The Naked Mole-Rat Letters

  Best wishes,

  Ayanna

  Monday, Oct. 27, 4:10 P.M.

  Dear Diary:

  I hate Dad.

  Tuesday, October 28, 7:04 P.M.

  Dear Diary:

  I finally gave the librarian the money for The Miracle Worker. She must have assumed that I lost the book because she said, “Well, if it turns up, bring it in, honey.”

  Right.

  Got a B on my report. Would have gotten an A, but Mrs. Keating deducted points for being late. She liked it so much she made me read it out loud. Jerry Parks laughed every time I said the word naked. Some people are so immature.

  All day Johnny looked like a squashed tomato. He’s waiting for me to write back to tell him that I don’t hate him. I wrote him a letter, but then I threw it away.

  After school The Troll called to check up on me. “I know you’re going through a difficult time right now, Francine. Your father and I talked about the possibility of after-school counseling sessions—”

  I stopped her flat. “My grandmother is here for a while, so we don’t need anything.”

  She paused, clearly disappointed. Then she said, “That’s so nice. I’d like to introduce myself to her. Could you put her on please, Frankie?”

  I handed the phone over.

  “That woman could talk your ear off,” Grandma Jenny said when she finally hung up.

  Wednesday, October 29, 4:30 P.M.

  Dear Diary:

  Johnny wasn’t in school today.

  Too depressed to write.

  8:15 P.M.

  Nutter just came into my room. “Grandma’s having coffee at Mrs. Holmes’s house. Will you read me a book?”

  “I don’t feel like it, Nutter. I’m busy.” I was sitting in my beanbag chair, staring at the lines on my left palm.

  He huffed. “This is a zombie house.”

  I glanced up. He had his hands on his hips and a disgusted look on his face. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Everybody just walks around. Nobody talks to each other. It’s worse than a zombie house. It’s a dead zombie house.” He stormed out.

  Thursday, October 30, 12:20 P.M.

  Dear Diary:

  This morning Mr. Peter asked me to take the attendance sheets to the office. On the way I ran into Johnny, who was coming in late. Nobody else was in the hallway.

  He stopped when he saw me. He had no books. No backpack. He had on jeans that were ripped at both knees. His eyes were waiting.

  My heart was thumping as loudly as Ozzie Filmore’s boots do when he plays “Soldier’s Joy” on the fiddle. Say something. Say something. Say, Hello, Johnny.

  The door to Mrs. Bourne’s room opened, and Denise walked out.

  My feet took off toward the office. I don’t know what Johnny did. I couldn’t look back.

  Went to the nurse’s office. She wouldn’t let me stay. “It’s either back to class or in to talk to Ms. Trolly. Sorry. Your dad gave me orders.”

  I went back to class and imagined that I was deaf and blind.

  I’m at lunch right now, and I’m still deaf and blind. I can’t hear the clock ticking. I can’t see everyone sitting with friends.

  It is remarkable that I am able to write in this diary. For a blind person my handwriting is excellent. I am an extraordinary girl.

  9:30 P.M.

  I’ve been so wrapped up in my own worries, I forgot about Nutter.

  After school the poor little guy was in tears when I picked him up.

  “Lindsay’s mom made her a whole elephant costume with a trunk. You still haven’t helped me with my costume,” he said. “Every day you say that you’ll help me tomorrow. Tomorrow is Halloween, Frankie. Grandma says I should wear rags and be a bum. I don’t want to be a bum, Frankie.”

  I took his hand.

  As soon as we arrived home, I went to work. I found a white handkerchief and an old winter coat of mine (furry and brown!). I tied the handkerchief around his neck and put the coat on him. Already he looked like a little teddy bear. Then I pulled out the stage paint kit and I painted his face. When he looked in the mirror, he squealed. Ayanna was right. It didn’t take much to make him feel like a koala. He put on his koala backpack and danced around and around the house.

  I wish I were five years old again. I wish that putting on a costume and dancing around the room could make everything all right.

  Took a picture of him with Dad’s electronic camera. Want to send it to Ayanna but am afraid it would get her into trouble.

  Friday, October 31, 5:10 P.M.

  Dear Diary:

  At lunch Beth plopped her bag on the table and sat next to me.

  “Johnny told Jerry Parks that he hates you and that you hate him and that the reason you came over last week was for business,” she began. “He said that you paid him to teach you how to find some music that your dad needed on the Internet.”

  I stared at my half-peeled orange. Johnny was lying for me. Johnny had given up.

  Beth scooted her chair in. “I think you tried to tell me all that last week, and I didn’t believe you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She kept going. “I didn’t know what to believe because you lied to me. You haven’t ever lied to me before. I know you’re really mad at me for telling my mom everything, but I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you were in trouble. Please talk to me, Frankie. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Here’s what I was thinking: I know Beth inside and out. I know every freckle on her face. I know that one eye is rounder than the other. I know how loud she screamed when she got her ears pierced at the mall in Bloomington. I know what she wishes she had been named. I know that she has a white scar on her left knee and that she got it ice-skating. I was there. I tied my scarf around her knee to stop the bleeding.

  I was thinking that all I had to do to make things right with Beth was say, Everything is okay. All I needed to do was say, I forgive you for telling your mom and I’m sorry for lying and, yes, I hate Johnny and he hates me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Johnny, sitting alone near the garbage cans. He was working on something in his notebook, but he kept glancing over. He was waiting to see if Beth and I were going to make up.

  I should tell Beth the truth, I thought. I should tell her what Johnny’s really like. I should tell her that I’m going to be his friend, whether she thinks it’s okay or not. I could do it. All I had to do was get up and walk over to Johnny’s table. Hello, Johnny. That was all I needed to say. It was the right thing to do. Pretending to hate Johnny would be a lie.

  The pressure to tell the truth was hanging over my head like ten thousand pounds of tomatoes. But the pressure to lie was just as huge.

  I didn’t move.

  “Earth to Frankie . . .” Beth was staring at me. “Did you hear me? I said: Do you think things can get back to normal?”

  I nodded. “Sure, Beth.”

  The bell rang. I walked out with Beth and didn’t look back. I mumbled and lied my way through an apology, and things sort of did get back to normal. Beth went with me to pick up Nutter after school and to see all the elementary kids dressed up in their costumes. We went back to my house and carved jack-o’-lanterns with Skip and Nutter and Grandma. Beth and I pretended that everything was fine between us, but there was an awkwardness that wasn’t there before. She went home a few minutes ago.

  I thought that writing this down would make me feel better. But it doesn’t. I keep picturing Johnny alone in his trailer on Endangered Species Road, and it makes my stomach hurt.

  10:38 P.M.

  I did not imagine that Halloween night would end this way. How could I?

  After Beth left, I fell into the darkest depression yet. First of all, I felt like a monster. How could I turn my back on Johnny? Secondly, I was a fake. How could I pretend that things were normal with Beth when I couldn’t tell her what was really going on? Thirdly, I was still obsessing about what happened last week. How could
I ever forgive myself for allowing Nutter to wander off, or for almost burning down the house (the kitchen still doesn’t smell right), or for getting Ayanna into trouble?

  On top of it all, there was the whole trick-or-treat thing. Beth wanted to go. I said no because I felt too old. This is true—I do feel too old, and that makes me sad—but it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is that I was too depressed to go, but I couldn’t explain that. So for the first time in the history of my life, I spent the night watching TV in the family room while Dad took Nutter and Skip trick-or-treating. When they got home, Skip tried to make up with me by giving me some of his candy. Big sacrifice. He had a whole pillowcase full.

  Later, while Grandma was putting Nutter and Skip to bed, Dad came in and asked me if I would mind turning off the TV so that we could “talk.” He had this nice voice, but I could tell that he wasn’t asking. Why do kids have to “talk” whenever grown-ups want? I hit the OFF button on the remote and promptly turned into a dead zombie.

  “I spoke with Doris Trolly today,” he said brightly. “She said that you’ve had an excellent week at school. You paid for the library book. You did all your work and stayed focused.”

  That’s what a dead zombie does best, I thought.

  He pulled over a chair and sat down. “And I was glad to hear that Beth came over today. I think that’s a step in the right direction.”

  Goody-goody. The dead zombie is stepping in the right direction.

  “Look,” he said. “Tomorrow is the Fall Festival. I know what I said last Sunday about your not playing. But it only comes once a year, and it’s such a special ritual, and I’ve been thinking—”

  “I’m staying home tomorrow, Dad.”

  “Staying home?” He sighed. “Frankie, what’s going on? Ms. Trolly said—”

  “Ms. Trolly can jump off a bridge.” I stood up.

  “Sit back down, Frankie.”

  I started walking away.

  “Do not lock yourself in your room, Frankie. I’m warning you. I’ve let this go on for too long. We are going to sit down and talk about this in a calm, rational . . .”

  I left his sentence dangling in midair. I ran upstairs and slammed my bedroom door.

  A few seconds later he pounded on my door. “Open up, Frankie!”

  I heard Grandma Jenny’s voice. “Robert, what in heaven’s name?”

  “I’m having it out with Frankie, Mom. Just stay out of it.” He pounded again.

  “I don’t want to talk!” I shouted. “Leave me alone.”

  “Unlock this door right now or else—”

  “Or else what?”

  Silence. Then I heard him marching down the stairs.

  I sat on my beanbag chair and pulled my pillow on top of me. I could feel the fringe of the pillowcase brushing against my arm.

  A few minutes later he came back and started making noise. My first thought was that he was adding a lock on the outside so that I couldn’t get out. But then the sound of his electric screwdriver jolted the air, and the door started to wiggle.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled.

  The door wiggled more; and then Dad was standing there, holding the door in his hands.

  “You can’t take my door off.”

  He set the door against the hallway wall. “I just did.”

  The doorway looked big and naked and stupid without its door. It made me feel big and naked and stupid. “Put it back!” I yelled. “I should be allowed some privacy.”

  “You can’t lock yourself in this room and refuse to talk, Frankie. We are a family. We have to at least try to communicate.”

  I threw myself on my bed and pulled the pillow over my face.

  He sat on my bed. “Ms. Trolly suggested that we each have a turn to say everything we want to say.” He was out of breath. I guess ripping doors from their frames takes some effort. “When you’re talking I promise to listen; and when I’m talking, you have to promise to listen. I think that sounds like a good idea. What do you think?”

  “I think Ms. Trolly should win a goody-goody award for all her good ideas.”

  “Stop it, Frankie. You’re being mean and sarcastic. I’m trying to help here. You need to meet me halfway. Take that pillow off your face and look at me.”

  I huffed and sat up.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Now, do you want to go first or should I?”

  “You seem ready to go.”

  “All right.” He scooted back on my bed and crossed his legs, Indian style. Beth always goes on and on about how handsome my dad is. She likes his beard. He doesn’t look handsome to me. He just looks like a dad, a highly annoying dad.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what the last two weeks look like from my perspective.”

  This was going to be fun.

  “I come home from my trip to D.C., and everything’s fine. Then strange things start to happen. First, you tell Mrs. Holmes that it’s your birthday. Then you tell me that Mrs. Holmes has Alzheimer’s.”

  I forgot about that one.

  “Then you refuse to be in the school play. Then you rip up a library book. Then you let Nutter eat half a cake. When I try to talk, you lock yourself in your room. When I threaten to hire a baby-sitter, you promise to watch Nutter more closely and pay for the book. Meanwhile, everybody in Pepper Blossom is being extra nice to me because you told Mr. Haxer that I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

  I wonder how he found out about that one.

  “Then I find out that you’ve been accused of cheating, that you didn’t pay for the book, that you haven’t been doing your homework, and that you’ve been hanging out with Johnny Nye. You insist that you didn’t cheat, that you’ve been working on your report, and that you haven’t been hanging out with Johnny; and then you promise to pay for the book. I think all is well. The very next day I get four phone calls at work. I hear that you’re hiding in the nurse’s office, that you went to Johnny Nye’s trailer—”

  “I told you—”

  “It’s my turn to talk, Frankie. When I’m done, then you can say whatever you want.”

  I bit my lip so hard it almost bled. It was horrible hearing a list of my sins. It was like each one was a dart, and I was the dartboard. Why was he just listing my sins? Why not his? Why not Nutter’s? Why not Skip’s?

  “I also hear that you ditched school the week before,” he continued. “But we never get to talk about these issues because Nutter runs away from home and you set the kitchen on fire.”

  “I didn’t set—”

  “Then you basically lock yourself in your room again. You won’t talk. You won’t look me in the eye. You glare at Skip. You ignore Nutter. And I hear that you won’t even talk to your best friend.” He sighed. “Now, like I said, I’m glad to see some improvement. You helped Nutter with his Halloween costume. That was very nice. And you seem to have patched things up with Beth. But I’m still very, very worried.”

  I was so angry I was shaking. “You don’t understand.”

  “I know I don’t!” he said. “I don’t understand any of it. But I want to understand, so please explain it.”

  Everything that had happened, all the things he listed and more were exploding in my head like bombs. How could I explain? I pulled the pillow back on top of me.

  “Come on, Frankie. Let it out.”

  I was afraid that if I started to talk, I’d cry.

  “I want to hear whatever you want to say, Frankie. And I promise I’ll listen.”

  The way he said it reminded me of The Troll. I smacked the pillow against the wall. “You don’t want to know what I have to say. You don’t care about me. You don’t ever listen to me. You don’t ever believe me.”

  “How can I believe you when you’ve been avoiding me and lying to me and keeping secrets?”

  “You’ve been avoiding me, too. You’ve been lying and keeping secrets. You even ditched, didn’t you? You ditched your meetings to be with Ayanna. Why haven’t you said anything about her, Dad? When
I asked you who the dulcimer is for, why did you say, ‘Nobody special’? What were you planning to do, move us to Washington? Or let her move in here and change everything that Mom did? Did you ever think that I might not want to move or share my life with somebody I don’t even know?”

  My dad’s face went as blank as a white sheet. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Neither of us said anything for a minute. I was still shaking, not so much from anger anymore as from the shock of having said so much so fast. The air in the room felt different. It was as if I had blasted through a huge barrier that had been between us, only I couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing. I pulled the pillow into my lap so that there’d be something between us again.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you about Ayanna,” he finally said. “It was all so new, and it was all happening so quickly. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “So you didn’t say anything?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at me, really looked at me. “You’re right, Frankie. I was avoiding you and keeping secrets. I should have talked to you about it. But I didn’t know where it was going, and it felt awkward. How could I tell my daughter that I was falling in love?” His voice started to fall apart. His eyes filled with tears. “I never thought I’d have to. I never thought I’d lose your mom.”

  I couldn’t look at him. I closed my eyes and pressed the pillow against my face and chest.

  “Frankie, do you know how much I loved your mom? She was the wonder of the world. She could make me laugh so hard that my face hurt for weeks. I miss her every day. I’ll never stop missing her.” I could tell he was crying by the sound of his voice. “Don’t you know that?”

  I couldn’t breathe, but it wasn’t from the pillow. It was from the lump in my throat.

  He reached over and gently pulled the pillow away. Tears were streaming down his face. “I would never ask someone to marry me before you had the chance to meet her, Frankie. I would never let anybody move in here and change everything that Mom did. I love you, Frankie. Do you believe me?”