For seven weeks.
In western Massachusetts.
Yes, you heard me right.
I believe it’s somewhere around here.
Yeah, OK, I knew he was going to camp. I just didn’t know where. I guess we never discussed that.
What kid goes to summer camp clear across the continent?
Someone who used to live back East, that’s who. (Nbook, why do people say “back East” but “out West”? I find it offensive. I don’t know why, I just do.)
Brendan talks about how his parents used to drive him five hours from New Jersey to camp every summer, and now he can’t imagine not going, because he’s a CIT, yada yada yada. And I have no idea what a CIT is (“Coastally Insane Traveler”?), plus he doesn’t seem the least bit…I don’t know…thoughtful or doubtful or
SAD.
GUILTY.
BROKEN UP.
DEVASTATED NOT TO SEE ME FOR ALMOST TWO WHOLE MONTHS WHILE I SIT AROUND HERE WITH NOTHING TO DO.
There.
I got it out of my system.
It’s really not that big a deal.
It’s a free country. He can do whatever he wants.
Sunday night
Just a little wired
10:57
Today, around noon, Maggie calls me and asks if I’m OK. She says I looked “upset” yesterday. (Am I the worst actor, Nbook? Am I so obvious?)
“I’m not upset,” I lie.
“Don’t worry, maybe you can visit him.”
“In western Massachusetts? Do planes actually fly that far?”
She laughs and tells me she’ll be right over. She says I need company.
Actually, I don’t. I feel like being alone. (Obviously I don’t tell her that.)
There’s a pause. I can hear yelling in the background.
Maggie’s voice drops to a whisper. “Um, I’ll…be right over,” she says again.
“Why? What hap—?”
Click.
About half an hour later, Maggie’s limo is pulling up. When she steps out, she’s carrying a duffel bag, and she’s practically in tears. “What happened?” I ask.
“I. Can’t. Live. With. Them.”
I calm her down and invite her inside. As we sit on the living room sofa, she tells me the news: Her mom’s drinking has gotten out of control. Mr. Blume wants her to go to the Betty Ford Clinic—but when he suggested it, she went ballistic.
Maggie asks if she can stay the night.
Of course I say yes.
All my little problems fly away, Nbook. I feel so bad for her.
I run out back. Mami and Papi are reading on the deck. When I tell them what happened, they agree to let Maggie stay. Mami suggests we borrow her bike and take a ride. Maybe that’ll calm Maggie down.
Soon Maggie and I are heading to Las Palmas County Park. We sit on a bench and watch a pickup soccer game. A couple of families have spread out blankets and are eating a late lunch.
“You know the worst part?” she says. “Zeke. He’s got this shell around him. He’s, like, eleven going on thirty. Today he tells Mom to grow up. Right to her face. Dad starts screaming at him. Then Mom starts screaming at both of them. Then Dad screams at Mom…”
“I thought she was getting better.”
Maggie shrugs. “She was. Until the day Dad announced he had to go to Italy, on location. That set her off.”
“Why can’t he take her?” I ask.
“He offered, but she refuses to go. I can’t understand her. No one can when she gets like this. Anyway, when Dad brought up the idea of the clinic, Mom freaked. She said, ‘I’m just a social drinker’—but she could barely get the words out, and she was banging into furniture. In the middle of the day!”
I tell Maggie things will work out. I remind her how far she’s come with her problems.
This is so sad, Nbook. Maggie’s trying not to cry. I’m trying not to cry. Just then, two hands reach around my head and cover my eyes. “Don’t even try to get away,” says a deep voice.
“Hi, Ducky,” I say. (He’s a worse actor than I am.)
He’s with Sunny. They’re escaping Dawn. They’re planning some kind of good-bye celebration for her. (She goes back to Connecticut to stay with her mom every summer.)
As they tell us about it, I watch Maggie. Her eyes are dry. She seems psyched, and she asks about the date of the party.
Ducky shrugs. “Don’t know yet.”
“Where’s it going to be?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” Ducky replies. “We’re just at the talking stage.”
“She’s not leaving for Connecticut for two weeks,” Sunny says.
Sunny and Ducky start throwing out suggestions for the party. (I’m thinking: Connecticut…that’s close to western Massachusetts, right?)
Anyway, they can’t agree on anything.
Finally Maggie puts in her two cent—have the party at Ducky’s. His parents are still in Ghana, so there will be “no permission problems.”
Brilliant idea. Ducky and Sunny agree.
And then:
She answers. It’s her dad. He wants her to come home and convince Mrs. Blume to listen to him.
Maggie says no, she’s already agreed to stay for dinner—and for the night—at my house.
So here we are, in my room. Maggie’s asleep in a sleeping bag on the floor, twisting and turning.
And I’m finally tired.
Much more to say.
Mañana.
Monday, 5/31
Homeroom
OK, I didn’t tell you what happened after Maggie and I got home last night.
It’s almost dinnertime. Maggie goes to the bathroom to wash up. Papi’s standing in the front hall with the phone notepad in his hand. On it are two words:
—Brendan
—Brendan
“He called twice,” Papi says.
I thank him and take the sheet.
He’s standing there, not moving aside. “How’s your homework going?”
“Fine,” I say.
“You’re going to be prepared for finals?”
“Hope so.”
Now Mami comes into the hall. She’s got a warm, patient smile. She asks about our afternoon, then says, “Brendan seems like a nice boy.”
I can see where this is leading. “He’s just a good friend,” I say.
Isabel, studying in the den, has a sudden coughing fit.
“You know, Amalia,” Mami says, “finals are coming up.”
“What does Brendan have to do with finals?”
“You do seem to be spending an awful lot of time with him,” Papi says.
“It’s not studying time, though,” I reply.
Now Isabel sounds like she’s dying of pneumonia.
“Will you knock it off?” I yell out.
“We don’t mean to pressure you, hija,” Mami says. “We love your friends, all of them. And we don’t mind that Maggie comes over here so much. She’s like one of the family. We know what she’s going through. But between her and Brendan…well, I just want to be sure you have enough time for Amalia.”
“In a few weeks the summer will be here,” Papi says. “And you’ll have all the free time in the world.”
“I know that!” I reply. “A whole, free, boring summer.”
They’re just staring at me, wondering why I said that.
When Maggie emerges, I disappear upstairs.
They don’t need to know what’s on my mind.
I can’t even figure it out.
Tuesday, 6/1
Lunch
Maggie comes over after school. Around dinnertime, we’re trying to do hwork on the front porch, but mainly just talking.
Brendan rides by on his bike. Like, oh, I just happened to turn down Royal Lane, what a surprise.
We chat. He says, “Hey, maybe we can all go out Friday.”
Maggie tells him that Tyler has to be in L.A. for an interview.
But I say yes.
I wasn’t go
ing to study Friday night anyway.
Wednesday, 6/2
Study hall
Depressing Item #1: Today Ms. Fong assigns us a report on 1984. She assumes we’ve all read it, since it’s on our reading list.
Wrong.
Plus, she announces the final is going to be all essay questions—chosen at random from any of the topics we’ve studied all year. But she won’t say exactly which topics or which books. So we have to know every-thing.
Depressing Item #2: I skip lunch to meet with Ms. Sevekow about math. She explains every-thing. Patiently. At least three times.
I am starting to understand stuff that confused me in September.
Only eight more months to go.
Depressing Item #3: On the way to study hall, I turn the corner and see Amanda Janson talking to Dawn.
Home
Taking a break from 1984.
Got 2 write fast. Isabel & I taking turns on phone. Rite now she’s dealing w/ rental car probl. I’m supposed to call Robinsons’. The nite b4 big anniv. party, Robnsns r taking Mami & Papi to M’s college reunion in San Diego. Will stay overnite & return in time for party.
OK, Dawn-party update:
Sunny’s furious about Amanda’s big mouth. Says we HAVE to change our plans. And if Dawn suspects anything, DENY, DENY, DENY.
Ducky’s cool. Says we can plan something else.
So S & D are coming over tonight.
So’s Maggie. Again.
Says she wants to do homework. (Which is what she said yesterday.) Anyway, now she’ll help with party plans.
Then she can give me a summary of 1984.
Her dad probably worked on the movie.
10:15
Maggie stays for dinner. Leaves at 9:30. Saint Isabel says, “Things must be bad at her house. These days, it feels like she lives here.”
You know what? I hate to say this (and don’t you dare tell anyone I did), but she has a point. It does feel like Maggie lives here.
I love Maggie, Nbook. I understand her problems. As far as I’m concerned,
mi casa es su casa. (Plus, she did help me with 1984 and math.)
But let’s face it, Maggie does have a casa of her own. Running away from her problems isn’t going to help. Sooner or later she has to face up to them.
I sure learned that the hard way. If I hadn’t faced up to James, he’d still be harassing me.
Oh, well. Must be hard for her. I mean, she’s been working so hard on her eating disorder with Dr. Fuentes. I guess a person can only handle one major crisis at a time, huh, Nbook?
Anyway, as we’re getting ready for bed, I casually mention to Mami and Papi that Brendan asked me to go out with him on Friday.
Papi says, “It’s almost the week of finals.”
I say, “It’s the Friday before the week before finals.”
Mami and Papi agree to think about the date—if I promise I’ll study all weekend long.
Oh. P.S.
1. Isabel talked to Mr. Robinson. He says every-thing’s cool with the San Diego trip.
2. All the relatives have confirmed.
3. You’ll never guess what Ducky and Sunny decided on for Dawn’s party. Bowling.
Maybe this time Tyler will wear a disguise.
11:43
Can’t. Sleep.
Thursday, 6/3
Social Studies
Finals begin a week from Monday. 11 days.
On the way to school today I’m thinking about this and freaking out. Suddenly the Winslows’ car zooms by. Going 60, at least. Stops in front of school. Sunny jumps out and slams the door. Car zooms off with a squeal of tires.
I jog over to her and ask what’s up.
“Dad’s mad at Mom,” she says.
“Mad? But—she’s…”
“Dead? I know that. That’s even more reason for him to be mad. She can’t talk back. Dad likes a one-sided fight.”
(Sometimes, Nbook, talking to Sunny is like being splashed with very cold water.)
I just nod.
“He’s mad at me for not being her,” she goes on. “He’s mad that I’m not old enough to run his bookstore. He’s mad at the bookstore for not doing better business. He’s mad at just about everyone in Palo City for not reading more books. Any other questions?”
Actually, yes.
“Does he want to hire me?” I ask.
Sunny does a double take. “Are you serious?”
“If Ducky can do it—”
“Ducky’s 16.”
“So I’ll work fewer hours. Whatever is legal. Or I’ll volunteer. It’d give me something to do. I can read books about art.”
Sunny smiles. “Or travel. There are lots of books about Massachusetts…”
5:01
I can go.
On the date tomorrow, that is.
If I study like crazy tonight. And after school tomorrow before the date. And over the weekend.
’Bye, Nbook. No offense.
Time to
Friday, 6/4
5:30
I’m on a roll, Nbook.
I do all the math section reviews up until February.
I call Marina, who faxes me a bunch of notes from English class.
I start The Good Earth, the book, which I should have read but never did because I rented the movie. (The book’s better.)
Now I’m waiting for Isabel. She’s painting her face for her date with SBTLB. (Mami made her promise to drive me and Brendan to the movie theater, which may explain the huffing and puffing noises in the bathroom.)
No matter. I feel so much better, Nbook.
This all may work out.
OK, I think I see him down the block.
Later.
Friday
Or Saturday
Not sure
I
I wasn’t
I want to
WHO DO THEY THINK
Can’t
write
My face is corroding.
That’s what it feels like, Nbook. I know it’s not true and I’ve washed it ten times BUT THAT’S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE. Right at that spot on the left cheek where she spit at me.
Why?
WHY?
What did I do, Nbook? WHAT DID I DO?
Got to think straight. My head is splitting apart.
OK, slow down.
Start at the beginning.
It hurts to think about the beginning—because it was so wonderful, Nbook. We walk into Cafe´ Con Leche, and Andre´ makes me feel like his favorite customer. Romantic booth. Free appetizers. Treats Brendan like a son. Doggie bag full of pastries, on the house.
At the cineplex, the usher knows we have food but doesn’t stop us. The movie’s much better than I expect it to be. And Brendan is so nice. He puts his arm around my shoulder—the right way too. Doesn’t keep it there for two hours like a cement drainpipe, the way Danny Cruz did in San Diego. And he doesn’t wait for me to laugh before he laughs (which Danny also did).
Anyway, I feel us kind of melting together. Like a couple, Nbook. Like I finally, really want us to be a couple—because I trust him.
Toward the end of the movie he leans over toward me—gently, easily—and I can tell he wants to kiss me, but it doesn’t feel awkward or pressured, and I know that if I just keep looking at the screen he’ll turn away and it’ll be OK, he’ll understand. But I don’t want to turn away—he’s so tender and handsome, and our kiss lasts just the right amount of time—and when it’s over I feel thrilled. Afterward, he doesn’t act all weird, like now our faces should be welded together at the lips for the rest of the movie. We sit back, arms around each other, relaxed and happy.
We leave the cineplex, arm in arm. Isabel’s not there yet, but that’s OK because the night is clear and cool. I know nothing bad is going to happen. I’m safe with him. He’s no James.
People are flowing out of the theater, splitting off in various directions, until we’re the only ones left standing in front. Soon the usher starts
to lock the door, but Brendan runs to her and convinces her to let him use the rest room.
As he goes inside, the usher asks if I want to wait in the lobby. I say no thanks. I want to smell the blossoms, not stale popcorn.
So I stay outside, breathing the sweet air, looking up the street for Isabel’s car. I figure she’s probably having a great time too, which means she’ll be late and maybe Brendan and I can hang out at the ice-cream shop.
I’m not sure if the shop is open. It looks like its lights are off. So I’m squinting, trying to see it clearer, when I hear voices behind me—girls’ voices. None of them sound familiar, so I don’t bother looking back. Half of them are laughing, drowning out the words of the others.
Like someone has just reached into me and ripped out my soul. The usher is talking to me, asking questions, but I don’t hear her. I am not thinking in words. I am seeing red and black. I want to run after those girls and pull out their hair, throw them against the brick wall, make them feel how I feel.
But they’re far away now, weaving down the street—fast. They’re laughing and slapping each other five. They’re not even looking back over their shoulders. It’s like I don’t exist. I was a game. A distraction.
To them, I am not even a person.
And then suddenly I see
All I can think is What took you so long? Where were you? But I don’t say it.
He and the woman help me up. I try to tell them what happened, but I can’t. I’m bad enough with words to begin with. Now they’re all slipping and sliding out of my mouth with no sense.
The worst part is the spit. I mean, I’m not normally grossed out by blood or body fluids. But when I felt that spit on my cheek I almost threw up.
It’s not the saliva. It’s what it means. Spit is a waste product. It belongs in a toilet or a sink—or the gutter or a sewer. Not on a human being’s face.
It feels like it’s still there, Nbook.
Like I’ll never get it off.
Diary Three: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Page 22
