Diary One

by Ann M. Martin

  “Hey…down there…”

  A voice.

  Mine. It was coming out before I knew what I was doing.

  I closed my eyes and thought about the song. Nothing but the song.

  The song that I had written with Justin Randall in mind.

  “Why do you look at me the way you do…?”

  When I opened my eyes, all I could see was Justin. As if the whole audience had merged into one face.

  An unrecognizable sound came out of my mouth. Somewhere between a squeak and a bleat, on the high note.

  I averted my eyes. I found Amalia and looked at her.

  Soon I wasn’t seeing anyone’s face at all. The crowd seemed to blur and fade. The sounds of clinking glasses, the heat of the lights, the sensation of my fingers pounding and my voice reaching—all gone, all absorbed into the rhythm and words. As if the song itself had taken charge of my senses.

  “Hey…down there…I love you.”

  And then the song was over. I held the final note and let my hands rest on the chord until the sound faded away.

  I had gotten through it. I don’t know how. I was dazed.

  I could hear plenty of applause, and that was nice. But no one was calling for an encore. The only people standing and shouting were Amalia, Marina, Cece, Dawn, Ducky, and Sunny.

  And Justin.

  He was grinning at me. He lifted his fingers to his mouth and let out a loud, enthusiastic whistle.

  And that was it. End of set. A moment to bow, a loud send-off by the announcer, and the next group began setting up behind us.

  The moment we were backstage, all the tension rushed out of me. I screamed.

  I felt so happy.

  I hugged James. Then Rico hugged us. Before we knew it, all five of us were one mass hug, staggering across the floor, laughing hysterically.

  We shrieked out congratulations into each other’s ears. Everyone told me how well my song went.

  When the other group started, we shut up and watched them.

  All the while, I was having the weirdest sensation. Like two voice tapes running simultaneously inside my head. One voice telling me I was not perfect. Reminding me of the botched entrance to “Hey, Down There.” The squeak. The rhythm I’d messed up during “Fallen Angel.” A couple of other missed cues.

  I know that voice. It’s there when I take my exams. When I turn in a paper. When I play a piano piece. When I dress myself in the morning.

  Always.

  It’s me. The voice of Maggie.

  It was dawning on me how strong that voice is.

  No, not just strong. More than that.

  It runs my life.

  But at that moment, it wasn’t. Because another voice was telling me something else. That the mistakes didn’t matter. That winning the contest would be nice but who cared?

  That I’d done something worth doing. Something that I wanted to do.

  Not for grades.

  Not for my permanent record.

  Not for Dad or the five-year plan.

  For me.

  I was in the middle of all these thoughts when a hand landed on my shoulder.

  I turned, and Ducky folded me into yet another hug, which Amalia joined, along with Cece and Marina—and then Dawn and Sunny.

  As I rocked back and forth, listening to them compliment me, I saw Justin.

  He was standing behind my friends, smiling.

  “Nice song,” he said.

  “Thanks.” That was all I managed to utter before Ducky was dragging me toward the exit.

  “Hey! Stop!” I said.

  “Come on, Cinderella!” he was shouting. “It’s pumpkin time.”

  “But—but—” I stammered.

  Justin had this bewildered look on his face. He wanted to talk to me more. I could tell.

  “Don’t worry about Amalia and Sunny and those guys. They’re going to catch a ride home later,” Ducky insisted. “We have to go!”

  I almost screamed at Ducky. I almost told him he was dense. But then I looked at my watch.

  Ducky was right.

  My shoulder bag was against the wall where I’d left it. I quickly took it into the bathroom and changed back to my black dress.

  As I darted out, I could see Amalia, Cece, Dawn, and Sunny chatting away.

  Justin was in the midst of friends too. But he was looking right at me.

  Smiling.

  I did the only thing I could do. I waved good-bye.

  Ducky was waiting in his car at the curb as I raced outside. I jumped in and we took off.

  We floated down the freeway. Ducky launched into the story of how he “accidentally” spilled soda on a guy at the next table who wouldn’t shut up. I told him about James’s last-minute surprise onstage. We could not stop talking and laughing.

  And all the while, I kept seeing Justin’s smile.

  Ducky almost missed our exit because we were screaming the lyrics to “Fallen Angel.”

  But as we turned onto the city streets, I looked at the time and fell quiet.

  “What exact time does the movie end?” Ducky asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Around now.”

  We hit every single red light. I was a nervous wreck by the time we pulled into the parking lot.

  My heart sank when I saw the theater. People were milling around outside it. Some were leisurely walking next door to Duomo.

  “Uh-oh,” Ducky murmured.

  “I hope they haven’t been looking for me,” I said.

  “If you get in there before them, just sit at your table. Tell them you were sitting at the back of the theater during the movie with a friend, and you were hungry. If you want, I’ll be that friend. I’ll come in with you.”

  “It’s invitation-only,” I explained. “They’ll ask questions.”

  Ducky pulled to the front of the restaurant. He shouted good luck as I raced inside.

  I pushed open the door and immediately realized that the dining room was absolutely hushed. My heart leaped. I thought I was early.

  Then, around a velvet curtain, I saw the tables filled with people. All of them were looking to the left, smiling.

  “And if the audience response is any indication, we can look forward to a very exciting first weekend,” an amplified voice boomed out.

  Dad’s voice.

  I moved further into the restaurant, past the curtain. Dad was standing at a podium behind a lavish buffet table.

  “Now, I know you’re all saying to yourselves, ‘Can’t this guy stop thanking people so we can eat?’” Dad said to a wave of nodding heads and knowing chuckles. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t give my deepest thanks to my real collaborators. To my most important partners, not in the movie business, but in life. To the people who’ve had to put up with me day and night during a tense period…whose love makes everything possible…my family.”

  People burst into applause. A spotlight blinked on and swept to the banquet table in front of Dad.

  Pinned by the light, Mom and Zeke stood and waved to the crowd.

  Opposite them at the table, surrounded by lots of producers and their families, were two empty seats.

  My evening—my glorious, happy, triumphant evening—flew away like an ash from a campfire.

  Quickly I made my way through the restaurant toward the Blume family table. When I arrived there, Dad was standing at his seat, chatting with his tennis partner, Carlton Grant.

  “Ah, she’s here!” Mr. Grant said as he saw me. “How was the performance?”

  I nearly passed out. How did he know?

  “It went really well,” I replied, looking at Dad. “You found out?”

  Dad’s return glance gave me the shivers. He was furious.

  “Your dad was telling me all about your debut with the school orchestra,” Mr. Grant continued. “Which Brahms piano concerto was it?”

  “Uh, the second,” I murmured.

  So that was it. Dad had lied to cover my absence.

  Bu
t a Brahms piano concerto?

  I mean, really. If Dad had to lie, he could have picked something realistic. Something a 13-year-old could actually play.

  I let that thought go. Dad wasn’t doing anything worse than what I had just done.

  As we sat down next to each other, I could practically feel the icy blast coming from Dad. He did not say a word to me. Just grabbed a piece of bread and started chewing. I was surprised he could unlock his jaw to eat.

  “Come with me,” Mom said to Zeke and me, standing up.

  Zeke gave me a Look and drew his finger across his neck to show me how much trouble I was in.

  Mom greeted about a dozen people on the way to the buffet table. Her voice was too loud. She was laughing too much. Four drinks, I figured. Her words weren’t slurred yet. But she was definitely on her way.

  As we stood over a steaming tray of pasta, Mom said through gritted teeth, “Did you have a good time?”

  I nodded. I could feel tears starting to well up.

  “I had assumed you were with the Kritchmans,” Mom continued. “I didn’t spot them until after the movie was over. They didn’t know where you were. Thank goodness for Zeke. He knew.”

  I glared at Zeke. “Thanks a lot.”

  “They made me tell!” Zeke protested.

  “Don’t be snide with him,” Mom said. “If he hadn’t said something, we’d have called the police. Now, I would appreciate it if you’d take your food to the table and do your father and me the favor of not mentioning this incident at all until we go home.”

  I swallowed my tears.

  That was about all I could swallow. I wasn’t hungry at all.

  Later, while Mom and Dad were drinking coffee, I called Amalia. She told me Vanish had won second place. Even that news didn’t lift my mood.

  I hardly said a word all night, even after we climbed into the limo for the trip home.

  Zeke kept up a steady stream of chatter, reciting various bits from the movie. Mom kept trying to talk, but she wasn’t making much sense. Dad sat there like a stone, ignoring everything.

  Before long, both Mom and Zeke were zonked out.

  As we glided along the freeway, the limo felt more like a hearse. Finally, halfway home, Dad spoke up. “That will never, ever happen again.”

  I nodded, cringing inside.

  I wanted so much to explain. To tell him what I’d been through. To let him know how important it all was.

  But I knew he’d never understand.

  So I just apologized a hundred times, fell silent again, and watched a falling tear disappear into the carpet.

  “How’d the group do?” Dad asked.

  I looked up at him. His face had softened a little. He was sitting back, his eyes narrowed.

  “Second place,” I said.

  Dad raised his eyebrows. “Second place,” he repeated with a nod. Then he stared out the window.

  I felt a wave of relief. He seemed kind of impressed.

  But I know Dad. And I could tell from his voice that he would have been happier if I’d said first place.

  Which made me feel a small knot in my stomach.

  Because now, looking back at the performance, I knew I agreed with him. I’d have been happier too.

  I’m feeling that way right now.

  I have been trying to recapture how I felt at Backstreet. I can, sort of. The joy is still with me. I’m still proud of myself.

  But I can’t help thinking: What would have happened if I hadn’t squeaked? Or if I’d made all my cues? Or if I hadn’t forced Bruce to vamp on that song entrance?

  Could we have made first place?

  I guess I’ll never know.

  But I do know one thing. I can’t stop. I can’t stop writing. Or singing. I can’t stop trying for first. In something.

  Dad can control a movie studio. He can wrap major stars around his finger. But he doesn’t know me. And he can’t control what he doesn’t know.

  Someday he’ll get it. Someday he’ll see me on the Grammies. Or he’ll watch me accept the Pulitzer. Or maybe he’ll drop by my very own animal hospital. And I’ll smile at him. And he won’t be mad at me anymore.

  In the meantime I’ll stick with my friends who do get it. Sunny, Amalia, Dawn, Ducky—they’ve all seen the real me. So has Justin.

  Does he get it?

  He must. He wouldn’t have given me that smile for no reason at all.

  Tomorrow I have to talk to him. I have to find out.

  If I ever, ever get to sleep…

  Amalia: Diary One

  California Diaries

  Ann M. Martin

  The author gratefully acknowledges Peter Lerangis for his help in preparing this manuscript.

  Contents

  Saturday 12/20

  Sunday 12/21

  Monday 12/22

  Tuesday 12/23

  Wednesday 12/24

  Thursday 12/25

  Friday 12/26

  Saturday 12/27

  Sunday 12/28

  Thursday 1/1

  Friday 1/2

  Saturday 1/3

  Sunday 1/4

  Tuesday 1/6

  Wednesday 1/7

  Thursday 1/8

  Friday 1/9

  Saturday 1/10

  Sunday 1/11

  Monday 1/12

  Saturday 1/17

  Sunday 1/18

  Saturday December 20

  A

  Vargas

  Family

  Christmas

  Palo City, California

  Art: Amalia Vargas

  Ink: Amalia Vargas

  Text: Amalia Vargas

  Any resemblance to persons, alive or dead, is definitely, absolutely, on purpose.

  12/20

  Yo, Notebook.

  Merry almost Xmas.

  At least you listen to me.

  Sun 12/21

  Dear Nbook,

  I will never EVER leave you out in plain sight again. Not after today.

  Isabel, if you are reading this, you are the witch sister of Christmas Present and I hope you melt into the carpet with Big Tooth Lover Boy standing over you and crying his guts out.

  I have been writing in you since September, Nbook. You and I both know this hasn’t been easy. I hate writing, so I draw a lot. And everything I write is so POLITE.

  No more. It’s time to say what’s on my mind.

  I mean, we’re all home today and everybody’s having a good time — Christmas, happy happy, whatever. I’m in my room, wrapping presents I bought for Mami and Papi. And Isabel barges in without knocking. And where are you, Nbook? Faceup on my bed, where I’ve left you.

  “Cute,” says Isabel. “You can write?”

  I am boiling inside. But you know me, Nbook. I always keep cool. “It’s mostly drawings,” I say. “Keep your hands off.”

  Does Isabel listen? No. She never listens. She just has to open you up. To the Christmas picture. She sees the drawing of her and Big Tooth Lover Boy. Only Simon’s teeth don’t show because he’s kissing her in the picture.

  Now she wants to kill me.

  I ask you, is this fair?

  I will never understand my big sister. To me, she’s Dr. Jekyll. (Or is it Mr. Hyde? Anyway, the bad one.) To the rest of the world, she’s saint Isabel of the Lost Causes.

  She gets Christmas cards from her old teachers in San Diego. (Do I? No. My teachers are thrilled that I moved.) She’s constantly bringing home gifts from the women’s shelter where she works. “One of the residents gave this to me,” she says. “Just a little something for the holiday.”

  I want to give Isabel a little something for the holiday. A bonk over the head.

  These journals are supposed to be private.

  Which brings me to another point. No offense, Nbook, but why did we have to move to a place where the schools force you to write journals? We didn’t have to write journals in San Diego.

  Some of my classmates have been doing this since first grade. To them it’s
, like, ho hum, another five pages.

  To me, it’s torture. Already my fingers are cramping.

  The worst part is, it’s totally pointless, since the teachers are never ever going to collect it.

  So why do I open up my inner thoughts to my nosy sister who everybody loves even though she’s a thief who steals my private property?

  I know why.

  Because, Nbook, you are very cool.

  But from now on, you stay under my mattress.

  Fa la la la la, la la la la.

  Sun night, 12/21

  Maggie is rich. Not just in the way of a big house and nice stuff, but Major Money.

  I mean, I’ve always sort of known this about Maggie. People drop hints. But I’ve never thought much about it one way or another. What’s inside a person is what counts. Inside, Maggie is friendly and talented and unsnobby.

  Tonight, Nbook, I see the outside for the first time.

  I’m at the Blumes’ for dinner. Dawn and Sunny are there too. The house is at the top of this canyon. It’s so high up you look down into the smog. The backyard looks like they imported a small Hawaiian island and plopped it right there. The pool is huge.

  We sit down to eat, and the plates look so expensive I’m afraid to touch them. But it doesn’t matter because the maid takes them away and serves dinner on different plates anyway. Which seems weird to me but I don’t say anything.

  The maid’s name is Pilar and she’s Latina. Maggie says she’s studying to be an actress. I wonder if she’s acting when she smiles at everybody and takes orders from Mr. and Mrs. Blume.

  The main course is this shrimp dish that’s about the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. So I do the polite thing and compliment the Blumes on their cooking.

  Well, Mrs. Blume gives me this funny, tight-lipped smile. Mr. Blume laughs and says, “It’s catered.” And I feel like melting into the Persian rug.

  Don’t worry, Nbook. Things loosen up eventually, and I end up having a good time.

  But now I have a new problem. My Christmas list. My belated procrastinator’s Christmas list that I shouldn’t even be thinking about anymore.