Diary Two

by Ann M. Martin

  “But your sister is older than you,” I pointed out. “When I’m twenty-one, the baby—who is going to be my half sister or brother—will only be eight. We’re different generations.”

  “It’ll be like you’re her second mother,” Ducky said brightly.

  “I’m thirteen!” I shrieked. “I don’t want to be anybody’s mother—first or second.”

  I turned to Maggie, but she was looking at herself in the store window. I checked myself out too. I looked like your average kid. Straggly blonde hair, a plain white T-shirt tucked in my jeans, a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Maggie looked like a sophisticated kid in a black linen miniskirt, scoop-neck purple T-shirt, blue suede sandals, and a trendy short haircut. Our eyes met in our reflections.

  I was about to tell her how I felt about my dad starting a new family, when she said, “I wish I’d worn my burgundy dress today. It’s more flattering.”

  “You look great!” I told her. (She did.)

  “My stomach sticks out. They’ll think I’m pregnant in that store.” She slapped her stomach like she was angry at it.

  “You do not look pregnant,” Amalia commented.

  “I’m going to lose five pounds,” Maggie said.

  “Five pounds!” I protested. “You look perfect just the way you are.”

  “No I don’t,” Maggie snapped.

  “But Maggie …” I started to say.

  “Thin is in,” said Maggie.

  “She’s right about that,” agreed Ducky. “Most of the models look weak and sort of sickly.”

  “You and I are the same height,” I told her. “If you need to lose five pounds, what do you think about me?”

  Maggie put her left hand around her right wrist. “Look at this,” she said. “Small bones.” Her index finger overlapped her thumb. Next, she put her hand around my wrist. There was no overlapping. “You have larger bones,” she said. “I should weigh a lot less than you do because my bones are smaller.”

  I gave up.

  “Come on. Let’s go to the baby store,” I said.

  I’m worried about Maggie. And I’m disappointed in her as a friend. Anytime I’ve tried to talk to her about my problems, she starts talking about her weight, which is definitely not a problem.

  We went into Baby Boutique.

  “It smells great in here,” Amalia said.

  “Like baby powder,” I added.

  “And look at the shopping carts,” Ducky said as he rolled one toward Maggie. “They’re baby carriages!”

  “Cute,” Maggie commented. “All very cute.” She pushed it toward me. “It’s your baby. You can push it.”

  “It’s not going to be my baby,” I protested.

  I pushed the carriage / shopping cart down the aisle. It was hard to believe that whatever was in Carol’s belly would soon be in a baby carriage.

  “Look at this,” Amalia cooed. “Isn’t it adorable?” She held up the tiniest orange T-shirt I’d ever seen. In purple lettering it announced, “I’m here!” Amalia insisted I should get it for the baby. I told her it was cute—but I figured I’d just stick to what was on the list.

  We were standing at the front desk waiting to check out. The salesclerk was helping a very pregnant woman with her shopping list.

  Amalia was holding up an infant nightie. She laid it against Ducky’s chest. “Imagine, Ducky, you were this tiny once.”

  Ducky wasn’t paying attention. He was looking at the doorway. I saw his expression transform from happy to fearful to annoyed in a split second.

  Two Cro Mags—Marco and Mad Moose—took a few steps into the store.

  “Isn’t that sweet?” said Marco.

  “Ducky and his girls,” said Mad Moose.

  “Just ignore them,” Ducky whispered between clenched teeth.

  “I wonder which one of them is pregnant,” Marco said.

  “Ducky couldn’t be the father,” Mad Moose added.

  “Clear out,” Ducky called to them.

  “Get a life,” added Amalia.

  Mad Moose shouted, “Maybe Ducky’s the one who’s pregnant.” They roared with laughter and finally left.

  Typical Cro Mag humor—not funny and at someone else’s expense.

  “Jerks,” Ducky mumbled. “I can’t believe I used to hang out with some of those guys in sixth grade.”

  I could tell he was upset. He looked at his watch. “I have to pick up Sunny. I’ll be back to get you guys in about an hour.”

  “Great,” said Amalia. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Ducky.”

  “I’m sorry I dragged you in here,” I told him.

  He grinned at me. “I had fun. Don’t let those creeps get you down.”

  Just like Ducky. Worrying about us when he’s the one who’s most hurt.

  Friday night 6/12

  I was nervous while we were waiting for Ducky to pick us up in front of the mall. What if Sunny was with him? What if she had decided to go to the hospital later or not at all? Would I be sitting in the backseat next to her? I didn’t know what I would do or say. Just imagining the scene made me feel angry at Sunny.

  Fortunately, Ducky was alone.

  As we rode along, Amalia and Maggie sang one song after another, so I didn’t notice how quiet Ducky was until after he had dropped them off at Amalia’s house and we were alone in the car.

  I told him I was sorry that I had dragged him to the mall. That if I’d known he had to pick up Sunny I would have taken the bus. He said he drove us because he wanted to come with us.

  “Well, those guys in the store—” I started to say.

  “That’s not what’s bothering me,” he said.

  “Is it Alex?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Then process of elimination tells me it’s Sunny. You’re upset about something she said or did.”

  “It’s all right. Sunny’s upset about her mother.”

  “You should say something to her, Ducky. Don’t let her get away with things.”

  Ducky shrugged. “I don’t want to dump on her.”

  “I don’t want to dump on her either, but I’m not going to be her doormat.”

  “Is that what you think I am?” he asked. “Sunny’s doormat?” I could hear the hurt in his voice, and I felt terrible.

  We pulled up in front of my house. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it that way, Ducky. I just get so frustrated with her.”

  “That’s all right.”

  We were both looking at Sunny’s house.

  “The way Sunny’s been acting has to be harder on you than it is on me. You’ve been friends for so long.”

  I nodded. “And we used to be so close, Ducky. I really miss that closeness.” I put my hand over his arm. “I admire you. You’re so loyal to Alex and Sunny. I just can’t be like that and it’s frustrating.”

  To my surprise, Ducky replied, “Sometimes I do think I’m like a doormat. That I let everyone walk all over me. I could use a good sweep.”

  I told him that he was a good friend to a lot of people, but that he should be a good friend to himself too. Then I said I better go in.

  Neither of us moved.

  “So you’re going to be busy all day tomorrow with the baby’s room,” he said. “It can’t be all that much fun for you. Are you and Carol very close?”

  I told him how immature Carol seems to me. How sometimes we get on each other’s nerves.

  Ducky said that’s pretty normal. I was glad he understood. His one piece of advice was to not let my feelings for Carol (or lack of them) color how I feel about the baby.

  “You must miss talking to Sunny about this stuff,” Ducky observed. “I think you’re angry at her for not being there for you. Just when you need her.”

  I told him I hadn’t thought about it like that. But that I was mostly angry at her because she wouldn’t let me help her. “She’s screwing up all over the place, Ducky.”

  Ducky nodded. “It’s rough. But I predict it will
all work out in time.”

  “Ducky,” I said with a laugh. “You should be a shrink. You would make a great one.”

  “You think so? I was sure my true calling was the taxi business.”

  “You could be Shrink-on-wheels,” I suggested.

  We laughed.

  Ducky helped me carry the packages into the house.

  True Ducky chivalry.

  Noon on Saturday 6/13

  Last night and this morning Dad and I painted the spare bedroom. It is now officially known as The Nursery. The Nursery is across the hall from Dad and Carol’s room. Carol supervised us from her bed while we worked. We painted the walls a pale, pale yellow and the trim bright white. The room glows.

  This afternoon the baby furniture is being delivered. It’s all white. The rocker cushions and curtains are blue-and-white-checkered. The walls look bare, but Carol said as soon as she’s “on her feet” she’ll pick out some artwork for them.

  We ordered pizza for lunch. I paid the delivery guy, then brought a tray with pizza and sodas to Dad and Carol. They didn’t see me come in the room. Dad was lying across the bed with his head on Carol’s belly. She was stroking his hair. He was humming a lullaby to Belly Baby. I felt like I was an intruder. I put the tray on the bureau and turned to leave.

  My dad saw me and sat up. “Aren’t you going to eat with us, Dawn?” he asked.

  “I better study for exams,” I told him. “I’ll eat in my room. Call me when the furniture comes.”

  So here I am, eating pizza and writing in my journal. I’m studying for my math final next.

  I miss studying with Sunny. We used to make snacks, lock ourselves in her room, and not leave until we thought we were ready for the test. We had fun and we got our work done. The new Sunny would never do anything like that. I miss the old Sunny. I wish she would come back.

  Later 6/13

  Fabulous news. Maggie’s dad just gave her three tickets to the Flash concert, and she invited me and Amalia to go with her. We’re sleeping over at Maggie’s house afterward. Maybe Maggie and I can become better friends. I love Flash.

  I am going to get dressed now, try to forget about Sunny, Belly Baby, exams, and Stoneybrook—and have some FUN! At least for one evening …

  At Maggie’s after the concert 6/13

  What a night! The concert was fabulous, extraordinary, GREAT! I’m so wound up I can’t fall asleep.

  Even though there are about a thousand rooms in this house, Amalia and I are sleeping in Maggie’s room. It’s a sleepover, after all. Besides, Maggie’s room is so big the whole eighth grade could stay there. At the moment, though, I’m in the living room (one of them), writing about what happened tonight.

  First of all, we met at Maggie’s.

  “My dad’s still at work and he has the tickets,” Maggie explained. “But Reg drove over to pick them up. He’ll be back for us.” (Reg is the Blumes’ new chauffeur.)

  “I should say hello to your mother,” I told Maggie.

  “She’s by the pool.”

  Before we went out to the pool, Pilar, the Blumes’ maid, offered us fresh-squeezed orange juice. Amalia and I both took a glass.

  “Don’t you want some?” I asked Maggie.

  “I just ate,” she said. “I’m full.”

  Mrs. Blume was sitting on a lounge chair next to another woman, who turned out to be the actor Mel Rand’s wife. Famous people are always hanging out at the Blumes’, so I’m used to it. Amalia, who hasn’t been around the Blumes that long, was very cool about meeting Mrs. Rand, which shows how cool she is. Mrs. Blume loved my dress (borrowed from Carol’s prematernity wardrobe, I must admit) and couldn’t stop raving about Amalia’s hair. “I know a woman who spends two hundred dollars every four weeks to try to have color like that,” she told us.

  Maggie had this frozen smile on her face. She always seems uncomfortable around her mom. And in her fancy house. It’s like she’s embarrassed by everything. Some kids at school think having a lot of money is a big deal. Maggie does not like this. Which I can understand.

  “It’s seven-thirty,” Maggie told us. “We better go.”

  “You girls have some of the best seats in the house,” Maggie’s mother gushed. “Just show your tickets and mention your father’s name, and you won’t have to deal with the crowds.”

  I wonder if Mrs. Blume is one of those people who judge other people by how much money they have.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Blume,” Amalia said.

  “See you later,” I added.

  We headed back to the house. “Have a ball, girls,” Mrs. Blume called after us. “And Maggie, ask Pilar to bring us out another pitcher of gin and tonics.”

  I saw Maggie flinch when her mother said that. I’ve noticed that Mrs. Blume drinks a lot, even during the day. I wonder how much it bothers Maggie.

  Maggie hates being driven around in her dad’s limousine. But I love it. Amalia seemed to be enjoying it too, but she didn’t make a big deal about it. I think she knows how Maggie feels about things.

  Maggie hasn’t actually talked to me about how she feels. That isn’t Maggie’s way. But it’s pretty easy to figure out how she feels about the limo. For example, she asked Reg to drop us off two blocks from the stadium. Which, of course, was because she didn’t want anyone to see her get out of the limo.

  We didn’t try to go in ahead of everybody else. I was glad. Half the fun of a concert is being part of the crowd going in. But I must admit it was great to have seats close to the stage. For two and a half hours I forgot about everything except the music.

  Reg met us where he’d dropped us off. The crowd from the concert had spilled out into the surrounding blocks, so we couldn’t exactly hide the fact that we were getting into a limo. A pack of guys was staring at us.

  One of them shouted, “Take me with you—aw, come on.”

  “Please, pretty please,” added another “We’ll be good.”

  “Right!” shouted a third. “Real good.”

  We ignored them.

  As Reg pulled the car away from the curb, Maggie mumbled, “I hate that my dad makes me use his car.”

  “It must be hard,” I said, glancing at Maggie. But she dropped the subject.

  Mrs. Blume was waiting up for us, or maybe she was waiting for Mr. Blume, who still wasn’t home from work.

  “My father is on a new movie project,” Maggie explained.

  “He’s always on a new movie project,” Mrs. Blume commented.

  She wanted to know all about the concert. But she didn’t seem to listen to what we were saying. I think she had been drinking quite a bit. I kept the conversation rolling until Maggie suggested we get ready for bed.

  “I might as well turn in too,” Mrs. Blume muttered. “There’s food for you girls in the kitchen. Pilar made a late supper for you.”

  Amalia and I ate big helpings of Pilar’s sesame noodles, tofu salad, and blueberry pie. Pilar is a fabulous cook. But all Maggie had was a glass of water, about four strands of sesame noodles, and a few blueberries that she picked out of the pie. “I ate before the concert,” she said.

  “Me too,” I told her. “But that was hours ago.”

  “I don’t like to eat late,” she said.

  End of subject.

  Maggie’s father came home while we were eating. He wanted to know all about the concert and really paid attention to what we said. Amalia and I thanked him for the tickets.

  He turned to Maggie. “When you’re working in my office this summer, Rod Flash will be coming in. He’s doing a number for the sound track for the new film. You’ll meet him. I’ve already told him you’re a musician.”

  “Dad—” Maggie protested.

  He ignored her and kept talking. “I’ll ask him to tell you how he got started in the business and give you a couple of singing lessons.”

  “But Dad,” said Maggie, “I don’t want lessons from him. I like Mrs. Knudsen.”

  Mr. Blume acted like he hadn’t even heard what Maggi
e said. “By the way,” he went on, “have your mother help you pick out some clothes to wear to the office. She knows what to do in that regard.” He laughed. “She should, with the credit card charges she makes.”

  “Dad, I have—” Maggie started to say, but Mr. Blume interrupted her again.

  “I know, I know. You can figure out what to wear all on your own. You’re right. I trust your judgment. But don’t hold back. Get whatever you want. You should look perfect for your first real job.” He stood up and kissed her on the head. “I’m looking forward to showing you the ropes. My chip off the old block.”

  Maggie looked incredibly sad after he left.

  Amalia and I put our dishes in the sink and we all went to Maggie’s room. We didn’t stay up talking. Amalia fell asleep right away. Maggie stayed in the bathroom for a really long time. I noticed she took her journal in with her and I heard her humming quietly to herself. Some soulful tune. I figured she was writing a song.

  When she came out I whispered, “Did you write a new song?”

  She nodded.

  “Sing it for me. I’d love to hear it.”

  “It needs some more work.”

  “Do you want to talk about what happened tonight?” I asked. “In the kitchen.”

  “What about it?”

  “You didn’t seem very excited about working in your father’s office.”

  “Oh, that,” Maggie said. “I’m not really interested in the film business.”

  “Maybe you could tell him that,” I said.

  “It’s no big deal. I’d rather not talk about it.” She got into bed. “Sweet dreams.”

  “’Night, Maggie,” I whispered.

  I’m hurt that Maggie won’t open up to me. Not surprised, really—but still hurt. Sure, I was closer to Sunny than I was to Maggie. But with Sunny out of the picture, I thought Maggie and I would become closer friends. Now that I think about it, Sunny and I were always much closer to each other than to Maggie. I can’t remember that Maggie ever opened up to any of us.

  I’m beginning to think that Maggie isn’t very close to anyone, even Amalia.

  Now I can’t sleep. All the things that were bothering me before the concert have come back one by one. I am going to have to study for exams all day tomorrow. Finals start on Monday. I wish I could talk to Sunny about Maggie. I wish I could talk to Sunny about anything.