Diary Two: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky

  Sunday

  4:13 P.M.

  I did it!

  I found him!

  Who’s him?

  Him is Brock.

  Yes, Brock. Cool name.

  I found him at the beach. Eating a burrito at the cafe.

  I love burritos. Especially when they’re in the hands of a bronze god with great abs.

  He was looking away from me as I sat down. And the burrito was just hanging there. The insides looked about ready to fall onto the bench.

  So I took a bite.

  Ducky could not believe it. He looked at me in total shock.

  But it got Brock’s attention.

  I pointed to the burrito and said, “Thank you.”

  He wasn’t offended. He smiled and answered, “You’re welcome.”

  Then I asked him if he wanted my phone number.

  I thought Ducky was going to fall off the bench in a faint.

  And guess what? He said yes and gave me his. (I mean, duh. If you want something, ask for it, that’s my motto.)

  Well, Ducky recovered. In fact, he was the one who invited Brock to sit with us on the beach.

  Ducky is the best friend.

  Any other typical guy would have been so jealous—especially if he’d changed all his plans just to go to the beach, the way Ducky did. He was supposed to help his brother paint their garage today—but the moment I came over and mentioned the beach, he began packing a cooler and stuffing a blanket and towels into his backpack.

  He is more than a best friend. He’s a saint.

  Saint Ducky the Great

  Thank you. Bless you.

  Oops. I showed my private journal to someone! Tsk-tsk.

  Where was I? Oh, yes. So Brock said of course he would love to sit with us because he couldn’t resist my melting smile and deep, sexy eyes.

  Well, he said yes, anyway. He just thought the rest.

  Ducky lugged all that stuff to a sunny spot far away from the crowd, where we could have a little privacy.

  Brock and I had the best time. We swam. Played volleyball. Buried each other in sand.

  And the best news is—he goes to Vista! Which I kind of knew, because I have seen him in the hallways.

  He’s not much of a talker. But talk didn’t matter. We communicated with our eyes.

  I am the woman of his dreams. I know it.

  And I won’t let him forget it.

  I have his phone number.

  10:37 P.M.

  I decided to sleep at home. Be alone with my thoughts.

  It could have been a perfect rest-of-the-day.

  It wasn’t.

  Dawn had to spoil it.

  She left a message on the answering machine. Asking me something about the English exam.

  I called back and asked, “What exam?”

  Dawn was not pleased. She said Ms. Newell announced it last Tuesday.

  I think that was the day I cut class to be with Chris.

  It’s his fault.

  Dawn was all concerned. She wanted me to come over and study with her.

  I said thanks but no thanks.

  I can always cut English tomorrow too.

  Monday 3/16

  9:45

  Greetings from Las Palmas County Park.

  I’m not supposed to be here now.

  I’m supposed to be in Science.

  But I got sidetracked this morning. By the time I headed for school, I was already late for homeroom. So I had two choices:

  1. Rush to homeroom, be screamed at by Mr. Leavitt, go to Science, then cut English.

  Or

  2. Don’t bother. Enjoy life for a while, then slip into school for third period, after English.

  This was a no-brainer.

  It’s not like I tried to be late. It’s Dad’s fault.

  Dad’s and Carol’s and Jane Fonda’s.

  Okay, here’s the story. I was eating breakfast and Dad raced into the kitchen, all grumpy and rushed. He said Mom had asked him for some old photo albums to look at, but he hadn’t had time to get them.

  Robot slave daughter to the rescue. As usual. Right in the middle of my Frosted Shredded Wheats, I went up to Mom’s bookshelf.

  I didn’t expect to find my baby book tucked away there. I didn’t know I had a baby book.

  So I read through it. I found a lock of my hair pasted into the book—and it was mouse brown! Then I saw this incredible photo. At first I thought it had been taken recently, because Mom’s lying in a hospital bed, all tired and ragged-looking. But she’s smiling. Radiant. Plus she has all her hair, and she’s holding this screaming little newborn, me. I’m wrapped in a white cotton blanket, and my face looks disgusting, all scrunched up and red.

  But I wasn’t really looking at me.

  I couldn’t take my eyes away from Mom. It was as if she were alive, right there in my hands. Talking to me. Telling me she was happy, and everything was going to be okay.

  It was like seeing someone I haven’t seen in years.

  I had to stop looking at it. It made me feel all knotted up inside.

  So I ripped the picture out and put it in my pocket.

  I’ll show it to Mom on my next visit.

  Anyway, as I was taking down the photo albums, I saw Mom’s old Jane Fonda pregnancy workout video on the shelf.

  I mean old. The cover is hilarious. All these huge women in leotards and dorky hairstyles bouncing around.

  I figured, hey, Mom’s not going to use this anymore. But it was perfect for Carol.

  So I left the albums on the kitchen table for Dad. And took the video to the Schafers’.

  Carol, of course, went nuts over it. She hugged me and said a million thank-yous.

  I thought I’d catch Dawn, but she’d left for school already. As I started to go, Carol put on the tape.

  Then she started exercising along, and I thought she was going to kill herself. The exercises were for early pregnancy. I could not leave the house. I ran in and fast-forwarded to the late section. I mean, she is 7 months! You don’t get much later than that.

  Then I saw it. The look on Carol’s face.

  It was a lot like the look on Mom’s face in the picture.

  That was when I left.

  Tuesday 3/17

  Girls’ room

  Big news.

  Saw Brock in the gym hallway. Before 7th period. Don’t usually take that route. Will from now on.

  He was all sweaty from playing basketball, his hair in little wet ringlets.

  I said hi. He said hi.

  I talked all about the Chicago Bulls—and guess what? He loves them.

  I can always spot a guy with good taste.

  He walked me to class, and we talked and talked—well, I did. I was kind of blabbering. I was hoping he’d ask me out, but he didn’t.

  So I asked him.

  Sunny “Guts to Spare” Winslow.

  And guess what?

  He. Said. Yes.

  Later

  Poor Ducky. He looked so sad after school. I thought he was about to cry. I grabbed him and sat him down by the big palm tree outside school.

  I was worried. I thought it was something serious.

  But it was just the usual stuff about his friend Alex—Alex is depressed, Ducky’s worried he’s going to do something “rash,” blah blah blah.

  I tried to listen. But frankly, this is so old. I told Ducky he deserved better friends than Alex. The guy is a drip. A loser. I mean, if I were his best friend, by now I’d have only 3 words for him: get a life.

  Anyway, I was bursting to tell him my news about Brock.

  I may have cut him off. I probably should have paid more attention.

  But this is important. To me, at least.

  Friday’s only three days away, and I needed Ducky’s fashion advice.

  Wednesday 3/18

  5:15 P.M.

  I know what a ghost looks like.

  It doesn’t smile like Casper. But it does wear a white gown.


  It has wispy white hair, papery gray skin, and large purple circles under its eyes.

  It looks out the window when you’re talking. It doesn’t eat. It is cold to the touch, and you can feel its bones through its skin.

  It forgets the topic of conversation in the middle of sentences. It doesn’t recognize the photo you show it. It keeps asking the same questions over and over.

  And you hate seeing it, because it breaks your heart.

  9:54 P.M.

  I went home after the hospital visit, but I couldn’t go inside.

  Dad’s car wasn’t there, and I didn’t feel like being in an empty house.

  So I went over to Dawn’s.

  When Carol answered the door, I smiled and said hi. I thought I was being my cheerful old self.

  But the minute she saw me, her face fell. “What happened to you?” was the first thing she said.

  No Oscars in my future, huh?

  We sat in the living room, and I told her a little bit about the visit. I didn’t want to make a big deal. I really didn’t want to talk about it at all.

  But as I was talking, Dawn came in and started asking questions.

  Next thing I knew, Mr. Schafer was there, and then Jeff, standing in the archway.

  I clammed up.

  I did not need the snotty comments of my best friend’s snotty little brother.

  For a while, no one said anything. Then Jeff spoke up, in a soft voice. “My friend’s hamster died. His little brother ran over it with a toy fire truck.”

  Mr. Schafer ushered Jeff out of the room. Carol started apologizing for him.

  I wasn’t angry, though. I could tell Jeff was trying to be helpful, in his own weird way.

  I tried to say that, but Carol cut me off. She grabbed my hand. “You poor, poor thing,” she said.

  Dawn nodded. “It’s been hard for you.”

  I kept telling them I was fine. And I was. But they were shaking their heads sadly and telling me I could cry if I needed to.

  “It’s all right to feel what you’re feeling, you know,” Dawn informed me.

  “No kidding,” I muttered. “I mean, how can you not feel what you’re feeling?”

  Dawn scowled. “I was only trying to help.”

  I hated the way they were looking at me. As if I were some pathetic stray dog at the pound.

  “Sorry,” I said, getting up to leave. “I have to go home.”

  Thursday 3/19

  Homeroom

  The baby is kicking.

  Carol let me feel it (him? her?) This morning. I stopped by the Schafers’ on the way to school, and carol made me put my face right up to her tummy. At first I couldn’t feel a thing.

  Then she told me to sing.

  So I sang the first song that popped into my head. My absolute favorite Maggie Blume tune—“Hey, Down There.”

  Appropriate, I thought.

  Bam. A sharp toe, right to the kisser.

  I screamed. It was the weirdest feeling.

  Carol was laughing. She said the baby’s going to be a soccer player.

  Dawn made me swear I’ll never tell Maggie what happened. That song is her pride and joy.

  Carol stood in the doorway, waving to us as we walked off. Her other hand rested on her belly.

  She looked so cool.

  I don’t know what it is about pregnant women. They just have this glow.

  I told that to Dawn. She gave me a funny look. She said Carol always glows. Carol has oily skin.

  Ouch. So catty.

  “You still don’t like her, huh?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Dawn said. “Of course I do. She’s my stepmother.”

  “Well, you didn’t at first. And sometimes you still seem—I don’t know, a little angry at her.”

  “You have a big imagination, Sunny.”

  Fine.

  Maybe she’s right.

  I have to see this from her point of view.

  Must be kind of strange, to see your stepmom carrying your Dad’s child. Especially when your Mom is still alive.

  Am I going to feel that way too, if Dad remarries?

  Guess I have to start thinking about stuff like that.

  4:10 P.M.

  Why why why do I hate being here so much?

  Why do I feel sick?

  Why do I feel like I’m going to faint?

  I’ve been here a million times. I should be used to it by now.

  I am visiting Mom.

  I am her daughter.

  I should be loving and supportive and interested and sympathetic.

  And all I can think of is getting out of here.

  I know why.

  It’s Dawn.

  I should never have come with her.

  Dawn the devoted. Dawn the perfect and perky.

  How. Can. She. Be. So. Up?

  “Hi, Mrs. Winslow. You’re looking so pretty, Mrs. Winslow. Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Winslow? Come on, Sunny, let’s prop up the bed/call the nurse/get your Mom some food/tell her about school today.”

  And now she’s in the bathroom, helping Mom, while I’m out here feeling like a jerk.

  I should be with Mom. I would be too if my best friend weren’t such a girl scout.

  I want to help. But whenever I’m about to offer it, Dawn speaks up first.

  When that ugly nurse came in and thought Dawn was Mom’s daughter, I wanted to scream.

  What did she think I was—her secretary?

  Okay. Calm down.

  No. Big. Deal.

  Why am I so jumpy?

  I will never understand myself.

  I wish Ducky were here. He calms me down.

  Oh, well. He should be pulling into the parking lot any minute. With Maggie and Amalia. Just in time for our shopping spree.

  Maybe Dawn won’t come with us.

  Maybe she’ll decide to stay on as Mom’s personal aide.

  Maybe Mom will adopt her.

  Dawn and I can switch. I’ll become a Schafer, she’ll be a Winslow.

  Nahh. I wouldn’t wish that fate on Dawn.

  There’s the latch on the bathroom door.

  Time to go.

  8:04 P.M.

  T minus twenty-four hours.

  Tonight the Vista Hills Mall. Tomorrow Brock!

  It took forever to find the right outfit.

  I thought my friends would help me. But no. Dawn kept picking out these frilly, lacy, white summer dresses. Stuff that would look good on her.

  Maggie thinks I should go ’70s. Like, orange bell bottoms and beads. I kept saying no to all her suggestions. She kept telling me, “but it’s all on sale!”

  Please. Does the phrase last year mean anything? No one dresses like that anymore. That’s why it’s on sale.

  No, I didn’t say that. I was kind. I suggested she buy the stuff, to wear when she’s singing with Vanish.

  Maggie snickered. “If Vanish lasts.”

  Amalia turned away and wandered off. She does not like to talk about that group anymore. Ever since James was kicked out. He is still bothering her every now and then. He calls and leaves creepy messages on her phone machine, then acts all friendly the next day at school.

  So Amalia was no help either.

  Guess who saved the day?

  The Duckman.

  Yes, a guy who likes shopping.

  Ducky is full of hidden talents.

  At first he wasn’t too promising. He acted embarrassed to be in Juniors. He kept making jokes and saying he was going to hang out in automotive parts.

  But soon he was flipping through those racks. He found this incredibly cool combo—short cotton skirt, striped spandex leggings, fringed matching jacket …

  Me.

  Totally.

  My best girlfriends, who know me better than anyone in the world? Clueless compared to a high school sophomore guy I just met this year.

  Go figure.

  It’s almost like he climbs inside my brain.

 
I don’t know why I don’t just go out with him.

  Yes, I do. It would ruin the friendship.

  Besides, Ducky’s not my type. For a boyfriend.

  Brock, however, is.

  And when he sees this outfit, he is mine.

  Friday Friday Friday

  What am I doing in school?

  I can’t concentrate!

  Yes, I can.

  Whenever I see Brock.

  And he sees me. And smiles.

  And the whole school is utterly, totally, completely.

  Stark

  Raving

  Jealous.

  Well, all I can say to that is—

  Poor everybody else.

  11:45

  Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

  12:25 A.M.

  Shall I explain that last entry?

  I will. In great detail.

  I may want to recapture this moment someday. When I’m older and jaded about men. When the world’s Brocks are flocking around me.

  I’ll always remember how it started.

  It started in a Trans Am.

  Red.

  Loud.

  Brand-new.

  When Brock drove up, Dawn’s mouth was hanging open. I saw it. She was staring out her living room window.

  I nonchalantly walked out the front door. Strolled down the walkway. Smiled at Brock as he got out of the car. Not too wide, not too gushy. Just enough to leave him wanting more.

  I could feel the neighborhood staring at us. I could feel the heat of their eyes.

  Brock held open the passenger door. He looked like perfection.

  I kissed him on the lips before I got in.

  He looked kind of shocked. But not unhappy.

  Off we went. And Brock said two of the things I wanted to hear the most.

  “You look fantastic,” and “You name the restaurant.”

  I don’t know what got into me. Something about the Trans Am made me think of glitter and movie stars and photos in the newspaper gossip columns.

  So I said, “Sagebrush Grille.” Sort of as a joke.

  But Brock didn’t take it that way.

  He just drove.

  When he pulled up to the valet parking of the Grille, right behind a white stretch limo, I was in deep shock. I asked him if he was sure he could afford this.

  He said he went there all the time. He said he got into an argument with Brad Pitt there once.

  He handed the valet guy a five. He handed the man at the door a ten. He handed the waiter a ten even before he gave us menus. The waiter gave him a funny look.