Time to go. Details at seven.
Thursday night
I was wrong. Details at 10:44.
It’s been a long night, and I am wired. Also totally, totally creeped out.
But first things first.
Okay, where was I? Oh, yes, back to the john.
I closed my journal, waded through the secondhand smoke, and walked back to math class—just as the period was ending. (Perfect timing!)
The Whale, of course, was not done with me. As I picked up my books and left, she called me over to her desk.
“Sunny,” she said, “you’ll be a lot happier if you stick to the work, believe me.”
This was sounding familiar.
“If you just put your thoughts in order,” she went on, “math can be simple and predictable.”
Yeah, and if I click my heels three times, I’ll go to Kansas. I hate the Whale. I don’t know how I kept my cool. But I did. I thanked her and left.
I didn’t scream until I was around the corner.
Unfortunately, Ducky was there, and he got it full blast in the left ear.
“Yeeow!” he said.
“Put your thoughts in order?” I yelled. “That’s easy for her to say! All she has to do is come to school and put kids to sleep every day. And she gets paid for it!”
Ducky was staring at me with this weird expression. Like, What did I do to deserve this?
I don’t blame him. I mean, I barely know him. The first time we met was when he drove Dawn, Maggie, and me home from that party—and I nearly puked all over his car.
“Sunny?” he said.
“Grown-ups can be so stupid,” I barreled on. “Don’t any of them remember what it was like to be a kid?”
“Whoa, what happened? Why are you so angry?”
Got a few hours? I wanted to say.
I was not, however, going to mention Mom’s lump, which I wasn’t even supposed to know about. Not in the middle of the hallway of Vista to a guy I hardly even knew.
Then I looked up at Ducky.
He was giving me this concerned look. But friendly concerned, not phony like Mr. Dean.
“I mean, hey, you don’t have to tell me,” he said with a smile. “I’ll walk you to your locker?”
I don’t know why, but I just calmed right down. Something about that expression. Or maybe it’s just his face in general. It’s so open.
Ducky has great eyes. Really large and dark and beautiful. Which, I guess, is why some of the older guys call him Bambi. When they’re not quacking at him or making fun of his clothes.
I don’t know how he puts up with those jerks. Guys are so weird. It’s like, when they reach a certain age, they have to drop their sense of humor and forget about style. Today, for instance. 90 percent of the guys showed up in T-shirts with flannel shirts over them. It’s like, the uniform. Ducky? A bowling shirt, cool sneakers, and green overdyed jeans. More guys should do that.
And more should learn how to listen, like Ducky was doing.
“Just…stressed out, I guess,” I replied. “I didn’t sleep too great last night.”
Ducky nodded, and we both started heading toward the lockers. “You know what I do?” he said. “Force my eyes open. That way, you’re not fighting your body. You’re faking it out. It wants to stay awake? Fine. Stare at a point on your ceiling. Just stare. In five or ten minutes, guaranteed, your eyes are closing like iron doors.”
We turned the corner near our section of lockers. Dawn and Maggie were already there, gabbing away.
Maggie was looking very future-veterinarian-of-America. Dawn, of course, looked like…Dawn—a peasant blouse and jeans, Doc Martens. Her long blonde hair was gathered at the top in a French braid.
“You have lockers together?” Ducky asked with a grin. “So I can, like, bother you all at once?”
“Oh, hi, Ducky,” Maggie said as if she’d known him for years. “I guess I can invite you over tonight too.”
“Invite?” Ducky and I both asked at the same time as I headed for my locker.
“Dad has a rough video edit of Fatal Judgment,” Maggie explained, “this upcoming thriller? He brought home from the studio? We have to promise not to talk about it, though—otherwise we could get sued or something.”
“Cool,” Ducky said.
I must have been in a fog. I was not really listening to the conversation. I was thinking about the Whale’s class and my visit to Mr. Dean’s office—and I was really glad the day was over.
Dawn walked home with me. On the way, I told her what had happened with the Whale.
“You didn’t!” she cried out. “Sunny, you’re all wound up. You need a vacation in some faraway place.”
“Venus might be nice.”
“Have you tried meditating?”
I mean, really. I just burst out laughing. Dawn didn’t look too pleased.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I’ve tried it. It stops all your bad thoughts. You know, sometimes it’s not easy having a stepmother like Carol—”
At least Carol is healthy, I didn’t say.
Mom and Dad’s old photo albums popped into my mind. The hippie pictures. The old, painted Volkswagens, the fringed bell-bottoms, the peace signs, the summer in the Buddhist retreat—everything seems so quaint and cute. Mom must have weighed about 90 pounds. (Actually, she’s probably close to that now, but she looks much different.) And Dad, with his long, kinky hair past his shoulders, and a chestful of beads. What was their favorite pastime back then? Meditation.
“That’s something my parents used to do,” I said. “It didn’t help them.”
“How do you know?” Dawn replied. “Your parents are two of the nicest, most centered people I know.”
“Yeah, centered on themselves,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
That was nasty.
But it felt good to say it.
Later Thursday night
I thought I was sleepy.
Wrong again.
Just as well. I never did finish writing about tonight, and I have to. I still feel so weird about what happened.
Okay. Back to where I left off. Meditation. I was trying to take Dawn’s advice seriously as I walked inside the house. My thoughts were so sour, my brain was about to curdle.
As I reached into the mailbox, I pretended my mind was a big blackboard. On it were all the images of the day—Ms. Whalen, Mr. Dean, the smoke in the bathroom. I took a big mental eraser and began wiping from right to left.
Stop…all…thoughts.
I started feeling blank. Empty.
Not exactly exciting, but better than being depressed.
As I opened the front door, I glanced at the mail.
A hospital bill, with the word urgent stamped on the front. (Bing! I thought of Mom, lying on the hospital bed.)
A big envelope from Dad’s HMO. (I imagined Dad arguing over the phone about insurance.)
A catalog from Alfredo Puccini Wigs and Hair Design. (I pictured Mom trying on an ugly wig like the one on the cover.)
A letter from a wills and estates lawyer. (I don’t even want to mention what that brought to mind.)
Meditation? Right. Not in this lifetime.
I stepped into the front hallway and dropped the mail on the end table, right next to the answering machine.
It was blinking “1,” so I pressed the Playback button.
“Sunny?” Dad’s voice said urgently. “Call me at work, as soon as you get in.”
Click.
That was it. No good-bye, no nothing.
Something was wrong. Something he couldn’t talk about.
My heart was racing. I picked up the receiver and pressed the Autodial button for the bookstore.
“Winslow Books,” Dad’s voice said.
“Is Mom all right?” The words flew out of my mouth.
“Hi, Sunny! Can you hold a moment?” Click.
Just like that. I’m practically passing out, and he puts me
on hold. I nearly screamed.
Click. “Sorry, Sunny, it’s crazy here. The good news is, Mom’s coming home tomorrow. At six P.M.”
“You mean…the lump…?”
Ugh. I wanted to swallow the words right back down. Dad had never told me about the lump. Now he knew I’d been eavesdropping.
“Benign, thank goodness,” Dad replied, “and easily treated. Not to worry. Now the bad news.”
I braced myself.
“The fridge is empty,” Dad went on, “and I’m going to be stuck here until at least eleven. So could you pick up a few groceries at Leo’s? You know, stuff Mom can eat when she arrives home. Tell Leo to bill it, okay?”
“Sure,” I muttered. “’Bye.”
I hung up the phone and slumped against the wall.
I was sweating. My heartbeat was going like a tom-tom. As I let the news sink in, I began calming down.
Mom was going to be all right. For now.
Then I began to be mad at Dad. He couldn’t have left a more detailed message on the machine so I wouldn’t worry? He had to turn me into a stress case—over what? A piece of good news and a shopping list?
And why hadn’t he cared that I’d eavesdropped? That bothered me. Wasn’t I important enough to be angry at?
In that fabulous mood, I went on my shopping trip.
Of course, I had to buy too much to fit in my backpack. Leo scowled at me when I returned some of it. (I don’t know why he was so angry. I was the one who had to lug it home on a bike.)
I was starving when I arrived. I helped myself to a dinner of bruised fruits and vegetables.
I’d barely started eating when the bleeping of the phone nearly made me jump out of my skin. I cannot get used to Dad’s habit of turning the kitchen phone ringer on high whenever Mom is in the hospital.
I grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Sunny!” Mom said. “Um, I guess you couldn’t make it?”
Oh my God.
I’d promised Mom I would visit. And then what did I do? Totally forget.
Duh.
What a fool.
I apologized about a thousand times. I could tell Mom was hurt, but she kept on insisting it was okay. “I’ll be coming home tomorrow, after all,” she reminded me.
“I’ll help bring you back,” I insisted.
“Great,” Mom replied. “You’ll meet my support group.” She went on about them for awhile, about how they’d all survived cancer and gone on to lead normal lives. That was encouraging, I guess.
Then, just as Mom was going to hang up, she let go of the big one. “Oh! I almost forgot. How did you like the little surprise on your dresser?”
“Uh, what surprise?”
“I asked your dad to leave it there today. I meant to give it to you before I left—”
“I haven’t been upstairs yet. Hang on. I’ll check.”
I ran up to my room. Sitting in the middle of my dresser was an ancient gift box.
I took off the top and pulled out another box. This one had a hinged top and was made of dark wood, with music notes carved into the sides. I opened it and a lullaby began tinkling. I kind of recognized it, but it sounded as if some of the notes were missing. Inside the box, a tiny porcelain ballerina twirled jerkily. Her tutu was yellowed with age, and some of her facial features were missing.
My first thought was: Mom is losing it. I mean, I might have enjoyed this when I was four or five.
My second thought was: Dad made a mistake and put the wrong thing on my dresser.
I went into Mom and Dad’s room and picked up the phone extension. “A music box?” I said.
“I know, it’s corny—”
“No! It’s just that—well, I’m just not sure why you gave it to me.”
“It’s an heirloom,” Mom explained. “My grandma left it to me. It may be valuable. I figured you should have it.”
“Mo-om, that’s the kind of thing you do when you’re about to—” I almost said die. But I stopped myself. “When you’re about to have grandchildren or something.”
Mom laughed. “Oh, well. Save it for them.”
We talked awhile longer, then said good night.
I walked back to my room and set the music box on my dresser.
An heirloom. The word was spinning around in my head. It still is. How can Mom be thinking of heirlooms?
Stop…all…thoughts.
It doesn’t work. Writing the words down doesn’t even help.
After the phone call, I walked downstairs. My appetite was practically gone. I nibbled on some carrots and made a small salad, but that was about it.
I read a little, watched a little TV, and went to bed early. And now here I am, still wide awake.
The light is casting weird shadows. On my dresser, the music box looks about three feet tall.
There. I just put it in the closet, behind my shoe boxes on the top shelf. I feel better now.
The trouble is, I’m still wide awake.
Maybe I’ll take Ducky’s advice.
Just keep my eyes open and stare at the ceiling.
Friday 10/24
10:00 A.M.
It worked. After about two hours of staring.
I am fed up.
I am washed out.
I cannot face another day of trying to stay awake at school.
So I won’t. I am going to do something for ME. Something I deserve.
I am about to take myself on a trip.
It all started this morning, when I couldn’t get out of bed. I smelled the coffee Dad was making downstairs, I heard him call out my name, I heard the radio blasting.
But. I. Could. Not. Move.
I finally woke up when I heard Dawn’s voice outside my window, saying good-bye to her parents as she was leaving for school.
School.
Hackett. Whalen. Dean.
The idea made me sick.
I stumbled to my closet and opened the door.
What a pathetic sight. It looked like a rack at the thrift shop after a busy day.
I realized no one had done laundry in ages.
Duh. Had I expected the clothes to clean themselves? Dad was too busy, Mom was in the hospital. I should have thought of it myself.
I went to the bathroom hamper and grabbed an armful of clothes. I staggered downstairs, threw them in the washing machine, and turned it to the quickest setting.
To get to school by 8:40, I’d have to fly.
As I fixed myself breakfast, I flipped on the radio and heard the weather report.
Bright. Temperatures near 90. Good air quality. The last thing the announcer said was, “The surf’s up, dudes!”
That was when I had my idea.
A vacation.
No big deal. Just a half day away from school, away from Dad and all the stress.
The sun would feel great. The water would be nice and warm. I would be ALONE!
And I wouldn’t have to wait for the laundry. All my bathing suits were clean.
I had to do it. Had to.
Okay, I’d miss some classes. But big deal. In homeroom, Mr. Leavitt never does anything except read the newspaper aloud anyway. And Ms. Carter’s at some conference, so there would be a sub for first period. And then study hall, followed by gym…
No one would even notice I was gone. This was great.
How far was the beach by bus? It couldn’t be too far. Amy and Barry Clay take the trip all the time to visit their dad at his concession stand there.
And I knew for a fact that the buses run all day.
I ran upstairs and changed into a bathing suit. I managed to find an old Disneyland T-shirt and a pair of ripped shorts. I put them on over the suit, loaded all my money into my pocket, and headed back downstairs.
The washer was still going. No problem. I’d finish up after school.
I took my backpack, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and got ready to leave.
Now I am at the bus shelter, sitting on the bench. I’m feeling a l
ittle weird about this. I keep thinking some big van with truant officers will squeal around the corner to pick me up.
Do truant officers exist anymore? I doubt it.
Well, just in case, I’m wearing my big, floppy hat and sunglasses. Frankly, I think I look pretty cool. I can always pretend I’m someone else. Call myself Angelica or Camilla or something.
Palo what? Sunny who?
For today, that world and that person don’t exist.
I am free.
Friday
8:31 A.M.
Am on the bus now. Have decided not to go to Palo City Beach.
I realized Mr. Clay will be there. Even if I stay away from his concession stand, he might see me. And he might recognize me. Even with my disguise.
Second, what if one of my surfer buddies sees me? What if Ms. Carter really didn’t have to go to a conference, and she’s out soaking up rays?
It’s just too big of a risk.
So I’ve decided to stay on the bus until the end of the line: Venice Beach.
I can’t remember how far that is. I know it’s near L.A., around the Santa Monica area.
On the plus side, I’m sure no one there will recognize me. On the minus side, it may take forever to get there.
Oh, well, if it does, I’ll just stay on the bus and come back. No big deal.
Friday
10:17 A.M.
Venice Beach!
I have been here about a half hour. Just walking.
It’s weird to be here in the middle of a school day. Not one familiar face. No one calling to me. No one telling me where to go or what to do.
I am scared out of my mind.
I am having the time of my life.
Venice Beach is so peaceful. The surf’s calm, so the water is dotted with bathers lying on their boards, waiting. To my right, a few people are trying to fly kites. To my left, some weight lifters are working out in an outdoor, penned-in area on the sand. Most of them are guys. I can’t stop staring at their bods. Their necks are the size of tree trunks. Their pecs look as if they’re carved out of stone.
A little way down the boardwalk, someone has set up a boom box. Bladers are whizzing by at blinding speed, turning, dancing, leaping. I can’t believe some of the bathing suits. They show practically everything.
Diary One: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Page 11