Be Good
Dear Frankie:
I didn’t change the tunnel system for my amusement. I did it to keep the mole-rats active and challenged. A good keeper doesn’t take care of her animals just by feeding them and keeping their exhibits clean. A good keeper tries to re-create some of the conditions and experiences the animals would have in the wild.
In the wild the tunnels of naked mole-rats sometimes cave in or get plugged up. So from time to time I interfere. I try to change things in ways that mimic what might happen to
a mole-rat colony in the wild. That way the animals are able to respond appropriately. Change can be good! Change helps you to grow.
I do understand and share your concern. Some people do not like zoos because they believe no animals should be held captive. I believe that a good zoo is an educational institution where biologists study animals and people get the chance to see them. People can learn to respect and care about animals and their habitats by visiting exhibits in zoos like mine. If animals are well treated and given an environment that is as close as possible to their native habitat, then the animals can live healthy lives and help the world to be a better place. Sometimes we reintroduce animals that have been bred in captivity back into the wild. That’s always especially thrilling for a keeper.
For me, being a keeper is an awesome responsibility. I know these mole-rats, and I think they know that I’m for them. (At least they know my smell!) The colony is very healthy and has lived a long time. The queen is pregnant again now.
Thoughtfully yours,
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 5:59 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Change Can Be Good
Dear Ms. Bayo:
If naked mole-rats could talk, would you ask them if they liked being held captive at the zoo? What if they said no?
