by Jim Benton
human beings, and smell less.
He didn’t say much today, just sat down and
started eating a regular old school lunch. I noticed
right away that none of it came out of his nose. It’s
hard for a woman not to be impressed by that on
some level.
I waited for Sebastian to look over at our
table so that I could smile in a friendly and pretty
way. When the opportunity presented itself, I smiled
at him twice, just in case the first smile didn’t work.
It wasn’t until later that I realized that, while
one smile is pleasant, that same smile performed
twice in a row looks more threatening than smiley,
and even the teensiest-weensiest bit
completely insane. Turns out you just can’t smile
twice.
Tomorrow. It will go better tomorrow. No
double-smiling tomorrow.
Wednesday 04
Dear Dumb Diary,
Mrs. Avon, my language arts teacher, is on
another poetry kick. I’ve come to understand
that poetry is the art of very carefully not getting
to the point.
It’s hard for me to believe that a whole kind
of writing developed around this. Then again, I also
have a hard time understanding why there are still
real kings and queens in the world, but for some
reason, no jacks.
Anyway, Mrs. Avon wants us to find
opportunities to write little poems all month. If you
ask me, I think that we should be moving away from
poetry to other important literary forms, like
bumper stickers.
I really feel that bumper stickers are the
future of literature, because some of my friends
won’t read anything much longer than that.
I’ll bet I could write a whole movie on a
bumper sticker.
After language arts, we had lunch. It’s a
well-known fact that the teachers and other adults
at my school use their lunch hour to hide from us
and renew their energy to handle the remainder of
the day. (From the smell of it, they use coffee and
some kind of mushroom-beef casserole to do it.)
But since Sebastian is the current lunchroom
monitor, they make him interact with us during that
time. He actually stopped by our table at lunch
today and handsomely said hello to all of us.
He has a way of being very polite without
acting like some elderly great-aunt, and it makes
you feel as though you should be polite back.
Even Isabella noticed it. When he said hello to
her, I detected her most sophisticated
grunt in response.
Pinsetti and Hudson were there, and Yolanda
may have been there, but if so, she was too dainty
for me to remember. Angeline was still in the lunch
line, so I was clearly the most lovely girl at the
table — in part because Isabella was trying to get a
pudding container open with her teeth, and in part
because I had successfully opened my pudding
container with just my lovely hands and I was
preparing to enjoy it with a plastic spoon that really
highlighted the loveliness of my lovely hands.
Hate if you want to, but the girl knows how
to handle a pudding spoon.
I was careful to perform just one smile at
Sebastian this time, which I think is a good way to
assure somebody that you are not a freak. Not
Being A Freak is a good foundation for a
friendship.
I also offered him some pudding, which was
generous, and generosity is another good
foundation for a friendship.
I realize now that my offer was not
accompanied by any words, but consisted more of
just holding the pudding up toward him, and that
he may have not interpreted that as an offer, but
maybe more as somebody — let’s say an imbecile —
wordlessly communicating something like, “Lookit,
mister, I gots a pudding. I gots one. It’s here.
Yuh see?”
Sebastian smiled and walked away. If Isabella
hadn’t been so busy trying to spit out little pieces
of the foil lid from her pudding cup, I’m sure that
she could have helped out with a little charm. Not
everybody sees it, but she really is very charming
when she’s not gnawing a dessert open.
Thursday 05
Dear Dumb Diary,
Handsomeness can do a lot of things, but it
can’t make meat loaf go away.
Lunch today was meat loaf again, as it is
every Thursday. As we sat down to deal with it,
Sebastian walked past. This time, I knew exactly
what to do. I pointed at my meat loaf and offered a
critical observation about its quality.
“Bleggh. Am I right?” I said, adding
cleverly, “Uck.”
It was the type of thing that any handsome
substitute lunchroom monitor should have
responded favorably to.
“Erk,” you might expect him to respond. But
he didn’t. He just eyeballed me as if I was a twice-
smiler or pudding-thruster and kept walking.
Then Angeline did the most horrible thing.
She used some sort of otherworldly power,
such as you might see in a vampire, or a demon
cobra, or an annoying blond demon nice
vampire cobra, and she spoke right to him, as
if she knew him or something.
“Hi, Sebastian. Would you like to join us for
lunch?” she asked nicely.
He stopped, smiled, and did the most
amazing thing back.
“Yes, I would, thank you,” he said nicely,
sitting down.
SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE HECK WAS
THAT??
I am not leaving anything out here, Dumb
Diary. It was that simple. She asked nicely, he sat
nicely. Isabella was so surprised that she let a Tater
Tot fall from her mouth. (Pinsetti let several fall
from his, but no one batted an eye at that.)
Sebastian was MY discovery. I’m the one
who’s been putting in the time to make contact
with him. I baited the hook, dropped it in the water,
and now look who reels it in. And I don’t even like
fishing, Angeline. It’s very rude to make me use it as
an example.
I try and try to be friends with Angeline, and
every single time, she has to do something just to
annoy me, like have a nice personality.
Anyway, Sebastian made conversation, and
I did, too. I even made sure to use words and to
keep my facial expressions to the normal number.
(The normal number is one per expression,
by the way.)
Isabella didn’t contribute much, except when
she started talking about her Grandma’s infected
foot. It’s really a pretty interesting story, full of
unusual bacon-grease ointments and a surprise
ending, where we frightened her grandma badly
with a scary face I drew on the foot while she was
sleeping.
It was clear that the story was disturbing
Sebastian somewhat, and Angeline changed the
subject abruptly to some movie she saw and how
much she liked the actress in it.
“She really is a delicate and well-mannered
creature of grace, isn’t she?” Sebastian said about
the actress. “So poised and charming.”
It was such a beautiful thing to say that I
horked a little. In fact, I almost horked meat loaf
out of my esophagus. (Beautiful words of this
intensity can affect one’s esophagus, you know.)
I’m not going to give you the exact scientific
definition of horking right now. It’s a medical thing.
Instead, here’s an X-ray showing how it works:
Who in history has ever been called a delicate
and well-mannered creature of grace? I was swept
away for a moment, and realized that if people
thought of me as a
delicate and well-mannered
creature of grace I would just die. In a good way.
And I realized I want that more than anything now,
more even than those other things I want more
than anything. (To be called that, I mean. Not to die.)
I stared at Sebastian for a moment, trying to
make him drown in my eyes.
“That actress kind of reminds me of you . . .”
he said, making my graceful spirit spread its wings
and soar.
“. . . Angeline,” he finished, making my
graceful spirit slam into the side of a fertilizer
factory.
Yeah. That’s right. He was talking to
ANGELINE.
Why? Just because she was all mannerly and
charming about asking him to join us?
Well, I could have asked him to join us.
Or just because she always puts her napkin in
her lap before she eats lunch?
Well, I could have put a napkin in my lap.
Just because she’s graceful and poised and
delicate and nice?
Well, I could have put a napkin in my lap.
You mark my words, Angeline. I WILL
BE KNOWN, FAR AND WIDE, AS A delicate
and well-mannered creature of grace, YOU
BUTTFACED BUTT.
Oh my gosh. I think I feel a poem coming on
for Mrs. Avon’s class:
You’re pretty as a picture,
So lovely to us all.
And like a pretty picture,
We should hang you in the hall.
Friday 06
Dear Dumb Diary,
Today in class, Hudson and I worked on our
social-studies report. Even though he is the eighth-
cutest boy in my grade, Hudson also suffers from
the condition of being male, and so he wanted to do
a report where we compare how other cultures go to
the toilet. If I couldn’t get behind that, he was also
willing to do the report on how people from other
countries punch one another in the face.
He gave me the example that, even though we might
punch people in a fisty way, people from other lands
might use karate chops. Or friendly people might
use finger flicks or slaps.
I told him that slaps are not in any way friendly,
and offered to get Isabella to demonstrate one of
her special slaps to him. After receiving one
of these slaps, the recipient can taste nothing
but Isabella’s palm for about four days.
Hudson finally agreed with my idea that we
could focus on manners for our project, which I
think is exactly what one might decide when
partnered with a delicate and well-mannered
creature of grace.
I also knew that manners would be a great
report subject because I have to believe that most
of the world is doing manners all wrong. We can
spend a lot of time on that, including some really
excellent charts to illustrate their ignorance.
Also, I believe my research is going to lead
to some important rule about manners that proves
that asking somebody to join you for lunch and
being all diligent about putting a napkin in your
lap means you’re a pig, NOT a
delicate and well-
mannered creature of grace.
Isabella said that she and Yolanda the
Dainty are doing their report on marriage practices
around the world, which is obviously a topic selected
by Yolanda. Isabella will never get married, because
it would imply that she would be required to share
her cake with another person right afterward.
At least Isabella was prepared for class today
with a sharpened pencil, which represents a pretty
big accomplishment for her. The last time Isabella
was prepared like that was back in second grade,
when our class was visited by a guy that made
balloon animals — an angry, yelly guy who ironically
was called Pops.
I think Yolanda is going to be pleasantly
surprised by the amount of work Isabella will
nearly do on this report.
Angeline and Pinsetti are doing their report
on how other cultures view us, which I suspect
Angeline likes because it will give her additional
chances to look in a mirror, and Pinsetti likes
because it will give him additional chances to look
at himself in a mirror making gross faces.
Saturday 07
Dear Dumb Diary,
Aunt Carol is a lot of fun in so many ways.
None of those are coming to mind right now.
She called up to tell me she was coming
over today first thing, to make me take flowers to
Bruntford because the two of them are kind of
friends, and I am kind of responsible for Bruntford’s
ankle, which is kind of injured because she is kind of
gigantic.
When Aunt Carol showed up, she’d brought
Angeline with her, which suddenly made it clear that
this whole let’s-take-flowers-to-the-
mean-old-mastodon thing was really
Angeline’s idea.
My Aunt Carol is nice and every thing, but my
mom is her sister and Mom’s told me plenty of
stories about Aunt Carol.
One time, when my mom and dad were just
dating, he came over to pick her up. While he was
waiting for my mom to get ready, Aunt Carol quietly
told my dad that my mom had this terrible digestive
disorder, but he shouldn’t say anything because it
would really, really embarrass her.
And earlier, she had told my mom that a
friend of hers knew my dad, and that my dad had
the same awful digestive disorder, but not to
mention it to him because he’d be so embarrassed.
Before they left for the evening, Aunt Carol
slipped a four-day-old egg-salad sandwich into the
bottom of my mom’s purse. They spent the entire
evening thinking the other one was making that smell.
See? Aunt Carol is nice, but not as
annoyingly nice as Angeline.
Back to me. Before Aunt Carol and Angeline
arrived, I had looked up different flowers online
to see if I could find some way that they relate to
manners. I figured that if Aunt Carol
was making me
do this nice stupid thing, maybe I could pick
up some little fact to use for my social-studies
report.
Roses and daisies were out, because those
are typically reserved for love. Some flowers, like
lilies, are often used at funerals, so Bruntford
would probably only appreciate those if she was dead.
For inspiration, I tried to think of the flower
she most reminded me of, but it’s the one that’s
spelled differently and is sold in five-pound bags.
Fortunately, Aunt Carol had picked up a little
assorted bouquet that didn’t mean anything, so
that was a relief.
I talked Isabella into going along with us,
because it meant we could actually look inside
Bruntford’s house and see if she really had a tire
swing and lived only on bananas, like that rumor we
started that one time.
Dumb Diary, we were not prepared for
what we saw.
Bruntford’s house is beautiful, and big. It is
magnificent. It’s wonderfully decorated — and
as difficult as that is to understand, Isabella had
some thoughts on the matter instantly.
“Are you watching this house for somebody
on vacation?” she asked Bruntford as I handed over
the meaningless bouquet and the get-well card I’d
made her.
Bruntford laughed a little, which made some
of the petals fall off one of the flowers.
“My husband and I bought this house long
ago and raised our son here. But Mr. Bruntford is no
longer with us, I’m afraid.”
“Left you, huh?” Isabella asked helpfully.
“Younger woman?” She was charitably trying to
spare Bruntford the embarrassment of just coming
out and admitting it herself.
“He passed away,” Angeline said in an angry
whisper.
Aunt Carol gave Isabella a little jab with her
elbow to correct her manners. You know, because
nothing teaches politeness like an elbow jab.
