by Jim Benton
today, and I brought them to our morning hair
session. She wanted me to bring in the most
expensive -looking ones I had.
Like most creatures of grace, I have many
earrings. They fall into four main categories:
• I will never wear these.
• I will probably never wear these.
• I might wear these some time, I don’t know.
Probably not.
• I wear these three pairs of earrings.
I’d brought a big pair of sparkly earrings that
I think could be mistaken for real jewels if you
didn’t look closely and had never seen a real jewel
before.
Isabella put them on, and as I was brushing
her hair, I realized that Isabella doesn’t have
pierced ears.
Well, she didn’t used to have pierced ears.
“I just pushed them through my earlobes.
That’s what you do, right?” she said.
I worried about her getting an infection, but
only for a second. Isabella’s immune system is
pretty tough. Diseases wash their hands after they
come in contact with her.
After her hair was done, Isabella helped me
hang posters until she saw Pinsetti coming down the
hall in his tie, again. Then she pretended that she
couldn’t reach high enough.
“Mike, could you help us with this?” she
asked nicely
grossly.
“Thank you,” Pinsetti said nicely weirdly,
and helped.
After he was gone, I inspected her ears to see
if the earring posts had penetrated into her skull
and damaged her brain.
“Isabella, why are you being so nice?” I
asked her.
“Shut up. Because I am,” she said back with a
smile and a very hard shove.
Tuesday 24
Dear Dumb Diary,
Today Isabella asked Angeline for some ideas
for fancy activities for the dance. There is a very
good chance that Yolanda was standing there as
well, but truthfully, I don’t remember.
“What would be good?” I asked.
“How about a spitting contest?” Angeline
offered. “To see who could spit the farthest.
Maybe we could use olive pits or raisins. Maybe
just pure spit.”
She was trying to appear helpful, but her
answer made it clear that she was annoyed, which
was so peculiar because I was being so nice.
Oh. My. Gosh. It happened.
I truly AM a delicate and well - mannered
creature of grace. I’ve become SO nice that I’m
actually annoying the nice people.
I’m like a mosquito that gave another
mosquito malaria.
Wednesday 25
Dear Dumb Diary,
A graceful girl,
With perfect manners,
Knows just the fork
To eat bananners,
And where the dinner napkin goes,
And knows it snot
For snot from nose.
You know, Mrs. Avon, I think I may be coming
around on the poetry obsession of yours. It really
does convey beautiful things in a way that just
coming right out and saying it doesn’t.
Thursday 26
Dear Dumb Diary,
Our reports are due tomorrow, so today was
the last time we’d be able to get more insight from
Sebastian.
I sat very delicately at the lunch table, and
spoke very gracefully, and used my manners very
welly.
I cleverly pushed the conversation toward
that what’s -her-name movie star that he said was a
delicate and well - mannered blah blah blah.
“Oh yes, her,” Sebastian said with, let’s face
it, a little too much niceness.
“She’s probably not, you know, the ONLY
person in the world like that,” I said with a delicacy
that would totally kick her delicacy in its face.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said.
“That’s the kind of thing you might notice
about someone anyplace,” I hinted well-manneredly.
“I don’t really . . .” His voice trailed off.
I knew this conversation was beginning to go
badly. Any moment, Isabella would pinch somebody
or Angeline would change the subject.
Come on, Sebastian. Did I have to spell it out?
I cleared my throat. “Who at this table, right
now, would you say is the most delicate and well -
mannered creature of grace?”
“Before you answer that, Sebastian,”
Angeline said, “I have one thing I’d like to say.”
Angeline. I knew she would change the
subject.
I suppose Mrs. Shakespeare will always
remember where she was the exact moment that
William Shakespeare wouldn’t shut up about how
pretty she was.
And the ninja Pilgrims will always remember
where they were the exact moment one of them
karate -chopped Plymouth Rock in half.
And we will always remember where we were
at the exact moment when Angeline looked
Sebastian right in the eye and did a fart.
Hudson laughed.
Pinsetti was confused.
I gasped (being careful not to inhale
as I did).
Isabella kept eating.
Yolanda maybe did something, but I can’t
remember what it was.
Sebastian stood up, looking uncomfortable.
“I just remembered that I was supposed to
meet somebody,” he stammered.
“Wait, wait.” I said. “The
creature of grace
and junk. Who is it?”
Sebastian looked at Angeline, who returned
his gaze flatly, chewing with her mouth open. His
eyes went around our table, stopping on each
person, except maybe Yolanda. I can’t remember
for sure if she was even there.
Pinsetti adjusted his tie.
“Mike,” Sebastian said hurriedly. “It’s Mike.”
Then he darted off.
Isabella smiled at Pinsetti.
“That’s who I would have picked,” she said.
“Save a dance for me tomorrow night.”
Pinsetti sat up straighter and beamed. He
suddenly became more handsome, less gross, and
as strange as it is to admit, he might have been
more than just a creature. He might have actually
been a
creature of grace.
They all got up, leaving me and Angeline
alone at the lunch table. She straightened up and
grinned. “How gross was that?”
“On a scale of one to yuck,” I said, “I’d give it
a nine.”
She laughed. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“There are no take backs on a fart,” I said.
Then I paused and said it again slower, so that the
full wisdom of what I was saying sunk in. It’s the
kind of wise phrase you see carved on
monuments.
Friday 27
Dear Dumb Diary,
Good news and bad news.
The bad news is that I woke up this morning.
Today was the day we had to give the ora
l
part of our report to the whole social -studies
class . . . and when I realized the risk of group
projects.
Angeline and Pinsetti went first. They talked
about how other cultures see us, and how we see
other cultures. They talked about how inaccurate it
could be, and even unfair.
Unfair.
And then I heard something in their voices
as they spoke. They weren’t talking about countries.
They were talking about themselves.
See, Pinsetti has always been the definition
of gross. And he seemed okay with it. He might
have even liked it. But when he saw Sebastian’s effect
on everybody, I’ll bet that he decided he wanted to
be seen differently. He wore a tie. He spoke politely.
He suggested the fancy dance theme so he’d have
an excuse to clean up a little and not be judged for it.
And maybe Angeline feels like the opposite.
That’s why she was getting so irritated about being
asked for fancy- manners advice. Maybe she’s sick
of everybody always thinking she’s so nice. And
she’s sick of people thinking she’s so fancy.
And she’s sick of people thinking she’s so
mannerly.
That fart sure sounded like she was sick.
Isabella and Yolanda went next. I was
thinking about Angeline, and for the first time I
really looked at Yolanda. Maybe she’s not so dainty.
She has huge, undainty feet, and crazy socks, and
when she held up their poster, I saw that she actually
has MAD GLITTER skills. I don’t know how I missed
all that. I was focused on the dainty, I guess.
During their presentation, Isabella talked
about how important marriage is from the
standpoint of the wife, especially in places where
women don’t have as much access to high-paying
job opportunities, and sometimes those arranged
marriages make a lot of sense. Mr. Smith asked her
if she thought love mattered as well, and she gave
him the darkest look she’s given in weeks.
“Ever try to buy groceries with love?” she
asked him. I swear the temperature in the room fell
a few degrees. It was good to have her back.
Suddenly it was clear to me where Isabella
was coming from. I wanted to grab her by the
shoulders and shake her, but it was Hudson’s and
my turn to present and shaking Isabella is kind of
suicidal, anyway.
I went up to the front of the room and held
up a fabulous presentation board — and made eye
contact with Yolanda as I did. She nodded her head
slightly, showing respect for my glitterization in the
way only a fellow glitterizer could.
I started speaking, but Hudson jumped right
in and interrupted.
“Manners and customs are dumb,” he began.
“They don’t do anything but make people feel like
they don’t belong or that they aren’t good enough.”
He set his jaw, and turned to look at me. I saw my
entire grade going down the drain.
“That’s not true, Hudson,” I fumbled. “In
fact, you have perfect manners yourself.” I grinned
at Mr. Smith (without looking at his untrue hair),
trying to save my grade.
Hudson scoffed.
“It’s a lot of work. Too much work,” he
groaned. “Eat with whatever fork you want. Eat with
your hands if you want to. It’s your food, right?
Elbows on the table, talk with your mouth full. What
difference does it make? Just to make us look
better than others?”
There was a surprising amount of anger
bubbling up out of Hudson.
And for a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
I kind of agreed with him.
I’d spent four weeks on this project, and it
was crashing down around me.
Just then, a small, dainty, clean voice rang out.
“Manners exist so we can stand each other,”
Yolanda said.
And it was suddenly clear to me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Manners don’t make us
great. They make us tolerable. Barely tolerable to
each other.”
With that, Mr. Smith didn’t crack a smile.
Nope, he laughed so hard that his toupee shifted.
Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.
“We all would be at each other’s throats like
dogs fighting over something that fell off the table,
or we’d be doing gross things in public,” I said.
Hudson looked at Angeline and held back a grin.
I went on. “It doesn’t matter who you are, or
where you are. All manners are supposed to do is
make you bother the people around you less.”
Mr. Smith asked people for examples of
behavior that bothered them, and people began
shouting things out.
“Not covering your mouth when you cough.”
“Not saying thank you.”
“Shouting things out!” shouted out Mr. Smith.
Eventually, Hudson threw up his hands and
surrendered.
“You win!” he said. “They matter. Manners
matter.”
I realized that, to Mr. Smith, it probably
looked like we had staged a debate, instead of
really having one.
Now here’s that good news: Later on, as
we were leaving the class, Mr. Smith stopped me and
spoke quietly.
“That was my favorite presentation all year,
Miss Kelly,” he said. “If ninja Pilgrims are absent
from the written part of your report this time, I
think you’ll be very happy with your grade.”
Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.
Later on, we went to the dance.
It didn’t turn out too bad, if I do say so
myself. Lots of people came, and they even dressed
up a little. Though after they were there for ten
minutes, the girls took off their shoes and the boys
looked like they always do.
Almost nobody could win the Arrange The
Silverware game. Except Hudson, of course.
After he finished, Angeline walked over and
moved a utensil.
“He has the oyster fork wrong. It goes on the
far right,” she said.
“So, you are fancy?” I asked.
Angeline raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re
not going to make me do you know what again,
are you?”
I made a
delicate and well- mannered face
of utter disgust.
We stood and watched Isabella try to dance
with Pinsetti. Pinsetti was very politely dancing very
badly so that nobody noticed Isabella dancing
merely badly. Or maybe he really is that bad.
Angeline felt that she had to explain her little
audio performance at lunch yesterday. She said
that she didn’t like being thought of as just nice
and polite and mannerly.
“There’s more to me than that,” she said. “I
don’t want to be seen as just a
delicate and well -
mannered creature of grace. Wh
y would anybody
want that? There’s more to everyone. Like, what if
everyone only thought of Yolanda as this dainty
little thing? They would hardly ever notice her. They
wouldn’t even bother to watch her dance.”
Angeline motioned to the dance floor, and
Yolanda the Dainty was indeed burning up the floor
with moves you could hardly call dainty. I’m an
expert on dancing. How could I have missed that?
When the song ended, Isabella joined us. She
picked up a cookie from the snack table and crammed
it in her mouth, chewing it more enthusiastically
than she had chewed something in weeks.
“Not bad, huh?” she said, pointing at
Pinsetti. “Richest boy in the school, I bet. He’d
marry me, you know, if I asked him.”
Angeline choked on her punch.
“HUH?” I said.
“Yeah. That’s why I’ve been looking so pretty.
And I’ve been using niceness and politeness against
him, you know, like Angeline does. It’s like some
kind of superweapon. People are helpless
against it. Even teachers.” She grinned maniacally.
“I get you now, Angeline. I get you.”
Angeline was shocked. “Wait. You want to
marry Pinsetti?”
“No, no. Of course not. This was just practice.
I figured if I knew how to get a rich boy to fall for me
now, when I’m older, I could get a rich man to do
the same thing.”
“Is that why you wanted people to think you
were rich?” I asked her.
“Yup. Because the rich stick together, like
money sticks together. Hey, I think I danced out
an earring.”
“Good luck with that,” Angeline said, and
Isabella returned to the dance floor.
“Isabella isn’t really nice,” I said, relieved.
“Nope,” Angeline said. “And Pinsetti’s not
rich. He’s just doing his best to be nicer. The necktie,
the manners — Isabella mistakes all that for being
rich. Plus, I don’t think Pinsetti has fallen for her.
