Diary Two

by Ann M. Martin

  You say you haven’t seen him (you’re about to add the words “since chemistry class” but you swallow them).

  “Well, your guess is as good as mine, Ducky,” she says. “If you see him, tell him to leave me a note once in awhile.”

  She takes a deep drag from her cigarette. Her eyes are red and she’s pulling a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

  And you wonder, Does she know what’s going on? She must. SOMEONE has been paying for the therapy and the antidepression medication. Alex’s dad sure isn’t.

  “Mrs. Snyder…” You want to say something but you don’t know what. You can’t talk about Alex behind his back, but you want to reassure her somehow—she looks like she needs reassurance. But all you can say is, “I’m sure he’s at the park,” and you go.

  You’re right. Alex is in the park. Exactly where you expect him to be. You cross the bridge and find him at the other side, sitting on the creek bank among the reeds.

  You call out to him.

  He grunts hello. He doesn’t look up.

  You park your bike and sit next to him. “What’s up?”

  No answer. He’s ripping up grass, one blade at a time.

  You pull out a long blade, make a reed between your thumbs, and blow. It makes a good, solid SCREEEEK, and a duck flaps its wings in surprise.

  The Old Alex would have tried to outdo you.

  The new one is not interested. His face is a total blank. As if the muscles have been cut loose, leaving the skin to slacken.

  So you shut up. Listen to the breeze. Skim stones on the water. And you think about the long summer afternoons you two used to spend here, doing nothing, absolutely nothing, exactly as you’re doing now.

  Except back then, time passed so quickly. You talked about the same things over and over, or you spent hours playing the ESP game, and it was never boring.

  “Tell me—right this minute,” you blurt out. “What song are you hearing in your head?”

  You hope for a match. Just like old times.

  But Alex yawns. “No music.”

  You fling a perfect, flat stone and it skitters across the creek—all the way to the other bank. “Yesss!” you cry out.

  No reaction.

  “Alex,” you finally say, “are you OK?”

  He nods. “Uh-huh.”

  “You seem…I don’t know, upset?”

  Shrug.

  “Is something going on? Something you want to talk about?”

  The words sound so weak, so wimpy. But you’re trying, you’re NOT GIVING UP.

  Alex keeps his eyes straight ahead. He looks as if he’s thinking about what to say, shaping an answer.

  But he just yawns. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Slap.

  What now, Ducky?

  You’re thinking: FINE, he wants to be that way? He wants to abuse his best friend? He can stay here alone.

  See if the reeds understand. See if the birds understand.

  You get up, ready to leave, but you catch yourself.

  You look closely at his face.

  He’s not dissing you. He’s telling you the truth. HIS truth.

  He honestly believes you wouldn’t understand.

  And maybe he’s right. You’ve never had the URGE to do the things he does—drink or cut school or mope around and do nothing. It’s not in your chemistry. Step 1 to helping somebody with a problem is sympathy, and how can you sympathize with someone so different, someone whose mind used to be just like yours but has now veered off into the Twilight Zone?

  No matter what you say or do—stay, leave, turn cartwheels, throw yourself in the creek—the blank expression won’t change. You don’t mean anything to him. Nothing does.

  Never, ever, ever give up. You repeat that to yourself, even though it sounds about as possible as Flap your arms and fly.

  You sit next to him. Silently.

  He doesn’t move.

  You want him to know what you and Ms. Krueger talked about, that he might fail tenth grade. You want to tell him that his teachers are concerned. But you can’t bring yourself to say it.

  Maybe later. Maybe if he snaps out of whatever he’s in.

  If he opens up just a little.

  You sit for a long time, quietly watching the sun set, until you realize you’re starving, and you convince Alex to ride home with you.

  Mrs. Snyder is at the door when you arrive. You can hear her scolding him as he walks in, but even from the sidewalk you can see the relief on her face.

  Afterward, you’re exhausted and your brain is overflowing with thoughts. You don’t want to go home, not just yet.

  So you stop off here, at Cosmo’s.

  And you write.

  Which makes you feel a little better.

  Very little.

  BUT IT SURE WAS BETTER

  THAN YOU FEEL RIGHT NOW!

  What a jerk.

  COSMO’S?

  What were you thinking?

  You just sat there, scribbling away, not even looking at the time.

  Wake up, McCrae. It’s not The Ducky and Ted Show anymore. You’re a family again.

  And your family eats dinner at 6:00. Always has.

  So when you walked in at 7:15, and Dad was standing in the kitchen doorway, tapping his foot and looking at his watch, WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?

  Way to go. Ruin everything. After Mom and Dad had planned a special “family reunion celebration”—vegetarian lasagna, sparkling cider, ice-cream sundaes—your favorite dishes, made especially for you.

  AND YOU WERE AT COSMO’S.

  Yes, they’re jet-lagged. Yes, they were eating lunch during your breakfast, and they were asleep when you got home from school. It didn’t occur to you that life would slip back into a normal routine so soon. But you could have called. You didn’t have to act as if they were still in Ghana.

  And then—then, when Dad yelled at you, did you apologize? No, you made excuses. You told them Ted and you NEVER eat precisely at 6. You eat when you’re hungry—7:30, 9:00, midnight, whenever.

  Which is NOT what they wanted to hear and just made the atmosphere worse.

  So even though you WEREN’T hungry, you sat in the kitchen and ate leftovers while everyone else cleaned up, and Ted glared at you the whole time as if to say HOW’D I GET STUCK WITH THE DISHES? which was ridiculous because you would trade places with him in a minute.

  After the cleanup, Mom and Dad sat with you while you finished eating. You apologized and they accepted it. But you could see they were hurt, and you felt awful. Dad suggested another celebration tomorrow—this time at 8:15, after you finish work at Winslow Books. You agreed and then actually TRIED to start a conversation, to begin catching up on all the months they were away, but the phone began ringing for them, and it hasn’t stopped.

  Anyway, you’re back in your room again. It’s a chilly night but you can’t turn on the heat the way you normally would, because the thermostat reads 61° and Dad won’t let you “waste electricity” unless it’s under 60.

  You feel as if you’re 10 years old and you’ve been sent to your room for bad behavior.

  Oh, well, look on the bright side.

  For almost 24 hours, you’ve had something you were looking forward to—a REAL FAMILY again.

  Cherish those 24 hours. Value them.

  You took care of Mom and Dad at the airport. You took care of your ailing friend.

  You also alienated your parents. And you alienated your friend.

  Oh. And you probably flunked your math test.

  Guess you’re batting a thousand, Ducky.

  Thursday 12/3

  Lunch & Loose Ends

  You meant to stop by Alex’s on the way to school, but you didn’t.

  WHY?

  Because you were lazy. Tired. You wanted a break from the INTENSITY. Whatever.

  But Alex didn’t show up at school. Hasn’t been here all day long.

  You should have dragged him to school, the way you did yesterday.


  You GAVE UP, Ducky. You’re not supposed to do that, remember?

  Now what?

  DO something, that’s what.

  35 more minutes until the end of lunch.

  Maybe I can find him.

  Maybe I should cut school myself.

  South of Psychology

  East of Self-Help

  The sections, that is.

  You’re working tonight. At Winslow Books.

  You figure if you stand here long enough, the vibes from the books will teach you something.

  Anyway, it’s break time. You have fifteen minutes. So write fast.

  Since we last spoke:

  1. You didn’t cut. You chickened out.

  2. You didn’t find Alex either. You called his house from a pay phone at school, but no one answered.

  3. You had some long-overdue face time with Sunny.

  Number 3 happened after school. You were freaking out because you wanted to stop by Alex’s but you only had twenty minutes to report to Winslow Books.

  Then you heard Sunny call out, “You’re giving me a ride.”

  Not a question. A command.

  (You have to love her. She is so cool.)

  You said, “My rates have gone up,” but she ignored you and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Winslow Books, please, servant.”

  “What’s the occasion?” you asked, driving away. “Your dad hired you for the Christmas rush?”

  “What, and scare away the customers? Nope. He’s taking me to visit Dorian.”

  “Dorian?”

  “As in The Picture of Dorian Gray? The picture that ages before your eyes?”

  “Are you talking about your MOM?”

  “She calls HERSELF that. You have to admit, Ducky, she does look about 100 years old.”

  You bit your tongue. Sometimes you can’t believe what comes out of Sunny’s mouth.

  But that’s SUNNY, that’s her style. Keep everyone off guard, break down their barriers. Laugh in the face of your troubles. Use extreme humor, if you have to—whatever keeps you going.

  You admire that, kind of. But right then you didn’t know how to respond. You were thinking there was something strange going on. Sunny almost always goes to the hospital alone—SOMETIMES with a trusted friend, but NEVER with her dad unless it’s an emergency.

  “Mom’s MUCH worse,” Sunny explained. “It’s just a matter of months, I guess. Maybe weeks. Some Christmas present, huh?” She popped a stick of gum in her mouth and held the pack out to you. “Want some?”

  Sunny was trying to be cool, but her face and body were giving her away. She was coiled up, intense. Her eyes were slitted and anxious.

  You could tell she was scared out of her wits.

  “I could go with you,” you volunteered.

  Sunny laughed. “Right. Dad’s probably already calculating how much business he’ll lose by leaving the store. Don’t be surprised if he CHAINS you to the cash register.”

  You pulled into the store’s parking lot. You expected Sunny to jump right out, but she didn’t. She was looking down at the floor, gripping the dashboard.

  You put your hand over hers. “Good luck,” you said.

  She whirled around, threw her arms around you, and gave you a kiss on the cheek. Then, without a word, she left the car.

  You caught up to her. Mr. Winslow was waiting by the front door, pacing, looking at his watch. He started barking out instructions to you—clean up the spill in the children’s book section, open the two UPS boxes, find another shelf for New Age books, make sure to obey the store manager while he’s gone, etc., etc., etc.

  You watched him and Sunny walk away to his car.

  You wished there was something you could do, some way you could make it all better.

  But you knew there wasn’t.

  It seems there never is.

  Siiilent Niiiight…

  You’re beat. You can barely hold a pen and it’s bedtime. But your mind is zingy, so here goes.

  You worked at the store nonstop. Very busy.

  You didn’t notice Mr. Winslow come back around 7:15, because he was so quiet. Which was totally weird, because he’s ALWAYS yelling about something.

  Tonight he was in another world, wandering, reshelving books, reading. Sunny wasn’t wit him; he’d taken her home.

  You finally worked up the courage to ask about his wife. He looked at you—really looked you in the eye for the first time since he hired you—and said in a soft voice, “You’re kind to ask, Chris.”

  Period.

  Nothing else.

  Which just made you worry more.

  At 8:00 you left and made SURE to be home for Family Dinner: the Sequel. It was hard to concentrate. You were thinking about Mrs. Winslow and whether or not you should call Sunny.

  Dad made a pretty good homemade pizza, and Mom passed around some just-developed photos that actually made the Ghana trip look like a GOOD TIME. Soon you were all laughing and chatting, and it felt OK, like the old days, sort of. Ye Older Son Ted gave a boring yet corny toast, and Dad requested that we all have “a little McCrae bonding time” on Saturday, “maybe a special trip or something.”

  Cool. Good idea.

  You kind of wish YOU had thought of a toast too. But you had a lot on your mind.

  After dessert, when Mom, Dad, and Ted went into the den to watch the tube, YOU went to the phone to call Sunny’s house, then Alex’s.

  No answer at either place.

  You left a message on their machines, asking them to call back.

  It’s now 10:47. Neither called.

  It’s probably too late to call again.

  Mrs. Snyder and Paula are probably asleep. Mr. Winslow too.

  Chill, Ducky.

  Try again tomorrow.

  TOMORROW

  Also Known as Friday

  You call Alex. He’s home. And the conversation goes like this:

  D: “What’s up?”

  A: “Whatever.”

  D: “Everything OK?”

  A: “I guess.”

  D: “Coming to school?”

  A: “I have to.”

  D: “I’ll take you.”

  A: “Mom’s driving me.”

  D: “Cool.”

  That’s what you love about talking to Alex. The repartee. The crackling wit.

  Oh, well. At least he’s not skipping school.

  In Which Ducky Sees

  a Light at the End of the Tunnel

  Very faint. A SUGGESTION of a light.

  You spot Alex after homeroom. He’s walking down the hallway slowly, slumped over, his shoulder practically pressed against the wall, his hair hanging down over his face.

  The usual.

  You catch up. Say hi. Talk a little.

  Then, as you’re about to part ways—here it comes, drumroll, please—he says, “What are you doing after school?”

  “Nothing,” you say. “You?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Want to hang?”

  “Sure.”

  Ta-da.

  You never thought a question like that would MAKE YOUR DAY.

  But it does.

  You Have Seen the Mountaintop

  and It Looks Like the Pits

  After school you wait for Alex by his locker. You haven’t seen him since lunch.

  Miracle of miracles, he comes shuffling along. Still in school after a FULL DAY.

  You call out to him. “So, where do you want to go?”

  He looks a little confused.

  “To hang out?” you remind him.

  “I don’t know, drive around, I guess,” he says. “The park.”

  “Cool beans.” You pack up your books. Alex isn’t even bothering to touch his locker.

  “No homework?” you ask.

  “No.”

  OK. Fine.

  You walk out together.

  The moment you get through the door, you hear a loud quacking sound, followed by, “It’s the Duckster!”
>
  You turn to see Jay grinning at you. His arm is around Lisa Bergonzi. Marco Bardwell and Mad Moose Machover are there too. They’re both snickering and communicating with each other with some prehistoric Cro Mag mutterings.

  You say hi and turn away.

  “Hold it!” Jay’s running toward you now, looking all excited about something. “Hey, Duckboy, you remember LeeAnn?”

  At the sound of Jay’s voice, you see Alex’s face tense.

  You are NOT thrilled, because the name LEEANN brings back a certain horrifying BLIND DOUBLE DATE you would much, much rather forget.

  “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have set you up with her, OK?” Jay says. “But listen. She has this cousin, she’s visiting from Sweden for a week during Christmas vacation—SWEDEN, Duckington—and she’s just like you, sort of shy and smart, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend—”

  “I don’t believe you’re telling me this,” you say.

  “Why? I’m letting you know in advance!”

  “I DON’T LIKE BEING SET UP AT ALL, OK? Let Moose ask her out.”

  “Not my type,” Moose mumbles.

  “Not DUCKY’S type either,” Marco cracks, and they both start guffawing as if it were the funniest joke in the world.

  “Alex?” Jay says hopefully. Like he’s auctioning off the girl to the highest bidder.

  “Huh?” Alex replies.

  Jay rolls his eyes. “Forget it.” With a big sigh he swaggers back to his group.

  “Ducky and Alex are happy just as they are,” Moose says.

  The laughter creeps under your skin as you walk toward the parking lot.

  “I used to like Jay,” Alex mutters.

  “He can be OK.” You don’t know WHY ON EARTH you’re defending Jay.

  You get in the car and cruise away from school. Alex is in a foul mood. Not numb, not spacey, just foul. His arms are folded and he’s glaring straight ahead.

  “Where do you want to go?” you ask.

  “No place you can take me,” he grumbles.

  What does THAT mean?

  You have no idea. You don’t want to know.

  You’re driving toward Las Palmas County Park, but you know that Jay and his friends are likely to show up there, so you switch directions and head for the Alta Mira Hills.