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

by Ann M. Martin

  So maybe having a Valentine is unlucky. And the best thing to do is go to school and don’t worry.

  You will not worry.

  You will not worry.

  You will not worry.

  During Homeroom, F the 13

  Tucked into a Looseleaf Notebook

  The place is a zoo, and it’s all my fault.

  Flowers everywhere. Teachers acting like kids. Jason tongue-wrestling with Lisa out in the hallway.

  JAY, not JASON.

  JAY.

  JAY.

  I hate this. You know somebody for years—he’s spent a whole LIFETIME with one name, and all of a sudden BOOM he decides another one is cooler. So now you have to THINK every time you see him, and then you have to call him a name that doesn’t fit, sort of like calling a telephone a toaster—BUT god forbid you don’t, because he’ll get mad at you, and of course it would NEVER OCCUR to him or anyone else to wonder if you mind being called “Ducky,” a name you didn’t CHOOSE, because you’ve always been known by it and besides, it’s better than the name the Cro Mags used to call you, “Bambi”—and hey, CRO MAG is a nickname YOU throw around, but that’s just a DESCRIPTION, because those muscle-head jocks DO act like prehistoric Cro-Magnon cave people—plus, when you think about it, “Ducky” fits anyway because it’s weird and funny and so are you.

  Anyway, congrats, McCrae. You did V day RIGHT this year.

  You did not:

  …Stay home and hide, like you wanted to.

  …Let big brother Ted talk you into a blind date, like the one two years ago with Shelaigh, who wore more makeup than clothing and whose greatest talent was rolling her eyes, tapping her feet, and looking at her watch in three different rhythms.

  …Write every single girl in your class a poetic love note, like you did in seventh grade, causing many of them to gang up against you on the playground and three parents to call Mom & Dad complaining you’d broken their daughters’ hearts.

  …Make Mom a Valentine’s Day card with so much glue that it stuck to the kitchen table and she got mad at you so you flushed the chocolates you were going to give her down the toilet and clogged it up, ruining the whole day for everyone…that was fourth grade, I think.

  Nope, Ducky old boy, you’ve learned the hard way. You don’t need a Special Someone. Today you were EVERYONE ELSE’s Special Someone.

  With style.

  The fake halo made of twist-ties, the bow and arrow slung over your back, the big basket of carnations—brilliant. All that was missing was a marquee out front—“Christopher ‘Ducky’ McCrae IS cupid!”

  The girls LOVED it. Especially Sunny, who planted a big wet one on your lips, then actually threaded the stem of the carnation through her navel ring and flashed it around, until Mr. Dean came out of the office. Dawn put HER flower in her long blonde hair and spun around, doing some folk-dancey thing that made her peasant dress spin out. Maggie kissed hers and said she would write a song about it.

  Giving flowers to the TEACHERS—that was the best idea of all. From the look on Ms. Patterson’s face, expect an A in math this semester.

  Okay, so not EVERYONE was amused. Mr. Dean couldn’t decide whether to throw you out or laugh. And Alex sort of looked right through you (that thousand-yard stare of Alex Snyder). And the Cro Mags, of course, had a field day, grunting and scratching and passing nasty comments to each other. You have to take the good with the bad.

  But here’s another big change. A year ago, McCrae, the Cro Mag comments would have killed you. A year ago, you worried about their opinions. You wanted them to be your friends. HOW many years did it take to realize THEY WERE GOING TO MAKE FUN OF YOU NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRIED TO BE LIKE THEM?

  As if you ever could.

  So…if you can’t join them, do exactly what they hate. Like dance past them, singing “all you need is love,” and toss them a flower—then watch the look on Marco Bardwell’s face the moment after he catches it and realizes his apelike friends are NEVER going to let him live it down.

  Ducky, you may be strange but you are a genius.

  If only JAY hadn’t gotten so bent out of shape. JAY, being one of your oldest friends, should KNOW your sense of humor, but obviously he doesn’t, because he acted like you handed him a dead squid and muttered, “Do you ALWAYS have to make a fool of yourself?”

  Do you?

  Do I?

  Even Later That Afternoon

  In Math Class, to Be Exact

  I.

  I.

  I.

  Why do I call myself “you” all the time? This can’t be normal. Only I don’t know, because to figure out what “normal” is, I’d have to read other people’s journals and I’m not allowed because Vista requires you to keep yours PRIVATE, to “provide you with a personal learning experience,” but it WOULD be nice if you could at least see A LITTLE of someone else’s, because soon the world will be full of Vista students with piles of unread journals and that seems like such a waste of both paper and interesting stories.

  What it boils down to is this: writing “I” is creepy. TOO personal. You feel self-conscious. You worry about how you come across. But with “you,” it’s like you’re another person. It’s just easier, that’s all. It’s easier to be someone else.

  Here comes Ms. Patterson. If she sees this, I’m toast.

  2B cont.

  Home at Last

  Still Depressed

  But Not Toast

  I wish I hadn’t written that.

  The part about being someone else.

  I’ve been thinking about it all day.

  It’s kind of pathetic, in a way. Like you can’t stand being yourself.

  I asked Sunny about this. I asked her if she ever wanted to be someone else.

  She said she always wants to be someone else.

  Which is RIDICULOUS because she’s great exactly the way she is (I told her so), but she just said that if I were in her shoes—if MY mom had cancer, if MY dad spent all his time at the hospital and at his bookstore—I’d be pretty upset too.

  I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth. I shouldn’t have used the word ridiculous. I know the pressure she’s under. I’m the one who found her that night at Venice Beach, alone and scared, dumped by that guy she wanted to run away with. OF COURSE she thinks about being someone else. Her life is no picnic and I WOULDN’T want to be in her shoes.

  But the thing is, even though I’m NOT in her shoes I STILL feel depressed.

  This is a DEEP-INSIDE problem, not a BAD CIRCUMSTANCES problem.

  At least Sunny KNOWS who she is. You can tell by looking at her—the weird hair, the funky layered outfits, the body piercings or magnetic studs or whatever those things are. Even her opinions—loud and clear even when they’re wrong—all of it says THIS IS ME, SUNNY WINSLOW, TOO BAD IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT.

  Dawn’s like that too. She can obsess a little about the environment and global warming and health foods and yada yada, but you always know where she stands.

  And Maggie. Serious, intense, attitude-of-the-month Maggie. Committed punk rebel for awhile, preppy good girl until that wore off, star rock singer after that. Always changing but STRONG, never really DRIFTING.

  Amalia Vargas is another one. Sharp, full of opinions, and so COMMITTED to her artwork.

  They don’t seem three years younger. They’re such personalities. Definite, clear personalities.

  I wish I felt like that. I never know how to be.

  I know how NOT to be. NOT prep. NOT grunge. NOT jock. NOT high-tech nerd.

  Step right up, folks—meet Ducky McCrae, Palo City’s number one NOT! Make your own guess about what he is. EVERYBODY else has an opinion. Choose from the options below:

  A. Sissy wimp girlie man—the Cro Mag perspective, shared by a certain species of vista school male.

  B. Immature stupid little kid—Ted and friends.

  C. Oddball child—Hi, Mom and Dad, wherever you are.

  D. Carefree, mature, laugh riot—Sunny and friend
s.

  E. Not.

  Personally I love D., but it’s just as wrong as A.-C.

  SO…WHAT AM I?

  Defining Ducky

  A Madcap Confessional Romp

  REEL ONE, TAKE ONE

  [Enter Ducky McCrae, a nondescript 16-year-old with a few pimples and nondescript brown hair, wearing nondescript pants and shirt bought from a vintage clothing store. He looks in mirror and sees…nothing.]

  DUCKY: I am…a 16-year-old who hangs out with 13-year-olds.

  “Robbing the cradle.” That’s what JAY called my friendships with Sunny & Co. I didn’t know what it meant, until Ted explained: it’s how you describe someone who’s going out with someone else much younger—which is typical of the way JAY’s mind works, imagining that I’m dating those girls all at the same time…and that they don’t mind. Which not only is wrong but insulting to Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Dawn, because they’re way too smart and independent to let themselves be treated like that. And besides, now that JAY is going Cro Mag on me—and Alex is just fading away and has hardly said two words to me since New Year’s—those three girls ARE becoming my closest friends. Thirteen or not. And that’s that.

  DUCKY: I am…a virtual orphan.

  That is exactly the way I feel. Ducky and Ted’s excellent orphan adventure. No parents, no rules. See the decorative piles of laundry in every room, gathering dust. Admire the food on the walls and floors, the dish sculpture in the sink. The 23 half-full boxes of cereal. The refrigerator full of soda, ice cream, and a carrot left over from last year. Enough to horrify any adult, except technically Ted is an adult, which is a laugh, but somehow his 20-year-oldness makes it legal for Mom & Dad to spend months in Ghana while their sons eat take-out pizza after occasional pathetic attempts at cooking dinner.

  I mean, come on. Whose parents go on extended business trips to GHANA? Or to Qatar, or Abu Dhabi, or Sri Lanka? Can you possibly GET farther away from your children?

  Enough about that. Back to the screenplay.

  DUCKY [Still looking in mirror]: I am…everybody’s best friend.

  According to Sunny, at least.

  And maybe it used to be true. I still have the journal from 6th grade, where I counted my friends and came up with 47.

  Not anymore, though. Not since the Cro Mags started ganging up on me in 8th grade. And Jason became JAY. And Alex became

  What HAS Alex become?

  When I gave him that flower this morning—nothing. No laugh, No wisecrack, no response at all. As if this kind of scene happened every day and he was bored with it.

  Alex the morph.

  This is NOT the Alex I grew up with. It’s as if some alien ship came down and sucked out his soul.

  I stared at him today at lunch, while he wasn’t looking. The same way I used to when we were kids and I’d try to send an ESP message, and most of the time he’d notice I was staring and sometimes he’d even GET the message. And we were convinced we could read each other’s minds, because we always finished each other’s sentences and we liked the same movies and books and CDs and TV shows, and we could look at each other—just look—and both burst out laughing. No one knew why, but WE did, because we’d both be thinking of EXACTLY THE SAME THING. And sometimes at home I’d reach for the phone to call him, and the phone would immediately ring, and it would be him. And we’d talk and talk until Mom would get angry and I’d look at the clock and see that TWO HOURS had gone by and it felt like two minutes.

  And that person is gone gone gone, lost somewhere between 9th and 10th grade, replaced by a total stranger who doesn’t know I’m alive.

  I keep saying to myself, hey, it’s because his parents divorced. But that happened so long ago, and he did seem to bounce back. What’s going on now?

  I wish he’d tell me. He doesn’t seem to actually hate me or anything. He lets me sit with him during lunch. No one else seems to want to sit with him these days—least of all JAY.

  HE’S decided that Alex has totally dropped off the coolness radar or something.

  I thought I had dropped off it too, after this morning. But maybe not. JAY finally apologized to me. I guess when you’re such a jerk so often you learn how to say “I’m sorry.” JAY has always been so good at that. And face it, McCrae, you are such a SUCKER for a good apology. They can hit you over the head, strip you naked, cut off your legs, and gouge out your eyes, but as long as they say, “sorry about that, man,” you forgive them.

  Anyway, JAY was arm in arm with Lisa Bergonzi, who was wearing the wilted carnation behind her left ear. And he said something like, “Yo, Duckster, remember that flower? And what I said and all, about you making a fool of yourself? I didn’t mean to say it. It was just…you know…”

  Dot Dot Dot. What? I just looked at him, waiting for him to go on, but all he said was, “I gave it to Lisa, okay? She really loved it.”

  Lisa smiled and thanked me.

  JAY was looking at me expectantly. I felt like I had to give my approval or something. So I said, “great.”

  Lisa leaned her head on his shoulder. He turned and hugged her, lifting her off her feet. Then they walked away, making out. And I mean deep-kissing. With their eyes closed. While walking. I was SURE they would crash into the glass door, but they didn’t.

  Must be some kind of technique. I wouldn’t know.

  I SHOULD know. It is TOTALLY WEIRD to be 16 and never kissed like that.

  It is TOTALLY WEIRD to hang out with 13-year-olds.

  It is TOTALLY WEIRD to live alone in a big house with your brother and your combined filth.

  Isn’t it?

  Maybe THAT’S the answer to “WHAT AM I?”

  TOTALLY WEIRD.

  [Skies darken. The mirror becomes bluish. Ducky’s face sinks. He looks himself in the eyes.]

  DUCKY: But really, I don’t know what I am.

  Feb. 13

  I Don’t Even Want to Look at the Clock

  I hate this journal.

  Who was Ms. Newell trying to kid back in 8th grade when she said journal writing was good therapy?

  It’s not.

  I feel worse than ever.

  LAST ENTRY.

  END OF JOURNAL.

  Feb. 14, Sat. Morning

  I Lied

  Two phone calls today. Your social calendar is just filling up, McCrae.

  Sunny wants to go to the beach. Actually, she demanded you drive her (and Maggie and Dawn).

  And…

  JAY called.

  He wants to talk. He still feels bad about what he said yesterday morning. Even after his “apology,” he thinks you’re mad at him. (I WONDER where he gets THAT idea?) So you’re supposed to meet him at the Palo City Diner at 6.

  You said you’d get back to him.

  What if it’s a trick? What if he plans to bring along a gang of Cro Mags? He’s VERY tight with them.

  Would he do that?

  People don’t change THAT much, do they?

  Whoa. Ease up.

  You know, McCrae, you are one harsh creature. He DID apologize. He is reaching out to you.

  He is TRYING to be friends again.

  You scribble away in your journal, trashing one of your best friends, calling him a Cro Mag, making fun of him when he tries to say he’s sorry, and what’s he doing?

  Planning ways to make you feel better.

  So Jay’s crude. Big deal. You’ve always known that about him. But he’s always had that big heart too. Imagine if he hadn’t stood up for you back in 7th grade when Sal Mignona was beating you to a pulp. You’d be dead by now.

  Face it. He hasn’t really changed. He’s the same guy you used to like. So what if he’s discovered girls. And hair gel. And cologne. And free weights.

  He’ll get over it.

  Thought of the day: Jay is the opposite of Alex. One has faded. The other has intensified.

  De-Alexation. Ultra-Jasification.

  Too bad they can’t rub off on each other.

  Anyway, you have to stay friends
with both of them. It’s not like the whole sophomore class is breaking down your door to be friends.

  So call Jay back. Tell him you’ll meet him at the diner.

  Besides, consider the alternative. Ted brought home a can of spam and a loaf of day-old Wonder Bread for dinner.

  It’s a no-brainer.

  Sur La Plage

  DUCKY YOU ARE SO PRETENSUOUS! LOVE, SUNNY

  I think the word is “pretentious.”

  IT TAKES 1 to KNOW 1, MAGGIE.

  It’s just French. Okay, here, in English:

  At the Beach

  Are you happy now?

  Dawn wuz here

  That’s a sunset!

  DEPENDS ON THE WAY YOU LOOK AT IT!

  You girls are wild.

  Please keep your suntan oil OFF the page. And your fruit juice!

  I should NOT have brought this PRIVATE! journal to the beach!

  I GET NO RESPECT.

  NEITHER DO I!

  10:00

  Home Alone Again

  I guess Ted ate the spam. It’s gone and so is he.

  Too bad. I’m hungry.

  I did not eat a thing at the diner. I was too shocked by Jay’s STUPID stunt!

  I knew I shouldn’t have gone. I had a bad feeling about it.

  I had the best time at the beach and I NEVER SHOULD HAVE LEFT!

  What kind of “friend” invites you to dinner, making you think you’re going to have a 1-on-1 talk, and then shows up with 2 extra people to make it suddenly 1 on 3, but they’re both girls, 1 of which is Lisa and the other is all dressed up and made up, so it dawns on you (DUH) that it’s really supposed to be 2 on 2 and you’ve been trapped in a blind double date and now there’s no way out?

  WHAT KIND OF SNEAKY JERK OF A FRIEND WOULD DO THAT?

  The friend formerly known as Jason, that’s who.

  And he doesn’t have the decency to let you KNOW IN ADVANCE, so you don’t feel AMBUSHED!

  Emergency. Fight or flight. THAT’S how you feel. And you can’t do either one. You just have to sit there and smile and laugh and nod and wish you were home with Ted and the spam because anything would be better than this, and Jay is running his fingers through his gelled hair all night as if he were plowing a crop, while he talks and talks and talks and talks about—what else?—HIMSELF.