What does it mean anyway? Of color compared to whom? Who isn’t of color? Everyone I know is—brown, tan, pink, yellow, olive, beige.
OK, Nbook, you’re not “of color.” Your pages are white.
And that, dear Notebook, is the real answer. “Of color” means “not white.”
Think about it. It means we Latinos are defined by what we’re not.
But who is white?
Those girls at the theater—they’re white. At least in their own minds. This obviously means a lot to them. “Of color,” to them, translates as “different.” Which, I guess, is a short jump from “bad” and “threatening.”
But this is what I just don’t get. Threatening to what? Who could be threatened by me?
Correct me if I’m wrong, Nbook, but I was born in America, right? And that makes me an American citizen. Which means I can go to their schools, shop at their stores, see their movies, stand on their sidewalks without fear of being attacked for the way I look.
MY schools. MY stores. MY sidewalks. They’re mine too.
The truth is, if Maggie had been standing in front of the theater the other night, those girls would have passed right by.
This is what Maggie can’t understand—I mean, really understand. In her soul. Or Dawn or Sunny or Brendan or Cece or Marina. Maybe Ducky, a little bit. The boys make fun of him for being different—but that’s just because of his mannerisms and the way he dresses and the fact that he hates sports.
Now, I love Maggie. She knows it too, otherwise she wouldn’t be over here so often. She feels the warmth and closeness in our family. She wishes she were in our family. And she is, in a way.
But she could never know what it is like to be a Vargas. She has something none of us have. She is wealthy. She is white. And what happened to me will never, ever happen to her in her life.
Nbook, I can’t believe I just wrote that.
Midnight
Yes, I can.
It’s the truth.
Monday, 6/7
Science
Soooooooo tired.
Just read over the last 2 entries. They give me a queasy feeling.
But I can’t think about it now. Have to learn about the Krebs cycle.
Nbook, I wish there were no such thing as the Krebs cycle. It looks like this:
Lunch
Sorry, Nbook. Ms. DePhillipis caught me. She says, “Oh, have you discovered some hidden depths to the Krebs cycle?”
I say, “No comprendo Eenglees.”
(Just kidding about that last part.)
Study hall
What is with Brendan?
He’s in homeroom. He looks at me. Nods. But he splits at the sound of the bell.
OK, fine, I figure he has something important to do.
Which is too bad. After class, Cece wants to know what happened on the date. As I’m telling her, I feel I could use some moral support.
Then, at lunch, I see Brendan sitting at another table, clear across the room. I look at him. He looks back. Then his eyes dart away.
I don’t get it.
OK, Vargas, calm down. It’s the last week of school. Maybe Brendan just wants to be with his friends before heading off to East Neptune for the summer.
Or maybe he has realized for the first time that I’m Latina.
Maybe they don’t have Mexicans where he grew up in New Jersey.
8:31 P.M.
Remind me not to talk, Nbook. Remind me I shouldn’t open my big mouth to anyone until finals are over.
I can’t believe myself after school today.
I know. I’m a jerk.
I’ll call her.
9:27 P.M.
When I call, Zeke picks up the phone. He says, “Let me see if she wants to speak to you.”
Not a good sign.
Maggie doesn’t pick up for a long time. When she finally does, her voice is like this:
I tell her I’m sorry. I explain that I’m really behind in studying, that I’m still kind of shook up about Friday night, yada yada yada.
When I finish, she says, “I’m really not trying to be part of your family.”
“I know you’re not,” I reply.
“You can come over to my house if you want. We don’t always have to go to yours.”
“Thanks.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“I have to go shopping with Isabel.”
Long, long silence. “OK, fine. ’Bye.”
Now I feel worse. Like I just blew the whole friendship. Like, if I hang up now, it’s adiós amiga.
I need all the friends I can get, Nbook.
So I quickly say, “No, wait. I’ll come over Wednesday. You can coach me on the math.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Maggie replies.
“It’s OK. I want to.”
“Uh-huh. See you then.”
She hates me.
Tuesday, 6/8
Homeroom
Leavitt’s in a bad mood. We’re supposed to be studying. Don’t want him to catch me. Will make this fast.
Bad dreams last night. Again. Woke up at 3 A.M. and couldn’t go back to sleep. The scene outside the theater again—only the girls have changed. They’re Maggie and Sunny and Dawn and Cece and marina.
I try to run away, but I’m pushed back from the other side—by my dear sister, Isabel. She’s telling me I shouldn’t dare run away. I should face up to them.
I’m up shaking until breakfast.
When I finally stagger downstairs for breakfast, Isabel
English
Sorry about that.
Leavitt trouble.
I’m innocently writing and Mr. Leavitt turns around and says, “Writing fan mail to Short Hills?” He calls Brendan “Short Hills” because that’s his hometown (and because that’s the kind of guy Mr. Leavitt is).
Ignore him. Back to Isabel. This morning.
Number 1. She knows I have insomnia.
Number 2. She knows I’ve been having nightmares.
Number 3. She can tell by my face that it’s been a hard night.
So what does she do? (a) Offer to make me breakfast and give me a shoulder rub? (b) Sit me down and say with a smile, “Do you want to talk about it?” or (c) Shake her head and say, “Just remember, they’re laughing right now. They’re waking up all fresh and happy, and they’re saying, ‘What other Latina can we spit on today?’ You can still call the police, you know. It’ll make you feel better.”
(c), of course.
I cannot even answer.
I turn, go back to my room, get dressed, and leave for school. I don’t even say good morning to Mami and Papi.
I’m still furious.
And I’m starving.
Study hall
Where am I, Nbook?
Did I take a wrong turn and end up in some parallel dimension where everyone looks exactly like the people I know but with defective personalities?
I mean, Isabel the Witch Sister is bad enough. But now it’s the Un-Brendan.
Four days ago he’s fun and comfortable and funny. Just about perfect.
Ever since Friday night—when I needed him the most—he’s a pod person. This is his range of reactions to me:
I say hi and he gives me this funny look. I walk to classes with him and he hardly says a word.
I think he’s still my friend. He doesn’t run away or yell at me. He doesn’t seem mad. But what is he thinking? Is he still feeling bad about Friday night? Does he hate me?
What did I do?
After school
Waiting for Isabel…
Am I nuts? Why do I obsess about him? I’M the one I should be obsessing about.
Besides, what’s the point of getting involved with someone who’s about to leave for the whole summer?
A Word from Your Sponsor
Planning a surprise party? Want the world to know about it? Call 1-800-DUCKYISANIDI0T!!!!
Yours foolishly,
Ducky McCrae
/> Sorry about that, Nbook. Don’t worry, we’re alone again. Isabel’s late.
First, an explanation for above:
Roll the time back, to sixth period today. Ducky’s late for gym (as usual, gossiping with Dawn and Sunny too long). He races through the hallway, but some Cro Mag knocks him down accidentally-on-purpose. His books spill all over the place.
Sunny and Dawn rush over to help.
Anyway, they both corner me right after science and tell me what happened. I tell them they should go ahead and have the cruise anyway.
I tell them no, not yet. We say good-bye.
But here’s the weird thing, Nbook. Here’s the thing that makes me think I am seriously disturbed.
As I’m leaving, I’m starting to cry.
I’m feeling jealous.
Maybe it’s just my weird frame of mind. Maybe it’s because my relationships are falling apart all around me. Maybe it’s because those two make such a cute couple.
I mean, they’re perfect together.
SUNNY DUCKY
tough good-natured
insecure level-headed
nice underneath it all nice above all
fun to be with fun to be with
dealing with dealing with Alex’s
mom’s death suicide attempt
OK, so what? Why feel jealous?
Because they have what it takes, Nbook. Not Brendan and me.
Because I’m thinking, maybe he finally woke up and saw how different we are.
If you know what I mean…
Oh, god. Listen to me.
WHERE IS ISABEL?
4:32
In the car now. Going home. How was shopping?
Can.
Barely.
Hold.
My.
Pen.
Wednesday, 6/9
Lunch
Foul mood.
Nothing good to say.
Nothing to say at all.
6:11 P.M.
MAGGIE BLUME IS HISTORY.
I give her the benefit of the doubt. I help her. I take her seriously through all her problems. What does she do for me? Who does she think I am?
Chill, Amalia. Slow down.
OK, Nbook, you want to know what happened? Here’s what happened.
We’re in Maggie’s room, studying. The Great and Powerful Hayden Blume is actually home. Well, sort of. His ear is grafted to a cell phone, so he’s running around the house giving orders to people who aren’t there.
Next thing you know, he’s knocking on Maggie’s door.
He peeks in. Just wants to say hi. And then…
Those are just about the last words we say to each other, Nbook.
And as far as I’m con
9:31 P.M.
Oh, Nbook.
My head is reeling.
I think I am losing it.
Maybe I did lose it already.
First of all, about the last entry—it was Isabel who rudely interrupted us…
What she went through?
She never went through anything, I’m thinking.
At least she never told me.
So I ask her what’s the matter.
“Remember my birthday party last year in San Diego?” she says.
How can I forget? She and her friends went out to a dance—and when she came home she wouldn’t talk to us. She went right to her room and slammed the door.
I thought she was just being snotty. Or she was upset about leaving her boyfriend, Greg, to move here.
It’s more than that.
Nbook, this is so unlike my sister.
Our house was miles from Club Mazatlan. She never told us she’d walked. She never told us a thing.
“Isabel,” I say, “you should have said something.”
My sister’s eyes are moist. “I wish I could go back. If I could do it all over again, I would have made a scene, right in the Cafe´. I would have given them a piece of my mind. I dream about that night all the time. I replay it over and over. Now do you see why I’m bugging you? It’s bad enough to live through something like that—but it was even worse to see my little sister go through the same thing. I just don’t want you to suffer the way I did, Amalia.”
So that’s it, Nbook. That’s why she’s been so impossible. She thinks she’s protecting me.
“Isabel,” I say, “what happened to me was different.”
“In a way. But those girls won, Amalia. They just walked away without paying a price—the way those kids at the Cafe´ won.”
“They didn’t win anything. Someday they will pay.”
“What good will that do us?”
“Isabel, it’s over. It happened. Okay, maybe you could have done something different. Maybe you’re not perfect. Why stay so angry? That’s exactly what they would have wanted. It’s like you’re letting them win.”
“Because they destroyed a piece of me, right in front of my friends. They took away my dignity, same as those girls did to you. It’s too late for me to do anything, but you can fight back—”
“Your dignity is inside you, Isabel. You still have it, no matter what those jerks said.”
“I don’t really believe that,” Isabel snaps, getting up from the bed. “Do you?”
Do I, Nbook?
I say nothing to Isabel as she leaves.
Because I don’t know.
Sleep time
(Right.)
WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?
I see it, Nbook.
It’s clear now.
Yeah, those girls were awful. They took a part of me, turned it inside out, and then left without looking back. And I let them go.
But what exactly did they take with them?
Not Amalia.
I’m still here. Still the same girl.
They took their hate. And it’s still inside them. It’s curdling and rotting away—always hungry, always needing to be fed.
OK, they got away with it this time. But that kind of hunger is never satisfied. It’ll act up again. And someday they’ll pay for it.
I don’t need to hate them back.
I don’t need to feel bitter either. Or sorry for myself.
Those feelings curdle your insides too.
I know what you’re thinking, Nbook: Don’t be stupid. Don’t turn your back to trouble.
I am wiser now. My eyes are wide open. I will sense danger better. I promise.
But I can’t stop living. I can’t stop being me.
What I told Isabel was right, Nbook. I have my dignity.
No one can touch it.
I am not a balloon, dear sister.
My holes heal.
Thursday morning, 6/10
Before school
Homeroom
It’s over, Nbook. It really is. I feel it. Those horrible girls are gone. They’re not floating around in my brain anymore, laughing at me like evil spirits.
It was Isabel who got me through this, really. I mean, not the way she thought she would. Not by badgering me. By opening up—finally—and making me see the answer myself. I guess I helped her as much as she helped me.
That’s what sisters are for, huh, Nbook?
So this morning I feel like a human again. Sunny tells me we’re going to kidnap Dawn to the beach on the Friday after finals (exactly the way Sunny wanted it in the first place)—and I actually feel excited about this.
I have my life again. Which is great.
The life that I have, unfortunately, is a disaster.
Forget about Brendan. I can barely remember what his face looks like, but I know every contour of his back. I’ve seen much more of it than I’d like this week. His brain is probably halfway to Massachusetts already.
I want to talk to him, Nbook. But I don’t know what to say. Why is he so silent? I wish I knew how he felt about me.
I wish I knew how I felt about him.
Maggie? I’ll be lucky if I get the evil eye from her. I may have really blown it with her.
&n
bsp; Time for Project Rescue Me.
OK, Amalia. It’s up to you, girl.
If you want ’em, go get ’em.
English
After hroom I’m talking to Cece in the hallway, when Brendan comes up to me.
CeCe gives me a look and shoots away. Brendan hands me three pages, neatly folded.
I unfold them and see they’re computer-printed in this tiny font. And they begin with “Dear Amalia.”
I say, “What’s this?” Like, I’m supposed to read the whole thing right there? It would take me until lunch.
He fidgets and shrugs. He says it’s an apology for leaving me outside the theater. For not being there when those girls came. For letting me get beaten up.
He’s mad at himself. Embarrassed too, for being so helpless that night. That’s why he hasn’t been talking to me.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. All this time wasted, all this worrying—because of this? Because he blames himself for something that has nothing to do with him? As if he could have made it all right. As if what those girls did—with their bigotry and stupidity—was somehow his responsibility.
All I can think is, what a waste. I mean, we have SO LITTLE TIME before he leaves for camp. I should be furious at him. But you know what? I’m not. I know he means well. And I know he cares about me, in his own weird way. So I say, “Brendan, it’s not your fault.”
“But I was taking you out,” he replies. “I should have taken care of you. Now it’s too late. The damage is done.”
Damage?
“Brendan, you are not my guardian!” I blurt out. “Look, I know how bad you feel. But I was the one who refused to come into the theater. I chose to stay outside, remember? The usher asked me if I wanted to go in—”