Diary One: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky

by Ann M. Martin

  I’m sitting next to this place that sells fresh-squeezed fruit juices. It smells great. I think I’ll have a “kiwi-pineapple-strawberry-honeydew hi-energy zinger” and lay in the sun.

  What a life.

  I could make a habit of this.

  Friday

  1:17 P.M.

  I stayed way too long. The bus is coming in three minutes. If it’s on time, I can make last period. Maybe.

  At least I’ll be home around the time I always return from school, in case Dad calls. Which he probably won’t.

  Still, I have to go. Or I may stay here forever.

  My life has been changed, big-time.

  I was having a good enough day just hanging out. I swam, I snacked, I even had a long conversation with a cute surfer.

  That would have been fine. I was all set to leave Venice Beach at 11:00, and I would have boarded that bus with a big, satisfied smile on my face.

  I almost did, too.

  But then I met HIM.

  And now I’m floating.

  I was sitting on a bench, brushing off my feet so I could put on my sandals. I could see (and feel) a splinter just under the big toe of my right foot. So I crossed my legs, turned my foot sole-up, and tried to squeeze the splinter out.

  There I sat, in that attractive and flattering position, my face inches away from my throbbing toe, when a guy plopped onto the bench next to me.

  I glanced up and nearly fell over.

  He was cute, but not in a model-y way. Tougher. Strong, chiseled-looking chin, slightly crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken. He had a great tan too. I figured he was eighteen or so.

  His shirt was off, wrapped around his waist, and a green backpack lay on the ground near his legs. As he leaned over to adjust his blades, his wavy black hair fell over his face.

  Which was too bad. Sort of like drawing a curtain over a work of art.

  I let my foot drop to the boardwalk.

  “Splinter?” he asked.

  Great. He’d seen me communing with my toes.

  “Uh…huh-huh-huh,” I began. What was I doing? Agreeing? Laughing? Trying to say an actual word? I have no idea. That’s just what came out.

  “You’re better off sitting on the jetty,” he said.

  Duh, answered my face. At this point, I have no idea why he wasn’t blading away full speed.

  He nodded toward the surf. “Sit on the rocks and dip your foot in the salt water. That’ll wash off the sand and soften the skin. A couple of scratches, and that baby is out of there.”

  “Oh.” I was managing some fully formed words now. “Okay.”

  Now he was looking straight at me—and smiling. Smiling! Why? I hadn’t even given him a hint that I spoke English.

  But I didn’t mind it a bit.

  Some writer once said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I believe it. Anyone who looked into Dawn’s eyes would see her optimism and strength. Catch Ducky’s glance for a second and you think: compassion, sense of humor.

  I was looking through the clearest blue-green window now. The soul inside was speaking loudly. I didn’t understand the words, but I liked the message. I liked it a lot.

  “You ever been out there?” he asked. He was taking off his blades now.

  “Where, the jetty? Sure,” I lied.

  “I haven’t. I don’t live around here.” He tied his blades together, put them in his pack, then stood up and slung the pack over his shoulder. “Come on.”

  He was crossing the boardwalk now, heading toward the beach in the direction of the jetty.

  I glanced over at the bus stop. A bus was pulling away.

  Panic.

  I shook myself. I gave myself a good, quick, mental slap in the face.

  Forget about the bus. Time to grow up. Time to seize the moment and be myself.

  I quickly caught up to the guy.

  Okay, now, I will try to remember our whole conversation. I think I can. My mind sort of tape-recorded it.

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “All over. I was in San Diego for awhile. Las Vegas before that.” He smiled. “I could take only about two days of that.”

  I laughed. “Oh, yeah. I know what you mean.” (Gack. Have I ever been to Vegas? Do alligators fly?)

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Camilla.” I do not know why I said that. I could feel my insides flinch. Must have been my soul talking. “You?”

  “Carson.”

  “Carson what?”

  “Just Carson.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a half-eaten bag of nuts. He threw a few toward an empty section of beach.

  A flock of seagulls swooped down out of nowhere. Some of them grabbed the little morsels and flew off, while the others screeched angrily.

  Carson laughed. “When I was in Texas, some guy hired me to work at the airport. The job was to shoot seagulls, to keep them from getting sucked into jet engines.”

  “Ewww, are you joking?” I said. “You did that?”

  “No way. Soon as I heard the job description, I was out of there. I worked in a bookstore instead.”

  “Really? My dad owns a bookstore.”

  “It’s boring, but you get to read. I wanted to work in the music section, but I was the youngest one there, and everybody thought they could boss me around. So I quit.”

  “So, how old are you?”

  “Closer to birth than death, I hope.”

  “Big help!”

  We were at the jetty now. Carson picked up a flat rock and skimmed it on the surface of the water. “Age is a bad traveling companion.”

  I think that was what he said. Something like that.

  We both walked onto the jetty rocks. The tide was high, so when we sat down, our feet dangled in the water.

  “So you just…wander around,” I said.

  Carson nodded. “Yup. No ties, no lies. I stay where I like, I leave when I’m ready. I work when I need to and live simple. I like it that way. When you’re tied down, you’re always making compromises, you know? I like being totally free.”

  Whoa. Talk about two souls matching. He was taking the words right out of my mind. I liked his philosophy a lot. “I feel the same way,” I said.

  “Most people don’t, even when they say they do,” Carson went on. “I guess I’m just a free spirit.”

  “Me too.”

  “Are you into Kerouac?”

  “What?”

  “Jack Kerouac? On the Road?” He pulled a raggedy paperback out of his pack.

  “Oh, that. Uh, well, sort of, but not lately. I mean, I haven’t looked at it in a long time.” (Like my whole life.)

  “You should read it. That and Catcher in the Rye. Those guys are me. Totally.” I thought he was going to lend me the book, but he put it into his pack again. “How’s the splinter?”

  I raised my foot out of the water. I was about to lift it to look at my toe, when Carson reached down and took my foot in his hand.

  “Sit back,” he said.

  It wasn’t easy finding a comfortable position, but I did. The sun was bright, so I shielded my eyes with my arm.

  I couldn’t see what exactly Carson was doing. I felt a short, sharp pain. Just a twinge.

  “There,” he said. “Done.”

  I sat forward again. I looked at the bottom of my toe as gracefully as I could manage.

  The splinter was gone. Only a faint, straight pink line remained.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem.” Carson grinned and stood up. “Well, see you.”

  “Wait! I mean, you’re going?”

  “New blades. I need to break them in.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Carson began walking back toward the boardwalk.

  “You know, I have some too,” I blurted out, limping after him. “Blades, I mean. At home, though.”

  “Cool,” Carson replied. “You should bring them here.”

  “I will. Maybe we can blade together.”


  “Whatever,” Carson said with a shrug.

  But it was a friendly shrug. And a positive kind of whatever. Although you can’t always tell.

  We didn’t say much more. My foot kind of ached, and he walked fast, so I had to concentrate just to keep up.

  He was already sitting on a bench, putting on his blades, when I reached him.

  A moment later he was on his feet, picking up his backpack. “Watch those splinters,” he said with a smile.

  And that was it. He was off, rocking from side to side as he glided into the crowd.

  But his smile is still with me. I cannot wipe it from my brain.

  It stayed there while I put on my sandals. It stayed there while I looked at the bus schedule.

  And it’s still here, looking over my shoulder, floating in the air like the grin of the Cheshire cat, only better.

  Stayed tuned for Part Two.

  Someday.

  Friday

  8:17 P.M.

  Yuck. Sorry. That stain under the last entry is kung pao sauce. Okay, I’m a total pig. But I’m starving, and I’m being forced to eat takeout Chinese food in my room, alone.

  Well, not forced. I chose to come here. It beats sitting in a living room full of strange grown-ups asking me dumb questions while I’m trying to eat tofu with kung pao sauce.

  I could have picked up some lunch at Venice Beach, but did I? Nooooo. Of all days to forget. The beach wore me out. It’s not like I did anything except meet my match, the absolute coolest guy on the West Coast—

  You are exaggerating, Sunny. You don’t know a thing about him. He is still a stranger. You may never see him again. Get over it.

  Okay, now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I can let my inner self speak.

  I WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN.

  Carson. It’s such a cool name. I wonder what it means. Probably something like “noble warrior” in Welsh. Or maybe something more humble, like “excellent splinter remover.”

  The bad thing about a name like Sunshine is that it has no mystery.

  Anyway, I didn’t finish writing about my trip, so here goes.

  How could I go to school after that? It just didn’t make sense to show up right before the final bell. Besides, it’s easier to make up an excuse for missing a whole day than part of one.

  I was deeply mourning the loss of Carson. But I was also reentering My Real Life, and that fact was making my stomach rumble.

  As I walked up Eldora Road. I was beginning to realize that going to the beach was a major stupid mistake.

  What if Dad had come home? What if Mr. Dean’s office had left a message on our answering machine, asking where I was? What if Dawn or Maggie had called?

  Or all of them?

  What if something had happened to Mom and I was miles, away, playing hooky and talking to total strangers?

  Who did I think I was, anyway, messing up so many people’s lives for a day at the beach?

  I thought that until I walked inside the house. Then I got over it.

  Dad wasn’t home. The answering machine was flashing a big zero. Nothing had happened.

  Which is exactly what I’d predicted.

  I still had plenty of time to help bring Mom home from the hospital. She was supposed to be released at six.

  Dumping my backpack, I ran outside and fetched my bike from the garage.

  As I sped down the driveway, I almost ran into Dawn.

  “Is everything okay?” was her greeting. “When you didn’t show up for dinner at Maggie’s last night, we were all worried that something had happened—you know, with your mom.”

  Ugh. I had totally forgotten Maggie’s dinner invitation.

  I hate having to apologize all the time. But I did, again.

  When Dawn started prying about where I’d been today, I just cut her off. I told her I had to go pick up Mom.

  It was the truth.

  I figure I’ll tell her the rest when I have some more time.

  Like next year.

  Mom was in a great mood when I walked in. She was dressed in her regular clothes and sitting up at the edge of her bed. She gave me a big hug and kiss.

  I was so relieved—one, that nothing bad had happened to her while I’d been gone, and two, that she had no idea I’d cut school.

  “What can I do to help?” I asked.

  “Nothing, honey,” Mom replied. “But that’s sweet of you to ask. Sylvia’s been helping out.”

  “Sylvia?”

  Mom’s eyes darted toward the door. I turned around and saw a well-dressed, silver-haired woman walking in, all smiles. “This must be your daughter!” she exclaimed, extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Sylvia Mattson.”

  “Sylvia is a member of my support group,” Mom explained. “She’s going to drive me home because your dad is—”

  “SURPRI-I-I-ISE!”

  The sudden cry nearly made me jump. Behind Sylvia, five or six other people had popped their heads in the door. They were all grinning.

  Mom clasped her hand to her mouth. She was as shocked as I was.

  One of the new crowd, a middle-aged guy with a shaved head, stepped into the room and said, “We are all taking you home, girl. In style!”

  He swept open the curtains of Mom’s window and gestured outside.

  A stretch limo was waiting at the curb.

  Mom was practically in tears. “You must be joking.”

  The guy with the shaved head raised an eyebrow. “We’re not called a support group for nothing, darling. Now, let’s get you out of here. The driver charges by the minute.”

  The others barged into the room, laughing, hugging Mom, hugging me, hugging each other, chattering away. They all told me their names, but I don’t remember any of them.

  “You’re coming with us, right, Bunny?” asked one of them.

  “Sunny,” I said. “And, uh, no. I brought my bike.” (I had been planning on putting it in the trunk, but I didn’t have to tell them that.)

  Mom seemed happy. She had lots of help. I felt kind of useless. So I kissed her good-bye and left.

  When I arrived home, I ran to the washing machine and shifted the morning wash into the dryer. Then I began putting together a salad for dinner.

  Next thing I knew, Mom and the support group were marching through the front door.

  That was when Mom told me I didn’t need to make a salad. The group had planned to order some Chinese food.

  “But it’s a beautiful salad!” Mrs. Mattson said. “I guarantee it’ll be eaten.”

  I was happy to see Mom. But, to be honest, I had not been expecting Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs for dinner.

  Everybody started yapping away. So I excused myself and went to my room.

  Well, the food came. About 20 cartons’ worth. But when I went downstairs to get some, I decided Mom had joined Overeaters Anonymous by mistake. Almost all the food was gone. Including my salad.

  Mom was sitting in the big armchair, facing the sofa. Someone had placed a few pillows around her. She looked so old and frail. She’d put on her wig, but somehow it made her face look shrunken. Three group members were crowded on the sofa, leaning toward Mom. Others were sitting in chairs they’d pulled up beside her, and a couple sat on the floor at her feet.

  She was surrounded with all kinds of support. Pillows, love, food, friendly faces.

  She wasn’t eating much. Her plate was on the coffee table, an untouched pile of noodles in the center.

  The support group members were a different story. They were inhaling the food.

  I tried to imagine each of them as thin and weak-looking as Mom. They all must have been, at one point.

  Then I tried to picture Mom robust and hungry and energetic, like them.

  That was much harder to do.

  I used to be a positive person. Not anymore.

  Optimism is such a strange thing. It’s like a beautiful ice sculpture on a clear, sunny day. Everything seems perfect, but no matter what you do, the sculpture star
ts to melt.

  I thought about staying downstairs, but everyone was talking about tumors and hospitals and insurance, so I quietly snuck back up to my room.

  Unfortunately, I did not bring enough food. I am actually licking the sauce off the plate. I hope there are no hidden cameras.

  Oh, well, I’ll have a big breakfast tomorrow.

  Good night.

  Saturday 10/25

  10:34 A.M.

  I am on a snack break.

  Yes, today I’m a working girl. Dad asked me to help out at the store. Just odd jobs, like ripping the covers off paperbacks that have to be returned to the publisher (some strange bookstore custom, I guess) and picking up books that kids drop on the floor.

  I’m glad I don’t officially work for Dad. He’s a terrible boss. Doesn’t really tell you what to do, and then, if you don’t do what he had in mind, he yells at you.

  At least that’s what he does to me.

  So right now I’m hiding from him in the Parenting section. I found a book called 20,001 Names for Baby, which gives the definition for every name you could possibly think of. I looked up Carson. It means “son of marsh dwellers.”

  I guess some things are better left unknown.

  Okay, time out for a book review.

  I discovered that Dad carries On the Road in the autobiography section. It’s one of his favorite books, which raises him a notch higher on the coolness meter (and almost makes up for his incredible crankiness today). I can see why Carson likes this book. The author, Jack Kerouac, simply took off with friends, traveled across the country, and had adventures. His style is weird, and you have to read certain paragraphs about four times to understand them. But the language has this incredible rhythm. It hypnotizes you.

  I wish I knew where to find Carson, so we could talk about the book. (And give it an official two thumbs-up.)

  HAVE TO STOP THINKING ABOUT CARSON! BACK TO WORK!

  Oops. A fresh batch of board books has landed on aisle 6. Time to clean up.

  Saturday 10/25

  9:27 P.M.

  I HATE THEM.

  I DON’T CARE WHO READS THIS ANYMORE. I HATE MOM AND DAD, AND THAT’S JUST THE WAY IT IS.

  Saturday