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

by Ann M. Martin

  You’re driving toward Las Palmas County Park, but you know that Jay and his friends are likely to show up there, so you switch directions and head for the Alta Mira Hills.

  As you approach the lot, Alex suddenly sits forward. “Let’s go rock climbing,” he says.

  You’re so stunned you nearly agree on the spot.

  But you think of all the stuff you NEED for rock climbing, and if you head home to get your pitons and ropes and friction shoes, you’ll be another half hour closer to darkness.

  “It’s kind of late,” you say. “How about just a hike? We can go climbing on Sunday. Mom and Dad are taking Ted and me somewhere tomorrow.”

  “Whatever,” Alex replies.

  The Alta Mira lot is almost empty. You park near the trailhead, and soon you and Alex are hiking up the hill.

  You go side by side, silently, until the path narrows. Then you pull ahead.

  Far ahead. So when he cries out, “Ducky!” you can’t see him.

  You race down, nearly tripping over a root.

  He’s standing in the middle of the path, pointing into the woods.

  A coyote is loping among the bushes, sniffing and poking its snout between the rocks.

  The trace of a smile flickers across Alex’s face. “An earthling,” he says.

  You can’t believe this. He remembers. It’s EXACTLY the kind of stupid thing you used to say as Sirhc and Xela, Alien Life-forms on Their Ever-Recurring Search for Signs of Human Life.

  (YOU WERE NERDS, DUCKY!)

  Now the coyote is walking away with a Snickers wrapper in its mouth. “See how tenderly it cares for its young?” you say.

  Alex lets out a little laughlike exhalation through his nose, and you realize this is the CLOSEST he’s come to expressing an EMOTION in ages.

  You realize the good mood may not last long. This may be an opening.

  D: “Alex?”

  A: “Yeah?”

  D: “So. Feeling better today?”

  A: “Better than what?”

  D [deep breath]: “You seem different. In a GOOD way, I mean. More like YOU.”

  A: “I’m always me.”

  He starts hiking away. You follow.

  D: “You know what I mean. The YOU before—all the stuff happened. The stuff that made you have to go to Dr. Welsch.”

  A: “People change.”

  D: “Alex, just out of curiosity—what do you DO when you stay home from school?”

  A: “Sleep.”

  D: “Don’t you sleep enough at night?”

  A: “I guess not.”

  D: “Because if you did, you would go to school more often.”

  A: “Why should you care about that?”

  D: “Why shouldn’t I?”

  A: “No one else does.”

  D: “Not true. Ms. Krueger does.” [Cringe, shrink, melt—really, REALLY dumb, Ducky.] “I mean A LOT of people probably do.”

  A [turns to look at you]: “Like who? Who else besides you and Ms. Krueger?”

  D: “Your friends. Your teachers. PROBABLY. I mean, it’s a big deal. You could be left back—not that you WOULD, but I wouldn’t be too happy about that—”

  A [holding up his hand]: “Stop, OK? Stop lecturing me.”

  D: “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”

  A: “EVERYBODY lectures me, Ducky. I don’t need you to join in.”

  D: “I’m just trying to be a FRIEND, that’s all—”

  A: “Friends leave you alone. I thought YOU were a friend. You were the only one who let me be, Ducky. Up until now.”

  D: “OK. OK. I’ll stop.”

  Alex walks away. You follow.

  And you feel like a total wimp.

  10:21 P.M.

  Still Wimpy

  After All These Hours

  Sleep.

  That’s what Alex does when he’s cutting school.

  HOW CAN A PERSON SLEEP SO MUCH?

  Does he NEED it? Does he have some kind of weird sleep disorder? Is THAT the problem? Maybe he can’t help staying home from school.

  So go ahead and open your big mouth, Ducky. Tell him how to lead his life. Like you know everything.

  He was just starting to feel better. You could SEE it.

  And you set him back.

  NICE.

  WORK.

  11:47 P.M.

  You’re nuts.

  Alex doesn’t have a sleep disorder.

  YOU’RE the one with the sleep disorder.

  Your mind is so full of nonsense that you can’t think straight.

  You did not say TOO MUCH.

  The truth is, you didn’t say ENOUGH.

  He WANTS you to be silent, he LIKES it because it doesn’t CHALLENGE him, it lets him think: Hey, it’s ALL RIGHT to cut school and flunk out because DUCKY doesn’t mind, HE doesn’t think it’s so bad, and he’s my BEST FRIEND.

  What you did was the OPPOSITE of friendship. You backed down. You apologized. You promised to keep all this to yourself.

  You were afraid to get him angry. You were afraid to let him yell and scream. Maybe he NEEDS to be shaken a little, by someone he TRUSTS. Someone who’s not an authority figure.

  You let him stay right where he was. In a rut.

  THAT’S what you did wrong.

  12:58 A.M.

  But he’s shaky. Unstable. If you yelled at him TOO much, maybe you would push him over the edge.

  1:14

  What’s the difference?

  Either way, you messed up.

  You always mess up. You always choose the wrong thing to do.

  THAT’S what they’ll call the movie of your life:

  DO THE WRONG THING.

  Something A.M.

  WHY CAN’T I SLEEP?

  You know why you can’t sleep.

  You’re an idiot.

  You think you can handle this on your own.

  You can’t.

  TALK to someone. Mom and Dad.

  No. They wouldn’t be any help.

  Or Ted.

  Uh, right.

  Sunny? She has enough problems.

  Maggie’s busy all the time.

  Jay? Ha-ha.

  Maybe Dawn or Amalia. But they hardly KNOW Alex. They don’t need to hear all this.

  Guess what?

  You’re all alone on this one, Ducky boy.

  No one to talk to.

  Just like Alex.

  No, not really.

  Alex has YOU.

  But you don’t have Alex.

  Greetings

  from the State of

  Disbelief

  You can barely open your eyes. The sun is killing you.

  But you have to wash up, eat breakfast, and get dressed.

  Your family outing is about to begin.

  To Disneyland.

  They have GOT to be kidding.

  In the Car

  Don’t know how long you’ll be able to write. Dad’s driving and you forgot to bring Dramamine.

  When you were TWO, you loved Disneyland. SIX. Even TEN. You must have gone there about 7,000 times before you hit your teens.

  It’s not that you HATE the place. You don’t.

  But it’s OLD now.

  YOU’RE old.

  You tried to give them a hint. Subtle little facial clues. Body language. Finally you just said, “Mom, we’re not kids anymore.”

  “Of course not,” Mom said pleasantly. “We wouldn’t leave KIDS home alone while we were in Ghana.”

  Ted called you an old fart. He LOVES the idea.

  Dad said, “Come on, Ducky. For old times’ sake.”

  Then you knew. It’s some kind of retro ironic nostalgia thing.

  You can understand that. Sort of.

  OK, attitude adjustment, McCrae.

  You can do it.

  Yippee.

  Main Street, U.S.A.

  In line for “Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln”

  Ted was the one who suggested this.

  He’s regressing.
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  So’s Dad. When we passed the old fire engine, he called out, “Ducky! Fah-oh tuck!” Like you’d find it SO CUTE to be reminded of what you said as a child, in front of five dozen tourists who are probably wondering what TWO GROWN SONS are doing in Disneyland with their parents.

  You smiled and walked away. You sent him a telepathic anti-humiliation warning.

  You forgot to send them to Ted. Soon you were watching the barbershop quartet and he began SINGING ALONG. Loud.

  While you backed away in horror, Dad egged him on and Mom pulled out her videocamera to RECORD him—all the while telling everyone in earshot about his upcoming show in college.

  Endure, Ducky. Endure. Abe Lincoln had it worse at your age.

  He’s about to tell you how.

  For the hundredth time.

  Waiting outside

  the Enchanted Tiki Room

  Another line.

  Screaming, squirming kids.

  Now Dad is pulling Ping-Pong balls out of his pocket. To do MAGIC TRICKS.

  Why?

  WHY?

  WHY?

  In Which Ducky Eats Humble Pie

  OK, you have to admit it.

  He isn’t bad.

  No David Copperfield, but not bad.

  The kids loved him. They asked for autographs. Their parents took pictures.

  Then he gave you the Ping-Pong balls. So YOU started doing tricks. The way he taught you. What else could you do?

  Hey, it made the wait easier. Always did, even when you were a kid.

  The Enchanted Tiki Room was an anticlimax.

  Maybe they should put some feathers on Dad and make him part of the act.

  The Tale of Wild Woman Mom

  (Written Aboard the Disney Railroad)

  She’s brave. She’s smart. She remembers what EVERYONE likes, and she won’t waver in her path to each ride in the right order. “No, Herb. Ducky hates that ride. We have to go to Frontierland…. Ted has to see the sailing ship. … Save your appetites for the Blue Ribbon Bakery, guys!”

  Not only that, folks, she remembers EVERY event from EVERY family trip. She’ll tell you things you’ve forgotten:

  You once threw a tantrum in the penny arcade.

  A Pluto-teer (or whatever they call those people in Pluto costumes) scared you so badly you shrieked until you fell asleep in your stroller from exhaustion.

  You used to have nightmares about the Pirates of the Caribbean, and for months afterward, anyone with an eye patch made you cry.

  When you mention Haunted Mansion, she says, “Ducky, are you SURE you want to go in there?” As if you’re STILL scared of it.

  Ted’s teasing her.

  That’s OK. Mom’s cool. She can take it.

  She’s got his barbershop quartet singing debut on tape.

  Blackmail is the best revenge.

  Frontierland

  Tom Sawyer Island

  The caves have gotten so much smaller.

  So have the keelboats.

  And you can’t actually steer them with poles.

  Didn’t you used to be able to do that?

  Or did you just imagine it? The way you imagined you were Davy Crockett and Alex was Mike Fink, battling it out on the river?

  Or did Alex play Davy while you were Mike?

  Whatever.

  C U real soon!

  Y? Because we like U…

  And so, the McCraes depart the Kingdom, bellies full, smiles on their faces.

  How was it?

  Weird. Fun.

  Wrong. Right.

  Ted’s happy. He met a girl and got her phone number.

  Mom and Dad left the park holding hands and smiling.

  You didn’t mind it, overall.

  Tomorrowland was a little tough. That was Alex’s fave. Especially Space Mountain. You felt a little guilty that you didn’t ask him to come along.

  But don’t kid yourself.

  He would have said no.

  Besides, this was a family outing.

  You need them once in awhile.

  Sunday

  Writing Fast

  In Alex’s room. Alone.

  He’s in the shower.

  He was supposed to be ready for rock climbing by 9:30. You got here on time. But Mrs. S told you he was asleep. “You go wake him. I can’t.”

  You climbed up here. You knocked and opened the door.

  The smell hit you first. Musty, stuffy, like he hadn’t opened a window in ages.

  You couldn’t believe your eyes.

  Piles of clothes. Scattered papers. Magazines. Empty cups & dishes.

  Pigsty.

  Worse than Ted.

  Alex was never NEAT, but he NEVER used to let things get this bad.

  You woke him up. He seemed surprised to see you. Then he apologized and slouched into the bathroom to get ready.

  You felt sorry for him, so you started to clean up.

  No big deal. A little pile management. Floor liberation.

  A jeans jacket was on the floor, scrunched by the foot of the bed, so you picked it up.

  And a bottle fell out.

  A fifth of vodka. Half empty.

  You bent down to pick it up.

  And you saw another one—totally empty—under his bed.

  You put the jacket back. With the bottle.

  Now what?

  You are freaked.

  Should you TELL him?

  Even though he wants you to LAY OFF?

  WHAT SHOULD YOU

  Alex, Part 2

  At the Monfort Quarry

  Between a Rock and a Hard Place

  Back again.

  Had to stop writing, because you heard the shower turning off.

  You’re alone here for a few minutes. Alex is off to the convenience mart to get some sports drink and trail gorp.

  You hope that’s ALL he’s getting….

  You didn’t write that.

  BAD thing to say, Ducky, about your best friend.

  BUT YOU CAN’T HELP IT. How can you trust him now?

  You try to be close, you open yourself up, you let him confide in you. You ask him what’s wrong—YOU GIVE HIM EVERY CHANCE TO TELL THE TRUTH. And he tells you nothing’s wrong, nothing CONCRETE, it’s depression, he’s dealing with it—when all along, that’s NOT it at all.

  He has a drinking problem.

  And all you can think is, WHY DIDN’T I GUESS THIS? The slurry speech, the tiredness, the depression—it makes sense, because alcohol is a DEPRESSANT, isn’t it?

  Then he walks into the room, his hair still wet from the shower, and you’re sitting on the bed, arms folded like a guilty little kid who’s done something wrong.

  He’s groggy. Yawning. He looks around the room.

  “You cleaned up,” he says.

  “I’d forgotten what color the carpet is.”

  “You didn’t have to clean up. Things will just fall back into a mess.”

  His eyes fix on the jeans jacket.

  Out of the corner of your eye you see that the tip of the bottle is sticking out.

  STUPID. You were too rushed, too careless.

  “You found the bottles,” he says.

  But he sounds calm. Matter-of-fact.

  You stammer and sputter.

  “No big deal,” he says. “I’ve always had them around. Haven’t opened them for ages.”

  You don’t believe him for a minute.

  You didn’t talk about it on the way here.

  But you haven’t stopped thinking.

  Alex makes no sense. You don’t know him anymore. You don’t know what to expect.

  The possibilities?

  1. He WANTED you to find out. He knew that if you came to his house, he’d be asleep and you’d have to wake him up, and once you were in his room you’d see the bottles. It’s his way of crying for help.

  2. He didn’t mean for you to see them. In fact, today’s plan—the rock climbing—is to convince you he doesn’t have a problem anymore. He wants to f
ool you into thinking he’s getting better. Then you won’t BOTHER him so much.

  3. He IS getting better. He HASN’T touched the bottles in a long time. And he wants to go rock climbing.

  4. None of the above. Or parts of all.

  OK, nothing you can do now. Except CLIMB.

  Try to enjoy it. The way you used to. It’s the only athletic thing you and Alex were ever good at.

  Just make sure the ropes are secure and the pitons are tight.

  And TRUST him.

  You have to.

  The rocks are pretty steep.

  One false move, and you could be in serious trouble.

  Sunday Night

  Still Alive

  Alex comes back from the convenience mart.

  You load up the snacks and drinks. You double-check your Polaroid camera to make sure it has film.

  And you start up the rock.

  Right away you know this isn’t going to be easy.

  You’re worried—not about yourself but about Alex.

  You choose your handholds extra carefully. You jam your pitons extra securely. You make the first climb, while Alex waits. You call “On belay!” loud and clear. No room for error.

  Then, when it’s Alex’s turn, you hold on for dear life.

  His.

  And yours.

  One slip, and you bear all the weight. You’re the only one keeping you both anchored to the earth.

  You watch his every move. You try to anticipate every change in direction, every shift of weight.

  Just like life.

  Think about it: You’re holding on for two, never letting up, whether Alex is moving or slipping or standing still. Knowing that whether or not he makes it depends on YOU.

  The difference is, you reach a peak at the end of a climb. You rest.

  You’re bruised and aching and tired. But you feel great.

  And your ropes are intact. Strong, not frayed.

  You wish life were that simple.

  Anyway, you make the climb. You scramble over the crest and help Alex pull himself up.

  You’re exhilarated. You feel INVINCIBLE.

  Alex is taking off his gear. Looking back down the rock.