August 28
All right, Mrs. Dunphrey, you said we had to do these journals, but if we wanted to write something personal and private we could mark an entry, "Do not read." And then you wouldn't read it, you'd just check to make sure we'd written something. Right? Okay that's what I want. Don't read the rest of this entry.
Did you stop reading? I can't believe a teacher would be so stupid. That's what Eric Lynch was getting at, when he asked, "So, like, we could mark every single entry, 'Don't read'? And then we could write anything?" Everybody knows that Eric handed in the words to "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," written over and over again, instead of outlines in his history notebook last year. And Mr. Tremont never even noticed, because he doesn't really check anything, even though he says he does. Eric told everyone Mr. Tremont wrote, "Good job. Nice penmanship. A"
And you're telling us you don't check? I can tell you're a first-year teacher, Mrs. Dunphrey.
But what if I do write something personal, and you really are reading these?
I'm going to give you a test. I'm going to write something that's secret, that no one else would know about me, and see if you are reading this. Let's see, the secret is… I know how to crochet.
You think that's not such a great secret? Well, you probably haven't figured out whose journal this is. This is Tish Bonner writing. I'm one of the girls who sits in the back row. We all have big hair. Mr. Tremont calls us the gum-cracking brigade. You looked kind of scared when Sandy, Rochelle, Chastity, and I walked into the room today. Let me clue you in: we don't crochet. Crocheting's for old ladies and prissy girls like Heather Turner. You probably haven't met her yet—you'd know her because she's got the flattest hair in the school. It's a little greasy, too. She wants to be a home ec teacher when she grows up. She had a crush on Mr. Tremont last year (Have you met him yet? He's bald and ugly and has a stomach bigger than the globe in his classroom.) and she brought him homemade cookies. Oatmeal. That's Heather Turner. That's not me.
So, you're probably wondering, how is it that I know how to crochet?
Hey, I said one secret. That's it. If I can't trust you—if you are reading this—I can't give too much away.
August 30
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Do you know what a drag school is? Maybe you really don't—maybe you liked it when you were a kid. Maybe you think it's fun now. You looked like you were having fun today, or trying to, talking about commas at the board. I mean, commas! Who cares? Don't you have anything more important to worry about?
I do, let me tell you. And I would tell you, but I haven't handed this in yet to see if you pass my test.
School, though. That's what I was talking about. You've got us doing this stupid journal, Mr. Tremont wants another stupid history notebook from us every six weeks, Mrs. Rachethead (oops, sorry—Mrs. Racheau) is going to make us dissect frogs soon, Mr. Steinway gives us three pages of geometry homework every night… Who cares? I've got to work at Burger Boy most nights and almost every weekend. If I don't—hey, no clothes, no food, no nothing for Ms. Tish Bonner. Or probably not for Matt Bonner (that's my brother), either. You don't think my mom gives us money, do you?
If it weren't for getting to see my friends at school, I'd probably drop out. Hey—that's another test for you, isn't it? You teachers are programmed to freak whenever someone talks about dropping out. If you really are reading this, I'd be slapped into the dropout prevention program so fast my head would spin. You know what everybody calls the dropout prevention program? Drip prevention. Smart, huh? It gets the drips out of school without them dropping out.
Really, I can't drop out, though. Then what would I do? No laying around the house watching TV for Ms. Tish Bonner. My mother's already doing that herself. (Ha, ha.) I'd probably have to go to full-time at the Burger Boy. I'd probably be doing that the rest of my life.
And you know what? I really hate the Burger Boy. A lifetime of dishing out burgers and curly fries—no thanks.
September 1
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
You sure you want us to write in these twice a week? My life's not so exciting that I have something to say twice a week. I don't have anything to say at all. But you said we had to have four entries before we handed these in on Friday … So, hey, here this is.
I'm writing this in Mr. Tremont's class. He probably thinks I'm taking notes. Except no one else is taking notes, so why would I? It's not like he would expect me to be a standout student.
I'll tell you now: I'm a C student. Sometimes I get B's, when I get lucky. I don't study. One time last year when we were freshmen, they made us take some aptitude test. I don't know what I was thinking, but I really tried hard for once. Guess I just wanted to see what I could do. And you know what? I knocked the socks off everybody. I did better than Susan Stanwick and Mike Hardy, and everybody knows they've got computers where their brains are supposed to be. (After that, Susan went around telling people she was coming down with the flu that day—that's why she didn't have the highest score for the first time in her life. Yeah, right.)
It was too much hassle, though. For about a week, I had all the counselors and teachers swarming all over me. I can still hear Miss Anthony saying, "Now that we all know what you're capable of, Tish, I'm going to expect a lot more out of you …" Like I was really going to start doing my algebra homework. Mrs. Herzenberger started talking to me about college. Then it's like everybody remembered what they were dealing with, and forgot me. Hey, I'm not one of those kids who grew up in Chateau Estates or Golf Terrace. I only live four blocks from the school. You've probably been past my house—and if you haven't, you've seen ones just like it. Small. Poor. Falling down. You think there's any money stashed away in some college fund for me? Uh-huh. Right. Tell me another joke.
Have you ever noticed Mr. Tremont says "so to speak" every other sentence? He's doing it now and it's driving me crazy. I'll take down every word he says: "The French and Indian War, so to speak, was part of a much larger event… something, something (I can't get this all) and Americans, so to speak, get a little egocentric looking back on this event, so to speak…"
Gag, gag, gag.
September 4
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
This is due next period, so I've got to get this done quickly. Mrs. Rachethead is looking at me …
Oops, I couldn't go on because Mrs. Rachethead was really, really suspicious. I guess we were supposed to be taking a test. Now it's two minutes before your class is going to start and I'm trying to write fast, but it doesn't matter because this entry isn't going to be long enough.
Tish,
Except for your fourth entry, you seem to be writing plenty. Please try to keep up the volume. If you make this a regular habit, you'll find it easier and easier to do. Just this once, I'll give you full credit, because your first three entries are long. But try to turtle long entries every time.
September 7
Don't read this entry, Mrs. Dunphrey.
So I need to keep up my volume. Yes, ma'am. I hope you didn't write anything like that on any of the boys' journals. They'd make a dirty joke out of it. And they already make enough comments about you, just because you're young and smile a lot. You know, if I foufed up your bangs some, you could pass for one of us.
But anyhow, maybe you can't help writing stupid things on our papers. Maybe it's required, being a teacher and all.
You did pass my test, though. I went up to you after class today, after you'd handed back our journals, and asked, "Do you know how to crochet?" And you looked at me so stupidly I knew you hadn't read that entry in my journal.
I still think you're being dumb, but at least I feel safe now. Safer, anyway.
Because I don't have anything else to write about, I will tell how I learned to crochet. My Granma taught me a long time ago. My Granma's dead now. She died four years ago. After the funeral, I took the afghan she'd been teaching me to crochet and threw it to the back of my closet. I think it's still there, but hidden, under a bunch of old tennis shoes.
This is funny, because I hadn't really thought about crocheting or that afghan in a long time. But lately, sometimes when I'm lying in bed almost asleep or almost awake, my fingers kind of twitch, and I realize they're moving the same way they used to move when I crocheted.
Weird, huh? I'm glad you're not actually reading this. I'm glad no one is. Only—it'd be nice to have someone to talk about things like this with.
September 11
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I guess I made it sound in my last entry like I didn't have any friends. I do. I have lots, actually. Sandy and Rochelle and Chastity are the best friends anyone could ever have, and then there are lots of other people who at least kind of like me.
Sandy and Rochelle and Chastity and me, we hang out a lot together, on the weekends and after school, when none of us are working. We go up to the mall and find the tightest jeans and shortest skirts. Sandy's been known to shoplift some of the clothes or sometimes just lipstick or eyeshadow at Target. She says the stores expect a certain amount of shoplifting—they build it into the prices. So, really, she's just getting her money's worth if she shoplifts. You'd think she'd know better, since her father's a lawyer. But maybe she figures if she gets caught, he can get her off. Rochelle and Chastity and me, we wouldn't be so lucky. Our dads couldn't help us. (Like, I'd have to find my dad first, even if he could help me.) Maybe that's why we never take anything.
Chastity and Sandy both have boyfriends, and Rochelle's always madly in love with some new guy. They're always wanting to fix me up with someone. I don't know. I usually find some excuse. Usually I have to work. The guys they like, the ones they try to fix me up with, they always have pimples or bad breath, or they say dumb things like, "So, you want to get laid?" when you've just met them. Rochelle says I'm picky. I told her once that she had no standards. She got mad and wouldn't speak to me for three days. Chastity—she's the one who's always making people make up—Chastity finally made us both apologize.
But, really, are there any guys out there who aren't jerks? I don't even know any grown-up men who aren't jerks. My dad was never Mr. Wonderful, not that I ever saw. Who else am I supposed to look up to? Mr. Tremont? (So to speak.)
You must be married, Mrs. Dunphrey, if your name is Mrs.—is your husband a jerk?
September13
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm going to go crazy if I don't get out of this house. Mom's watching some dumb movie—one of those black and white things from before I was born. She's got it turned up real loud, like that's going to keep Matt and me from knowing she's crying. Only I don't think she's crying about the movie.
She'd be crying anyway.
Since my dad left, it's been like Mom's not really here, either. She could be a ghost or a shadow. Now that I think about it, though, she's always been kind of a shadow. When Dad was here, it was whatever Dad wanted, Mom did. I don't know why she misses him. It's not like anyone was happy when he was around.
I remember one winter when I was maybe ten, it was really, really cold. It was Christmastime, and Granma had Matt and me trying to decorate the Christmas tree. (It was just one of those fake silver ones—real ugly.) Dad came home, and he had icicles hanging from his beard, it was that cold. Matt ran up to him and started gibbering about Santa Claus coming and bringing presents—Matt was only two or three then, so he didn't know any better. Anyhow, Dad told him, Oh Matt, don't you know? It's so cold outside that all Santa's reindeer are going to freeze. No presents this year."
Matt started crying, and Granma took him up on her lap and kept saying, "Ssh, ssh, it's all right. That's not true. Reindeer can stand any kind of weather." The whole time she was glaring at Dad. Dad got mad and started yelling about how Granma thought she knew more about taking care of his kids than he did. He ran outside and Mom ran after him, even though she was just wearing slippers and a robe. No coat Dad couldn't get the truck to start, and Granma and Matt and me, we could hear the engine turning over and over; and Mom and Dad yelling at each other. And Mom crying.
The weird thing is, I remember that as a happy moment, because Matt and Granma and me were all cuddled up on the couch together. It was warm in the house, and Mom and Dad yelling was something outside, like the wind, that couldn't get to us. The lights on the silver tree were blinking on and off, all bright and shiny. I thought it was beautiful.
Mom's crying louder now. Those stupid actors in the movie she's watching are talking about true love, like it's something real. I'm going to call Sandy and see if she'll go to the mall with me. Maybe we can take Matt, and he won't have to listen to Mom either.
September 16
Don't read this entry, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Aren't you proud of me? This isn't due for two days, and I'm doing my last entry already. I wouldn't admit this to anyone, of course, but this journal stuff isn't too bad. It's better than any of the other homework you teachers make us do. As long as you're not reading this, I can just put down whatever I'm thinking.
I'm feeling bad because I had a fight with Matt this morning. Well, not really a fight, but—a problem. I always help him get ready for school, because Mom's working nights now, at Haggarty's SuperValu. Cash register. She doesn't get home until after we're at school, but I'm not sure if that's when she gets off or just when she finally gets around to getting in. Anyhow, this morning, Matt was taking a long time eating his Cheerios. It's like he had to eat each one individually. I told him to hurry up. I didn't mean to be mean, but it came out sounding nasty. Like maybe something my dad would say. Matt started gulping down his cereal, and then he picked up his bowl and was going to drink all the leftover milk. Only, he was going too fast, and half the milk spilled down his front.
"Now look what you've done," I said, and this time I really did sound mean. And I didn't care, because I knew that meant he was going to have to change his shirt, and I wasn't sure if he had any clean ones left. There was no way we were going to be able to leave on time.
It would have been okay if Matt had yelled back at me—maybe told me it was my fault for making him hurry. But he just sat there and bent his head down, and I could see his lip trembling. And then these little tears started rolling down his cheeks. His yellow hair was sticking out all over the place, and he had a milk moustache, and he looked totally, totally defenseless. I felt like I'd done something awful like drowning a kitten. Matt's like that—like some little kitten. Or like Bambi. It's like hurting him would be the worst thing in the world.
So I cleaned him up, and found the least dirty shirt in the laundry basket for him to put on. And because I felt so bad, I was really rough with him, and I couldn't get him to stop crying. He was still crying when I walked him to school. And of course we were late—I've got detention for the rest of the week for being tardy. That means I'm not going to be able to pick Matt up after school today, tomorrow, or Friday. So I can't stop worrying. He is seven, of course, which should be old enough to walk home by himself—I was walking home by myself at seven—but, you know, somehow he doesn't even seem as old as I was at five.
I hope he's not still crying. The other kids make fun of him, I know they do. Maybe I'll stop at Sackbury's after detention tonight and buy him a bag of Snickers. They're his favorite. At least then he'll know I'm not mad at him anymore.
I tried to tell Sandy about all of this with Matt, and she looked at me weird and said, "Hey, he's just your brother, not your son. Can't you let your mom take care of him for once?" She's still kind of mad at me because I insisted we take Matt to the mall with us on Sunday, and I wouldn't let her shoplift with him around. And there was this great hot pink miniskirt she really, really wanted, but didn't have enough money for.
I don't know why she was so upset. It was no skin off her nose. She just went back and got the skirt on Monday.
Tish,
I appreciate the amount of writing you're doing in here. But do you think that every once in a while you might write an entry that you would allow me to read? I don't expect you to reveal anything you don't want to reveal, but I would like to know how this journal-keeping is going for you.
September 22
Yes, Mrs. Dunphrey, you CAN read this entry.
Well, it's hard to believe that school has been going on for almost an entire month now. I feel like I've learned so much. Ha, ha.
You wanted to know how this journal-keeping is going for me—okay, I guess. I know everyone's complaining about having to do two entries a week. But hey, you're the teacher, right? You could make us do five a week if you wanted, right? (That ISN'T a suggestion.)
I'm sorry, I really don't have much else to say. I'll write more later.
September 23
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Geez, was yesterday's entry bogus or what? You shouldn't take it personal or anything. For a teacher, you're not too bad. I mean, you don't yell at us like Mrs. Rachethead does, and you at least try to make things interesting. It's not your fault that none of us really care about Shakespeare or—who's that other guy you were talking about today? Faulkner? Neither one of them has anything to do with my life, as far as I can tell. Did either of them have a father that left them and a mother that might as well be a zombie? Did either of them have to work at a dumb job like mine, frying up thousands and thousands of French fries for all the kids who don't have to work? I don't think so.
But anyhow, because you're a teacher and all, I'm not going to write anything for you to see that really says anything. For all I know, you could go tell someone Mom's mistreating Matt and me, just because she's not there to fix us breakfast every morning. Something like that happened to Rachel Samson—she went and told Mrs. Rhodes that her father beat her when she got a D in math, and Mrs. Rhodes reported it to some state agency. Next thing you know, there was some social worker nosing around, asking all Rachel's friends if Mr. Samson molested her. Rachel was so embarrassed, she didn't come to school for a week.
So—I know you're not reading this, but if you were, I'd have to say that you shouldn't feel bad that I'm not letting you read what I really think about.
September 25
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I can't believe this happened. I still feel sick. Bud Turner asked me out.
Bud Turner, who I know I've never mentioned here before because he is so gross that I don't even want to think about him—Bud Turner is my boss at the Burger Boy. I mean, he's old enough to be my father, but he still has more pimples than Robbie Richards (the guy everyone calls Clearasil Face behind his back). And he's not that tall, but he must weigh 200 pounds—you can tell he's eaten way too many Burger Boys and Big Burger Boys in his lifetime.
Bud is just the assistant manager, not the manager, but he acts like he's totally in charge. Last night it was just him and me working, because he sent Charmaine Stewart home when things got really slow. I was cleaning out the shake machine, and Bud came up behind me.
"Tish," he says in kind of a sappy voice. I thought he was just going to tell me something else to do, like mop the floor or wait on a customer—he's big on telling everyone else to do something when he doesn't do anything himself So I stopped working and looked him right in the face.
"Tish, you're really pretty," he says. "Wanna go see a movie with me sometime?"
"I don't go to movies," I said. Which was a lie, but who cares? I turned around and pretended to be scrubbing real hard on the inside of the shake machine.
"It doesn't have to be a movie," he said. "I'd just like to go out with you."
And I said, "No way, José. Not in a million years."
He got mad, of course, and started asking why I had to be so mean about it. It was kind of funny, actually. He was almost begging, like Matt does when I tell him to go to bed and he wants to stay up and watch another hour of TV.
I told my friends about it, and Rochelle told me I should file a sexual harassment suit against Bud. Is it sexual harassment if your boss asks you out? Sandy laughed and said I was being stupid—she said I should have gone out with him. Then maybe I could get off work whenever I want, and maybe he'd make Charmaine clean out the bathroom all the time instead of me always doing it. Sandy said, "You should take advantage of the advantages you have."
Except, I'd rather clean out the bathrooms a million times than go out with Bud Turner even once.
September 28
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I am so pissed. The work schedule for the next two weeks was posted today, and guess who got her hours cut back to five a week? Uh-huh—me. And guess whose job it is to make up the work schedule? That's right—Bud Turner's.
I was so mad when I saw the schedule posted above our punch cards, I was shaking. The only thing that stopped me from storming into Bud's office and calling him every name in the book—and then quitting—was that I'm saving up to buy Matt a Nintendo for his birthday next month. Maybe I should have cussed Bud out, anyhow—working five hours a week, I'll never have enough for even the cheapest Nintendo. I called Rochelle and said, "How do you file a sexual harassment suit?" Then Mr. Seagrave, the manager, came out of his office and told me with so many customers waiting, I wasn't allowed to make a personal call. Maybe I should have picked a better time, but I said I needed to talk to him urgently.
I've always liked Mr. Seagrave—I don't know why he ever hired Bud—but he wasn't very sympathetic. He gave me a whole song and dance about how everybody's hours are being cut back a little, because business has been slower lately—"and if we don't sell burgers, we don't make enough money to pay our employees." Yeah, right. In an hour, I make the equivalent of exactly one Big Burger Boy with a side order of fries (and that's a small side order, too.) I pointed out that Charmaine was still getting eighteen hours a week, and so were four or five other people.
"If you don't like the way things are run around here, you don't have to work here," Mr. Seagrave said.
That was really low. I was all ready to say, "Okay, I quit." It would have been so much fun to just turn around, yank off my apron and leave. But then I thought, "Nintendo. Matt." I straightened up, looked Mr. Seagrave right in the eye and said in my best sweet-talk voice, "I understand that, Mr. Seagrave. Would you mind speaking to Bud anyway?"
And then I did turn around and leave. I was very dignified.
October 1
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Surprise, surprise. Bud posted a revised work schedule today and strangely enough, my hours were raised to fifteen a week. It's still not that great, but it's certainly better than five. I felt like doing a victory dance, or something. But then Bud sent me out into the dining room to clean up a table where the whole football team from Gable had been eating—talk about a mess! They'd mixed gobs of ketchup and mustard and used it to fingerpaint on the chairs. And then they'd unscrewed the lids on the salt and pepper shakers and poured barbecue sauce in the shakers and on about fifty napkins… It took me an hour to clean up. Even so, I still felt good. I told Rochelle about getting more hours, and now she's calling me a "warrior for womankind." Who would have guessed Rochelle—Rochelle, who spends two hours a day, I swear, putting on makeup and curling her hair—who would have guessed she was such a feminist?
I am feeling so very, very good tonight. I brought home a sackful of Burger Boys and fries for Matt and me, and we sat around telling knock-knock jokes. For some reason he thinks every single one is just hilarious, even if it's just something stupid I made up. He laughed hardest at, "Knock, knock—who's there?—Burger—Burger who?—Burger Boy." I don't even know why it was funny, but he was laughing so much I had to laugh, too.
And then Mom looked over from where she was watching TV, and she said, "Knock-knock."
"Who's there?" Matt said.
"No one," Mom said.
That kind of scared me, because Mom had such a weird look in her eye. But Matt screamed out, "No one who?"
"No one's as funny as you two," Mom said.
And then we all laughed, and it seemed like maybe for once, for the first time in years, everything might be all right in the Bonner house.
Oops—I just realized—I wrote five entries this time. Oh well. Bonus for you. I'll have to watch it—I don't want you thinking I like this journal stuff.
Tish,
Fine. Glad you're writing so much.