Diary One

by Ann M. Martin

  “Please understand, I’m just thinking of what’s best for you, Maggie,” he said.

  It must have been hard for Dad to admit all that. I guess I was seeing him in a new light.

  He wants to be the best, but he knows he’s not. He works hard and assumes the worst is going to happen. He gets totally frantic when things go wrong.

  None of which makes him easy to live with.

  “I guess I understand,” I told him. “But—”

  Dad smiled and stood up. “I knew you’d come around. Maybe your friend can make a video of the Battle of the Bands. And if you really love singing rock songs, you and I can go shopping for some karaoke tapes after the premiere, okay?”

  My stomach sank.

  Here I was, going overboard to understand him, and he’d totally misread me. Interrupted me too.

  As he walked out, I just said, “Sure, Dad.”

  And I meant it.

  If he wants to buy me karaoke tapes, fine.

  I did not say I’d go to the screening.

  Friday

  11:03 P.M.

  Am I nuts?

  Who am I trying to kid?

  He’s my father.

  He’s been there for me my whole life.

  Okay, he has a temper. He gets a little crazy. But he’s human and he cares about me.

  He expects me to go.

  I should go.

  Besides, I told him, “Sure.”

  I can’t just turn my back.

  Why is my life so difficult?

  Saturday, 11/22

  8:37 P.M.

  This morning James called. He wanted to change the rehearsal time from 1:00 to 2:00.

  I knew just what to say. I formed the words in my head: James, I have to quit.

  “James,” I began.

  I couldn’t do it.

  Not over the phone. It was too impersonal.

  I had to tell the group face-to-face. As painful as it might be.

  So I said okay.

  Which meant I had the whole morning to worry.

  “Hey, how are the golden pipes?” James asked as I walked in.

  “Fine,” I replied absently.

  But I was thinking about Dad. About how I’d given him a compromise. About how I’d arranged to be at the party AND do what I wanted to do.

  About how I’d been reasonable, and he’d said no.

  And I came to the conclusion that he simply does not want me to have a life.

  “Okay, let’s set up!” Rico was calling out. “We don’t have all day!”

  The words I needed to say— “I quit”—were sliding further and further back into my mind.

  I sang through “Hook Shot.” I learned a couple of other tunes that we ran through about 10 times each.

  James is an incredibly tough boss. We didn’t break for almost two hours. My throat felt like raw hamburger.

  Finally Mr. Chavez brought out some snacks and drinks.

  As Amalia and I ate and chatted, James and Rico were heatedly talking about “Fallen Angel.”

  Rico was convinced Vanish should use it in the set at Backstreet. James was gently trying to tell him that the lyrics weren’t good enough.

  Amalia nudged me. “Didn’t you write lyrics?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said quietly, “but don’t—”

  Amalia turned to James and said, “Try Maggie’s words.”

  I felt like melting into the floor. I was mortified. I mean, I barely knew Rico and I was already changing his song.

  James asked me to write out my version. My hands were shaking when I did it.

  Now I knew I wouldn’t have to quit.

  I’d be fired.

  I was too nervous to stand around while James, Rico, Bruce, and Patti read the sheet. I wandered over to the keyboard and started playing softly.

  I played around with the chords for “Hey, Down There,” trying to fix the bridge. Of course, to do that, I had to sing along.

  I guess I must have been concentrating hard. Because I made it all the way to the end of the song without stopping. And when I reached it, I realized I wasn’t singing softly anymore.

  I also realized no one had said a word to me the whole time.

  They were all standing around the keyboard, staring at me.

  Suddenly I felt clammy and nervous. I stood up quickly and apologized for playing on and on.

  “It’s okay,” Rico mumbled.

  He was giving me this strange look. They all were, even Amalia.

  “I know, I shouldn’t have changed the words,” I said. “I wasn’t going to show you.”

  “Words?” James asked.

  “To ‘Fallen Angel,’” I reminded him.

  “We love those words,” Rico said. “They’re a hundred times better than mine. But what was that song you just played?”

  “Just one of mine,” I replied. “It’s nothing.”

  Amalia shook her head. “It’s not nothing,” she said softly.

  James asked me if I would mind playing it again.

  Anything was better than standing there with my hands dangling. I sat back down and played the intro.

  As I began the verse, I heard a gentle, steady beat. I glanced over and saw Patti at the drum set.

  Bruce was setting up too, and he joined in with a low, thumping bass line.

  Soon James and Rico were strumming guitars.

  Suddenly “Hey, Down There” was a song.

  My words, my melody—they sounded so real.

  When we reached the last verse, I sat back and closed my eyes. I tried not to think about how my voice sounded. I just thought about the words and what they meant to me.

  As the final chord faded into silence, I could see Amalia standing by the garage door with Mr. Chavez.

  No one said anything for awhile.

  James was the first to speak. “You know,” he said, “we were wrong to make you our backup singer.”

  I swallowed hard. This was it. I knew it. They’d been humoring me. Letting me play my stupid composition before letting me go. “I’m—”

  Sorry, I was about to say. But James cut me off. “We should have made you our lead singer.”

  “Amen,” Mr. Chavez called out. “No offense, Rico.”

  Rico was beaming. “Does this mean I don’t have to do vocals anymore?”

  I wanted to scream.

  I wanted to dance on the keyboard.

  I wanted to lift up everyone and fly around the garage together.

  But I’m me.

  I just said thank you and had another snack.

  One thing I did not do was quit.

  I just couldn’t.

  Not after one of the happiest moments of my life.

  Saturday

  I just met

  A great girl

  I want you all to know.

  You may not

  Recognize her

  So just say hello.

  She’s dancing

  On starlight.

  She’s spinning round and round.

  Please don’t try

  To catch her,

  Her feet can’t touch the ground.

  Just put on

  Dark glasses.

  You’ll need them for awhile.

  Don’t try to

  Remove them;

  She’ll blind you with her smile.

  Come closer,

  I’ll tell you

  Just who this is about.

  I’ll bet you

  Have guessed it.

  As if there were a doubt.

  © Maggie Blume

  Saturday

  10:03 P.M.

  I will never, ever show that song to another soul.

  It’s conceited.

  It’s self-centered.

  It’s foolish.

  It’s exactly how I feel.

  Sunday 11/23

  10:11 A.M.

  I’ve done it.

  This is brilliant.

  I just talked to Ducky on the ph
one. I hardly know him, but he seems okay. Sort of on all the time, but you get used to that. He has a great sense of humor. Anyway, he and I came up with a perfect plan.

  I will go to the premiere with Mom and Dad. Before the screening begins, I will mix with the people in the theater hallway.

  Then, just when the place is at its most jam-packed, I will sneak out. Ducky will be waiting for me in the getaway car. We will zip over to Backstreet in time for the Battle of the Bands. Then, after Vanish’s turn, Ducky will drive me back in time for the party.

  I love it.

  It’s like something out of one of Dad’s films.

  Sunday 11/23

  5:25 P.M.

  I was so excited about my plan today, I forgot one major missing ingredient.

  I realized this when Mom took me and Zeke into Beverly Hills today. We went shopping on Rodeo Drive, supposedly for outfits for the premiere. Mom’s personal shopper at Federico Boutique found her this long gold lamé gown with dropped shoulders. Then Mom made me try on some outfits. Every single one made me look about 40 years old.

  I was wearing some frilly thing, staring at myself in the mirror, when it hit me.

  I needed a Look.

  A real, thought-out Look. Not just ordinary, everyday Maggie-wear.

  Punk. Grunge. Retro. Something.

  I quickly changed back into my street clothes. I told Mom not to buy me a new outfit. I’d wear something I had in my closet. Zeke was bored and cranky. He said he’d go in his underwear.

  Finally he wore Mom down. On our way to the car we passed by this new clothing store that had all kinds of funky outfits in the window. Mom kind of sniffed and said, “I am so glad you don’t dress like that anymore.”

  But I did see something I liked a lot. It was a seventies-style tight striped rayon dress. Very retro and very cool.

  I asked Mom about it. She just gave me the eye and said, “Maggie, don’t make trouble.”

  Oh, well. I couldn’t wear it anyway. I am way too fat.

  Tomorrow I’ll start my diet.

  Monday 11/24

  10:09 P.M.

  Can’t write much. Tired. Tons of homework. Social studies test tomorrow. I will not say I’m going to flunk it.

  I will not worry.

  Tuesday 11/25

  9:40 P.M.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  I was wrong last night.

  I should have worried.

  A lot.

  My test was awful. A nightmare. I don’t even want to write about it.

  Everything Dad said about joining a rock band is true.

  It is taking over my life. Today, before homeroom, James appeared at my locker to tell me about our next rehearsal. This afternoon.

  At the same time as my piano lesson.

  Did I put my foot down? Did I tell James I had to play a Beethoven sonata for Olivia Knudsen?

  No. I mumbled something about a prior family commitment.

  Dawn was giving me her best honesty-is-the-best-policy look. Sunny was staring at James, her jaw practically scraping the ground, as if he were an Elvis sighting. Ducky, who was hanging out with us, just looked confused.

  “Can you come late at least?” James asked.

  “Uh, um, uh,” I replied.

  “I can drive you,” Ducky volunteered.

  Later on, that is exactly what he did (after a dreadful piano lesson).

  It was easy to sneak out. Mom was in deep conversation with Pilar in the kitchen. I think Pilar may come back to work.

  When Ducky and I arrived at Rico’s, the whole group looked played-out and tired. James was throwing a tantrum, ranting about how they’d never be ready in only one week.

  One week.

  I knew I was to blame. I’d ruined the rehearsal by being late.

  I quickly grabbed my tambourine. The band started playing “Fallen Angel.” I tried to sing, but my voice was constricted and weak.

  By the end of rehearsal, I wanted to cry. But I held back my tears while we agreed on a rehearsal schedule.

  Now I’m committed to tomorrow, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.

  Five days out of six. I get Thanksgiving off. (Thanksgiving—I haven’t even thought about it!) I don’t know how I’m going to do this.

  I was a nervous wreck when I got home. Mom nonchalantly asked where I’d been. I nonchalantly mumbled something about a We Kids Club meeting.

  She totally fell for it. Despite the fact that the We Kids Club has been practically defunct for ages.

  What is happening to me?

  I’m useless.

  I can’t sing.

  I can’t keep up my grades.

  And I’m a liar.

  I might as well fall asleep and not wake up.

  Tuesday

  11:34 P.M.

  Slow down,

  Way down.

  What goes round

  Comes round.

  Dry your eyes,

  Clear your mind

  You just gotta take it

  One day at a time.

  Years from now

  What’ll you say?

  “I tried my best” or

  “I threw it all away”?

  Life has no guarantees

  It’s a roll of the dice;

  So do it all,

  Pay the price,

  But dust off your heart

  Take it off the shelf;

  And don’t forget

  To love yourself.

  Just Slow Down,

  Way down.

  Slow Down,

  Way down.

  © Maggie Blume

  Wednesday 11/26

  study hall

  I got a 95 on the social studies test.

  I think I should have my head examined.

  Wednesday

  6:57 P.M.

  At rehearsal today I sounded fine. A little hoarse, a little nervous, but fine.

  When I arrived home, Zeke held his nose.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  “You’re sweaty,” he said. “I hate B.O. Do you have a boyfriend or something?”

  “What?”

  “Why else would you get so sweaty? You must have been making out.”

  I refused to dignify that.

  I went upstairs and freshened up.

  My hair looked awful. All flyaway and stringy.

  I am so sick of long hair. I must do something about it.

  Shaving it off might be nice.

  That would be a Look.

  Friday 11/28

  4:34 P.M.

  I have an idea.

  For a Look, I mean. During yesterday’s Thanksgiving dinner, I felt like a total prisoner. I figure I can shave my head, wear horizontal stripes, and be sort of a human beachball.

  I mentioned this to Sunny, Dawn, and Ducky today. Sunny practically squealed with excitement.

  “You have to do it!” she said.

  “I was kidding,” I insisted.

  “You have a gorgeous head shape,” Sunny exclaimed.

  “You could just cut it really short,” Ducky suggested.

  “Like a buzz cut,” Sunny said.

  “I think,” Dawn announced, “that to find a new Look, we should go to the source of all new Looks. The mall.”

  Off we went.

  We sat around the fountain and observed the huge post-Thanksgiving mob. We hung out near the hairstylist. We went into the magazine shop and looked at fashion magazines.

  Sunny thinks I should go with green makeup and white, spiky hair.

  Dawn prefers the barefoot, no-makeup, natural-girl look.

  Ducky likes cat’s-eye glasses, flats, and a neon fifties dress.

  I bought a bunch of possible outfits. One from Column A, one from Column B, one from Column C.

  And I am more confused than ever.

  Friday 11/28

  8:32 P.M.

  I still haven’t decided on a Look.

  It may not matter. I may not be able to
sing on Tuesday anyway. I think I have a node on my throat.

  I don’t know what that means exactly, but toward the end of rehearsal tonight I was totally hoarse, and James said, “You sound like you have a node.”

  He said I have to get lots of sleep, drink tea with honey, and not speak under any circumstances.

  Which made dinner a little difficult.

  I pointed to what I needed. I wrote messages. I claimed I had laryngitis. I drank a quart of orange juice.

  Luckily Mom and Dad aren’t home. Dad’s still at the office and Mom’s at a dinner party.

  Pilar’s back, though (yea!), and seemed amused. She called me Harpo. (Zeke called me Farto and thought he was being quite clever, but I ignored him.)

  Now I am in bed. Zeke is playing video games with some friend. Pilar is baby-sitting.

  If any of them try to find me, I will be fast asleep.

  Good night.

  Sunday 11/30

  7:50 P.M.

  I was too depressed to write yesterday. When I tried to sing at rehearsal, I sounded like a Muppet. So I had to hum.

  James and Rico were very patient, but I could see they were worried. I don’t blame them.

  Today was better. A little. If I sang really close to the mike, I actually made an audible croaking sound.

  At the end, James took me aside. He asked would I mind if he took “Hey, Down There” off the set list.

  Mind? I didn’t even know it was on the set list. And I certainly don’t want to sing it in public.

  So I told him no, I didn’t mind at all. And he smiled and called me a good sport.

  If only he knew how relieved I felt.

  Monday 12/1

  7:38 P.M.

  Oh no oh no oh no.

  What have I done?

  I am typing this at my desk, standing up.

  I am standing up so I can turn and look at my image.

  I am looking at my image because it may be the last time I see myself alive.

  If I do not survive the day and someone reads this, I plead insanity. I had another grueling rehearsal and I was tired. So I did not know what I was doing afterward.

  A half hour ago I was in the kitchen, helping Pilar clean up. I was stacking the dishwasher, pushing back the locks of hair that kept falling into my face, wishing I had gotten a haircut.