The Dirt Diary

by Anna Staniszewski

  Briana Riley is leaning against her locker, watching the whole scene. There’s a look on her face like she just won the jackpot. “Nice bra,” she mouths before striding off and disappearing around the corner.

  Out of nowhere, a tear drips down my cheek and onto one of my muddy shoes.

  “Rachel?” Mr. Hammond says, his voice loud and alarmed now. “I said, are you all right? Do you need to go to the nurse?”

  I shake my head, wiping my face with my sleeve. I can’t believe I’m crying in the middle of the hallway! “I’m fine,” I manage to say before I grab my bag and dart away.

  Instead of going to the cafeteria, I head toward the only place that can make me feel better: the Home Ec room.

  Ms. Kennedy is hanging up charts for the sixth-grade nutrition unit when I come in. As usual, she has flour on the front of her shirt and a wooden spoon stuck through her messy bun. Her face lights up when she spots me.

  “Rachel Lee!” she says. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” She grabs an apron from a nearby hook and holds it out to me. “Come to blow off some steam?”

  I nod as I gratefully take the apron and then pull it over my head.

  “Are you all right?” she asks, peering into my face.

  I nod again, not trusting myself to say anything. Crying once today is more than enough.

  “Okay,” Ms. Kennedy says. “Well, you know the drill. Feel free to use whatever you find in the fridge.” She gives me another long look before going back to her charts.

  Even though my entire body is shaking, I ignore it and get to work, grabbing eggs and cocoa powder and anything else that feels right. I don’t exactly have a plan, but I know I have to make something that will stop the tears still stinging at my eyes. Sea salt brownies, I finally decide.

  As I start whisking flour, baking powder, and salt together, I can feel my breathing slow down, and the jittery feeling in my entire body starts to fade. My mortifying fall and Briana’s horrible laugh keep replaying in my head until the smells of chocolate and butter and vanilla start to take over. Soon, all I’m thinking about is the recipe. Melt chocolate in double-boiler. Mix wet ingredients. Fold in dry ingredients. Pour into pan.

  Finally, everything is ready to go in the oven. When the timer is set for twenty-five minutes, I turn to see Ms. Kennedy smiling at me from across the room.

  “Feeling better?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, realizing it’s true. Maybe I’m still not a happy bunny, but I can breathe again. I go over and help Ms. Kennedy staple nutrition handouts and cut up carrot sticks for students to snack on during class. We don’t say much as we work, but Ms. Kennedy is one of those rare people who don’t seem to mind silence. Sometimes I wonder if food is a language all in itself.

  When the bell rings, marking the end of lunch, Ms. Kennedy just smiles and writes out a pass for me so I can stay until my brownies are done. Why can’t all my teachers be this understanding?

  After the timer goes off, I sprinkle some chocolate chips on top of the brownies. When they melt a bit, I spread them around evenly and then put some coarse sea salt on top, tapping the pan to make the crystals set into the chocolate. Once the brownies cool down a little, I fork a piece into my mouth.

  “Mmm,” I say as the chocolate melts on my tongue. The saltiness perfectly matches my mood.

  “Wow,” says Ms. Kennedy as she tries a bite. “These sure are bold. I don’t know if I’d use quite so much salt next time.”

  I swallow another bite, realizing she’s right. The brownies might be exactly what I needed today, but they’re probably too intense for the bake sale.

  After I’m done taking pictures of the brownies and making notes in my journal, I pull off my apron. “Thanks, Ms. Kennedy,” I say before heading for the door.

  “Don’t you want to take the rest of your brownies?”

  “That’s okay. You can give them to your class if you want.”

  “I don’t know if that will send the right message about nutrition, but I’m sure the students won’t object.” She laughs and gives me a little wave. “Come back anytime.”

  I wave back and head out the door, ready to face things again.

  Though the one thing I’m absolutely not ready for is the sight of Steve Mueller—the Steve Mueller—leaning against my locker.

  Chapter 10

  When Steve Mueller sees me coming toward him, he stands up straight and runs his hand through his spiky hair. Steve Mueller is looking at me! Steve Mueller is smiling at me!

  “You’re Rachel, right?”

  Steve Mueller is talking to me! I nod and bite my bottom lip to keep down a hysterical giggle.

  “Listen, I wanted to ask you something.” He waves me over as if he has a secret to tell me. I float toward him, my feet numb, as if my brain needs extra blood to process what’s happening. “So,” he says in a low voice, “Briana was telling me you’ve been cleaning her house.”

  Oh, holy eggplant. Is Marisol right? Is Steve really just a jerk, and he’s here to make fun of me too? What if he heard about my hallway wipeout?

  His eyebrows go up. “Is that right?”

  I nod again, my head moving in slow motion. Why does my whole body seem to slow down whenever there’s a cute guy around?

  “So listen,” Steve goes on. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor. See, Briana’s been acting kind of weird lately. I’m not saying she’s cheating on me or anything, but…” He shrugs his perfect shoulders. “Anyway, I thought maybe you could keep an eye out when you’re at her place and let me know if you find anything.”

  I blink back at him. The thought of anyone cheating on Steve Mueller is insane. He’s the hottest guy in school! Those sparkling eyes. That strong chin. And those dimples!

  “Well, what do you think?” he says.

  Wait. Is he really asking me to spy on Briana? If he thinks she might be cheating on him, shouldn’t he just talk to her?

  “Hello? Anyone in there?” Steve laughs, but I can tell he’s getting impatient.

  “Um. Er,” I articulately reply. “Maybe?”

  “Okay, you’re right.” He holds his hands up in defeat and takes a step closer, his blue-smelling cologne washing over me. “You’re wondering what’s in it for you.” He pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “How about I give you this now, and when you have some info for me, I’ll give you twenty more. Deal?”

  I stare at the bill like it’s made out of gold. It took me all day to earn that much on Saturday, and here Steve Mueller is giving it to me for nothing. Okay, for spying. But if Briana really is cheating on him, then doesn’t he have a right to know?

  “Well?”

  “Um.” I know I shouldn’t agree to this. It’s wrong. Even though Briana is evil. Even though Mom will murder me if she finds out I spent some of my college money. I’m not the kind of girl who spies on people.

  But when I open my mouth to say so, a long squeaking sound comes out instead.

  “All right!” says Steve. “Thanks for helping me out.” He slips the bill into my hand, and I almost faint at the feel of his warm skin on mine. Then he flashes a bright smile, dimples and all. “I’ll see you around.”

  My heart melts and starts oozing down the insides of my chest like chocolate sauce. Wait, did I just agree to spy on Briana Riley? And, more importantly, does that mean there’s a chance Steve Mueller might actually talk to me again?

  Chapter 11

  That night I spend almost an hour rearranging my bookshelves to get them back to normal. Mom snuck into my bedroom while I was watching a cooking show and put all my books in alphabetical order. If Dad doesn’t come home soon, I’m afraid she’ll start trying to alphabetize my clothes next.

  As I finish putting the last of my cookbooks on one shelf, my cell phone rings.

  “Hi there, Rachel Roo.”

  �
��Hi, Dad. How’s Florida?” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. If I let on how upset I am about him leaving, it might scare him off and then he’ll never come home.

  “Oh, you know,” he says, chuckling. “I’ve got sand everywhere, even in my ears. But otherwise good.”

  “How’s the scuba business going?” I ask. What I’m really asking is: Have you finally given up on your crazy-face dream?

  “There’s been a little more red tape than I expected with permits and things, but it should all be sorted out soon. Tell your mom I’ll be sending her some money any day now.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Of course I won’t, because he made the exact same promise last month, and we never got any money.

  “What’s new with you, Roo?”

  I want to tell him about Mom’s latest weird behavior, but when I mentioned her labeling obsession to him last week, he just laughed it off like it wasn’t a big deal. I hope he’s right.

  Since I don’t even want to think about everything that’s been happening at school, I start telling him about all the brownie recipes I’ve been trying out for the bake sale. “I was thinking of perfecting cheesecake brownies next, since they’re your favorite.”

  “What does your mom think about you spending so much time baking?”

  So much for luring Dad back home with baked goods. “She keeps saying that if my grades start slipping, I’m cut off. But I don’t know if she’d really do that. Her boss has been way nicer to her ever since she started bringing leftover brownies in to work.”

  Dad laughs. “Even stuffy lawyers love chocolate.” He starts doing an over-the-top impression of Mom’s boss, which makes me laugh too. But laughing with Dad only makes me miss him more.

  “Don’t you want to come home?” I can’t help asking, my voice wobbling.

  “Roo, of course I do. But this was just something I had to try out. When you come to visit this summer, you’ll see just how great it is down here.”

  My heart starts hammering away. I just have to act normal so he doesn’t suspect anything. To make my Get-Parents-Back-Together Plan work, I had to tell Dad that Mom knows all about the trip. Since she still refuses to talk to him after what he did to us, I can get away with lying. At least for now. Normally I’d feel horrible about being so sneaky, but I don’t really have a choice.

  “While we’re on the topic, I have a special surprise for you,” Dad goes on. “I was going to wait until you came down here, but I just can’t keep it a secret any longer. How would you like to go see a taping of your favorite show?”

  I blink. “Do you mean Pastry Wars?”

  “That’s right. It turns out they’re shooting an episode right near here in July. So I was thinking that I could buy some tickets and we could go see the taping together.”

  “Holy avocado dip, are you serious? That would be amazing!”

  “I’ll have to clear it with your mom, of course. But I don’t see why she should object.”

  “No!” I yell, almost dropping the phone. “Er, I mean, don’t say anything to her yet. She’s been on this real money-saving kick, and she might not approve of us going to see the show.” My lungs feel like they’re burning. I hate lying, but there’s no other choice.

  “It’s my money I’ll be spending,” he says. “She should be all right with it.”

  I want to ask Dad how he has money to spend on the tickets and none to send to us, but I don’t want to start an argument. Besides, how can I pass up a chance to see my favorite show? “Dad, she still doesn’t want to talk to you. Just give her some more time.” At least that part’s mostly true.

  “I guess you’re right.” He sighs. “I can’t wait for you to come down here, Rachel. We’ll have a great time, just the two of us, okay?”

  I close my eyes. It sounds perfect. “Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 12

  The next morning I go to grab my journal and almost shriek when I see tons of little neon tabs sticking out of it. I flip it open, and sure enough, Mom went through and labeled all my recipes. As if that’s not bad enough, she tried to put the recipes into categories, ones that are completely wrong. And she used the permanent kinds of tabs that’ll rip the pages if I try to take them off. It’s like someone taking a Bible and drawing on it with glitter paint.

  When I flip to the “Dirt Diary” part, I almost shriek all over again as I remember what I wrote about how cute Evan Riley is. I expect there to be a tab with “Rachel’s Crush” scribbled on it, but I guess I’m in luck because the pages are untouched. Thank goodness I wrote down my notes in the very back of the notebook where Mom wouldn’t think to look.

  “Mom!” I yell. “Mom, come here!”

  She comes running, clearly thinking there’s a fire or something. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “How could you do this?” I say, holding up the journal. I’m so mad that my hands are shaking.

  She looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “What do you mean? I just organized it for you. It should make things easier now.”

  “Easier? You messed it up! You had no right to take my personal property!”

  “Oh really, Rachel. You’re being so melodramatic about this. It’s just some recipes.”

  “Not just some recipes, Mom. My recipes. My life is in here!”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine, that’s the last time I do you a favor. Now finish getting ready and come eat breakfast.”

  As I hear her go down the hall, my whole face is throbbing like it might explode. I suck in a few breaths, trying to calm down. I wish more than anything that Dad were here. He’d wrap me up in a hug and tell me he’d find a way to make things better. Then again, if Dad hadn’t left, Mom would never have attacked my journal in the first place.

  I let out a sputtering sigh and carefully put my journal down like it’s a burn victim, hoping Marisol might be able to figure out a way to fix it. When I stomp into the kitchen to grab some cereal, Mom’s sipping coffee and looking at house listings online.

  “Before I forget, we have a couple new cleaning jobs,” she says, all calm and normal as if nothing happened. “So have your homework done and be ready to go when I get home from work tonight.”

  “Tonight? I thought we were just going to do weekends.”

  “We were, but I can’t say no to new clients. You don’t have anything else going on Thursday nights, right?”

  That’s not exactly true. They always replay episodes of Pastry Wars on Thursdays, and I like to study the episodes to see what wisdom I can get out of them. But that doesn’t mean anything to Mom except time away from my schoolwork. Anyway, more houses equal more money.

  “Whose places are we doing?” I ask, expecting her to list more names of kids I know.

  And sure enough, she says: “The Singhs’. Their sons go to your school. They’re twins.”

  I nod. The Singh twins are a year younger than me, but since they’re the only pair of completely identical twins in the entire school, everyone knows who they are. Luckily, I’m almost positive they have no idea who I am, so hopefully I can get in and out of there unscathed.

  “And also Robert Hammond’s house,” Mom adds.

  I almost spit out a bite of cereal. “Robert Hammond as in my vice principal?”

  “It’s funny how things work out,” Mom says, sitting down beside me at the table. “He called me to talk about you last night, and somehow we got on the topic of cleaning.”

  Oh, holy mango sorbet. “Mr. Hammond called you about me? What did he say?” I can just imagine him telling Mom all about my wardrobe malfunction and emotional meltdown in the hallway.

  She laughs at what must be total terror on my face. “Don’t look so worried, Rachel. I guess he heard our family was going through a rough patch, and he wanted to see if there was anything he could do to help.”

  “And no
w we’re going to clean his house?”

  “His wife passed away a few years ago, and he doesn’t have any children. I think it’ll cheer him up to have us take care of things.”

  After everything that happened in school the other day, how can I face Mr. Hammond? I was hoping to get through the rest of the year without crossing paths with him again, and now I’m supposed to go mop his floors? I just have to keep thinking about the money, I tell myself. And hope the humiliation doesn’t kill me.

  Chapter 13

  Mr. Hammond’s house is nothing like I expected. I thought everything would be beige and blah, but it’s actually kind of amazing. He has sports memorabilia everywhere, including more Red Sox stuff than I’ve ever seen in one place. And even though his kitchen isn’t as gleaming as Briana Riley’s, it’s huge and stocked with every gadget and utensil you can imagine.

  “I love to cook,” he says. “And, if you can’t tell, I love to eat.” He jokingly grabs his belly, which makes my cheeks flush as I remember how I slammed into him in the hallway. He hasn’t mentioned anything about that whole mess. I’m hoping it was so traumatic that he permanently blocked it out.

  “Don’t be silly, Robert,” Mom says. “You look great. Most men your age would kill to be as fit as you are.”

  Mr. Hammond grins, while I stare. Since when is Mom so chummy with my vice principal?

  “Where should we start?” she asks.

  “Wherever you like, Amanda.” His grin widens until it’s in Cheshire Cat territory. “I know you always have a plan.”

  Mom giggles, actually giggles. “Oh, Robert,” she says. Then she glances at me, like she just remembered I’m in the room. “You probably don’t know this, but Mr. Hammond and I went to school together.”

  Seriously? I thought Mr. Hammond was about a million years old. But as I look at him again, I notice he actually has less gray hair than my dad.

  “Your mom was one smart cookie back then,” he says. “Still is.”