by Lois Lowry
Alec said he was going to be sick and Moe should be taken into care, and they began to shout at each other and Alec stormed out, but I called him back because it was so obvious to all of us that something had to be done. We managed to be civil to each other long enough to write a letter setting out our terms of surrender. Here's what we wrote:
I typed the letter up on Dad's laptop, set it in a nice curly font, and after I printed it out we all signed it and drew hearts on it and so forth to suck up, and then we slipped it under the door of the studio and went back into the house and got to work.
It took all day, so it wasn't a bad thing that we didn't hear back from her right away. We scrubbed the floors and the walls, the kitchen and the bathroom, we swept off all the junk piled on every surface and separated out the bills and left them neatly stacked, and Dad paid them when he got home. Moe cleaned out the refrigerator and Alec and I went up to the shop with a lifetime's supply of pocket money and bought food—not the stuff we'd been eating all month, like chocolate breakfast bars, but proper food, like chicken parts and green beans and granary bread and cheddar cheese. We cleaned out the fishbowl and flushed both the fish down the toilet, which wasn't inhumane considering their advanced state of fatality, put clean sheets on all the beds and did about fifteen loads of laundry, and even folded it up afterwards. Alec got out the Hoover, but mira-cles have to end somewhere, and when the phone rang and it was his girlfriend, I ended up doing it myself.
It was a not entirely unsatisfying day, if I say so myself. Even the house itself seemed less bad-tempered, like it pre-ferred being clean.
Well, Mum may have suspected something was up when she saw all the black rubbish bags stacked outside by the front door, or she might just have got tired of sleeping on the little daybed in the studio. Or maybe she even missed us. Who knows.
But that night, around ten p.m., we saw lights on in the studio, and later found a handwritten note pushed through the letter box.
It read, I'll think about it. Love, Mum.
And I guess she thought about it all day Sunday, be-cause it was teatime on Sunday when she finally knocked on the door like a visitor, and when we let her in, she looked around in every room, and nodded every now and then, and finally she sat down at the (immaculate) kitchen table and said, OK, I'll come back.
We all started cheering and surrounded her and hugged and kissed her, but she held up one hand and continued.
On one condition. At which point she pulled out a sheaf of papers that looked a little like the Treaty of Ver-sailles, and handed one set to each of us, and on it was a schedule of who did what job on what day and, to be fair, she had written herself into the list occasionally too.
So this is where I'm supposed to say we all lived happily ever after, but in fact we didn't—at least, not quite in the way we expected to. Nobody really stuck to the jobs listed on the piece of paper, including Mum, because she was away a lot suddenly due to her business being so successful at last, but the good thing was she seemed to care a lot less about the house being as clean as it was before, and we learned one important lesson—not to push her past a cer-tain point—so we did pitch in more than we ever had, with the possible exception of Alec. Then Mum really started raking in the dough and Dad quit his job and stayed home, doing most of the cooking and cleaning and gardening and seeming strangely happy about it. So in general, things worked out more or less peacefully for a while.
But a few months later, we noticed Mum was spending a lot of time talking to the young guy next door, and one day she gathered us together and said she was moving out for good. We just stood there stunned and completely freaked out, and Moe began to cry, and Mum grabbed him up in her arms and said stop crying, Moe, and come look at my new house.
Then she opened the front door, and jumped over the little wall by the front path and pulled a key out of her pocket and opened the door of the house next door. And while we were staring at her trying to figure out what had happened, she was grinning ear to ear and said I've finally sorted it.
So that's the end of the story. Mum bought the house next door from the young guy, and though we have to take our shoes off when we go visit her, she almost never shouts at us anymore, and she never complains about the mess in our house, not ever. And when I get fed up living with Dad or if I can't stand another minute with Moe and Alec, I move in with Mum for a few weeks and we have a great time staying up late and talking and just getting on. And sometimes we rent a movie and make popcorn and invite Mum round to our house to watch it and she stays over, and we make her breakfast in the morning before she goes back to work.
And whenever anyone asks us in a polite concerned voice why we don't live with our mother, we put on mournful faces and sigh and say, Well, she just walked out on us one day, but we're pretty much resigned to it now.
And then we fall about laughing, and go and tell Mum.
Meg Cabot
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Saturday, November 3, 3:00 p.m.
I know you've been seeing that freak Greg Harding behind my back. Don't try to deny it. Steve Dewitter's little brother Jeff said he spied you and Greg through the living room window while he was mowing the lawn, and that Greg had his tongue down your throat (while he was supposed to be “tutoring” you in geometry). Truthfully, Allie, I really never thought it would end this way. But maybe it's all for the best. Anyone who would go out with a geek like Greg deserves what she gets.
Been nice knowing you. Oh, and say hi to Greg for me.
Allie Finklestein's Diary
PRIVATE! KEEP OUT!
THIS MEANS YOU, MOM!!!!
Saturday, November 3, 3:30 p.m.
OK, there is something seriously wrong with this picture. I go to the mall to see if I can find a non-see-through black bra to go under my see-through black Betsey Johnson blouse, which I was planning on wearing to Kimmy Davis's party tonight, and I come home, and what do I find in my in-box?
Yeah. That'd be an e-mail from my boyfriend, breaking up with me.
I guess I'm still in shock, because I don't feel anything yet.
Except maybe a little heartburn from the Cinnabon I ate for lunch.
Wait … maybe it isn't heartburn. Maybe this is what it feels like to get dumped. I'll have to remember to ask Stephanie.
But you know, Stephanie totally cried when Todd dumped her outside the Loews Cineplex right before last year's spring formal. And I don't feel like crying.
Then again, I didn't run out and buy a six-hundred-dollar Nicole Miller evening gown and rip the tags off as soon as I got it home so I couldn't return it if my no-good bohunk of a boyfriend dumped me the night before the dance. Like Steph did.
Maybe that's why she was crying so much. Because of the Visa bill she knew her mom was going to get.
There must be something wrong with me. You know, on account of the whole not crying thing.
But in a way, it's kind of … well, a relief. I mean, Cal NEVER followed my rules. He was completely unsupport-ive of the fact that I want the night I lose my virginity to be special, not some grope-fest in his sweaty-sock-smelling bedroom while his parents are seeing Man of La Mancha or something at the Chevy Chase Dinner Theater. There should be clean sheets involved, at the very least. And my name spelled in rose petals on the pillows. And a new episode of America's Next Top Model to watch afterwards.
All that, on top of the fact that he was always asking me to Touch It. Like I was going to go anywhere near It. Espe-cially in his car.
The truth is, I'm relieved to be rid of him.
And that thing with Greg Harding? Hello, perfectly in-nocent. He was talking about obtuse angles and I couldn't get over how cute his lips looked every time he said the word obtuse. I just had to start kissing them.
And it was really … nice. Especially since he never once asked me to Touch It.
And Greg is a surprisingly good kisser, for a guy I'm pretty sure has never been out
with a girl before. It must be from all the practice he's had on that trombone he plays in band.
But there were no tongues involved. Please! I don't know what Steve Dewitter's little brother thinks he saw, but Cal knows perfectly well I'm not that kind of girl. At least, not with a guy who's never even taken me out for sashimi.
Cal probably thinks I'm going to call or text him as soon as I get his e-mail, begging him to take me back.
Boy, is he in for a surprise. Goodbye, Cal. Nice knowing you. Glad I didn't waste my hymen on YOU. Not that I have a hymen anymore, because I'm pretty sure it got bro-ken at horse camp that summer I turned ten.
Oh, Pancho! What a better boyfriend you'd have made than Cal! YOU knew how to follow the rules. I only had to pull on your reins to get you to stop. I should have stuck with you.
Breakfast:
One glass OJ
Diet Coke
Low-fat yogurt, raspberry
Lunch:
Cinnabon
7 (!!!!!) Do-Si-Do peanut butter Girl Scout cookies
Pack of Twizzlers
Calorie Total: 2,415 (!!!!!)
Note to self: Tell Jilly not to leave open Girl Scout cookie boxes lying around!!!!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Saturday, November 3, 4:10 p.m.
OMG, Allie, do u have any idea what Cal is going around saying about u? He's saying Steve's little brother Jeff saw u making out with GREG HARDING. GREG HARDING, that weird guy who plays Dungeons and Dragons and the TROMBONE in band and talks about The Matrix all the time.
U better get back together with Cal, or ur social cred could be totally ruined by Christmas, and then the squad might vote on a new cheer captain next semester. I'm just saying.
C u at Kimmy's party.
Allie Finklestein's Diary
PRIVATE! KEEP OUT!
THIS MEANS YOU, MOM!!!!
Saturday, November 3, 5:00 p.m.
Whatever. So I got a D on my last geometry quiz (I guess I should have paid less attention to the way Greg's lips looked and more to what they were actually saying). I still don't see what the big deal is. It's not like I'm not going to get into a good college just because I've got a D in ONE CLASS. I have excellent recommendations and tons of extracurriculars. There isn't a college in America that wouldn't be lucky to have me. Especially after the way I got the PTA to cave on the halter-top issue. I totally agree that there are certain people who should NEVER be allowed to wear halter tops—like that girl in my French class (with the back fat), for instance—but every other cheerleading squad in the county wears halters! We looked like total dorks out there in our stupid Andrews High sweaters. It was EMBARRASSING.
I don't know what Mom and Dad are so worried about. Like you even need to know geometry to succeed in the world of fashion design. I mean, did Donatella Versace's parents give HER a hard time about her geometry scores? If they even have geometry in Italy, which I highly doubt?
I rest my case.
Surprisingly, Mom and Dad were less than receptive to this argument. They even had the nerve to suggest I stay home from Kimmy's party tonight, and have an emergency tutoring session with Greg instead. Which is clearly an ex-ample of nerd prejudice, since they seemed to just assume he'd be available.
Stay home and study. On a SATURDAY night!
After I was through laughing I saw they were totally serious. So I had no choice but to tell them about Cal's e-mail (I couldn't show it to them, of course, because then they'd know I've been making out with my geometry tutor, which I will admit doesn't cast me in the best light, and could even lead to poor Greg getting fired—though the tongue-down-the-throat accusation in Cal's e-mail is totally li-belous). And so, of course, I have to go to the party—I need to put my heartbreak behind me.
It was quite a performance, if I do say so myself. I even managed to summon up a few tears. Well, OK, not tears, exactly. But I was so scared about having to stay home that my throat got very dry and so my voice cracked a few times as I was telling them about my new, single-woman status.
They were even happier than I'd thought they'd be. Oh, they ACTED like they were sad for me, but a little while ago I overheard them toasting one another with glasses of Diet Pepsi and going, “Buh-bye, Cal,” and laughing like hyenas.
I know they didn't like him—and they didn't even KNOW about the Touch It thing—but that is just plain childish.
Anyway, the upshot is, I get to go out tonight after all. Because I need my friends around to support me during this time of grief, and all. Although Mom assured me that if I wanted, she and I could stay home together and watch Pretty Woman and eat macadamia brittle ice cream right out of the carton (um, hello, since when do hookers and ice cream make everything OK?). She wanted me to know that it was all right to mourn (!!!!) my loss.
When I said no way was I going to waste my first oppor-tunity to wear my new Capucine-Puerari bra, she cupped my face and told me she's always admired my fierce courage.
Good thing neither of them has seen the Betsey John-son blouse. Then they'd really learn a thing or two about courage.
I wish everybody would quit bothering me about all this. I have on a St. Ives mud mask, and my constantly having to reassure people that I'm all right is making it crack.
Note to self: Next time mud mask is applied, make sure no one else is home.
Dinner:
Diet Pepsi
Leftover lasagna
Salad with no-fat ranch dressing
9 Do-Si-Dos
Calorie Total: 1,925
WHY MUST JILLY LEAVE HER GIRL SCOUT COOKIES LYING AROUND THE HOUSE?????
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Saturday, November 3, 6:00 p.m.
Have you been sniffing your Sephora eyelash glue again? I am not getting back together with Cal.
And Greg isn't obsessed with The Matrix, he's obsessed with the idea that consumer society forms a kind of code that gives individuals the illusion of choice while in fact entrapping them in a vast web of simulated reality.
God. Get a clue, Tiffany.
See you at Kimmy's.
Allie Finklestein's Diary
PRIVATE! KEEP OUT!
THIS MEANS YOU, MOM!!!!
Saturday, November 3, 11:00 p.m.
Could my friends BE more annoying? I thought my family was bad, but tonight was ridiculous. I walk through the door to Kimmy's party, and next thing I know, half the fe-male population of Andrews High is dragging me into the kitchen, telling me they heard about Cal dumping me, and asking if I'm all right.
Just because I'm not bawling my eyes out like Steph did when she got dumped, or stuffing my face like Kimmy when she found out about Chad and that girl from the video arcade (note to self: TELL NO ONE ABOUT THE DO-SI-DOS), they all think I'm some kind of martyr. You know, weeping on the inside, and all of that. Even Tiffany was all, “It's OK, Allie. You're around friends. You can cry if you want to. We don't mind.”
Yeah, that's just what you'd like me to do, wouldn't you, Tiffany? Cry until my mascara runs (ha, as if: I totally have waterproof on) so you can tell the squad I'm too “emotionally unstable” at the moment to make any decisions about the choreography for State. So not going to happen, Tiffany. Number one, because I will never cry over a mere GUY, and number two, because I'd sooner die than give you the satisfaction, you shallow cow.
Then Tiffany had to start in about how maybe the rea-son I wasn't crying was because what Steve Dewitter's little brother was going around saying was true—the thing about me and Greg, I mean—and that maybe the reason I wasn't more upset about Cal was because I was in love with Greg Harding.
Instead of the truth, which is that I'm not more upset because I got freaking tired of being asked to Touch It all the time.
Fortunately Tiff's statement got quite a laugh from all the other girls on the squad.
Except that I could tell Tiffany was t
otally serious.
What is her GLITCH, anyway?
The worst part was, I didn't say anything. I didn't say, “Um, excuse me, Tiffany, but Steve Dewitter's little brother is right.” I didn't say, “You know what, Tiffany? Yeah, I did make out with Greg Harding. And it was great. And if the squad—or you—has a problem with that, you can all kiss the back pocket of my True Religions.”
I don't know WHY I didn't say anything like that. Espe-cially when Tiffany started in about how, in my e-mail to her, I'd almost sounded like I LIKED Greg Harding. She said she'd almost expected me to start spouting off about how we need to end nerd persecution in our lifetime, or something.
It was right about then that I decided I'd had enough party fun and started looking for a ride home (obviously, I had to find my own way, since Tiffany said she wasn't ready to leave yet).
I had a choice between Dan Friedman (“Yeah, sure I'll give you a lift. Hey, my parents are out of town—have you ever gotten high on a water bed?”), Bill Stoddard (“What? No, I'm totally OK to drive. I've only had, what, like six beers.”) and Chad Harlowe (“I've got a plasma screen in the backseat.” Wink. Wink.).
So I decided to call Greg on the off chance he was home. Not because I LIKE him. Well, not like that. But he lives right around the corner from Kimmy, and I know it would be totally easy for him to come and pick me up.
And it turns out he WAS home, hosting a Dungeons and Dragons party, or whatever they call them. Meetings? Seminars?
Anyway, he said it was OK for him to take a break because he was the Dungeon Master, whatever that is, and everybody had to obey his commands. He told me he'd be right over.
But I told him I'd come over to HIS house and meet him there instead.
I swear it wasn't because I didn't want Tiffany and those guys to see me getting into his car, or anything. I really just wanted a breath of fresh air, to sort of clear my head.
