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. San
dy 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.
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.