Diary One

by Ann M. Martin

  Sometimes I think I’m the only eighth-grader at Vista who tries to have any fun at all. Which is totally ironic, considering my frame of mind. I think the move turned everyone into zombies.

  Including Maggie, who used to be so cool. That’s ancient history. She refused to cut math with me today. And she was so freaked out when I had my navel pierced. Dawn was too, but I kind of expected that. (Jill, of course, almost fainted, which makes it so much fun to flash my ring at her in the school hallways.)

  I don’t know why I even bother trying to show signs of life. Nobody appreciates it. Everybody is mad at me for something. It’s not just Dawn and Maggie, either. Dad’s being a pain too. He keeps telling me I should be more serious. And all my teachers think I’m a slacker.

  I know. I should start wearing plaid wool skirts, stop painting my fingernails black, join the math club, and discuss global politics at lunch. I mean, life is hard enough. PEOPLE SHOULD LIGHTEN UP, in my humble opinion.

  I just yawned. That’s a good sign.

  I am boring myself to sleep.

  Just as well. My fingers are starting to hurt. I have never written this much in my life.

  Wednesday morning 10/22

  I just read what I wrote yesterday.

  I’m glad I’m not my friend. I would drive me crazy.

  Mom and Dad just passed by on their way downstairs to breakfast. Mom was yelling at Dad for not holding onto her enough. She seems so angry.

  Well, she’s allowed. She’s allowed to be mad at the world. I would be, if I had lung cancer. (Actually, I am mad, at the tobacco companies.)

  She’s also depressed about going to the hospital. For two days she has not worn her wig. She says she’s too tired to put it on. She wears a kerchief instead, to cover her thinning hair. She says it will all grow back when the chemotherapy ends. I can’t wait. Not that the hair matters. I mean, I’d take Mom bald and bearded if she were healthy again. It’s just that not wearing a wig seems like some kind of signal. As if Mom is starting to give up.

  Maybe I’m thinking about it too much. Maybe she is just tired. Besides, wearing that wig must be like having a thick old hat on all day. Would I do it? No way. Kerchiefs for me, baby.

  Wednesday 10/22

  12:09 P.M.

  Have I mentioned I hate public buses?

  I HATE PUBLIC BUSES!!!!!!!

  There. I mentioned it.

  I am on one right now, going to visit Mom in the hospital. The driver is evil. Just to annoy us riders, he is aiming for every single pothole on Naranja Boulevard. I think he wants to get us all sick.

  It’s lunch period. I should be sitting in the air-conditioned cafeteria of Vista with all the other eighth-graders. Instead, I’m sweating like a pig, bouncing down the street on a public roller coaster as I sit behind a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt eating a tuna salad sandwich. A lot of it is actually on the shirt, blending in nicely with the design. Why does tuna taste so good but smell so awful?

  Here’s the hospital. Got to go.

  Wednesday afternoon

  I’m in social studies now. Mr. Hackett thinks I am writing a report on federal elections. I will, later.

  NOTE TO ME—WATCH ELECTION VIDEO TONITE!!!!

  But I can’t think about politics now. I have to write about what’s important.

  I had the weirdest hospital visit. I am still recovering from it.

  First of all, as I walked in, the receptionist was doing a crossword puzzle. When I said “Winslow,” she must have thought I was giving her a clue, because she kept on writing. I practically had to yell in her ear to get her attention.

  After that start, I was sent off through about 5 miles of corridors. They build a new wing in that hospital every week, just to torment visitors. I love walking around in public places, staring into rooms full of sick strangers, with Duh all over my face.

  Anyway, when I got to Mom’s room, she wasn’t there.

  Her bed was empty. Dad was sitting next to it, with the phone cradled to his ear. He was practically hysterical. “What do you mean, they’ve already started digging?” he yelled.

  Digging?

  I almost fell over. I mean, my knees were actually weak. I guess hearing that question, and seeing Mom’s empty bed, and my crazy frame of mind—it all made me think that

  I don’t even want to write what I thought. It’s too morbid.

  I sat in a green vinyl chair next to the bed and tried to look calm, while I listened to Dad arguing with someone who was not me (for a change).

  The “digging” was no big deal. Well, I guess it was for Dad. A new bookstore’s planning to open a couple of blocks away from his. Some bulldozers are digging a foundation.

  Dad was stressing about how the competition was going to “ruin him.” I know I should have been concerned too, but I wasn’t. I was there to see Mom.

  When the orderly finally wheeled her in, she was smiling.

  Here’s the weird thing. Smiles are supposed to make you feel good, right? Well, I took one look at Mom’s expression and almost burst into tears. I was so shocked, I actually gasped.

  Great, Sunny. Really suave. I mean imagine how she felt. It’s like having someone look at your face and cry out, “EWWWWW!”

  But I COULDN’T HELP IT. Mom looked terrible. Like a time-lapse image of herself growing older before my eyes. How did she get age spots on her scalp? She’s only 42! And what happened to her arms? They used to be so thick and muscley from all those years of pottery. Now the skin sort of sags off them.

  I mean, I saw her at home only this morning. She didn’t look nearly as bad then.

  Am I overreacting? I must have been overreacting. The fluorescent lights in the hospital are harsh. (Even my skin looked a little green.) Plus Mom was not wearing any makeup—or a wig or kerchief, for that matter. I’m still not used to seeing Mom totally natural like that. And she’s been sick.

  Still, seeing her smile was depressing. Like watching a flower trying to grow through the wreckage of an old building. (Not that Mom looks like an old building. I just mean—oh, I know what I mean. WHY AM I MAKING EXCUSES TO MYSELF?)

  Mom could tell right away I was upset. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “Just hay fever.”

  I mean, ridiculous excuse or what?

  Anyway, the orderly, Dad, and I helped Mom into bed. She tried to wave us all off. She said she was feeling much better, “strong as an ox.” I noticed for the first time a big plate of fruit on her night table, but she hadn’t touched it.

  “Shouldn’t you eat, Mom?” I asked.

  “I will,” she said. But she didn’t. Instead, she asked Dad about the store. Since he didn’t want to upset her, he pretended everything was fine, nervously picking at the fruit plate. Since he’s such a bad actor, Mom kept saying, “No, really, Paul, are you sure?” while Dad kept trying to change the topic.

  I felt like a piece of furniture. I didn’t know what to say. So I just sat there.

  My eyes kept wandering over to the fruit plate. My stomach began rumbling.

  Then I thought about lunch. And I glanced at my watch.

  I nearly jumped out of my seat. Lunch period was over. I didn’t mind, but I was afraid Mom would freak.

  “Uh, I have to go!” I blurted out.

  “Oh, dear,” Mom said. “I’m keeping you from school.”

  “No, I kept myself!” I said, edging to the door. “I mean, I wanted to. I’m glad I visited. But I have to—”

  “Do they still have truant officers these days?” Dad asked. I mean, come on.

  “I can write your teacher a note,” Mom said, reaching for her glasses on the night table.

  “That’s okay. Really.” I was already in the open doorway. Holding the doorknob. Racing away from Mom, having said barely a word to her.

  Some visit. I felt so guilty.

  “I’ll come back,” I vowed. “Tomorrow. After school.”

  Zoom. I ran down the hallway.


  I almost collided with Dr. Merwin, who was bustling around the corner. He didn’t even notice me. His face was buried in a manila folder.

  I watched him stride into Mom’s room. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow,” he said softly. “I, uh, have the latest radiology report.”

  Forget lunch. Something was up. I had to hear this. I tiptoed back to the room and stood just outside the door.

  “As you can see here,” Dr. Merwin’s voice rumbled to the sound of rustling papers, “The spread seems to be holding firm, and the lungs are clearing. All good news.”

  Hope, hope hope…

  “But,” he continued, “as you suspected, we are showing a lump of some sort in the region of the clavicle.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mom murmured.

  “What kind of lump?” Dad asked.

  “We’ll do a biopsy,” Dr. Merwin replied. “It is not in a zone we usually consider suspect, but we need to check it out anyway…”

  That was all I could stand to hear. I bolted away.

  A lump. Mom has another lump.

  I should never, never be optimistic.

  Hope is a disease.

  Wednesday night

  Why are all my teachers dorks?

  While I was writing that last entry, Mr. Hackett was peering over my shoulder. I looked up and there he was, with his cheesy grin and his nostril hairs hanging out. He nearly scared me to death.

  “So, Sunny,” he said cheerfully, “what discoveries have you made about the relevance of the electoral college in the modern political process?”

  Or something like that.

  I pulled myself together. “What college?” I asked.

  I thought that was a reasonable question, but Janice Branford started snickering behind me. Her shadow, Dustin Schmidt, joined in, along with one or two others.

  “Electoral,” Mr. Hackett said dryly. “You know, what we’ve been talking about for the last half hour?”

  “Oh, that college!” I blurted out. “Sure. I mean, I think it’s very important to teach the voters…about who’s running and all.”

  Mr. Hackett was not pleased. “Please stay after class, would you, Sunny?”

  More snickering. All from behind me. (People are so brave when you can’t see them.)

  I was furious. But it was near the end of class, so I had no chance to get back at anyone. I stayed after and Mr. Hackett gave me a lecture about paying attention. He said he was “concerned about my level of participation.” He didn’t give me a chance to speak for the longest time. Finally he asked, “Why were you late, anyway?”

  “My mom is dying of cancer,” I said, “and I had to visit her in the hospital.”

  As if he didn’t know, I thought. I mean, he had just snooped in my personal journal.

  But he looked as if I’d just punched him. The color drained from his face. “Oh, my…” he said. “I—I knew she was sick, but I…Well, I can see how you’d be distracted, of course.”

  “Yeah,” I murmured.

  Mr. Hackett stood up. Now he had this soft, pitying, super concerned expression. “Well. If I can, uh, be of any help…”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I rose from my chair and left.

  I took the long way to math, past the gym, where fewer people would see me.

  I was mortified. Absolutely mortified. Dying of cancer? How could I have said those words? How could I have used Mom like that? La-di-da, just another convenient alibi, right up there with “my dog ate my homework” and “I had a stomachache.”

  AAAAAAGH!

  Stupid. I am so stupid.

  I just know Mr. Hackett’s going to want a family conference. And in the meantime, he’s going to blab to all the other teachers about what I said.

  That is the last thing I need. I know the teachers are aware that Mom’s sick, but none of them knows how bad she really is.

  And how bad is she? I don’t even know. One day she looks well, the next she’s weak and frail. The treatments are strengthened, the treatments are weakened. One night she’s coughing and wheezing, the next she sleeps like a baby.

  I don’t mind confiding in Dawn or Maggie, but I don’t want the whole school asking questions. Or looking at me as if I’m some helpless, pitiful soul.

  This is not a public affair.

  Honestly, I am so sick of all this.

  I AM SICK OF…

  Hospital visits.

  Hair in the sink.

  Medicines all over the house.

  Know-it-all doctors who are always wrong.

  Running out to the drugstore all the time.

  Not being able to leave home on weekends because Mom can’t travel.

  Visitors who act as if they’re paying last respects and cry as they drive away in the car.

  I DO NOT NEED THIS.

  If I keep my chin up and act happy, I feel guilty. If I worry too much, I lose sleep.

  I need to get away, do something fun. But can I? No. Our big trip to Lake Tahoe, which we planned for months? Postponed when Mom got sick. My big blowout party at our house for all my friends? Canceled.

  “We have to put things on hold,” Dad says, “until we know more about Mom. Just be patient.”

  Well, that’s easy for him to say. He has the store. It’s his life.

  But hello, what about MY life? I’m supposed to have one too.

  I feel as if someone is standing over me with a remote, pressing the Pause button.

  I keep waiting for things to get back to normal. But sometimes I think that’s a stupid idea. I don’t know what normal is anymore. When I think of the future, my mind turns into soup. Will Dad and I move to a smaller house? Will he totally freak out? Will he start dating? Will I have to take a job in his store, or learn to do the bills and make dinners the way Mom does?

  Honestly, sometimes I wish Mom would just go ahead and die so we can get on with everything.

  Oh my lord.

  I wrote that. I really did.

  Are you happy now, Sunny?

  What is wrong with me? I sound like such a spoiled, stupid little girl.

  I think I will burn this journal. Burn it and destroy my horrible thoughts with it.

  Thousands of people survive cancer. Maybe millions. What about that article in the paper today about the actor who survived—and he’s now touring the country with a one-man show about his life! Not to mention Dawn’s article about the holistic doctor who’s helped people go into remission, using medicine, herbs, and positive thinking.

  Positive thinking. That’s the important thing. It builds up energy. Kind of a force field of healthfulness. Dawn believes that is absolutely true.

  MOM

  WILL

  NOT

  DIE.

  I know it. I know it. I know it.

  I have to go to sleep.

  My brain is a mess.

  Thursday afternoon 10/23

  Writing this on the fly. Well, on the john, actually. Not on it, in the usual sense. Just sitting here, with the stall door shut, trying to have some privacy between classes.

  Some dweeb is actually smoking near the sink. In order to write down the news of the day with a little privacy, I have to sit here and risk lung cancer.

  (This is one thing I do not like about the shift of the eighth grade into the high school building this year: a lot more kids who smell like ashtrays and think they’re way cool. Yum.)

  Okay. I have to say this:

  MATH BITES!!!

  Now I feel better. I have cleared the air. The smoke doesn’t bother me as much.

  I was mad at Ms. Whalen today.

  First of all, if she weren’t such a boring teacher, maybe I would pay attention in class. I tried, but I almost fell asleep. So instead, I read a Newsweek article about cancer remission rates. It was filled with graphs and numbers and statistics. I was actually learning a lot of math.

  But the Whale had to be sarcastic. When she saw what I was reading she said something like, “Since you’re smart enough to ac
tually bypass my lesson plan, perhaps you can share with us the definition of a tangent.”

  So I told her, “Just go to any beach. You’ll find tons of them.” I mean, it was a harmless joke. Tan gent. Nobody even got it.

  Except for the Whale, who told me I could practice my “stand-up routine” in the principal’s office.

  I was kind of proud of myself. Getting out of the Whale’s class is like escaping prison.

  Not that Mr. Dean’s office is exactly fun.

  I was kind of expecting him to give me a big angry lecture. But he did something worse.

  He walked in with a tight, closemouthed smile, his eyebrows tenting upward into his creased forehead. I am beginning to recognize this look. The “I feel your pain” look.

  “Sunshine,” he said in a soft voice (I wonder if he knows how much I hate people calling me by my full name), “if anything’s troubling you—”

  “I goofed off in Ms. Whalen’s class,” I explained.

  “Yes, I know,” Mr. Dean said with a chuckle. “Well, I realize Ms. Whalen can be a bit intense—”

  “I was reading a Newsweek article.”

  “I see. You know, at times of great stress, we all feel the need to escape. But in the long run, we reap the greatest benefit by going on with our lives, sticking to our tasks, trying to give our all. Despite the onset of personal tragedy…”

  “She’s not dead yet, Mr. Dean,” I snapped.

  Mr. Dean’s smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Can I go now?”

  Somehow I knew he wouldn’t yell at me. For a moment, his eyes had an angry glare, but then it disappeared. “Uh, well, sure, Sunshine. If you’re ready. But I just want you to know, I am here for you if you need to talk about…anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  I was out of there like a shot. I walked into the front hallway and looked at the sports trophy case. I wandered down to the cafeteria. I went to the bathroom. And here I am.

  Time to go. Details at seven.