“I’m sorry I lied to you about that. It just seemed like the only way.”
“I guess I understand,” he says, his voice low and sad. “I just wish I could convince you to come down here anyway. We’d have fun. And you’ll be missing out on seeing your favorite show.”
“I know, but it’ll have to be another time. We really can’t afford it right now.”
Dad sighs. “You sound just like your mother.”
“Well, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
“It’s not a bad thing at all,” he says. “She’s always been the one keeping our family together, despite all my foolish decisions. I want you to know, Rachel, leaving was never about you. It was about a lot of things, but none of them were your fault.”
“I know. I just wish you’d talked to me about it first, to both of us.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I should have. And I promise that from now on when there’s a problem, I’ll tell you. And you promise me too, okay? If something is wrong, you need to talk it out.”
“Okay, Dad.” I realize how impossible that kind of promise would have been for me to keep even a month ago. I was so afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing that I spent most of my life not doing or saying anything at all. But that’s over now. It doesn’t mean I’ll never be embarrassed or speechless again, but I’m determined not to let those things control me anymore.
Chapter 45
“Holy bean dip, Marisol. You look incredible,” I say, helping her pin one last curl into place. She’s absolutely glowing in her red dress, and her eyes are sparkling even more than the sequins.
“I hope Andrew likes it,” she says, admiring herself in my full-length mirror.
“He’d be crazy not to!”
She smiles and looks at me through her fake eyelashes. “I wish you were going too. I’m so nervous!”
“You sound like me. But you’re the one who doesn’t get nervous, remember?”
“I know,” she says. “It’s just that Andrew is so nice. I don’t want him to regret taking me to the dance.”
“Unless zombies ate his brain, I think he’ll be excited.”
She beams back at me, and I’m 100 percent sure I did the right thing in fixing Marisol up with Andrew. Not only did the costumes for his film come out great, but now he’ll have fun at the dance with Marisol instead of sitting at home because his original date got herself grounded.
“Is your mom still letting Evan come over tonight?” asks Marisol.
I nod, grinning like a fool. “I think she feels guilty that she’s going out on a date while I’m stuck here, so she took pity on me.”
“Are you okay with her going out? I mean…”
“It’s fine.” Strangely, it is. Maybe I haven’t completely accepted the fact that Mom is dating again, but Mr. Hammond is a nice guy. And he seems to make her happy, way happier than my dad has in a long time. Plus, it’s been days since I’ve had to worry about finding my bookshelves organized by author’s last name. That’s definitely a good sign. “I’ll get over it.”
The doorbell rings, and we rush downstairs to open the door. I almost fall over when I see Andrew. His pale hair is slicked back, and he’s decked out in a light purple tux.
“You look amazing!” says Marisol. She turns to me, her face glowing. “He got the tux from his dad. It’s vintage.”
“Wow, it’s…incredible,” I manage to say without cracking up. He and Marisol will definitely be the most colorful (and most dressed-up) couple at the dance, but I doubt either of them will care.
“Marisol,” says Andrew, the tops of his ears red as always, “you’re the one who looks amazing.”
The two of them look so nervous and happy that I can’t help beaming like a proud parent.
“Call me,” I mouth to Marisol when they’re leaving. She nods as she loops her arm through Andrew’s and lets him escort her out to his mom’s car.
After they’re gone, I grab my journal and flip to the end. Dirt Diary. I stare at those words for a minute, knowing it’s time to get rid of all the secrets I’ve been collecting. They just don’t feel like my secrets to know anymore.
I tear the pages out, all those words reminding me of how much has changed over the past few weeks. Then I crumple the pages up and throw them in the recycling bin. The minute they’re gone, I feel lighter.
“Was that the doorbell?” Mom asks, coming into my bedroom. She looks great. Her bangs are pinned back for once, and she’s even put on some makeup. For the first time, I realize that she has a widow’s peak just like I do. Maybe no one will ever automatically assume we’re mother and daughter, but it’s nice to know that we at least have one thing in common.
“Looking good, Mom.”
She blushes. “Oh, thank you. I have to admit, I’m a little nervous about my date. The last one was just lunch. But dinner feels more official, you know?” She gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I know this is still a sore topic for you.”
It is, but at the same time, it’s nice to see Mom looking so happy. “I’ll get used to it.”
“It sounds like things with you and Evan are going well,” she says, putting in her earrings.
Now it’s my turn to blush. It’s refreshing being able to talk to my mom about things, but dishing about guys with her is going to take some getting used to. “I guess so.”
“He seems like a nice boy,” she says with a wink.
When Mr. Hammond comes to pick her up a few minutes later, I take a deep breath and grab a plate of brownies from the kitchen counter.
“These are for you,” I say, holding them out to him. “My mom said they’re your favorite.”
Mr. Hammond looks surprised but smiles when he peeks under the foil. “Caramel chip. Thanks, Rachel!”
I wish I could get away without having to say anything else, but this is the last apology I have to make. “I’m sorry about that rumor going around about you. I swear I wasn’t the one who spread it, but it was my fault it ever got started.”
Mr. Hammond nods. “Your mom told me what happened. I can’t say I’m thrilled to have everyone looking at my bottom all the time, but I know you didn’t mean it. You’re a good kid. Which is why I brought you this.” He holds out a Pastry Wars cookbook.
“Wow, thanks!” Okay, he’s probably just trying to bribe me so he can date my mom, but that’s fine. I can’t wait to try out some of the recipes. Maybe I can get Evan to help me make one when he comes over later.
“Listen, Rachel,” says Mom, exchanging a look with Mr. Hammond. “I was thinking about that class at the bakery this summer. If you’re still interested, I’ll split the cost with you. That is, if you don’t mind using your bake sale winnings to help pay for it.”
“Are you serious? But I thought you wanted me to put that money into my college fund.”
“Maybe that was a little hasty,” Mom says. “Your teacher, Ms. Kennedy, called me the other day. Talking to her reminded me how important cooking is to you.” Leave it to Ms. Kennedy to know what to do without me having to say anything. “If you’re really going to be a pastry chef one day, taking some classes now will be an investment in your future.”
I rush over and wrap my arms around her. “Thanks, Mom.” I can’t remember the last time I hugged her so tight.
She’s beaming when I finally pull away. “We can talk about the details tomorrow.” She glances at her watch. “Okay, we have to be off. Have fun with Evan tonight, but don’t stay up too late. Remember, we have a long day of work ahead of us tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes. “Ugh, I know,” I say, acting like I can’t think of anything worse. But the truth is, it’s just that: an act. Because even if I’ll never grow to love inhaling bleach and battling soap scum, I have to admit that I don’t hate cleaning houses. Thanks to all that scrubbing and dusting, things have gone from bad to worse
to pretty okay. And I have a feeling they might actually stay that way.
Acknowledgments
This is pretty much a list of the usual suspects, but I can never thank them enough.
First, a shout-out to NPR for broadcasting a story about teenage mortification that inspired this novel.
To my wonderful first reader/husband Ray Brierly.
To my amazingly supportive family.
To all my writer and non-writer friends, especially Megan Kudrolli, Heather Kelly, Sarah Chessman, and Alisa Libby.
To superstar editor Aubrey Poole and the team at Sourcebooks for allowing me—even encouraging me—to write wacky stories.
To fab agent Ammi-Joan Paquette for her willingness to go along with whatever my muse cooks up.
And to all of you out there who’ve confirmed my suspicions that middle school is just one big humiliation-fest.
About the Author
Born in Poland and raised in the United States, Anna Staniszewski grew up loving stories in both Polish and English. After studying theater at Sarah Lawrence College, she attended the Center for the Study of Children’s Literature at Simmons College. She was named the 2006–2007 Writer-in-Residence at the Boston Public Library and a winner of the 2009 PEN New England Susan P. Bloom Discovery Award. Currently, Anna lives outside of Boston with her husband and their adorably crazy dog, Emma. When she’s not writing, Anna spends her time teaching, reading, and not cleaning her house. You can visit her at www.annastan.com.
More great reads by Anna Staniszewski:
My Very UnFairy Tale Life
My Epic Fairy Tale Fail
My Sort of Fairy Tale Ending
Read more of Rachel’s adventures in
The Prank List
Coming Spring 2014
The Dirt Diary Page 15
