by Jim Benton
Poisoning.
23
Mike Pinsetti gurgled up to the table while
Isabella and I were eating.
Mike Pinsetti, you might remember, is the
official nicknamer of the school. He has some sort
of evil talent for coming up with nicknames that
sting and stick. Here are just a few of his creations:
24
Anyway, I made the mistake of accidentally
smiling at him once, and I’m afraid that now he is
under the delusion that I think of him as, you
know . . .
25
So Pinsetti is standing there with Isabella,
and I’m just staring at him and I think he’s trying to
say something to me. But just as I went to perform
Dirty Look Number Four, Angeline walks past
and I’m sure she flipped a blast of weapons -grade
Raspberry Wonderfulness directly at us
from one of her many alleged Shampoo Zones.
Pinsetti and I are both momentarily stunned
by the irresistible deliciousness of Angeline’s attack
and, against our will, we both sort of smile
because —I mean, let’s be real —you can’t help but
smile a little when you are awash in a cloud of
Raspberry Wonderfulness.
26
So then, thanks to Angeline, Pinsetti and I
are looking into each other’s eyes while the bottom
halves of our faces are smiling, and we are —I’m
going to be sick —sharing this moment. And at
the same time we’re both trapped inside —I’m
going to be even sicker — a fog of Angeline’s stink.
Isabella said she could practically see Pure
Love squirting out of Pinsetti’s ears. I said it was
for Angeline, but Isabella said it was for me. So
don’t be alarmed, Dumb Diary, if I wake up
screaming several times throughout the night.
27
Saturday 07
Dear Dumb Diary,
Saturdays are so cool that I will never ever
figure out why they only made one of them per
week. Here’s my idea for a whole new lineup
of days:
28
I called Isabella to see if she wanted to do
something today, but her mom said she was at the
mall with her dad. I could hardly believe it!
Isabella has identified the five most embarrassing
things a dad can do in public, and her dad does four
of them:
29
For the rest of the day, I was grabbing the
phone every time it rang, figuring it was Isabella
calling me back. Late in the afternoon, some
woman who sounded familiar called for Mom, but I
couldn’t quite place the voice. Afterward, Mom was
all excited but wouldn’t tell me who it was or why
she called. Some dumb Mom-thing, I’m sure, like
they’re going shopping for wind chimes or
something.
30
Sunday 08
Dear Dumb Diary,
Saturdays rule! But I really don’t mind
Sundays, either. They’re sort of like Saturday’s less
popular and less attractive little sister. She tries to
be as fun as her older sister, but she still has to
keep reminding you that you have homework due
tomorrow and you have nothing to wear and there’s
a good chance Dad will be hogging the TV all day.
31
When I went downstairs for breakfast this
morning, Mom was bustling around the kitchen all
giddy and dazed, and said I could have candy for
breakfast if I would just go eat it in front of the TV.
For as long as I can remember, Mom has
practiced this sort of Motherly Irresponsibility
whenever she wanted me out of the way. One time, I
walked in on her when she was trying to force her
Mombutt into an old miniskirt and she was so
embarrassed, she told me I could go outside and
throw apples at passing cars if I’d leave her alone.
I knew her judgment was way off on that one
so I didn’t take her up on it, but candy for breakfast
seemed only mildly self-destructive. I accepted her
terms and let her have her ridiculous secret kitchen
time.
32
Later on, Mom was cooking up a storm. Like
most storms, we anticipated great devastation in
its wake. You’ll recall that Mom has cooked up a few
memorable storms in the past. . . .
But here’s the weird thing: She cooked it, but
she never actually inflicted it upon us. We smelled
her cooking, we heard her cooking. Stinker even
took the customary precaution of hiding his dog
dish. But for some reason, Mom just packed it all up
in a Tupperware container, stuck it in the fridge,
and ordered a pizza.
Believe me: Dad and I did not ask questions.
That would be like reminding your executioner not
to forget his ax tomorrow.
33
Monday 09
Dear Dumb Diary,
Today in English class, Mr. Evans started our
unit on fairy tales. We’re discussing a few old
favorites in class in order to understand what he
expects from us on our reports. He started with
Hansel and Gretel, which is about this witch who
wants to eat a couple of grimy brats even though
her entire house is made out of candy. I said that
she was probably trying to drop a few pounds:
Children are high protein, low carb.
34
Then we discussed Snow White, and Rapunzel
and Little Red Riding Hood, and when Mr. Evans
asked us what we thought of these fairy tales, I said
that it was coming through loud and clear that back
in olden times, if you had a really weird dumb
name, you were probably just waiting for something
disastrous to happen to you. I mean, you never hear
about Jennifer and the Seven Dwarves or Steve and
the Three Bears. Mr. Evans probably agreed with me
deep down, but he bulged his Big Ol’ Ugly Head Vein
at me a little, anyway.
35
Lunchtime, Dumb Diary, was really something
interesting today. It was even more interesting than
when the lunch ladies had that dispute that started
with angry words over who looked better in their
hairnet, and ended with paramedics siphoning
cranberry sauce out of a semi-plugged lunch-lady
esophagus. (Note: In these sorts of situations,
always bet on the more massive lunch lady.)
36
As I said, the school has somebody filling in
for Miss Bruntford while her organs are healing or
whatever. His name is Mr. Prince (“Prince!” Couldn’t
you just die? ) He’s a student teacher, which is a
person who will become a teacher unless something
better occurs to them at the last minute.
He is older without being fully old yet, which
means he probably shaves more than twice a week
but still does not have hairy ears.
37
Furthermore, Angeline walked right past Mr.
Prince (Possibly firing Zone after scented Zone at
him? It remains a theory.) and he did not even look
at her, which I think is evidence that he is not into
that whole gorgeous-with- excellently -perfect -
blond -hair thing. But who can blame him? Nobody
really cares.
Isabella said he is probably into dark- haired
girls with round glasses, and I had to remind her
that I don’t wear glasses.
38
But Isabella was impolitely hinting that Mr.
Prince would like her better than me, which is pretty
rude since I had already started thinking he would
like me better than her, and I felt like I had to tell
her so and also execute a mild version of Dirty
Look Number Three. Plus, I may have pointed
out how her head is almost a perfect sphere, and
she is NOTat all secure about her cranial
roundness .
39
This turned out to be a pretty bad idea
since— and I have shared this with you before,
Dumb Diary— Isabella has older brothers, which
means she is very good at all forms of fighting.
Isabella stood up in the middle of the
cafeteria, smiled at me and said, with perfect
sinister cruelty: “Let’s see how he likes you when he
sees your picture hanging up in the cafeteria side -
by-side with your dumpy little beagle.”
40
When I got home, I took a good hard look at
Stinker. He’s too old and fat to run any more, and
he does not hesitate to express a sudden and
extreme interest in his own body parts even when he
knows you’re right there in the room having a
conversation with him. I can’t stand the idea of
being compared to him.
I’m going to have to sweet- talk Isabella out
of this project.
41
Tuesday 10
Dear Dumb Diary,
Okay, you can’t sweet -talk Isabella out of
anything. I explained to her today that I’m going to
be totally embarrassed and humiliated when her
project gets hung up, and instead of understanding
and agreeing to scrap the whole idea like a best
friend should, Isabella pretended to cry and said I
was criticizing her art project.
When somebody actually pretends to cry as
good as Isabella can pretend, and they really very
nearly appear sad, you just have to back off.
In my defense, Isabella’s pretend crying is
better than most people’s real crying, a skill she
likely perfected to get her older brothers in trouble.
42
I thought about asking Isabella over for
dinner, to take another crack at changing her mind,
but Isabella, like all of my friends, sort of doesn’t
know how to interpret a dinner invitation.
Everybody is aware of my mom’s cooking
challenges, even the teachers.
It’s like if you were Dracula’s kid and you
asked somebody over for a neck massage.
43
None of this really matters much, because I
had a long conversation over lunch today with Mr.
Prince. (Couldn’t You Just Die?)
It happened as I was taking my tray to the
trash. I had done a particularly thorough job of
abusing my leftover food today. I had shoved the
macaroni and cheese into a large wad, stuck a
carrot stick straight up in it, and dumped chocolate
milk over the whole thing.
Mr. Prince (C.Y.J.D.?) was standing by the
trash, and when I went to slide it in, he looked at it
and said, “That a model of the Eiffel Tower?” and
kind of laughed a little.
“Sí,” I said, not wanting to Miss out on his
reference to All Things French. And then I threw my
garbage in the can and ran away.
44
Okay, Dumb Diary, I know. I know. Strictly
speaking, “sí” is not exactly French for “yes.” It’s
Spanish. But Spain and France are sort of the same
big CountryOverThere and I was a bit flustered that
he wanted to have a long conversation with me.
Besides, I’m confident he knows that, even though I
didn’t actually speak French, I implied French.
It was a moment, Dumb Diary. We shared a
moment.
45
Wednesday 11
Dear Dumb Diary,
Art class today. Angeline has collected
almost half of the teacher’s childhood pictures
already. I did my part of the project by pasting
them to the poster board and writing the teacher’s
name underneath each one.
I noticed that the really ugly teachers gave
pictures of themselves as little kids, before the Ugly
reached its advanced stages.
46
Miss Anderson’s picture just happens to be
from when she was about seventeen and a half. She
just happened to be at the beach and she just
happened to be in an adorable pose. I have seen so
many pictures of these adorable poses that I’m
starting to think that really pretty girls stay in these
poses all the time, just in case somebody whips out
a camera.
47
Miss Anderson reminded us that we all had to
get in our pictures for Isabella’s project and that if
somebody doesn’t have a pet, they could just give
Isabella a picture of an animal they resemble.
Of course, I saw my opportunity here, and
after dinner I encouraged Stinker to run away from
home. I might have gotten away with it except that
the neighbors across the street called my parents to
report that I had left the front door open and that I
had thrown about twelve dollars worth of pork
chops across the street onto their lawn.
48
Seriously. “Why wouldn’t a fat ugly beagle
chase after twelve dollars worth of pork chops?” I
screamed as I picked up the raw chops and put
them in a trash bag, out in the rain, alone in the
dark. The neighbors watched me from behind their
curtains like the timid, tattletaling turds they are.
Anyway, now that I think about it, even if
Stinker had run away from home, he might only be
gone three or four days. He’s done it before, and
that’s usually how long it takes before he decides to
come back.
49
Thursday 12
Dear Dumb Diary,
Mr. Evans had to remind us again today that
our fairy-tale report is due in a couple of weeks.
Then we read a few more fairy tales and talked
about them.
We started with The Princess and the Pea,
which is probably the most exciting and thrilling
story ever written about somebody having mild
insomnia. I said that it teaches us that you
probably don’t want to sleep in a bed that
somebody has pead.
This sounds a lot different than it looks
when you write it, but I think Mr. Evans cut me some
slack because now he thinks I have seizures.
Hey, Dumb D, here’s something new: This was
the first Thurs
day since I’ve been at Mackerel
Middle School when we were not forcibly
meatloafed. We were all sort of mystified, but
nobody was complaining.
And here is something else new (although it
really shouldn’t be) . When I went to my locker
today, somebody had romantically slid a note in
through the odor vents.
I can hardly believe it! Here it is:
51
CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? “M.P.” It’s from
Mr. Prince! I would love to smash this note in
Angeline’s face and also smash it slightly lighter in
Isabella’s. It’s ME that he noticed. Not Blondie, Not
Sphere-Head. ME!And even though he knows that
we can never be together— because I am normal-
aged and he is old —he still needed to give his
heart voice. How he must suffer and ache. I wonder
if he yearned for me. This could be the first time I
had caused a yearn. (Or is that a “yearning”?
“yearnfulness”? “yearnation”?)
I showed the poem to Isabella and I think she
may be a little jealous. I wonder if Mr. Prince would
wait for me to grow up?
52
Friday 13
Dear Dumb Diary,
I forgave Isabella again. It’s amazing how
just knowing that Mr. Prince wrote me a love poem
makes me feel so confident. Isabella’s meanness to
me kind of dissolved away like blueberry stains on a
denture commercial. (Note to old people: There are
