The Naked Mole-Rat Letters
Page 1
The Naked Mole-Rat Letters
Mary Amato
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Max and Justine for their comments on the draft. Thanks also to Paul Sherman, Professor of Animal Behavior at Cornell University, for information and insights about naked mole-rats. Any mistakes about the nearly hairless wonders are mine, not his.
Artwork on page 44 by Chris Russo.
Artwork on pages 72, 105, and 229 by Heather Saunders.
Copyright © 2005 by Mary Amato
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com
ISBN 978-0-8234-2449-8 (ebook)w
ISBN 978-0-8234-2680-5 (ebook)r
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Amato, Mary.
The naked mole-rat letters / Mary Amato.— 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: When her father begins a long-distance romance with a
Washington, D.C., zookeeper, twelve-year-old Frankie sends fabricated
email letters to the zookeeper in an attempt to end the relationship.
ISBN 0-8234-1927-4
[1. Honesty—Fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.
3. Email—Fiction. 4. Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.A49165Nak 2005
[Fic]—dc22 2004052317
ISBN 978-0-8234-1927-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-8234-2098-8 (paperback)
In memory of
my mom and Eunice
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 10:00 A.M.
Subject:
Kiss
Dear Robert:
Just a line to say thank you for the wonderful dinner last night. I enjoyed the food, the conversation, and—especially—the kiss. Will our paths cross again?
Hopefully yours,
Ayanna
P.S. You left a small bag of conference brochures by the feeding station. I’ll mail it to you.
Thursday, October 16, 4:05 P.M.
Dear Diary:
I’m practically fainting. Here’s the shocking and horrible news: Dad met somebody named Ayanna and kissed her.
At least I didn’t see the kiss. I read about it in an e-mail and called Beth right away.
“Oh Frankie, maybe your dad will fall in love with her and ask her to marry him,” she said, as if that would be a good thing.
“Beth!” I yelled into the phone. “This is my life we’re talking about here. Not some stupid, romantic TV show. I don’t want a stepmother.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Are you crazy? Do you have any idea what it would mean for some stranger to walk in and take over your whole life?” I listened to the silence on the other end of the line and realized that Beth didn’t have a clue.
“But Frankie, if you got to know her, then she wouldn’t be a stranger and—”
“Forget it, Beth,” I said, and hung up. I’ve never hung up on Beth before, which just goes to show you how upset all this is making me.
I don’t know who Ayanna is or why anybody would have the e-mail name “ratlady.” Dad must have met her on the sorted (sordid?) streets of Washington, D.C. (He went there three days ago for that music conference and is getting back any minute.) I’m sure it’s all a big mistake. This woman just needs to know that their paths will never cross again.
I’m feeling two things at once. I’m horrified to have found this e-mail, and yet I’m glad that I found it before he did. How can a person be horrified and glad at the same time? It’s like drinking something that’s as foul as poison and as fizzy as soda. Well, I’m horrified that Dad would have this little romantic fling, and I’m glad because I can do something to stop it from going any further. Now I know what Ms. Young meant when she said information is power. Reading this secret information both scares me and makes me feel like I could lift a truck with my bare hands. I must act. Without delay.
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 4:16 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Kiss
Ratlady:
I don’t know who you are. But this is just a note to say please don’t bother e-mailing again. My father, Robert Wallop, is extremely busy taking care of us children. Perhaps he did not mention the little fact that he has children. He does. Three. There’s me. I’m in seventh grade, and I don’t require any care, actually. But I have two younger brothers who require constant care on account of their severe, deliberating illnesses. Skip is nine, and Nutter is five. Our real names are Francine, Samuel, and George, but everybody calls us by our nicknames.
Also you should know that my father has several diseases, so kissing him is not a good idea.
Sincerely,
Frankie Wallop
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 4:45 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Kiss
Dear Frankie:
My name is Ayanna Bayo. Please call me Ayanna. Your father and I met here in Washington, D.C. He did talk about you and your brothers, although he failed to mention the debilitating condition of your brothers. I’m sure you’re a big help to the whole family. Has your father arrived home yet?
Curiously,
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 4:50 P.M.
Subject:
My Dad
Ms. Ratlady:
My father probably didn’t mention the condition of my brothers because he is ashamed of them. On account of their many problems, they have very ugly faces, and yet we have to look at them all the time because they require constant care. They drool and have diarrhea every minute of every day. You should be happy you live so far away.
Sincerely,
Frankie Wallop
P.S. My father arrived home, read your e-mail, and mentioned that he simply didn’t have time to reply. Ever. So this is good-bye.
Still Thursday, 10:00 P.M.
Dear Diary:
My cup fizzeth over with joy. I took care of the situation with “speed and a plum,” as Ms. Young used to say. (A plumb? Aplomb?) I erased all the evidence. I’m surprisingly good at all this for someone who is normally so honest. No need to worry anymore about Ratlady.
Dad came home from the airport at five o’clock. I didn’t have time to look at him too closely because he had to take Mrs. Whitehead home. Even though I’m twelve, he doesn’t trust me to baby-sit Skip and Nutter for overnights. Mrs. Whitehead is the new minister’s wife, and she’s about as fun as burned toast. Anyway, when Dad came home and took off his coat, I noticed something suspicious. Usually he looks exactly the same every day of his life. He either wears baggy khaki pants with a Heartstrings T-shirt (which is black) or a Red Beet Ramblers T-shirt (which is maroon). That’s it. He’s big. But he’s not fat. With his curly hair and his bushy beard—reddish, like my hair—he looks like a bear wearing hand-me-downs. Today his beard was trimmed. He was wearing blue jeans and a very hip, new, tie-dyed shirt that said, BE WILD AT THE NATIONAL ZOO.
“Hey, you look cool, Dad,” Nutter said.
“I am cool,” Dad said, and scooped him up in a hug.
It is highly unusual for Dad to actually loo
k cool.
Next we had a very normal dinner. Frozen ravioli. Here’s how it went. . . .
Skip kicked Nutter under the table. Nutter kicked Skip.
“Would you guys knock it off?” Dad asked in his usual highly effective way.
“He started it!” Skip yelled.
“I did not!” Nutter cried.
The menacing cloud that is Skip’s personality settled over his face; and when Dad went into the kitchen for napkins, Skip gave one last kick.
But Nutter, the human squirrel, is way too fast for Skip. Nutter scooted off his chair, which meant that Skip ended up kicking the table’s leg instead of Nutter’s.
This caused a brief tabletop earthquake, and Nutter’s milk tipped over into my lap. Nutter, of course, laughed. The cloud lifted off Skip’s face, and he laughed so hard he fell off his chair. Then Dad came in, and he grinned at Skip and Nutter like they were stand-up comedians. “I guess I don’t need to visit a zoo,” Dad said. “I live in one.”
Nutter hopped back up on his chair, scratched under his arms, and said, “Ooo, ooo, ooo,” in his loudest monkey voice.
They all cracked up, and I sat there, dripping with milk, unable to believe my ears. If I had kicked the table leg and spilled the milk, Dad would have had a screaming fit and grounded me for three months. That’s the injustice of my life.
“Speaking of zoos,” Dad said, “the National Zoo was right down the block from my hotel, so I got you each a souvenir.”
Miracle of miracles. Dad picked out very cool stuff. A stage paint kit for me—a set of special face paints (not babyish) with a guide for creating characters and special effects. Night-vision binoculars for Skip (to go with his spy recorder and digital spy camera). And the cutest little furry backpack in the shape of a koala for Nutter. Right away Nutter put it on and started running around the house making jungle noises. I swear he looks like a little koala carrying around a baby koala on his back. When he is not being annoying, he is beyond cute.
Well it’s bedtime now. When Dad is asleep, I’m going to sneak down to the dining room (that’s where we keep the computer) and make sure Ms. Ratlady has indeed ceased her rootless (frootless? fruitless?) communication. Luckily Dad is not an e-mail person.
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 10:02 P.M.
Subject:
Meeting You
Dear Ayanna:
I’m afraid that it’s too late for me to call, so I thought I’d send a quick note.
I’m happy that my conference was scheduled in the hotel near the zoo.
And I’m glad that I decided to pop over to the zoo on Monday to pick up souvenirs for my kids.
And I’m delighted that it rained, which sent me running into the small mammal house for cover, so that I could literally knock you off your feet. (Sorry about that!)
And I’m thrilled that you agreed to meet me for dinner that first night.
And I’m overjoyed that we were able to spend so much time together during the rest of my stay. (I’m sure I didn’t miss much by ditching the meetings on Wednesday. Hope you didn’t get into trouble for calling in sick!) I can’t tell you how much fun it was.
Yours truly,
Robert
P.S. Thanks for helping to pick out the gifts for my kids. They loved them. At bedtime Nutter wouldn’t take his backpack off, so believe it or not, he’s sleeping with a koala on his back.
Still Thursday, 11:00 P.M.
Dear Diary:
I can’t believe it. While I was writing in here, Dad was sending Ratlady an e-mail! I found it in the sent box. And it’s disgusting. They spent time together, whatever that means. He didn’t even go to his meetings. He doesn’t sound like himself at all. He sounds like someone who swallowed a soap opera.
I thought my heart was going to stop beating when I read it, so I came back to my room to lie down. Obviously drastic measures are required. Should I act now or wait for her next move?
What I really should do is go to bed. I need my sleep. Tomorrow after school is the audition for the school play. The play is The Miracle Worker, and I am dying to play the part of Annie Sullivan. She is the miracle worker of the play because she saves Helen Keller (who can’t see, can’t hear, and hasn’t yet learned to speak) from the depths of darkness and despair by teaching her sign language. She did this by pressing the signs for letters into Helen’s hand. She taught Helen to feel words. It’s a true story. Annie is the most dramatic role in the history of theater, and I just know I’m going to get the part. With my long, red hair and my mature nose, I look exactly like an Annie Sullivan. Well if I don’t get Annie, then I’ll definitely get Helen, which is the other leading role. I like Annie better because she has the most lines. Helen doesn’t really have any because she doesn’t know how to talk.
But if I don’t do something about Ratlady now, then I’ll probably toss and turn in a fretful state of worry all night.
I’m going to act now. As Ms. Young always said, “She who hesitates is lost.”
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 11:16 P.M.
Subject:
Big Mistake
Dear Ratlady:
When my father sent his e-mail, he forgot to mention that he is taking special drugs for allergies that make people say ridiculous things. He is allergic to many things, which makes him annoying to live with because his nose is always full of snot.
Sincerely,
Frankie Wallop
P.S. My brothers and I did not like the gifts from the zoo that you helped pick out. They were silly, or shall I say lucrative? You must not know children at all. Please do not e-mail my father anymore.
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 11:43 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Big Mistake
Dear Frankie:
My, you’re up late. It’s almost midnight in Indiana. The east is one hour ahead of you, so I’m up even later.
I’m sorry that you thought your gifts were ludicrous, but you have to admit it was nice of your father to think of you. You may be right. I might not know children well; I have none of my own. But my friends say that I act like a child! (I take it as a compliment.)
I do know small mammals—particularly naked mole-rats—very well. I am the naked mole-rat keeper at the National Zoo, hence my e-mail nickname: “ratlady.”
Naked mole-rats are wrinkly, nearly hairless creatures that burrow in tunnels underground. Most people think they’re ugly. I’m quite fond of them. Sometimes even ugly creatures prove to be worth loving once you get to know them. Perhaps you feel that way about your brothers?
Sleepily yours,
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 16, 11:50 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Big Mistake
Dear Ratlady:
Indeed I should be in bed, for I have a big audition tomorrow. But the seriousness of this whole episode has caused me much anxiety.
I just want you to know that I am the e-mailer in the family, and I will be checking ALL the messages. My dad won’t let me get my own address yet. “One address is fine for the whole family,” he says. He hates e-mailing for many reasons and only writes to be polite.
Also, you should know that he is allergic to small mammals. He probably didn’t mention this because he was trying to be polite. My brothers, by the way, are not only ugly, but also they’re very cruel to others. There is nothing you can do to change them. They’re genetically mogrified
to be cruel. They especially do not like adult females.
Sincerely,
Frankie Wallop
P.S. This is it. So good-bye for good.
Friday, October 17, 2:15 P.M.
Dear Diary:
I should be running laps around the field right now, but I told my P.E. teacher that I am suffering from agonizing stomach cramps due to the leftover tuna salad I had for lunch. This is a lie. I was afraid that if I told her the truth, she wouldn’t believe me. The truth is that I’m suffering from severe stress, and I’ve had a total of five heart attacks today.
I must have done an excellent job of acting the part of a girl racked with stomach cramps because she sent me to the nurse’s office, where I am now.
I confess that I expected more from a junior high nurse’s office. This is a room with a cot. There isn’t even a nurse in here! Mrs. Willa, the secretary, looked me over and said, “You might as well lie down and do your homework, if you got any. Kill two birds with one stone.”
I do have homework, but I’d rather use my time to chronical (chronicul? chronicle?) the horrible and fateful day that I’ve had thus far. In case you have forgotten, dear Diary, I have the audition of a lifetime in exactly sixty minutes, and my nerves are like sticks of dynamite. If I write about what has happened, then perhaps I can clear my brain before I explode. I will start at the beginning so that I don’t leave anything out.
Early this morning, I was fast asleep in the dark, cozy nest of my bed when I heard a familiar, nuttery voice yell, “CANNON-BALL!”