Diary One

by Ann M. Martin

  Then I was up here in my room, looking at that hair. Looking at the nice, even, perfect, shoulder-length style. Hanging a little too long and a little limp, but still neat. Neat and nice.

  I began imagining.

  I pictured it gone. I tried to feel the breezes on my bare neck. On my ears.

  My soul filled with happiness.

  So I grabbed a pair of scissors from my desk.

  I held out a strand. I opened the blades.

  But my fingers stayed put.

  I knew I could not do this. Not to my own hair. It was insane. Better idea: call Dawn and Sunny. Ask their advice. Have Ducky drive me to a hairstylist, at least. Someone must still be open.

  Then I snapped the blade shut.

  A clump of hair fell to my dresser table.

  Perfect, blonde hair that spilled like a pile of straw.

  Then I took another snip.

  And another.

  I should have been horrified but I wasn’t. I started laughing. Laughing.

  I just kept going. A couple of inches at first. Then a little more.

  First one side, then the other.

  I went a little overboard on the left side. It’s about, oh, two inches long.

  The right side still drapes over my eyes. I was going to cut that, even it all out.

  But I didn’t. I left it.

  I’m tired of being symmetrical.

  Total insanity.

  So now I look like

  Like a

  I just don’t understand how I

  THE BATTLE OF THE BANDS IS TOMORROW!

  AND I LOOK LIKE HELL!

  Monday

  8:32 P.M.

  Okay. Emergency mode.

  I made some phone calls.

  Ducky’s driving over. He’s going to pick up Amalia, Sunny, and Dawn on the way.

  Meanwhile, my head is in a kerchief. I cannot look at what I did. I am shivering.

  Tuesday 12/2

  study hall

  I am alive.

  Somehow I have survived the night.

  Ducky arrived about 15 minutes after I called. I heard voices in the living room. I tried to wrap my hair in a towel, so it would look as if I’d just stepped out of the shower. But the towel kept falling off.

  It didn’t matter. Ducky, Sunny, Dawn, and Amalia managed to talk their way past Pilar without my help.

  They barged into my room, all wide-eyed.

  “If you laugh at me, I will never speak to any of you again,” I said.

  No one laughed.

  For a moment, no one said a word. They all just looked.

  I grabbed my kerchief.

  Sunny reached out to stop me. “Don’t! It looks great, Maggie.”

  “You’re lying!” I was hysterical. Almost screaming.

  “Okay, good, then,” Sunny said. “It looks good. A little ragged, maybe. I can trim the edges.”

  As she reached for the scissors, Dawn gently turned me toward the mirror. “Maggie, you do look good. I like the cut.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Me too,” Ducky said. “It’s cool.”

  “Absolutely,” Amalia reassured me.

  I watched as Sunny carefully snipped away some uneven edges. She kept the left and right side asymmetrical but somehow made the whole effect better. As if it had been done on purpose.

  I was still shell-shocked. But I was getting used to it.

  The four of them stuck around for an hour or so. We decided that with the Battle of the Bands less than a day away, I needed a good night’s sleep. Therefore, I should wait until morning to show my face around the house.

  So when they said good-bye, they scurried out of the house by themselves.

  I stared at myself for a long time afterward.

  I had to admit, Sunny had done a great job.

  I struck a few singing poses. I tried on some of the outfits I’d bought.

  The cat’s-eye glasses, flats, and retro neon dress did the trick. I looked so strange. Like a character from a fifties science-fiction B-movie.

  Well, a fat version of the character. But it was the best I could do.

  This morning I was very cautious, though. I waited until the last possible minute before I went to breakfast.

  Zeke was the first to see me. He choked on his Froot Loops.

  Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, already clearing their plates.

  Mom gasped.

  Dad almost dropped his plate on the floor.

  “Eeeewwwwww,” Zeke cried out. “You look disgusting!”

  “What did you do?” Mom asked.

  Her voice was raspy and low-pitched. Her eyes were bloodshot. Hangover alert. Bad news for me.

  I tried to act as if nothing unusual had happened. “I guess you don’t like it,” I said, grabbing a box of cereal and a bowl from the kitchen.

  Mom threw up her hands and walked away. “She’s at it again. She’s regressed.”

  I slammed my bowl on the table. “I haven’t regressed. I just wanted a new hairstyle for tonight.”

  That was the truth. Even though our concepts of “tonight” weren’t quite the same.

  “So you had to do it yourself?” Mom said. “You couldn’t go to a salon? What am I going to tell people? All our friends are going to be at the party. The entire industry.”

  “You don’t have to tell them anything,” I said. “I’m the one with the haircut. Not you.”

  Mom stormed away.

  Dad sat at the table. He looked tired. I could tell he was trying his hardest not to lose his temper.

  He told me he was more concerned about my attitude, not my haircut.

  “You’re the one with the attitude problem these days!” I shouted. (I still can’t believe I said that.)

  But Dad just nodded sadly. “I know I’ve been hard to live with lately. My workload has put pressure on you. But you mustn’t feel the need to lash out by—”

  “I’m not lashing out,” I protested. “I just want to look less conservative. Look, if Mom thinks I’ll ruin the family image or something, maybe I just shouldn’t go tonight.”

  “I understand what you’re going through, Maggie. Really. I mean, we lived through your other phase, right? We can live through this. And don’t worry about Mom. She’s cranky this morning because she’s not feeling well. She’s thrilled we’ll all be together tonight. So am I. Just promise me you’ll work hard to make this a pleasant experience.”

  “I will.”

  For as long as I’m there, I didn’t say.

  Tuesday

  English

  It is now 2:11. T minus 5 hours and counting.

  I cannot think.

  I am shaking.

  My fingers are stumbling over the keyboard.

  I have never been so nervous in my life.

  Tuesday

  5:12 P.M.

  Just back from our final rehearsal.

  Good news item number one: My voice is back. 100%. For what it’s worth.

  Good news item number two: Everyone in the group LOVES the haircut. And the outfit. James said he was relieved. He didn’t think I had it in me to look cool.

  I think he was kidding.

  Finally, good news item number three: Amalia told me that James told her that Justin Randall is going to be in the audience at Backstreet.

  He is going to see me. With my haircut.

  He is going to hear my voice.

  Maybe this is actually bad news item number one.

  My stomach is twisted in knots. What if he hates my look? What if he can’t stand my singing?

  I can’t think about this right now.

  It’s time.

  I have changed into my black dress. My premiere outfit. It looks kind of weird with my haircut, but I can’t do anything about that now.

  At the Vanish rehearsal, I packed my Battle of the Bands outfit into a shoulder bag, which Amalia will keep.

  Ducky will pick her up, along with Sunny and Dawn. Then he will drive all the way t
o the theater. Just before the 6:15 screening time, I will sneak out of the building and into his car.

  One moment I feel exhilarated. Tingly. The next moment I feel like a traitor to my family.

  Outside my room, I hear the sounds of total chaos. Dad is rampaging around. He can’t find his gold cuff links. Mom is yelling at Zeke because he has chewed up the cuffs of his Brooks Brothers shirt.

  I will pack up this laptop now. I will take it with me in its case. I told Mom and Dad I’d be writing a newspaper article on the premiere, and I can’t go back on that now.

  Probably the next words out of my fingers will be written either in the theater or Backstreet.

  If I don’t collapse from frayed nerves before then.

  Tuesday

  6:23 P.M.

  I lied. I’m in Ducky’s car.

  Hi.

  Greetings.

  YO/ VANISHH RULEZ!!!!!!!!!!

  My friends are stealing my Powerbook. That first greeting above was from Dawn. The second was from Amalia, and the third was from Sunny.

  Ducky says hi too, but he can’t reach the keyboard because he’s driving.

  They all think I’m insane for bringing this with me.

  I don’t care. It’s the only thing that’ll keep me from going insane.

  OH YOUR FRTIENDS ARENT ENUF HUH?

  Above comments (and typos) courtesy of guess who?

  This is fun.

  I am having the time of my life.

  I am also scared out of my wits.

  But I did it. I escaped.

  It wasn’t easy. Nothing about tonight was.

  Back at the house, Dad was more frantic than I’d ever seen him. On the way out to the limo, he didn’t even seem to notice I was there.

  Mom and Zeke took forever to emerge from the house. Zeke was wearing a navy blue suit and looked miserable. Mom’s slinky gold dress was dazzling, but she seemed fed up with Zeke.

  “Don’t you have a nice hat you can wear?” she said to me as she climbed into the limo.

  Zeke, to my great surprise, stuck up for me. He said I looked cool. I nearly fainted.

  Off we went. Our driver was new, and he got lost. Dad started yelling at him.

  Zeke untied his tie. He kept trying to take off his jacket. He complained about everything. I thought Mom was going to throttle him.

  Eventually he gave up, and we all fell into a stone-cold silence.

  As we approached the theater, I felt as if I were already watching a movie, split screen. Outside was the circus—the spotlights swiveling, the media cameras, the swarms of swanky people. Inside was the Ice Cave of Blume.

  We had to wait for another limo to pull away from the curb before we pulled up. As usual, a throng of media people closed around us, trying to gaze through the tinted glass, pushing their cameras toward us.

  Then, also as usual, when they realized we were only semifamous, they broke away for the next limo.

  I will never understand how Mom and Dad can turn on the smiles in situations like this. They looked as if they’d just been through the happiest day of their lives.

  Meanwhile, I was sweating. Trembling. I thought my legs would give out. I felt like a prisoner waiting for the Big Escape.

  I stayed with Mom and Dad. I walked into the theater lobby. I said hi to a few people I vaguely knew. I pretended to have some refreshments. Zeke found his friend Randy and went to play the arcade games near the popcorn stand.

  And I carefully watched Mom and Dad being swallowed into the crowd.

  At 6:05 the lights were dimmed a couple of times. The signal to go inside and sit.

  Time for me to sneak away.

  My muscles seized up.

  I was sure—positive—I’d be caught.

  But then I remembered two premieres ago—or was it three?—when I was separated from Mom and Dad in the crowd, and I sat with Monica Kritchman’s family. Mom and Dad hadn’t minded that a bit. We met up after the film and went merrily home.

  The crowd was thinning out in the lobby, all pressing against the entrance doors now. Zeke was still at the arcade games with Randy, oblivious.

  Or so I thought.

  As I edged toward the door, I heard him cry out, “Hey! Why aren’t you with Mom and Dad?”

  I asked him the same question, and he said they agreed to let him sit with Randy’s family.

  I was stuck. I pulled Zeke aside. “Can you keep a secret to your dying day?”

  Zeke nodded eagerly.

  “My friend Ducky is driving me to a place called Backstreet—”

  “For the Battle of the Bands? Cool! But Mom and Dad will notice.”

  “Not if I’m back for the party. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  I love my brother.

  I kissed him on the forehead and slipped out of the theater.

  At first I didn’t see Ducky’s car. I nearly panicked.

  Then I heard it. He had put the Vanish tape on his stereo and cranked it up all the way. I could hear Sunny and him singing along at the top of their lungs.

  I have never run so fast. I jumped into the car and did not look back.

  And now we are speeding down the Santa Monica Freeway.

  Destination Backstreet.

  Tuesday

  6:47 P.M.

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

  i PRIED sUNNY’S HAND OFF THE a BUTTON

  I fixed the caps lock.

  WHAT DO I CARE?

  I DON’T CARE!

  I

  Wednesday

  1:07 A.M.

  I almost erased that entry. But looking at it made me laugh.

  That’s a good enough reason to keep it.

  I was so happy then. We were all ecstatic.

  It seems like decades ago.

  I know it’s late, but I want to recreate the whole wild and weird evening before I forget a moment of it.

  By tomorrow, I may not believe it happened.

  If it really did.

  Even now, it all feels like a dream.

  We reached Backstreet around 6:50. The place was packed. People were lined up outside the door. Inside, another group’s music was blasting away.

  I should have been absolutely stiff with fear. But I wasn’t. Something came over me. A feeling I never expected.

  It was the strangest thing. As I left the car, clutching the shoulder bag that contained my clothes, I felt as if a gust of air were carrying me toward the entrance. Each step made me stronger. I was soaking up the energy. Letting it charge me like a battery.

  A surly, muscle-bound guy was standing guard. I walked right up to him and said, “Blume. Vocalist for Vanish. Four guests.”

  He checked a list and waved us in.

  The room was jammed. A thicket of people hid the bar to our left. Further in, waiters swarmed around small tables, each of which held many more people than it was meant to. Laughter and shouting seemed to clog the air. The air-conditioning must have been blasting all day, because the place was freezing.

  James was at the far end, waving to me.

  I let Ducky lead the way through the room. James greeted us with an amazed look. “Rico’s throwing up,” he said. “From excitement. He’s happy and he’s puking.”

  “Lovely,” I said. “I refuse to share a mike with him.”

  A joke.

  I had a sense of humor.

  I was loose. Calm.

  We all slipped through a door, into a grimy backstage area with peeling stucco walls. Musicians were milling around, tuning instruments, chatting. Bruce and Patti were jamming a blues riff in a corner.

  I said hi and quickly ran to the bathroom to change. By the time I got back, all made up and ready to go, Rico was tuning his guitar. He looked a little pale but he was beaming nevertheless.

  “We’re on third,” James said. “We were supposed to be seventh, but I knew you had to go, Maggie, so I traded.”

  I kissed him. Amalia didn’t mind.<
br />
  “Oh, one other thing,” James began.

  “LET’S HEAR IT FOR BACKSTREET’S ANNUAL BATTLE OF THE BANDS!” an amplified voice blared out.

  James never did finish. We were all whooping and cheering.

  I don’t remember a thing about the first and second groups. I don’t remember much about the wait at all—just the sound of that voice again, this time shouting: “And now, from the streets of Palo City, let’s give it up for…Vanish!”

  And then I was onstage. Pounding my tambourine. Singing. Feeling the pulse of the music. Feeling the audience pulse with us. We sang “Hook Shot” and “Fallen Angel” (with my words).

  As the crowd applauded, I reached for my maracas for “Calico Rat Love Blues,” which was next. I heard Bruce playing the bass line for “Hey, Down There,” just fooling around, and I smiled.

  As I stood up, James leaned over to me. “Put those away. We’re doing ‘Hey, Down There.’”

  I thought he was joking. I laughed.

  “Go ahead,” he urged, pointing to the keyboard.

  No joke. My insides were suddenly having a seismic shift. “That’s not on the set list!” I said.

  “That’s what I was starting to tell you backstage. We changed it back.”

  “But—”

  The crowd was quieting down. Bruce, Patti, and Rico were all looking at me to start.

  Sweat began pouring out of my neck like a lawn sprinkler.

  I sidled over to the keyboard. I took a deep breath. I nodded to Bruce, and he started the bass line again. For real.

  Looking out into the crowd, I saw a sea of eyes like little lanterns staring at me.

  And then I recognized two of those lanterns.

  They belonged to Justin Randall. And they were trained on me.

  My fingers weighed about three tons. They stayed on my lap when I was supposed to begin playing. Bruce vamped on the bass for another four measures.

  I turned away from Justin and looked at the keys. I saw my hands putting themselves into position, as if they had a mind of their own.

  Suddenly I was filled with gratitude to Mrs. Knudsen, of all people. The eight years of Chopin and Mozart and Beethoven animated my fingers. Made them go to the right notes, even though my brain was trying desperately to run away.