Diary Two

by Ann M. Martin

  I hadn’t seen Justin in a couple of weeks. He looked as good to me as ever. Wrong. He looked BETTER.

  Justin made eye contact with me in the rearview mirror. His brown eyes were smiling—dancing, really. I love his eyes.

  “It’ll be great to hear you sing again, Maggie,” he said. “You’ve given Vanish a new life.”

  I don’t happen to agree with him. But I’m still glad he sort-of-said that he likes my singing.

  When we walked into Rico’s garage, Patti did a little drumroll to mark our entrance. Bruce strummed something very low on his bass. It felt great to be back.

  Justin is now officially in the band. He definitely knows enough guitar to play behind Rico. But my singing was horrid. My voice was weak and raspy. I was embarrassed when I sang “Hey, Down There.” Sometimes lyrics are too personal.

  When I finished, Amalia clapped. “I love that song,” she said. I know she was just trying to make me feel better.

  But Rico told the truth. “Hey, Maggie,” he called to me. “How about writing us a new song?”

  “Good idea,” agreed Justin.

  I knew it. They hated my old song. I’d made a fool of myself. And I looked terrible. If I could lose five pounds maybe I’d look more like a lead singer and less like Ms. Plain Jane.

  I couldn’t look at Justin for the rest of the rehearsal.

  We all went out to a burger joint afterward. I hate those places. They smell greasy and everyone makes a pig of themselves.

  I ordered the house salad with dressing on the side. Everyone else ordered the quarter-pounder burger special. I wasn’t even tempted. It’s disgusting.

  “Maggie, I don’t believe you’re not having a burger,” Amalia exclaimed. “You really need to eat something.”

  Everybody, including the waitress, looked at me.

  I reminded Amalia I don’t eat red meat.

  “Then try their garden burger,” suggested Justin. “I’ve had them. They’re good.”

  I said thanks, but no thanks.

  It would be easier to diet if everyone would stop trying to feed me. Why can’t they see how fat I am? They say that I’m not, but I AM.

  By next week’s rehearsal I am going to lose five pounds. That’s the equivalent of 20 quarter-pound burgers. I imagine 20 burgers plastered to my thighs and stomach. Boy, will I be glad to be rid of that fat.

  DAISY PETALS

  He loves me

  He loves me not

  Our eyes meet but

  In the rearview mirror.

  He holds the gaze.

  He loves me.

  An hour passes.

  Our eyes meet again.

  He quickly looks away.

  He loves me not.

  A dream

  A fantasy

  No oasis in the desert.

  Dry petals in the wind.

  © Maggie Blume

  That poem will NEVER be a song. No way, no…

  Midnight

  Zeke came into my room looking very glum. He walked over to my desk and stood beside me. I closed my laptop and my poetry journal and asked him what was up.

  “You can make Dad do anything you want,” he said. “Tell him I shouldn’t be forced to go to tennis camp.”

  First, I reminded Zeke that I can’t make Dad do what I want. No more than he can. Then I asked him why he’s so dead set against going to tennis camp.

  “I hate tennis,” he said. “I do not want to go to tennis camp. Do NOT. Not. Please. Please. Puh-lease tell them not to send me.”

  He threw a glossy pamphlet on my laptop. “This came with the list of stuff I have to bring,” he moaned. “They have dances. And dance classes. I have to bring a sport jacket.”

  I opened the brochure. One photo was of four perfectly groomed kids in tennis whites, playing doubles. Another was of a victorious Manor Court Tennis Team holding up a gold trophy. Then I saw the photo that upset Zeke. A smiling boy and girl, arm in arm, gliding across a dance floor.

  The idea of Zeke asking some girl to dance is too funny. I had to hold back a smile.

  I told him I’d talk to Dad on the way to work tomorrow. But right now, I don’t hold out much hope.

  I know how Zeke feels. I’m always doing things because Dad thinks they’re “good for me.”

  One of Dad’s favorite lines is, “Trust me on this one, Maggie.” Another one is, “You’ll thank me for this someday.”

  Like my piano lessons. There are times when I don’t want to practice. There was even a period when I wanted to quit. Sometimes the only reason I practice is because I don’t want to disappoint Dad.

  Now I’m glad that I have a strong musical background. Which means Dad was right.

  Why does that bug me so much?

  I have to write a new song for Vanish. I don’t have any idea what to write. This time I am not going to write about myself.

  Tuesday 7/14

  11:20 A.M.

  Breakfast: ¾ cup cereal with skim milk, banana.

  My New Motto: Eat to live. Don’t live to eat.

  MOM CAME BY the office to tell Dad and me that she’s been chosen to be the chairperson of a fund-raiser for Hollywood Cares for Animals (HCA). Raising money for an animal shelter is a good cause. But putting on a fund-raiser is a big responsibility. It might be good for Mom. As long as it’s a big success.

  Last May, Mom was in charge of a ten-mile run to raise money for an international food relief fund. It NEVER rains in Los Angeles in May, but that day it poured. It was like throwing a big party and having no one come. (She sure drank that day. And the day after. And the day after that.)

  I walked with Mom to the elevator. She said she hoped I’d help her with the benefit since it’s a charity I’m interested in. Which is true. I’m amazed at how many stray animals end up in our neighborhood. I don’t understand how anyone could abandon an animal.

  It’s turning into a busy summer. I have my job, Vanish rehearsals, and Mom’s benefit for HCA.

  Good.

  I won’t have time to think about food.

  Or Justin.

  Does he think about me?

  I doubt it.

  Why should he?

  8:35 P.M.

  Lunch: 1 container low-fat yogurt, 1 apple (small), 1 chocolate chip cookie (I have NO SELF-CONTROL).

  Dinner (at home): Salad (no dressing), baked potato (no butter or sour cream), ½ portion of baked fish, 3 bites of fruit pie.

  Eating at home drives me crazy.

  “Don’t you want sour cream for your potato?” asks Dad.

  “Darling, you have to finish your dessert,” says Mom.

  “Are you on a diet, Fatty?” asks Zeke.

  “She is not fat—she’s too thin!” groans Dad. (Yeah, right.)

  I said I was full and gave the rest of my pie to Zeke.

  I like Pilar. And I like her cooking. Which probably is the reason I’m such a tub-a-lub. Pilar is always making cookies for Zeke and me, homemade breads to go with dinner, and the most fattening main courses imaginable.

  This is not the best situation for someone with very little self-control who is trying to lose weight.

  When Zeke heard about the benefit for HCA he said he’d pass on going to camp so he could help. Zeke hates benefits, which should have proven to our parents how much he doesn’t want to go to this camp.

  Mom told him how much fun she had at summer camp when she was eleven years old.

  Dad said, “Now, son, let’s not go on about the camp thing. You’re going. You’ll thank me someday.”

  Poor Zeke.

  Mom seemed okay at dinner—only one glass of wine. She’s practicing more self-control than I am. But I can tell she’s already nervous about the HCA benefit. The person who was in charge had to quit because of a family problem, so things that should have been done by now were neglected. The dinner and auction are only two weeks away and Mom found out that the invitations just went out a week or so ago. They also need more items to auction off. Mom has lo
ads of ideas, like dinner for four, prepared by some famous chef at your house, or a week at some celebrity’s great beach house. But Mom has to convince a famous chef to make the dinner for free and a famous person to let strangers stay in his or her great beach house for a week. She needs at least fifteen more items like that for the auction.

  I promised to help Mom on Saturday.

  I’m glad I have my own phone line. Mom is going to be on the house line nonstop until the benefit.

  But really—why did I say that about the phone?

  What difference does it make?

  No one is trying to call me.

  Certainly not Justin.

  Wednesday 7/15

  2:04 P.M.

  Breakfast: ½ grapefruit, piece of toast with jam (no butter).

  Lunch: 1 scoop tuna (no mayo), 4 celery sticks, 4 potato chips (4 too many).

  I CAN’T BELIEVE it. Justin called me. He was so sweet. First he apologized for calling me at work. I said it wasn’t a problem. He said there’s a rehearsal tomorrow night if I can come. I said yes and he said great.

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but I didn’t want to say good-bye. I heard a dog barking in the background and asked him if he has a dog.

  “That’s Jazz,” he said. “Come here, Jazz. Say hello to Maggie.”

  Jazz barked into the phone.

  “Jazz is a mutt,” Justin told me. “I picked him out in an HCA shelter when I was in the second grade. He’s a terrific dog.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Not only is Justin cute, nice, and musical. He also has a sweet dog he adopted from a shelter!

  I told Justin about Curtis, our kitten. Then I babbled on about Mom’s fund-raiser for HCA. Finally I said, “I guess I better get back to work.”

  “Want a ride to the rehearsal tomorrow night?” he asked.

  I looked down at my work calendar and read. “Thursday. 3:00 P.M. Auditions for Never. Go with Dad.” I didn’t know where the auditions were being held.

  “I don’t know where I’ll be before rehearsal,” I told Justin. Boy, did that sound stupid.

  “Okay,” he said. “See you there, then. ’Bye.”

  And he hung up.

  I can’t believe I acted so dumb. I didn’t even thank him for offering me a ride. And now that I think about it, it doesn’t mean anything special that he called me. Amalia probably asked him to.

  Thursday 7/16

  2:30 P.M.

  Breakfast: low-fat cereal with skim milk. Lunch: Orange, 2 chocolate chip cookies (low fat).

  Note: I have only lost one pound so far. I WILL NOT EAT SO MUCH.

  TOO BUSY TO write. Going to Never audition, then band rehearsal.

  10:07 P.M.

  Snack: 9 potato chips.

  Supper: 1 slice pizza with cheese scraped off, diet soda.

  I shouldn’t have eaten those potato chips. I have NO self-control. I’m sure that the actress Dad chose as the lead for Never wouldn’t be caught dead eating potato chips. She has a perfect figure, not an ounce of fat. She used to be a model.

  Why do I always think I’m hungry? I say over and over to myself: I am not hungry. I will stick to my diet. I am not hungry. I will stick to my diet.

  Why do they have to call it die-it? That makes dieting sound awful and negative. Why not call it live-it? That’s it. I’m on a live-it. Eat to live. Tomorrow I’ll have tuna for lunch—no bread.

  I’m thinking about food again. Think about something else.

  Justin.

  Why am I obsessed with him?

  Because he is cute and kind and smart and talented, that’s why.

  And he has a dog named Jazz.

  Dad’s new chauffeur, Reg, gave me a ride to the rehearsal. Even though I was twenty minutes late, I got out two blocks from Rico’s. I didn’t want anyone to see me arrive in a limo!

  I heard the band practicing from half a block away. It sounded great.

  I wonder: Am I good enough to be singing with them?

  What if they play better and better and I don’t improve as a singer?

  Amalia was standing inside the door. She gave me a big hug. Rico, Patti, and Bruce waved to me. Justin didn’t.

  “We’re all going out for pizza after,” said Amalia. “Can you?”

  I told her yes, as long as I was home by ten-thirty. I asked in a whisper if she had asked Justin to call me. She said he’d offered to make calls for her because she can’t make calls from her job at the ice-cream shop. I asked her if he offered to call everyone. “Everyone else already knew,” she answered.

  I still don’t know if Justin called me because he wanted to, or to help out Amalia.

  As I headed for the band, Justin looked up. His face broke into a huge grin. “Hi,” he called out. “You got here.”

  “Yes, here I am,” I said.

  What a dumb thing to say.

  I sucked in my big stomach and went over to the mike.

  We ran through “Fallen Angel” five times so Justin could learn it. It was hard to concentrate on the lyrics. My stomach was rumbling and I had a headache, probably from worrying about being at rehearsal on time.

  I tried to put my mind and heart into my lyrics. I was thinking about Justin when I sang the last lines, “Won’t you come with me? / ’Cause I don’t want to be / A fallen angel / A fallen angel.”

  We rehearsed some more numbers. Everyone had an upbeat attitude. Rico’s parents brought in some sodas and snacks for us. We stood around drinking and eating (only a diet Coke for me). Everyone talked about how good the band was sounding and where they thought we could improve. Justin was standing near me. Very near.

  “Working on a new song?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “How about you? Are you going to compose for the band?”

  “I’m not in that league yet,” he answered.

  Justin put his hand on my arm. It was like he was hugging me. That’s how it made me feel. “You coming out with us after?” he asked.

  All I could think was, Please don’t take your hand off my arm. I managed to nod.

  “Good,” he said. Then he went back to his guitar.

  After rehearsal we walked to a pizza place near Rico’s. Justin and Patti paired off. I wondered if Patti was sick of Bruce and was making a play for Justin. Or was Justin making a play for her? Whichever way it worked… they were laughing and talking up a storm. I hated that they were having such a good time together. The jealousy must have shown because Amalia pulled me aside to say that Patti asked Justin to walk with her.

  Whatever.

  All I know is that I’ve never made him laugh like that.

  Why do people always have to EAT when they hang out together? I tried to act lively and be part of the crowd at the pizza parlor. But it was hard to be jolly when everyone else was wolfing down slice after slice of pizza and nagging me to join in.

  “Don’t take off the cheese, that’s the best part.”

  “Have another slice, Maggie.”

  “I can’t believe you’re only eating one slice.”

  They just don’t get it.

  Justin asked me about my job. Everyone listened when I described the plot of Never. I made fun of my dad’s film. I felt disloyal, but I didn’t want them to think I liked that junk.

  On the way back to Rico’s, Justin walked next to me. I figured he only did it because Patti went off in the other direction with Bruce.

  I asked him questions about his dog. I told him how I wanted to be a vet. He said he assumed I wanted to be a professional singer. Ha!

  Does he really think I’m that good?

  No, he couldn’t. Because I’m not.

  He just thinks that I think I’m that good. How awful.

  When we were almost at Rico’s house, I realized that I hadn’t asked Justin if he could give me a ride home. I had just assumed he would. But what if he hadn’t assumed what I assumed? I blurted out something about needing a ride.

  He grinned and said, “Isn’t the limo from y
our dad’s company picking you up?” I could tell he was joking, but it hurt. Maybe that’s why he thinks I think I could be a professional singer. Because my dad is a big deal in the entertainment industry. It was an awful moment. I didn’t say anything. Finally, Justin broke the silence by saying of course he’d give me a ride home. He was giving Amalia a ride. Besides, my house was on his way.

  Amalia jumped into the backseat of the car. I realized that if I got in the back with her, Justin would be left alone in front—just like in a chauffeured car. I got in the front.

  When I put on the seat belt it made an indent across my fat belly. It was a good reminder of WHY I take the cheese off my pizza. I put my backpack on my lap.

  Amalia and Justin started talking about a festival of rock concert films that’s playing in Anaheim. Justin suggested that we all go on July 25th, when they’re showing Rockers Roll. He thinks I sing like Maxie Benox. (I’ll never be that good.)

  I’ve already seen the film. My dad knows the producers, so we went to a private screening. But I didn’t tell Amalia and Justin that. I wanted to go with them.

  “Next Saturday I can’t, Justin,” Amalia said. “I’m going to a baby shower for my cousin.”

  Justin turned to me and asked if I could go anyway.

  I couldn’t believe it. Justin was asking me on a date. Sort of.

  “Yes,” I blurted out. “I mean, I think so. I just have to check with my parents.”

  Lame, lame, lame.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll pick up tickets.”

  To do:

  Ask Mom and Dad for permission to go out with Justin Saturday night.

  Lose three pounds by Saturday.

  11:06 P.M.

  Amalia called to talk about my date with Justin. I asked her if she thought it was a real “date.” Then an idea struck me like lightning. Justin was probably going to ask Rico, Bruce, and Patti too.

  “Maybe he will,” Amalia said. “Maybe he did. But I know that they can’t go. Everyone else is busy. It’s you and Justin—alone.”

  “Yess!” I shouted.

  Then reality hit me.

  “What am I going to wear, Amalia?” I moaned into the receiver. “What will we talk about? Help! I’m so nervous.”