by Jim Benton
math. If I get all the boys, and you and Angeline
split up the girls, I WIN. That’s why I suggested she
show up here this morning with the water.”
I didn’t like it, but technically she was right,
and there really isn’t any other kind of right.
But fortunately, before Isabella and Angeline
could complete their evil plans, the first bell rang
and everybody had to scramble for class.
This isn’t over yet.
39
TUESDAY 10
Dear Dumb Diary,
At lunch today, Angeline asked me to make
some anti-bullying posters for the Student
Awareness Committee.
“I know that you don’t really want to, but you
still are one of the presidents of the club and you’re
probably the best postermaker in the school.”
She was wrong about that. There’s no
probably about it.
“FINE,” I sighed in such a way that should
have made her withdraw the request, but evidently
she doesn’t know sigh language. “What should
they say?”
“I was hoping that you and Isabella could
help with that,” Angeline said. “There are a lot of
things kids get bullied for. Maybe something about
physical appearances?”
“I got this,” Isabella said. “How about DON’T
BE REALLY FAT OR WE’LL BULLY YOU.”
A full minute passed where we just stared at
Isabella.
“Isabella,” Angeline began quietly, as if
she were going to attempt to teach algebra to a
slow infant, “people can be overweight for many
reasons. It can be hereditary, or glandular, or their
metabolism—”
Isabella pffffted at Angeline.
“Angeline, I don’t have time to consult a
doctor for a diagnosis every time I see some tub-of-
guts walking down the street. I look, maybe I imagine
them falling down, I laugh, and then I move on.”
Angeline looked shocked and was about to
scold Isabella in a way that would not have worked
out well for Angeline’s nose.
“Angeline, if Isabella never says anything to
that person, it’s not bullying, is it?” I asked.
“The laughter might be considered bullyish.”
“What if the person never heard it?”
“It’s still really mean.”
41
Isabella put down her fork and leaned in close
to Angeline.
“What if I notice that somebody has really
dorky shoes, and I tell them so, and they do
something about it, and eventually they’re much
happier because I told them? You wouldn’t tell
them, Angeline. Jamie probably wouldn’t, either.
So who’s the bad guy now? I helped, and you
didn’t.”
Angeline wasn’t sure how to answer that one,
and neither was I.
Isabella was right.
42
“Hang on,” Angeline said. “What about if that
person couldn’t afford any other shoes, or had to
wear them for some reason you didn’t know about?”
She smiled her smug little smile right in Isabella’s
face. “Then you would be the bad guy, Isabella.
YOU would.”
Isabella laughed.
“You got me there, Ang, but you may have
overlooked one little thing.”
“Oh, really? What’s that?”
“Some of us don’t really care if we’re the
bad guy.”
Angeline looked as if she had been punched
in her perfect gut. She glanced at me for some kind
of support, but I had none to give. Isabella is who
she is.
“Let’s talk about the posters tomorrow,” I
said. I just didn’t have the energy to explain to the
perky blond that the real world isn’t all magical like
The Wizard of Oz, and even if it was, Isabella would
be the monkey with the most frequent-flyer miles
of all.
WEDNESDAY 11
Dear Dumb Diary,
After a breakfast of untoasted toast eaten
over the wastebasket to avoid getting any dishes
dirty, Dad dropped me off at school early today.
Angeline was there already, taping up some of her
posters. I decided to give her some helpful pointers.
“These are horrible,” I helpfully pointed out.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m putting up some posters,” she said simply.
I shook my head. “This is vertical littering.
Take these down. I’ll make the posters you need.”
Angeline said that even after our
conversation yesterday, she wasn’t sure that I
understood bullying.
44
“Yes, I do. It’s about not being mean to
people. Not saying mean things to them. Not calling
them bad names. It’s not that hard, Angeline. You
think I can’t see it because Isabella is my best
friend, right?”
“Isabella is a bully,” Angeline said.
“And that’s a bad thing?” I asked.
“Of course it’s bad!”
“Not the kind of thing you’d want to be
called, right?”
Angeline saw where I was going.
“I don’t think you should call her that
anymore,” I said. “Isabella has a lot of things
going for her.”
“Isabella makes fun of how people speak,”
Angeline said.
“Isabella gives free speech therapy,” I replied.
“Isabella takes people’s lunches.”
“Isabella teaches people how to share,” I said.
“Isabella is mean to her very best friend, the
one human being on Earth who stands up for her no
matter how mean she is. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.”
I didn’t have a response for this.
“I have a perfect response for this,” I said,
“but I don’t have time. I have to go to class.”
Angeline wasn’t having it. She grabbed my
arm and dragged me into the office, past the front
desk, and to the doorway of Assistant Principal
Devon’s office (who, I may have mentioned before,
is Angeline’s uncle and also mine).
“Jamie and I would like to miss our first
classes so that we can work on some stuff. Okay?”
“You got it. I’ll let your teachers know,”
Assistant Principal Devon said.
46
There are people who benefit from rules,
and people who are punished by rules, and then
there are people like Angeline, who don’t really
seem to notice them at all, and the rules seem
okay with that.
I looked at her in disbelief as we walked away
from the office. “Will he let you do that anytime you
ask? Skip a class?”
“If I have a good reason, he will,” she said.
“But he didn’t even know the reason,” I
pointed out.
“He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s good.”
We went down to Miss Anderson’s classroom
to see if she’d let us make posters, and she said
okay, but she made me use the cheap glitter.
She knew I was mak
ing them for the Student
Awareness Committee, and not the Cuisine Club.
Here’s what I came up with:
48
49
THURSDAY 12
Dear Dumb Diary,
Today at lunch, Miss Anderson really went out
of her way for the membership drive.
It’s a well-known fact that the fragrance of
fresh popcorn can reduce a hungry person to
insanity, and she was handing out little bags of it at
the entrance to the lunchroom. On each bag, she
had written THE CUISINE CLUB. JOIN NOW.
MEETS EVERY WEDNESDAY.
She was even dressed as an adorable bag of
popcorn that might also dance in a show in Las
Vegas, and she was mobbed by kids (and stared at
by that one janitor who is evidently also way into
popcorn).
Her promotion was a huge success. Isabella
even took a bag.
A BAG.
ONE BAG.
I asked Isabella why she took only one, and
she looked at me, a little dazed.
“My brothers moved out. When I got home
yesterday, they were already gone. They got jobs at
a theme park — and they’ll be living there.”
“Did your parents know this was coming?”
“Yeah. My dad said that since they’ve
graduated from high school and they’re not sure
about college, they can’t just lie around, and this
is as good a plan as any. They’re gone. Gone
forever.”
“Are you going to miss them?”
“Jamie,” she said, “I’ve been throwing
snowballs, rocks, and bricks at those two for as long
as I can remember. I never missed them once, and I
don’t think I’ll start missing them now.”
51
Angeline was looking over at Miss Anderson’s
popcorn triumph, and she seemed so deflated that I
went to talk to her about kids doing terrible things
to each other, you know, because I thought that
might help to cheer her up.
“Hey, Angeline,” I said, trying to sound
positive. “I’ll bet our posters really made an impact
on kids, even though I know the whole point is for
kids to not feel impacts. Heh, heh,” I said, adding,
“Heh, heh.”
She sighed. “Yeah, and I know that’s what
matters. But you know this little popcorn performance
by Miss Anderson is going to tip the numbers in your
favor. The Cuisine Club will win the membership drive.”
I asked how she could know that, and she
reminded me that she’s the one who collects the
club information and reports it all to Assistant
Principal Uncle Dan. She knows the numbers.
“I think you guys may have won by just a kid
or two,” she said sadly. “It’s over.”
52
“So what? Nobody cares about that,” I said,
caring deeply.
“It’s a cash prize, Jamie. The club that
wins gets a cash prize to make their club better. I
know you and Isabella don’t care about the club we
started together, but I do.”
I felt bad.
I wonder if Angeline making me feel bad is a
form of bullying. I think it is.
She should feel bad about that.
FRIDAY 13
Dear Dumb Diary,
We’re out of bread, so we couldn’t have Dad’s
famous untoasted toast today.
So he came up with something new— Astronaut
Cereal. He introduced the idea to me in one of those
high voices that work on you when you’re two years
old and never again.
“Look, Jamie!” he said shrilly. “Put the cereal
in a plastic bag! Then pour the milk right in!” He
showed me what he meant. “Then mash it up! Now,
cut a hole in the corner of the bag and suck it right
out of there like an astronaut!”
I imagined that if the entire space program
did things this dumb, we would have to walk around
looking up all the time to make sure those
morons didn’t drop a wrench on us from space.
54
By the time we got to school, my breakfast
was sucked. (That sounds accurate in more ways
than one.)
Isabella and Angeline were waiting at my
locker.
“The numbers are in,” Angeline said.
“The Cuisine Club is going to win?” I asked,
being politely not too happy.
“Nope.”
“The Student Awareness Committee?”
“Nope.”
“So, it was the Videogamer Club.”
“Nope.”
“Then who’s going to win?” I squawked— but,
you know, femininely.
“It’s a three-way tie,” Angeline announced.
“So, none of us can win?” I asked.
Angeline grinned. “We can split the money
three ways.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess. Let’s do that, you
know, if you’re telling me that there’s no other choice.”
“Wllthrzwunothrstdnt,” Angeline mumbled.
“Did you say something?” Isabella said.
“Wllthrzwunothrstdnt,” Angeline mumbled
again, this time a bit louder.
I grabbed her by her shoulders and gave her a
shake until she blurted out the truth.
“I said that there is one other student that
hasn’t joined any club on Wednesdays. Well, one
that anybody would want, anyway, but I don’t see
why we can’t just split the money instead of
competing for that one last person.”
I looked at Isabella. She smiled, and I was
pretty sure I knew why.
“Okay, Angeline,” I said. “You’re right. Let’s
split it. But just out of curiosity, who is that
last student?”
56
She told us.
It’s Dicky Flartsnutt.
Dicky Flartsnutt. Sometimes you get the
feeling that a kid’s parents named them just hoping
that they’d get tormented for the rest of their lives.
Dicky is shorter than he needs to be, wider
than he needs to be, a wearer of glasses, braces,
and prescription socks.
He’s sensitive to perfumes, and allergic to
peanuts, shellfish, strawberries, artificial colors,
artificial flavors, wood, vinyl, and somehow, the
number five.
He isn’t very good at sports, the arts, or
school, and he doesn’t seem to have a single friend.
He lisps, bites his nails, doesn’t comb his
hair, and always seems to run into things.
But he always seems to be in a good mood.
I smiled, and Angeline smiled back.
And then it suddenly occurred to her why I
was smiling, and she gasped.
“You’re going after him,” she wheezed.
“Sorry, Angeline. My loyalty lies with the
Cuisine Club. Stop by sometime, and I’ll teach you
something about how the cookie crumbles.”
And I made a supercool face at her and shouted,
“WHOAAAAA!” Really cool. I don’t know how
else to describe it. Just supercool. Really supercool.
“What’s that supp
osed to mean?” she said.
“Like the saying. You know: That’s how
the cookie crumbles. You’ve heard that
saying,” I said.
“That’s just ignorant,” she said, and walked
away. And she kind of wrecked my cool face, and
made my WHOAAAAA seem unimportant.
“You’ve heard that saying before, haven’t
you, Isabella?” I asked the air where Isabella had
been standing.
She was gone.
“FLARTSNUTT!” I hissed, and ran all the
way to Dicky’s locker.
I rounded the corner and Isabella was there,
but the entire area was Flartsnuttless.
“So. I see how it is,” I said to her.
Isabella shrugged. “My club needs games.
They’re expensive. Controllers and consoles cost a
lot of money. What does your little club need?
Flour? Salt?”
I tried a different approach. “Isabella, let’s
work together on this. Help me get Flartsnutt in the
Cuisine Club, and I’ll talk Miss Anderson into buying
your club a game.”
“Sorry, Jamie. I work alone. You know that,”
she said, and I was absolutely shocked.
Isabella had said “sorry.”
SATURDAY 14
Dear Dumb Diary,
Dad woke me up today, very early, in a panic.
He had a laundry basket with him.
“Do we have one of those machines that
cleans things made out of cloth?” he shouted.
Evidently, the concept of laundry had just occurred
to him.
I was pretty groggy, and my voice sounded
like an old door opening.
“A washing machine? Yes. Of course we do. In
the basement,” I creaked.
“Well, these things are dirty and your mother
is coming home.”
