“I should have insisted—”
“And I would have said no to you too. I didn’t have to say yes. I’m my own person.”
Brendan nods. “I—I guess I’m just…concerned about you. That’s all.”
His face is turning red. He’s so uncomfortable.
Not me. I’m not uncomfortable at all now.
Just curious.
“How concerned?” I ask.
He stops fidgeting. I see the deep green of his eyes for the first time in a long while.
“What do you mean?” he asks back.
“You’re going away. Are we supposed to miss each other?”
Brendan smiles. Something else I haven’t seen in awhile. “Well…yeah,” he says.
“So we’re—?”
The bell rings. Brendan goes nowhere, and neither do I. We’re just looking at each other, all alone in the hallway, and I could stay there all day and all night. I’m thinking about plane flights to Massachusetts and composing letters to send beforehand, two a day. And those green eyes are taking me in, that beautiful green, they’re answering my question, making me smile. And even though he was kind of a jerk to me, I realize he really wasn’t. He was confused. So was I. We’re even.
“I guess we are,” Brendan says.
“Yeah.”
He takes my hand.
We fly down the hallway together to first period.
5:21
I see Maggie in the library during study hall. She’s writing like crazy in her spiral notebook. She doesn’t even see me sit at her table.
“Hi,” I say.
She practically jumps out of her seat. She smacks shut the notebook, glares at me, and grunts something that resembles a hello.
“Writing a song?” I ask.
She nods.
Then she picks up the book and calmly walks to another part of the library. A single chair with a desk attached.
I don’t push it.
I see her again later, after school. I follow her outside and ask if we can talk.
“Sure. In the car.”
She walks to the limo. (As usual, it’s parked around the corner—not in front of the school, where other kids might see it.) Reg is holding open the door.
But instead of getting in, Maggie reaches into the bar and pulls out two bottles of liquor. Reg and I are watching her with our jaws open as she walks to the corner.
She dumps them both in a trash can.
As she heads back, I see her eyes are moist.
Silently she gets into the limo, and I follow. Reg closes the door behind us and races around to the driver’s seat.
“What?” Maggie asks. She’s turned away from me.
I almost forget what I was going to say. I’m shocked at what she did, but kind of proud too. I see she’s taking a stand, she’s trying. I want to compliment her, comfort or encourage her—but I don’t. First things first.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “About what I said.”
She doesn’t move for a long time. Finally she just shrugs. “Why be sorry?” she says. “You were right. I was being harsh to my dad.”
I tell her it’s none of my business how she treats her dad. She says it’s none of her business whether or not I take that summer job.
I tell her the job doesn’t really matter. She says I shouldn’t stop living just because of her.
We’re apologizing to each other, but it’s weird, Nbook. It feels like we’re arguing.
I realize I haven’t told her what I really wanted to say. “Maggie,” I say to her back, “I didn’t mean that comment about you wanting to be part of my family.”
Up until now, Maggie’s been looking out the window. Now she sits back. She looks at the floor. “I don’t mean to be a pest.”
I tell her she’s welcome at my house any time. I admit I’ve been a total mess, all wrapped up in my own world. I describe my conversation with Isabel, and my dream.
She looks at me. Finally. Then she pulls a notebook out of her backpack, opens it, and holds it out.
It’s a poem.
The Great Divide
I’m looking for you ’cross the wall that divides us,
A fortress of anger that totally hides us.
Alone in my world, safely apart,
The one sound I hear is the beat of my heart.
I send out a shout, but it’s lost in a cloud:
I’m selfish, I’m sorry, I’m jealous and proud.
I’m lonely and hurt, I’m afraid that I blew it.
Please let me prove I’m a friend, I can do it.
© Maggie Blume
I read it. I want to say something, but I can’t. No words come out, I’m so moved.
“It needs work,” Maggie says. “I’m not finished yet.” Like she needs to apologize. I’m a total basketcase. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. And I realize what an idiot I’ve been. I’ve misread Maggie just as badly as I’d misread Brendan. And Isabel.
“It’s…great,” I say. “I love it, Maggie. I love you.”
That does it. We’re both crying now. Hugging each other in that backseat. I catch a glimpse of Reg’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and they’re smiling.
“I meant what I said, you know,” Maggie finally says. “About that job. You really should take it.”
“Look, if you want to protest that job, for whatever reason, I will too.”
“I just want to work at the animal shelter, that’s all. That’s the real reason I don’t want the movie job—not Dad. He isn’t that awful, you know. Especially if he’s not your dad.”
I smile. Honestly, Nbook, I think a movie job would be way cool.
We sit back and put our arms around each other’s shoulders. It feels great. Like old times.
After awhile, I ask Maggie about those liquor bottles she threw out.
“Mom’s drinking has gotten worse,” she says softly. “I’m tossing away every bottle I find that belongs to the Blume family.”
I feel like such a jerk, Nbook. Here I’ve been so lost in my own problems, I’m not even thinking about hers.
I tell her I’m sorry, but it sounds so feeble.
Maggie nods and looks out the window again. “Dr. Fuentes says I need to come to terms with this. She thinks I need to talk to Mom.”
“Haven’t you already?”
“Sort of. If I even hint at her drinking, she just denies anything’s wrong and yells at me. Then she wobbles away and trips over the couch. I don’t know if I can really talk to her, Amalia.”
“I don’t know if you can afford not to. I would, if I were you.”
I cringe at my own words. I sound like Isabel.
“You don’t have an eating disorder,” Maggie says. “Or a dysfunctional family.”
“But Maggie—”
“They both take a lot of energy. I don’t know if I have enough strength left over.”
I shut my big mouth.
I can’t solve her problems, Nbook. And I sure can’t solve her mom’s.
I can only be me. Me, who will listen and suggest and help. But mostly listen.
I guess there are some things Maggie and I will never understand about each other. And there are some answers we can never give.
But that’s as it should be, isn’t it?
It doesn’t mean we have to stop being friends.
Sunday, 6/13
Hey, Nbook. Remember me? Sorry. I’ve been busy.
I’m still busy.
Just checking in before the slaughter.
Finals tomorrow.
If I flunk, don’t mind the tears.
Monday, 6/14
Finals, Day 1.
Tuesday, 6/15
Only one final today. English.
Don’t ask.
(Oh. Spoke to Ducky. We’re set for Friday. Dawn thinks he’s picking her up to go shopping for her trip. Instead we’ll drive to the beach.)
(Where I can contemplate another year of eighth grade.)
Wed
nesday, 6/16
Home
It’s over.
I’m sweating.
Maggie’s convinced she aced the math and English.
It’s a good thing we’re friends. Otherwise I would have clocked her for saying that.
On the positive side, Isabel says all the party supplies are safe and sound at Simon’s. (His pug, Schweppy, destroyed some of the plastic cutlery, but Simon bought more.) Mami and Papi don’t suspect a thing.
Thursday, 6/17
After school
Mami thinks I’m crazy to rip up my exams. I think I’d be crazy not to. You’re permanent, Nbook. And I want to remember this.
I’m a genius.
What can I tell you?
Friday, 6/18
9:01 P.M.
I have the best friends.
We swing by Dawn’s house. We’re in our bathing suits, with stupid birthday hats and noisemakers. We make a huge racket. She’s actually mad when she answers the door. But Ducky wraps her in a beach towel and says, “Take ’er aboard, mateys!” She’s screaming and laughing all the way to the beach, and we’re singing “Happy Birthday” a hundred times at the top of our lungs.
Sunny has bought Dawn a bathing suit for her birthday, so she changes at the beach. We’ve prepared a huge picnic, which Ducky has put in the trunk—but when he opens it the cake has fallen over and the icing is melted. It’s a total disaster but no one cares.
The day flies by—laughter and swimming and volleyball and boy-watching and all the good stuff. The beach is swarming with other kids.
And you’ll never guess what happens, Nbook.
I see one of the girls.
It’s not the one who spat, but it doesn’t matter. I still recognize her. She’s with a bunch of friends. I don’t know if she recognizes me at all. Our eyes don’t meet. (Frankly I don’t even know if she’d remember me even if she did spot me.)
For a moment, part of me wants to go up to her. I don’t want to spit, or punch her, or scream and yell. I have the urge to walk past her with my friends, call out “Buenos di´as!” in my most cheerful voice, and move on. That’s all.
But the moment passes. Honestly, I’m having too good a time to think about her.
Why spoil it, Nbook?
Why ever spoil it?
Saturday, 6/19
So, so late
My head is spinning. I have been DANCING DANCING DANCING. The party is still going on. I don’t think it will ever end.
Oh, Nbook, if you could just see them. Scrawny Hector has become the most handsome man in the world—and can he rhumba! Cristina is so-o-o perfect for him, so glamorous and warm and beautiful.
And guess what—she’s going to have a baby! (YEEAHH! Another cousin to play with Santos and Aurorita!) And Nelson brought his 12-string guitar and Ti´o Luis’s voice just gets better with age, and Abuela Aurora bought me the most amazing outfit. I’m wearing the skirt, can you feel this material? And o-o-o-oh, my little cousins are so cute but destructive!
Not to mention Isabel—dear Isabel.
**I love my sister.**
Nbook, I solemnly promise I shall no longer mock her. (Well, at least for another week.) She arranged to get Mami and Papi out of the house. She forced Simon Big Tooth Lover Boy to bring the party goods here on time. While I designed the decor, she did most of the grunt work. AND she remembered to invite Brendan, whom I hadn’t even thought of inviting because my head has been so screwed up over these last weeks.
Anyway, all the relatives arrived here just fine—the flight, the rental car, every-thing was perfect—and I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY’RE HERE. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH! Am I making sense? I’m not making sense.
WHO CARES?
Sorry, Nbook, I haven’t seen them in ages.
Dear Abuela, she can barely keep from crying. I know she speaks English, but she talks to me only in Spanish, telling me how proud she is of me, folding up a dollar bill in my hand—just the way she did when I was a little girl.
I try to fill her in on our move, the town, school. My Spanish is not great, but she listens patiently, stopping to ask questions. At one point she leans over to me and tells me I’m a good girl. I’ve never forgotten who I am.
I feel myself choking up. I throw my arms around her and start to cry. If she notices, she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. She just pats my back and says Ah, bueno.
I’m crying because she’s wrong. I have forgotten. Big time.
I forgot who I was on that Friday night outside the cineplex. After those girls got ahold of me, I thought I was nothing.
It’s so easy to lose who you are, Nbook, and so hard to get it back. I guess you don’t question your identity until you have to. You figure, hey, you’re born with it so nothing can affect it.
But that’s not true, is it? It’s more fragile than you think. When it runs and hides, you have to go and fetch it. You have to let it prove how tough it really is.
Someday maybe I’ll tell Abuela about what happened. She’ll know what I went through. She’s been through every-thing and she’s risen above it all.
So has Ti´o Luis. And Papi and Mami. And just about everyone in my family, in their own ways.
I must have gotten the ability from somewhere.
That’s the thing. In a way, I am Abuela. I’m Mami too, and Cristina and Nelson and Aurorita and Ti´o Luis. I’m also my great-grandfather the farmer, my other abuela who crossed into the U.S. with nothing but a work visa and Papi in a baby blanket.
All the generations—all the dancing and music and thought and love—it’s all me. Without them, I don’t exist.
Does that make sense, Nbook? Because I see it so clearly. No person is alone. Everyone’s part of something bigger. Something that came before. Something that has gathered strength over the years, resulting in the person you are.
Nobody can take any of that away. Ever.
So I enjoy the music. I watch my friends having a good time. I dance with Brendan and he tells me how much he loves my family.
He tells me he’ll miss me too. I know I’ll miss him. It’s hard to believe he’s leaving in three days. And that I’ll start work on Maggie’s dad’s film in three weeks.
The summer’s coming up fast.
Life will go on.
I’ll go on.
But right now, it’s just Vargases at the house. Everyone else has gone home. So in the meantime, maybe one more dance before bed. Maybe two.
See you.
Ducky: Diary Three
California Diaries
Ann M. Martin
The author gratefully acknowledges
Nola Thacker
for her help in
preparing this manuscript.
Contents
Aug. 15
Aug. 16
Aug. 20
Aug. 21
Aug. 22
Aug. 23
Aug. 24
Aug. 25
Aug. 26
Aug. 27
Aug. 28
Aug. 29
Sept. 4
Aug. 15
Work. Work. Work.
Or,
The True Story Of Ducky
You’re complaining about work.
Work is good. Work is not being at home counting the half-full (half-empty) cereal boxes that line the counters of our kitchen.
Cereal boxes are a big decorating item in your house since Ted has suddenly decided to eat most of his meals at the college caf. This is so he doesn’t have to wash dishes.
Lately, Ted seems to feel overextended when he has to rinse out a cereal bowl and load it into the dishwasher.
You believe, almost, that if you had a dog, Ted would put all plates and utensils down for the dog to lick clean. Then…
No. You malign him, Ducky.
He wouldn’t really put them back on the shelf.
He’d just stack them in the sink.
But enough about Ted. Enough about life on the take-out menu.
Let’s
talk about…
You.
Me.
Work.
Work is BEING IN CHARGE.
Okay. So you’re not in charge of the bookstore exactly. But Mr. W is out at the moment and only you and Sunny are here.
Process of elimination: Boss gone.
Person (or persons) in charge: Sunny (boss’s daughter). And/or Ducky.
No, let’s call you Christopher for the mo. Sounds more bosslike.
Christopher. (Boss’s daughter’s best friend.)
Are you? Are you, Christopher “Ducky” McCrae, the bf of Sunny Winslow?
Too much. You don’t need the pressure of figuring it out. Why define something that doesn’t need defining?
Why overanalyze everything?
Okay. The boss’s daughter is your very good, close personal friend. You feel comfortable with that.
Right now Sunny is organizing the impulse purchases around the cash register—all the little, cute, not-too-high-ticket items that you can point out to customers as you ring up their purchases. Or if they are truly good customers, they pick ’em up themselves and say, “This is sooo cute,” and toss ’em in with the other books.
You do not think little tiny books are cute.
You have (TRUE CONFESSIONS) never used a bookmark in your life. Seasonally themed pens—the kind with Dracula painted on them or whatever—are NOT A FASHION STATEMENT, in your opinion.
But hey, whatever.
Sunny looks up, sees you looking, and smiles.
She knows how you feel about the impulse items.
She herself likes them.
A strong woman with a mind of her own.
Incoming customer.
D: May I help you?
IC: No. Thanks.
D: Well, let me know if I can.
IC: Right.
Sunny passes you with a big box. She puts it down next to the front display window and opens it. She peers in.
You peer in.
You get a shock.