October 6
Please don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I can't believe I thought things were going to be all right. I came home from school today and Mom was sitting in the rocking chair in the living room, not even watching TV, just rocking back and forth, back and forth. I asked her if she was okay, and she said, "He's back in town."
Of course I knew she meant my dad. "So?" I said. "Who cares?"
That made Mom mad. "Who cares? Who cares? I do. You should—he's your father, for God's sake."
I told Matt to go to his room and do his homework. Matt got all whiny—"I don't want to … Can't I go see my daddy?" Matt's so young, he doesn't even remember what having Dad around was like. He just has this idea it's like on TV—those "Cosby Show" reruns maybe—where the father's all nice and kind and helpful. Matt should know our mom's not like TV mothers—why should Dad be like TV dads? In the end, I got Matt to leave.
"So what are you going to do?" I asked Mom. I put it just the way I'd put it with Rochelle or Chastity or Sandy, when they're worrying about their boyfriends.
"I don't know … What should I do?" Mom said. Same old wimpy Mom as ever. "I've got to see him. Maybe he'll move back in …"
I just snorted and went to my room. I wished Granma was still alive. She could tell Mom how dumb she was being about Dad. Of course, Mom didn't listen to her either.
October 7
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
It's all Mom's fault—I can't stop thinking about Dad. I've been trying to remember a time when he wasn't mean, when he and Mom weren't fighting, when he wasn't always yelling at someone. And I kind of can. When I was little—real little, maybe two or three—Dad had a job driving a cement truck. I called it a round-and-round truck, and Dad used to laugh about that. In a good way. Like he was proud of me. I remember one time, he took me and Mom for a ride in his round-and-round truck, and we all sat in the cab eating Chee-tos. If I close my eyes, I can almost see us, all laughing, getting the orangy Chee-tos dust all over our hands and faces, nobody caring. I was happy. I think Mom and Dad were, too.
So what happened after that? Any other time I ever remember, if I'd been eating Chee-tos and getting messy, Dad would have been yelling about what a slob I was and how Mom just didn't know how to take care of me. Why'd he have to change?
I do know he got fired from driving the round-and-round truck. It was after that we all came to live with Granma.
October 12
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Mom's going to do something stupid, I know she is.
She's missed work the last three nights—I had to call in sick for her, because she forgot to do that. She just sits in the rocking chair rocking, muttering things like, "I could see him … It could work …" It really wasn't a lie for me to tell her boss that she was sick, because she hasn't been sleeping or eating, and she looks really terrible. I was trying to be funny, and I told her, "Mom, if you do go see Dad, do yourself a favor. Take a shower and put on some makeup first."
I shouldn't have said that, because then she started sobbing, and went running to the bathroom. She locked the door, and I know she was staring in the mirror because she kept screaming, "I'm too ugly for him now…" Then she had the shower on for almost forty-five minutes. I was half afraid she'd try to slit her wrists or something. The only good thing is, I don't think Mom would ever have the nerve for that.
I've been trying to keep Matt away from Mom while she's acting so scary. Last night I didn't have to work, and I kept Matt at the mall until it closed. He got all whiny—"Ti-ish, can't we go home? My feet hurt." But at least when we did get home, he went to bed and fell asleep right away, and didn't hear Mom at all.
I tried to ask Chastity and Rochelle and Sandy what they would do if they had my problem, without letting them know how freaked out Mom really is. "Do your mothers ever act weird?" I asked them.
Sandy just kind of snorted and said, "Mothers are made to be weird." And then Chastity started telling this long story about how her mother doesn't like Chastity to use so much hairspray or pouf her bangs up so high, because she thinks it's slutty. That's why Chastity waits until she gets to school to do her hair right.
"No. I mean really weird," I said. But it was lost on them. What'd I expect? All they really care about is makeup and boys. They're no smarter than me. How were they going to have any great answers?
October 15
I wish so bad that Granma were still alive. She would know what to do about Mom. Granma used to take care of all of us so well. I remember for a long time after we first moved in with Granma, I was scared of the dark. And Granma would come in every night and say, "What do you think is in the dark that's so scary?" And I'd say goblins, or bogeymen, and she'd wave her arms and say, "They're gone. All gone." And the way she said it, I believed her. I'd smell her old-lady perfume—lavender or lilac, something like that—when she waved her arms, and it seemed like the scent would protect me from any bad thing. And after a while, I ran out of bad things to be scared of.
Now that I think of it, I don't think Dad was living with us when we first moved in with Granma. That was later.
Tish,
I'm delighted that you finally let me read a "real" entry in this journal. I've felt frustrated seeing almost all your previous entries marked "don't read", because I can tell you're writing a lot. But of course I've wanted to respect your wish for privacy.
Based on this one entry, I think you may have a knock for writing—a knack you've managed to hide in practically everything else you've handed in. Perhaps you've needed the power of a childhood memory to stir you. Whatever, I think you ought to consider trying out for the literary magazine staff here—probably you've seen it, The Lodestar? You could make quite a contribution. Talk to me if you're interested.
You're rather vague here about the problem with your mother (and father?). I don't want to pry, but you know there are lots of people here at the school who are ready and willing to help you with any personal problem(s). You could go to one of the counselors or take advantage of the new Student Assistance Program Or if you'd feel more comfortable talking to someone your own age, the peer counselors might help. And of course, I'd be perfectly willing to talk to you, if you want. Just don't assume you have to handle everything by yourself.
October 21
Do NOT read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I can't believe I forgot to put the "don't read this" label on my last entry. How dumb can I be? So now Mrs. Dunphrey knows I'm having problems. Great. She kept looking at me funny all during class today, and I didn't know why until she handed the journals back and I saw what I'd done. Hey, Mrs. Dunphrey, everyone has problems, okay? Leave me alone.
I'm so embarrassed that she made all those suggestions for where I could go for help. The counselors? Yeah, right. Like Mrs. Herzenberger has time for anyone. Last year when I went in to show her what classes I wanted for this year, the whole conversation was, "Um-hm, um-hm. Okay. Fine. Can you send the next student in?" Or, wait—I'm supposed to go to the peer counselors? That's the biggest joke of all. Everybody knows the peer counselors are the worst gossips in the whole school. Just look at poor Ronda Hartshorn. She talked to Heather Owens and Mitch Ramirez "strictly confidentially" and, funny, next thing Ronda knew, everybody in the school had heard she was pregnant and thinking about having an abortion. Poor Ronda. Even Mr. Tremont tried to give her advice.
So, thanks but no thanks, Mrs. Dunphrey. I can handle my problems all by myself. I may not do a great job, but they stay my problems.
At least I didn't say too much in that last entry. It's just about Granma and the bogeymen and the smell of her perfume. I guess there are a lot more embarrassing entries I could have let Mrs. Dunphrey read by mistake.
Isn't it hilarious that she thinks I should try out for The Lodestar? Like Megan Satterthwaite, with her $150 sweaters, would let me within 100 feet of that thing. Like I'd want to hang out with those snobs. Like I even care about writing anything.
October 23
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Can't you give it a rest? When you asked me to stay after class today, I was sure I was in trouble. But no, you just wanted to talk about The Lodestar again. And how I should be on the honor roll, not barely passing. Right.
The funniest thing was when you asked if it'd help to talk to my parents. How'd you put it—" I know most teenagers are hesitant to acknowledge their parents, but sometimes parental involvement is necessary. Sometimes parents and teachers need to work as a team…" Sometimes, Mrs. Dunphrey, you talk like a book. I can just see you and my mom getting together. It makes me crack up. Let's see, here's Mrs. Dunphrey with her silky blouses and classy skirts and big words. And here's my mom in her ragged jeans and her "ain'ts" and "she don'ts." You'd say "academic potential" and my mom's eyes would just go blank. She'd say, "Huh?" about fifty times.
Or let's say you got real ambitious and hunted down my dad. Supposing you found him, you'd be real impressed with his beer company cap and his old ripped flannel shirts and long Johns. (That's about the fanciest clothes I ever remember seeing him wear.) He'd say, "Tish who?"
Come on, Mrs. Dunphrey. Give up.
Today is Matt's birthday. I picked him up after school and then we took the bus to McDonald's. (He likes that better than Burger Boy, even though I can't get an employee discount at McDonald's—I guess Matt gets sick of Burger Boy burgers because I bring them home all the time.) I told him he could get whatever he wanted, so he ordered a Big Mac and a large fries and a big strawberry milkshake. He didn't finish any of it. But, hey, it's his birthday. I told him nothing mattered today. I wouldn't yell at him over anything.
"You don't yell at me, Tish," he said.
"Yes, I do," I said. "You don't have to be nice. I know I yell at you a lot more than I should."
"But only because you want me to be good," he said. And he smiled in this way he has, where he shows his side teeth, and he looked so little and cute and innocent. I think he got that idea about being yelled at for his own good at school. Anyway, it made me feel like I'm not so bad to him after all.
I couldn't get him the Nintendo, because I couldn't save enough money in time. (Maybe I would have been able to, if Mom would give Matt and me lunch money, instead of me always paying for everything.) Instead, I got him a baseball mitt. I thought it was kind of a stupid present—I just couldn't think of anything else. But Matt got all excited. He said all the other boys at school have mitts, but he didn't think he'd ever get one. He fell asleep hugging it.
Maybe I'll be able to afford a Nintendo for Matt for Christmas.
October 24
Don't you dare read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Well, Mom's gone and done it. While I had Matt at McDonald's last night, she started driving around town looking for Dad. She found him down at the Alibi Inn on Sidell Street—it's a horrid bar, all smoky and gross. I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about it, Mrs. Dunphrey. I don't know what Mom told Dad—I don't want to know—but this morning when I got up and walked into the kitchen, he was sitting at the kitchen table eating eggs and toast, sort of normal, like he'd never been away at all.
I just stopped and stared at him.
"Is that how you greet your dad, when you haven't seen him in two years?" Dad asked, all sweet and nice.
Hey, it's not my fault I hadn't seen him in two years. "Hi, Dad," I said. Cautious.
I didn't know it, but Matt was right behind me. And as soon as I said that, Matt came out in front of me, "Dad? Daddy?"
Then he ran over to Dad and gave him one of those big hugs only a kid can give. Totally trusting. Dad swung him up on his lap and said, "Now, that's more like it."
"It's really you?" Matt said. Dad nodded and let Matt hug him again. I could have cried right then and there, the way Matt was acting. He looked happier than I'd seen him in years. I guess I'd stopped noticing how sad his eyes looked all the time. Matt grinned and grinned and grinned. I wanted to grab him away and scream, "No—don't. You can't trust him." Then Mom came in from taking the trash out, and she was grinning too, like a big fool. Am I the only one in the whole family who remembers anything?
"So where have you been?" I asked. "It has been a while."
I was waiting for him to yell at me for my smart mouth—the sarcasm was dripping—but Dad just shrugged.
"I got a job driving coast to coast," he said. "Oranges from Florida, pork bellies from Chicago—you name it."
And then he started telling us stories about his adventures, how he'd outsmarted a robber in Flagstaff, Arizona, and how he'd gotten trapped in a blizzard out in Burlington, Vermont. And it was like no one but me thought it was weird that he was back now, that he'd never even sent a postcard the whole time he was away. Matt kept beaming, holding onto Dad's leg, and Mom sat beside them, reaching out every now and then to touch Dad's hair. Like she couldn't believe he was real.
I stayed back by the door. I think I was thinking I could get away fast if I needed to. Except I'd want to take Matt with me.
October 27
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
While I was working at the Burger Boy last night. Dad took Matt over to Children's Palace and bought him a big Nintendo system, even better than the one I was going to get. When I got home from work, Dad had it all set up, and they were playing some video game that had to do with saving the world from invading aliens.
Matt wanted me to come play with them, but I told him it was past his bedtime.
"Any adult should know that," I said. And then I was scared, because that was the kind of thing that would have really set Dad off in the past. I was lucky—I don't think Dad heard me because the video game was so loud.
"Ti-ish, please play with us," Matt said.
"If she doesn't want to play, that's her problem," Dad said. "It's just more time for us, right? More father-son time. This is a boy's game—we don't need any girls."
"Right," Matt echoed. "No gi-irls allowed, Tish."
I went back to my bedroom so mad I wanted to hit somebody. I pounded on the bed over and over again, until Mom yelled, "Tish, stop that!"
And I couldn't yell back at her, either, because she and Dad are so lovey-dovey now he'd probably beat me if I said anything to her.
I wish I could be like Mom and Matt and just smile, smile, smile—who cares that Dad was gone for two years? He's back now. Who cares that he yelled all the time and broke dishes and hit Mom and sometimes even me? He's not hitting anybody now.
Yet.
If Granma were here, she'd be on my side. She'd tell Mom and Matt how stupid they're being.
Tish,
Okay. Do think about The Lodestar…
November 3
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Dad is still being really nice. He bought Matt a pirate costume and took him out trick-or-treating Saturday night. I went to a Halloween party with Rochelle and Chastity, and no one noticed that I didn't get home until 3 A.M.
Could real life be like this always? I can't believe in it.
I have noticed that Dad doesn't seem to have a job anymore. I don't know where he's getting the money to buy all those things for Matt. He bought me some perfume the other day, too, but I told him it wasn't a kind I use. It was White Sands—something for women a lot older than me.
November 6
Please don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I knew it was too good to last. Mom and Dad had a big fight last night. I came home from the Burger Boy, and Dad was throwing things at Mom—his shoes, one of the lamps, a decorative Elvis plate Mom had to go and order off the TV.
"Where's Matt?" I asked right away. Dad yelled at me—something about how I was probably worse than my mother. I thought he was going to throw one of Granma's old flowerpots at me. I ran to my room and slammed the door. Then, when I was sure Dad hadn't followed me, I crept down to Matt's room. Matt was in there, hiding under the bed crying. I pulled him out and made him sit on the bed with me. He had lint in his hair, and his eyes were all swollen and red, like he'd been crying for hours. I wanted to march back out to the living room and tell Mom and Dad to shut up, or leave, or something—anything to quit scaring Matt. Instead I held my hands over his ears.
"That's not Daddy out there," Matt told me.
"Oh yeah?" I said.
"No, it's a bad man. Daddy gives me presents."
What was I supposed to say to that? After a while, Matt said, "What are they fighting about?"
I'd been trying not to listen, but I would have had to have been deaf not to hear some of it. Mom was all whimpers now—pitiful apologies—but Dad was going on and on in a loud voice about Haggarty's and someone Mom worked with. I think Dad thought Mom two-timed him while he was away. That's so crazy. I don't think she's looked at another man, ever, maybe—but so what if she did? He was away for two years! What'd he expect?
Anyhow, I told Matt they were fighting about grown-up stuff. I told him he'd have to be a lot older to understand.
"Do you understand?" he asked. "You're a lot older than me."
The way he looked at me with his innocent eyes, I could have cried. I don't want him thinking that's how people are supposed to act. But what was I going to say—" Mom and Dad are horrible people"? They are horrible. I hate them—hate them, hate them, hate them! I wish they would both run away to Flagstaff, Arizona, or Burlington, Vermont. Maybe I even wish they were dead. I don't care where they go, how bad they ruin their own lives. But do they have to ruin everything for Matt and me, too?
November 7
Don't you dare read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Well, it looks like it's Monday night at the fights. Again. Tonight, Dad didn't like the way Mom cooked his spaghetti. Last night, she didn't turn the TV on right away when he asked her to. The night before—I don't even remember what the fight was about the night before. Except, every night, Matt and I hide in his room. At first, I tried to read to him, play games with him, anything to keep him from hearing them in the living room. But he just stares at the Dr. Seuss pages, he forgets to take his turn in Candyland. I have trouble remembering, too.
Tonight Matt asked me, "How much more do they have to fight about?"
It's like he thinks there's some end I can tell him about, like medicine you only have to take for two weeks. Even if it tastes awful, you can choke it down thinking, "Only ten more times, only nine more times, only…"
I told Matt I didn't know how they could possibly have anything left to fight about. But that's not true. The more I listen to them fight, the madder I feel. I don't think I could ever get rid of that mad, even if I went out and screamed at them for the rest of my life. I've started thinking crazy things. Tony Brill next door has a whole gun collection. I could just borrow one of them. I wouldn't even have to shoot anyone, just use it to scare Mom and Dad, just make them shut up. I lie in bed at night and I picture me holding them hostage, at gunpoint. I'd tie them up and gag their mouths so they wouldn't be able to yell. Or—better yet—I'd let them talk to one another, but only in good ways. I'd say, "Talk nice." Granma used to say that to Matt and me.
I scare myself. I think if I had a gun, I really might use it.
Maybe I'm not any better than Dad or Mom.
November 12
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Last night I remembered why Granma taught me to crochet.
She was always crocheting something—both Matt and me have baby blankets she made. Mine is pink with white bows and his is green with fruit shapes on it. And every year at Christmas and for our birthdays, we'd get something else crocheted—mittens, scarves, sweaters. I was proud of them, until about third grade when one of the other girls, Heather Richards, I think it was, made fun of me having everything homemade. I started hinting to Granma that I'd rather have something store-bought. It'd be easier, I said. Why did she have to crochet all the time?
"It's better than hitting someone," she told me.
That was a time kind of like now, when Mom and Dad were fighting about everything. It didn't seem so bad then, because Granma was always there, telling Matt and me stories, singing songs to us so we didn't hear Mom and Dad. (She didn't forget to turn the Dr. Seuss pages.)
But then one day, Dad came home and Mom was out somewhere, at the grocery maybe, and he started yelling at me. And I yelled back. I told him to shut up. I told him he was bad. And then he hit me so hard it knocked me across the kitchen. I still have a little scar on my forehead where I hit the table.
Granma was there right away, and she took me away and washed the blood off my face. Then that night she gave me a crochet hook and some orange yarn and said, "Here, let me show you how to do a chain stitch …" She said more, she said, "You can control the yarn, even if you can't control anything else."
And then for a long time, both of us crocheted every night, back in Granma's room. Matt would hide in the yarn between us. He said it was better than listening to songs or books. He said in the yarn, he couldn't hear anything.
It all sounds so stupid now. Did Granma really think I could solve anything by crocheting?
Did she ever solve anything?
Tish,
Okay. I mould appreciate getting to read another of your entries sometime soon. I know I said you could mark every entry "Don't ready" if you wanted—but do you really have to?
November 18
DON'T read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
So you'd appreciate the chance to get to read one of my entries, Mrs. Dunphrey? Oh great, wonderful. I'm sure they'd make you very happy. Oh, isn't this precious, you could say, how well Tish writes about her parents' fights. "Tish," you'd ask, "would you mind if The Lodestar reprinted that wonderful description of you and your brother cowering in his room while your father throws flowerpots at your mother? It's so exquisitely done." Or wait, maybe if you read my journal, you'd understand why I'm not exactly keeping up with Julius Caesar right now. What would you do then—say, "Sure, Tish, you don't have to read Act II. I understand completely"? Would you stop calling on me? Would you stop looking disappointed when I don't know the difference between Cassius or Brutus or anyone else?
Mrs. Dunphrey, I don't really dislike you. It's just, your problem is you're too innocent. You're even worse than Matt. You look out at us in the classroom and you think we're all there ready and eager to learn about literature and grammar. I don't know, maybe we would be, if we weren't too busy thinking about our real lives. It's not just me, either. I'm not the only one whose parents fight all the time. There are other kids who can't think about Julius Caesar because they're worrying about their parents being out of work. Or they're afraid they're pregnant. Or they're on drugs.
Hey, we're all just your basic wonderful kids, with your basic wonderful lives. If you think anyone's being honest in the journal entries they let you see, you're really fooling yourself. I'm probably the only one writing anything real at all in here. And I'm not really sure why I do. I guess it's like my Granma said about crocheting. It is better than hitting someone.
And if I thought for a minute that anyone would read this, I'd destroy it so fast your head would spin.
But, okay, if it really makes you happy, I'll give you one entry, Mrs. Dunphrey. It's going to be the fakest entry anybody ever wrote.
November 17
Yes, you MAY read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Today I'm going to write about Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is just a week away. It's wonderful because we get out of school for two days. Hurrah! (No offense, Mrs. Dunphrey. I'm sure we'll all miss your class.) And everybody gets to eat like pigs. At my house, we'll get up early and watch the parades on TV. I like the one from New York, the Macy's parade, but my mom always likes to watch the one in Hawaii. She wants to go to Hawaii someday.
The whole time we're watching the parades, the house fills up with really great smells, of turkey roasting and pumpkin pies baking, and sweet potatoes cooking … I'm making myself hungry just thinking about it. When it finally is time to eat, we all go around the table saying what we're thankful for this year. Then we dig in and eat, and don't get up until we are full to bursting.