Justin is calling out to her, “Take a bow!”
She hears him and stands up. Then she does this prim little curtsy that Mrs. Knudsen must have taught her to use after piano recitals.
It’s totally wrong. But the crowd doesn’t care.
They’re roaring for her.
Maggie is beaming now. Soaking it up. Waving.
When she steps off the platform, I throw my arms around her. Nbook, I am so PROUD.
“Was I OK?” is the first thing she asks.
I burst out laughing, “Can’t you tell?”
She smiles. “I guess.”
“LET’S GIVE IT UP FOR VANISH!” shouts the DJ, who’s already spinning tunes.
Bruce, Patti, and Rico are leaping off the platform now. It’s pure pandemonium.
Then, from behind me, I hear Christina calling out, “Congratulations!”
I turn. I’m about to thank her, but I notice she’s looking at my right hand.
“What’s that?” she asks.
The rose.
It’s bent now, but still beautiful.
I tell her somebody gave it to me.
“Lucky,” she says with this big, knowing smile. “I wish someone would give me a rose like that.”
For a moment I feel about nine feet tall.
I mean, not long ago I’m feeling like the lowest form of life in Vista. And now the most popular girl in school is jealous of me.
As she moves on to congratulate Maggie, I realize something.
I have to see Brendan.
To thank him. To apologize and explain.
Because Christina is right.
I am lucky.
Very lucky.
I run over to the food table, but he’s not there.
I circle around the gym. No Brendan.
I look into every group of kids. My stomach is sinking and I’m realizing I have blown it and I’m a complete fool, when I spot a couple dancing in the corner.
I’ve been introduced to the girl. I think her name’s Cheryl.
The guy she’s with is James.
After all this time, all the notes and weird behavior, he’s finally found somebody else.
I’m relieved.
I’m also horrified. Cheryl doesn’t deserve the treatment I got.
I want to run to her. Warn her away. But I know how James would react to that.
I figure I’ll catch her alone sometime.
James swings around. He’s facing my direction.
I duck away so he won’t see me. A nearby exit door is open, so I slip outside.
I’m about to walk past a guy sitting on the bottom step, but I stop short.
It’s Brendan.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t notice me. He’s looking off toward the pond, lost in his own world. His face is glum.
He’s mad at me.
I hold the rose behind my back. “Hey,” I call out.
He turns. He springs to his feet.
“Nice night,” he says.
He’s smiling. He doesn’t look angry at all.
I’m so grateful and relieved, I don’t know what to say. So I just start babbling.
We both start laughing. And I realize this is one thing James and I never did. Laugh at each other. Laugh with each other. Laugh, period. Maybe that was our problem.
Was.
James is was now.
Brendan is is.
In the green-blue of his eyes I see sky and water. No limits. No places to hide.
I see myself in there too. Me. Not an idea of a girlfriend. Not some trophy to make him look good.
It’s thrilling, Nbook.
Still, I’m frightened.
I mean, the sky is dangerous. So’s the water. I don’t know what I’m heading into.
All I know is that I trust him, Nbook.
Maybe it’s stupid, but I feel I’ve known him my whole life.
And that makes him worth a try. Doesn’t it?
Anyway, all this is running through my head, and I hardly notice a slow love song has begun.
Brendan has taken my hand. He asks if I want to dance.
I say yes. We walk back into the gym.
Brendan puts his arm around me. I don’t really know how to slow dance. When he steps on my foot, I realize he doesn’t either.
That’s OK. We begin to rock gently to the beat, making sure to keep our feet to ourselves.
Nearby, James is dancing with Cheryl.
I spot Maggie. She’s at the food table, talking to Justin.
Just beyond them, Rico and Christina are in a deep conversation.
Brendan suddenly asks if I’m feeling all right.
I realize I’m distracted. As usual, thinking about other people’s happiness instead of my own.
I put my head on Brendan’s shoulder. I can hear the soft beat of his heart. We’re swaying now. I’m not sure if we’re in rhythm to the music.
But it doesn’t matter.
This is my happiness. This is my music.
Our music. No matter what our feet are doing, Brendan and I are in perfect sync.
I check on Maggie one more time. And Rico and Patti and Bruce. Just to make sure they’re OK.
And then I close my eyes. And know I’m in good hands.
It’s 2 A.M.
That’s it, Nbook.
That’s life.
To be continued.
A Note to Readers
If you or someone you know might have an eating disorder, or if you want to know more about eating disorders and how to deal with them, the following organizations provide valuable help and information:
American Anorexia/Bulimia Association
165 W. 46th Street, Suite 1108
New York, NY 10036
(212) 575-6200
http://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/
E-mail:
[email protected] National Association of Anorexia Nervosa
and Associated Disorders
P.O. Box 7
Highland Park, IL 60035
(847) 831-3438
E-mail:
[email protected] Anorexia Nervosa and Related Eating Disorders
P.O. Box 5102
Eugene, OR 97405
(541) 344-1144
http://www.anred.com
Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention
603 Stewart Street, Suite 803
Seattle, WA 98101
(206) 382-3587
http://www.edap.org
Ducky: Diary Two
California Diaries
Ann M. Martin
Contents
Dec. 1
Wednesday 12/2
Thursday 12/3
TOMORROW Also known as Friday
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday 12/8
Thursday
Sunday
Tues. Morning
Thursday 12/17
Dec. 1
5:45 P.M.
Los Angeles International Airport
Ducky the Fearless strikes again!
He leaves home late. He hits rush hour freeway traffic. He detours onto back roads through treacherous Windsor Hills and Inglewood, finally reaching the airport—and yes, ladies and gentlemen, he makes it to Gate 21 TWO MINUTES early! 5:35 for a 5:37 arriving flight.
Ducky the MIRACLE WORKER. Ducky the GOOD SON. HERE for his parents when they arrive from Ghana—on a SCHOOL NIGHT, the day before a math test.
Why? Because he WANTS TO. Because that’s the kind of guy he is.
Then he checks the arrival screen. And he sees:
FLIGHT 407 1 HOUR LATE
(Cue laugh track.)
What a fool.
Okay. Let’s analyze this, Ducky.
You might have known. This HAS happened before. Mom and Dad’s overseas flights are almost ALWAYS late.
You could have called in advance to check. If you knew, you wouldn’t have panicked and rushed.
Now, sud
denly, you have time to kill and nothing to do. And this would be a PERFECT opportunity for some badly needed math review. But you can’t do it because—in your hurry—you forgot your review material.
And why are you here alone to pick up your lucky parents on the day before a math test?
Well, that breaks down into two questions:
1. Why are YOU here? Because Ted, Older and More Beloved Son, couldn’t be. You see, Ducky, he’s a COLLEGE boy. You may have homework, but he has a COURSE LOAD.
2. Why are you here ALONE? Because none of your friends would come along to keep you company.
Not Jay, formerly known as Jason, once your best friend and now a member of the Vista School Cro Mags, dedicated to the grunt-and-snort school of social behavior. Jay’s helpful comment? “Come on, Duckster, they’re old enough to get home by themselves.” Which, you have to admit, isn’t a bad point.
Not Alex. Too depressed, of course. (Which doesn’t surprise you. But because you’re best friends, and because you’ve been HELPING him through the gloomy state he’s in, you still hoped he might come along. No such luck.)
Not Sunny, even though she’s ALWAYS looking for excuses to get away from her house. She’s busy tonight—with what or whom she won’t say, but you know her slippery-cute tone of voice translates into: NEW BOYFRIEND. Which means you may not see her for awhile…until, of course, this guy turns out to be just like the others, and she comes back to cry on your shoulder. And that’s FINE because Sunny needs you, she’s freaking out because of her mom’s cancer, and the boyfriends are a way of escaping reality.
You understand everyone’s excuses, because that’s what you do best, Ducky. You think of others first.
And second. And third.
Somewhere down the list of concerns—oh, maybe near the price of asparagus and the political situation in Norway—is YOU.
I.
Say I when you mean I, Ducky. Don’t hide.
When am I going to learn?
Maybe Jay is right. You COULD have let Mom and Dad take a car service.
You I should think about yourself myself for a change.
MYSELF. ME.
God, I hate the way that sounds.
THREE HOURS LATER
In Which Ducky, Still Waiting,
with Nothing Else to Do,
Sees Scenes from His Life
Reenacted All Around Him
For example, you look around the arrival gate and see:
The toddler, strapped into her stroller and crying madly, ignoring her drippy ice-cream cone as a DC-10 rises into the smog outside the window. Boy, do you remember THAT feeling.
The two little boys at Gate 22 running into a crowd of arriving passengers and being scooped up by a tired but happy businessman. The mom joins them, making a four-person sandwich, and you can almost hear them squeal, “We’re the ham and cheese, you’re the bread!”—but no, that’s what YOU used to say. It’s only a memory. But you can taste the hope and excitement in the air. You know what those boys are thinking right now. Today Daddy’s home for good. Today everything will be normal again.
Maybe for them it’s true. Maybe THEIR parents aren’t professors-slash-international business consultants like yours.
For YOU, Ducky, things were never normal. Because Mom and Dad always had another trip. And when they were gone, you worried they’d forget you, or find new kids to love, or just plain never come back. You counted the days on a calendar and looked at atlases and encyclopedias, hoping to see Paris through Mom’s and Dad’s eyes, or Boston or Abu Dhabi or Toronto or Sri Lanka. And you wondered why you couldn’t have gone along too and WHAT you did wrong and HOW you could make them want to stay home next time—IF I CLEAN MY ROOM EVERY DAY, IF I STOP YELLING AT MY BROTHER, IF I GET STRAIGHT A’S…
The trips eventually became a part of life, expected, unavoidable, like breakfast and homework. The fears became hidden away like a scabbed-over wound—and soon even the scab was gone, leaving only a scar.
Scars protect. Scars heal. But they’re markers too, reminders of what’s underneath.
So when you see that toddler and those boys, the scar stretches. You feel a little of the old pain.
And you ask some of the old questions: What will Mom and Dad be like when they arrive? Will they be happy to see you? How long will they stay this time? Until the spring? Until the new year, at least?
The difference between now and then is that at 16, you KNOW some of the answers.
You know to settle for reality. Which isn’t too bad, really. Soon 121 Sherwood Road will look and smell the way it used to. Like a house with a real family in it.
Still, you want something MORE.
An edge. An electricity.
Something.
And you know you won’t get it.
9:07 P.M.
The 5:37 has arrived.
Much Later
After an Evening of Song, Dance, and Laughter
Well, maybe not dance.
Definitely not song.
Laughter? Uh, well…
Let’s just say it’s been a weird night.
Starting with the arrival of the plane.
The Reunion of the McCraes
Based on a True Story
Act I, Scene 1:
SETTING:
Los Angeles International Airport, 9:10 P.M., December 1. Great hubbub at Gate 21. Passengers emerge from the plane into the waiting crowd. Families hug and cry. Boyfriends and girlfriends are lost in each other’s embraces. DUCKY, a nondescript, dark-haired 16-year-old, cranes his neck. He sees:
CUT TO:
A tanned, trim, middle-aged couple walking out of the gate. They are struggling with their carry-on luggage.
DUCKY looks away.
Then he does a double take. They’re his parents. He didn’t recognize them at first. Was it their tans? Their weight loss? Or has it really been so long since he last saw them?
DUCKY’S heart is beating faster. He smiles. He waves and calls out their names.
FATHER and MOTHER turn. They spot DUCKY across the multitudes.
[Swelling music.]
DUCKY [enthusiastically, arms wide, BIG smile]: HI!
MOTHER [with quick kiss on D’s cheek]: Thank you for coming, sweetie. Would you help with the carry-ons?
FATHER [putting garment bag over D’s outstretched arm, which is already holding M’s bag]: What a trip. Glad you’re here. Heavy enough?
D [sagging under the weight]: Uh, fine.
M: Where’s Ted?
D: Studying.
F: At least SOMEBODY’S working. Heh-heh. Let’s get our luggage.
M & F walk briskly ahead toward baggage claim. D lags behind, loaded down with luggage. Dumbfounded. Drooping. Dodging and ducking through the crowd.
D [thinking, in a voice-over]: They’re tired. It was a long flight. So they’re not gooey and emotional. That’s not their style anyway. Deal with it.
M: Are you still with us, Ducky?
D [voice-over]: Ducky?
He smiles. F and M sometimes still use his nickname. It’s a touching moment. It sounds so natural, so RIGHT, in a funny way. A glimmer of happiness.
Which ends as he collides with a man in a Hawaiian shirt.
CUT. CHANGE REEL
You reach the baggage claim bruised but alive. You drop the carry-ons. Mom and Dad are looking to the place where the suitcases will first appear.
“How was the trip?” you ask.
Mom begins, “Well, I made great progress on my paper….”
You hear about the water level of the Volta River. The price fluctuations of manganese ore and bauxite. The condition of the cacao crop and its effects on the coastal Ashanti people.
Right.
“Didn’t you do anything FUN?” you ask.
They don’t answer. They’re distracted by the carousel, which is now going around without their luggage. So Dad begins to worry aloud that his stuff has been stolen or switched onto a flight to Katmandu, where some luck
y Sherpa will soon be leading mountain treks dressed in his Brooks Brothers seersucker suit. And you don’t want him to make a scene, but there’s no way to stop him—he’s off yelling at some skycap, threatening to sue the airline, when
HALLELUJAH!
The suitcases arrive. But now Dad’s caught in one of his funks, so you try to be lighthearted and cheerful as you drag the luggage to the airport doors. You run to the lot, fetch the car, and load everything into the trunk. You hand Dad the keys, but he shakes his head. “No, you go ahead.”
You turn toward Mom. She’s already sliding into the backseat.
YOU’RE driving, Ducky. No way out.
The Torture Begins.
As you pull away from the curb, Dad STOMPS on an imaginary brake. As you approach the crosswalk, he YELLS at you to watch out for the pedestrians. He GASPS at near-accidents that are (let’s face it) all in his mind.
Soon you’re crawling along the freeway at five miles UNDER the speed limit, eyes ahead, teeth clenched, knuckles gripping the steering wheel. Mom exclaims how nice it is to be back home, but all you can see out the window is smoggy, gray Culver City, and you think either she’s lying or Ghana must be pretty dismal, when suddenly she asks, “So…how are YOU, sweetie?”
YOU.
What a shock.
There’s so much you want to say—your schoolwork, your new friendships, your job at Winslow Books—and everything rushes out at once, but nothing makes much sense.
Dad interrupts you. “What about Mrs. Winslow?” he mumbles. “Is she…?”
“Still alive, yup,” you reply, and you HATE the way the words sound—a quick update, just the headlines—implying all is well, when in reality it’s NOT—Sunny’s mom is DYING and Sunny’s going through her own private hell. But you CAN’T go into that or into anything IMPORTANT, because Dad is telling you to bear left, slow down, use your signals—and when your exit FINALLY appears, you want to veer onto a side street, park the car, and walk home.
But instead you obediently drive to your house, then tote the baggage inside while Mom and Dad give Ted a BIG, EMOTIONAL greeting, and Ted seems actually INTERESTED in the news about bauxite (the faker), which is why they adore him so much more than you (Ducky, you DIDN’T write that).