The Dirt Diary

by Anna Staniszewski

  As another cheer erupts from the crowd, I glance over at the softball field and spot Evan Riley standing by the bleachers. I freeze. Part of me wants to make a run for it so he won’t see me. But another part of me wants to stay put since I’m actually kind of excited to see him again.

  After a second, probably feeling my creepy stare, Evan turns and looks right at me. And then he smiles. I suck in my breath like I’ve just been hit in the stomach. I want to run. I want to stay. So I just stand there.

  As he comes toward me, I realize I’m still wearing the glue-covered fleece. But it’s too late to rip it off and shove it in my bag.

  “Hey, Booger Crap,” he says with a grin. “Are you here to watch the game?”

  I shake my head. “Just going home.”

  “It’s supposed to be a good one. The other team is the best in the district. Briana’s pitching really well so far.” He glances over his shoulder as the crowd lets out another cheer. “Usually I have baseball practice after school, so I don’t get to see her play much. But the coach canceled today. Are you sure you don’t want to stick around?”

  His tone is so friendly that I’m actually tempted to stay, but I don’t think I can handle the sight of Briana. “Sorry, I can’t.”

  “Oh well. Maybe another time.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a handful of peppermint candies. “Want one?”

  I shake my head. The last thing I need today is to accidentally choke to death on a piece of hard candy.

  Evan shrugs as he pops one into his mouth and starts crunching away. Then he gives me a crooked grin. “I steal them from my dad’s office. They’re kind of addicting.”

  That explains Evan’s yummy peppermint smell the other day. Oh my goldfish. Did I just call a guy’s scent yummy? On cue, my cheeks start to burn.

  “Well, I’ll let you get going,” says Evan. “But I’ll see you at my house tomorrow, right?” He sounds so genuine that it makes me relax a little bit.

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  “Great, I’ll—”

  “Hey, Riley!” another guy says, coming up to us. He has curly blond hair and eyes the color of Windex. (Yup, apparently I’ve started comparing things to cleaning products.) The guy looks me up and down. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Rachel,” says Evan. “Rachel, this is Kurt. We play baseball together.”

  “Hey,” Kurt says, giving me a little nod, his eyes still on me like he’s trying to see through my shirt. At least I’m wearing normal undergarments today. The old sports bra has been sent off to the dresser in the sky.

  His gaze makes me feel so icked out that when I try to say hello, nothing comes out but air.

  “Are you mute or something?” Kurt says with a smile that looks more like a sneer. “Or do I just make you speechless?”

  I don’t even know how to respond to that.

  “Hello?” says Kurt, so loudly that the whole crowd behind us can probably hear. “Anyone home?”

  “Wow, Kurt,” says Evan. “I don’t blame her for not wanting to talk to you when you’re being such a jerk.”

  “I’m just trying to be friendly. She’s the one who’s acting like I’m not even here.” He leans in and gets right in my face. “You do see me, right? You’re not blind or something? And what’s that crap all over your jacket?”

  His hot breath makes my eyes water. I step back, and his smirk tells me what he’s thinking. That I’m a loser. That he doesn’t know why someone like Evan would be talking to me. And of course, he’s right.

  “I have to go,” I manage to whisper. Without giving either of them another look, I hurry away.

  Chapter 17

  When I get home, I grab a brownie pan and a bowl from the cupboard and start mixing ingredients without even thinking about what I’m doing. I can’t stop replaying the whole scene with Evan and Kurt in my head. I don’t care what Kurt thinks, but if Evan wasn’t already convinced I’m a freak, he is now. I mean, I just stood there like a statue and then ran away!

  I throw down the spoon I’m holding and tear off my glue-caked fleece. Then I open the kitchen window and chuck it out into the bushes.

  As I start stirring ingredients again, I think back to everything that’s happened since the beginning of the school year. When I started eighth grade, some part of me hoped that things would be different, that I’d stop being so painfully shy, that people would actually notice me, maybe even like me. But instead, everything has just gotten worse.

  I go to the spice cabinet and grab the first bottle I see: cayenne pepper. Perfect. I dump some into the batter and keep stirring. The biting smell goes up my nose, and somehow the combination of that and the chocolate finally starts to calm me down.

  By the time the oven finishes preheating, I’m feeling better. But I still jump when Mom opens the front door.

  “Ray-chul?” She does not sound happy. When she comes into the kitchen, I can see why. She’s holding my glue-covered—and now muddy—fleece in her hand. “What was this doing outside?”

  “Um.” How can I explain without her storming into Mr. Hammond’s office on Monday morning and demanding that Briana be punished? Things are bad enough without Briana telling everyone I’m a snitch. “I spilled glue on it,” I finally say.

  “And then you just decided to toss it into the azaleas?”

  “Maybe?”

  “Are you really this thoughtless? Can’t you see we don’t have the money to just be throwing things away?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  I expect her to start furiously scrubbing at the fleece, trying to clean it to death, but instead she drapes it over one of the kitchen chairs and sinks down into another one. Her shoulders are rounded, like she’s too tired to sit up straight. “I thought we were a team, Rachel.”

  “We are,” I say, though the words feel fake and hollow coming out of my mouth.

  She looks over, and her eyes seem to bore right into me. I expect her to call me out on everything: taking the money, lying to Dad, and lying to her. But instead, she gives me a sad smile and says, “We only have each other now. That means we have to work together, okay?”

  I want to yell that it’s not just us, that Dad will be coming back any day now. But then I remember that I have to act like the dutiful daughter who can’t wait to go clean another house, because if Mom starts to suspect anything, then my plan will be over.

  “I know, Mom,” I force myself to say. “We’re a team.”

  Some of the wrinkles on her forehead fade. “Do you want to help me work on the basement tonight?” she asks, which I know is her attempt at being nice. She already did two rounds of cleaning in the basement, so I can’t imagine what kind of super-crazy organizing she has in mind.

  “Um, I can’t. I have to—” The oven timer goes off, saving me from having to make up an excuse.

  “Are you making some kind of spicy chocolate?” Mom asks. “It smells delicious.”

  I nod, surprised to hear her say something about my cooking other than what a waste of time it is. I dish out a couple of portions, too impatient to wait until the brownies cool down. When I take a bite, the cayenne burns in my belly, just like my leftover anger. But when my mom’s eyes start watering and I have to run and get her some water, I realize this recipe is probably too intense for the bake sale too.

  At least there’s one thing that came out of this awful day. My mind is finally made up: I’m going to take Steve Mueller up on his offer and spy on Briana. In fact, I can’t wait to dig up her dirty secrets.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday morning, only the dollar signs swimming around in my head get me out of bed. A little more than two weeks left and around $250 to go. It seems impossible, but I refuse to give up.

  Mom is humming like a cheerful bumblebee as we pull out of the driveway. “We have a new client today.” She glances over at
me. “Now don’t be upset, but the son is in your grade.”

  Here we go again. If it’s Steve Mueller, I’m going to jump out of the car right now.

  “His name is Andrew Ivanoff,” says Mom. “Do you know him?”

  I breathe a long sigh of relief. Andrew Ivanoff has the reputation of being the shyest guy in the eighth grade. We should be able to just mutely acknowledge each other and have that be the end of it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ve never talked to him, but he seems okay.”

  Mom nods, looking relieved too. I guess she really does feel bad about inflicting people from school on me. “Normally we’ll go there in the afternoons,” she says, “but it’ll be our first stop this morning.”

  The Ivanoff residence is just down the street from Marisol’s house and looks almost identical except for the color. As soon as Mom and I go inside, I can see where Andrew gets his extreme shyness. Mr. Ivanoff seems nice, but he talks so quietly that I can barely hear him, and he looks over our heads like he’s having a conversation with someone behind us.

  Once he’s shown us around the first floor of the house, he sends me up to Andrew’s bedroom for a “special assignment.” I pray it doesn’t involve smelly underwear.

  When I get to Andrew’s door, I gasp.

  Practically every inch of his room except for his bed is lined with toys: action figures, figurines of famous people, and a million other tiny creatures. As I get closer, I realize that’s not even the weird part. Each toy is either splattered with red paint or disfigured somehow. And Andrew Ivanoff is sitting in the middle of this creepy doll parade with a cloth, gently wiping the dust off each one.

  “Um, hi,” I say.

  Andrew’s eyes shoot up, and he gawks at me like he’s never seen a girl standing in his doorway before. Honestly, he probably hasn’t.

  “Oh,” he says. “Rachel Lee.” His eyes dart back toward the floor, like he’s afraid I might try to hypnotize him if he looks at me for more than a second. His face and hair are so pale that I almost expect him to have red albino eyes, but they’re actually the color of dark honey.

  “Your dad said you needed some help?”

  He nods and holds out another cloth. “The ones on this side are done,” he mumbles, motioning with his head.

  I carefully step in between the toys and find a clear spot on the floor by the bed. As I sit down, I accidentally knock over two My Little Ponies with missing heads. Andrew lets out a hiss like he’s just been stabbed.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. And then I start to wipe and wipe and wipe. Most of the toys don’t even have a speck of dust on them, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Andrew lovingly cleans each one like it’s priceless.

  Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. “So what are all these for?” I ask.

  Andrew doesn’t answer for a minute. Then he sighs and says, “For a movie.”

  “What movie?”

  “After the Zombie Toys Attack.”

  I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself, and Andrew’s ears turn bright pink.

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to swallow my laughter. “It sounds…interesting.”

  “I start filming this week. That’s why these have to be clean.” He points at a tiny set on top of his desk that I didn’t notice before. It’s a perfect miniature replica of our school.

  “That’s amazing,” I say. “So who’ll play the students?”

  “Students?” Andrew asks, oh-so-briefly glancing at me.

  “Well, I’m assuming these are the zombies.” I hold up an armless Dora the Explorer. “If the movie takes place at school, what are you going to use for students?”

  “Everyone’s dead before the movie starts,” he explains in a slow, patient voice. “The story’s about the zombie toys forming a community within the school.”

  “Do zombies have communities?” I’m not exactly a horror fan, but I’ve seen enough previews to know the whole point of zombie flicks is to give movie stars something to run away from.

  Andrew’s shoulders droop. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve been having trouble with the script. But I want to send the finished product in with my application for film camp, so I have to start shooting soon.”

  Film camp sounds so glamorous. Though that is definitely not the word I’d use to describe Andrew.

  At that moment, the doorbell rings, and Andrew jumps to his feet and runs to the window. After he glances outside, his shoulders relax and he comes to sit back down.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I thought it might be another prank, but it’s just my mom’s friend. Yesterday, someone rang the doorbell and left a box of ground beef on our front steps.”

  “Ground beef?” I repeat.

  “In the shape of a brain. Get it? Because I like zombies?” He starts dusting his figurines a little more vigorously. “I’m going to set up a camera tonight so we can catch them next time.”

  “Wow, good luck,” I say. As I keep dusting, I can’t help thinking it’s an awfully big coincidence that Andrew and I, the two shyest people in the eighth grade, are both having stupid pranks pulled on us. I don’t know why Briana would single Andrew out, but I’m convinced it has to be her. Who else would get so much enjoyment out of making other people miserable?

  Then I have an incredible thought: if Andrew manages to catch Briana on camera pulling one of her pranks, then maybe the Evil Queen will finally get what she deserves.

  Chapter 19

  Mrs. Riley opens the door when we ring the bell. Her hair is perfectly fluffy, and there are so many pearls around her neck that they look like they might choke her.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” she says. “We’re having a dinner party tonight, so this place has to be spotless. And I need you to be gone before the caterer comes in an hour.”

  I can see where Briana gets her charming personality. I wonder if Evan takes after his father, or if he’s just the black sheep of the family.

  Mom is unfazed as usual. “Not a problem.”

  Mrs. Riley sighs. “I really need to just hire a housekeeper.” Her rings sparkle as she picks up a shiny black purse. “I have to go out and run a few errands, but my husband is in his office down the hall, so you won’t be alone.” There’s a warning tone in her voice, like she wants us to know that we won’t have an opportunity to steal anything while she’s gone.

  “Enjoy the day!” Mom says cheerfully as Mrs. Riley hurries out the door. I don’t know how she can stand being so nice to everyone. Then again, Mom works at a pretty fancy law firm, so she deals with snotty people all the time.

  “I can do the bedrooms again,” I say quickly.

  “All right. But try to hurry.”

  I charge up the stairs armed with cleaning supplies, relieved that Evan isn’t home. I don’t think I could face him after yesterday’s fiasco. Plus, snooping around Briana’s room will be harder if he’s nearby.

  When I come to Evan’s bedroom, I peek in, suddenly nervous for some reason.

  Instead of a stereotypical messy boy room with band posters and piles of dirty laundry, Evan’s room is covered with photographs of cool-looking buildings from all over the world, and there’s an acoustic guitar at the foot of the bed. Evan even has a live fern on his windowsill. The last time I tried to keep a plant alive, it committed suicide by falling off the plant stand after only a day.

  It feels like I’m intruding by being in Evan’s room, but I remind myself that it’s just my job and get to work. As I’m dusting the desk, I accidentally bump Evan’s computer and the screen lights up. The wallpaper is of Evan, in a school uniform, with his arm around a cute girl who’s also in uniform. Obviously his girlfriend.

  It’s stupid of me to feel disappointed. Evan is cute and smart. It figures he has a girlfriend. And anyway, why am I so bummed when Steve Mueller is literally the guy of my dream
s?

  I quickly finish up in Evan’s room and head toward Briana’s. I’m ready to start poking around as soon as I open the door, but when it swings open, I gasp. The entire carpet is covered in dirt. Not dirt that someone tracked in with muddy boots. This is dirt that’s been evenly sprinkled over the whole floor.

  As if I need a reminder that Briana Riley is a pumpkin-headed cow.

  My chest sears with anger. And the worst part is, I have no choice but to clean up the mess or Mom and I will be in danger of losing this cleaning job, and maybe others. Word travels fast in town, and I don’t want anyone hearing that we’re bad at our jobs.

  I grab the vacuum and start to suck up the dirt. It takes forever since I have to go over the carpet a few times to get rid of every speck, not to mention all the times I have to stop and empty the vacuum. As I work, I keep imaging Briana Riley being swallowed up by a volcano or pecked to death by pigeons.

  Finally, the carpet is done, and I hurry to clean every visible surface.

  “Rachel, are you almost finished up there?” Mom calls up the stairs.

  “One more minute!” If I’m going to search Briana’s room, I have to do it now.

  Holding my breath, I go over to her desk and pull open all the drawers. I expect to find some kind of incriminating evidence—love letters, for example. But there’s nothing except the usual type of stuff: pens, markers, old quizzes. Nothing Steve Mueller would pay to hear about. I check under the mattress and behind the radiator. Finally, my eyes wander over to Briana’s dresser.

  I start from the bottom, pulling the drawers open one by one. As I look through endless rows of socks and pajamas, I’m amazed at how neatly each article of clothing is folded. But after meeting Mrs. Riley, I figure Briana can’t get away with anything less.

  Finally, I get to the top drawer, which has to be full of her underwear. I hesitate, not sure if I’m ready to cross that line. But if I’m going to find anything good, like a diary or something, it’ll probably be in there. And if I do find a diary, think of all the secrets Steve Mueller might be willing to pay for. Heck, that could be my whole flight to Florida right there.