by Jim Benton
Wednesday 11
Dear Dumb Diary,
Isabella needed to make another perfume deposit today. I stood in front of her so that Mrs Palmer, the science teacher, couldn’t see what we were doing. (Mrs Palmer replaced our previous teacher, Mr Tweeds, who fell and broke his hip, which is what all old people do sooner or later because their skeletons are as brittle and cracky as pretzel rods. He’s like 48 or something.) But it turns out that Mrs Palmer, like most adults, doesn’t really care exactly what you’re doing when you are doing something that you’re trying to hide. (Adults are like frogs that snap bugs out of the air without first getting a good look at them: could be a butterfly. Could be a killer bee.) So Mrs Palmer just separated us as lab partners.
Mrs Palmer believes that switching partners whenever there is a problem is a good idea. Until today, I never believed her.
You know how I said that adults are like frogs? Here’s another aspect of their froggishness: frogs are sometimes princes deep down inside. Or princesses, in Mrs Palmer’s case. (Although this particular princess would need a queen-size throne for Her Royal Hineyness.)
Mrs Palmer had to split up another set of lab partners in order to separate Isabella and me. Sure, she could have paired me up with Margaret Parker, total reject. But she didn’t. Dear, sweet Mrs Palmer presented to me, like a humongous plate of cookies, my new lab partner, HUDSON RIVERS. She gave Hudson’s old partner, Margaret Parker, to Isabella, like a plate of wet socks.
Don’t get me wrong, Dumb Diary, Margaret is okay, I guess. She’s kind of nice, but she’s a pencil chewer, and most non-beavers find that a bit repulsive. (Isabella says that Margaret is a “GERD”, which is a GIRL NERD.)
Isabella used the opportunity to share with me (again) more about her theories on Popularity. She says that Unpopularity is contagious, and you can catch it the same way you catch the Flu or Bad Dancing. Honestly, though, I don’t believe that Unpopularity is a real Force of Nature, like Gravity or Deliciousness. I told her that she should be more open-minded about her new partner. And that deep down inside Margaret is probably a good person.
Then I realized what a beautiful and sensitive thing I had said, and I imagined that maybe one day I might open a big sanctuary where all the Social Rejects could live and run free and never have to worry about wedgies again. Plus, I could sell tickets to people to come and look at them.
Thursday 12, 3:45 AM
Dear Dumb Diary,
I can’t believe I stayed up this late. It’s, like, the middle of the night. There was this scary movie on TV tonight about this little girl who finds this old doll that’s haunted, which anybody could tell was going to be haunted because she was a really sweet girl, and she really loved the doll, and there is just no way a movie is going to let a sweet little girl be happy with her doll. Not if it’s a good movie, anyway.
But now I am in serious trouble because I still have science homework to finish and I blame my mom who is the one who let me have this TV in my room after I begged two years non-stop for it. (I mean, a kid can’t spoil herself, Dumb Diary, am I right? My spoilage is Mom’s fault.)
I’d like to write more, but I’m really tired and I have to get this homework finished.
Friday 13
Dear Dumb Diary,
That’s right. I fell asleep last night without finishing my science homework. Which means, as predicted, that Mrs Palmer bit my head off. And then it got worse. Figuring that the problem was with the new lab partner arrangement, she switched Hudson with Margaret. Now Margaret is my lab partner, and Isabella has Hudson.
And since I missed the homework Mrs Palmer suggested that Margaret and I get together over the weekend to get me caught up. And Margaret said, right there in front of many Popular ears, between munchy chomps on a damp pencil, “Great. What time should I come over, Jamie?”
If I had been less tired, and outfitted in more confident clothing (thanks, Stinker), I might have come up with a cool comeback. Maybe the coolest one ever, but now we’ll never know because I sleepily said, “Whenever,” and Mike Pinsetti, who used to be in the business of making up nicknames for people, but is currently experimenting with other forms of annoying harassment, made a loud kissy-kissy sound. As most people know, in some parts of the world, the kissy-kissy sound of a bully is enough to actually legally marry two people to each other.
In this case, it suggested that perhaps Margaret and I were now best friends, and I could feel the Popularity flying off me like the delicate petals of a beautiful flower that somebody had stuck into the spinning blades of a fan.
Afterwards, of course, Isabella didn’t miss the opportunity to point out that I should be more open-minded about my new lab partner. I told her that open-minded is what you are if you get hit in the head with an axe, and I felt plenty open-minded enough.
Anyway, Dumb Diary, Margaret is coming over tomorrow.
Saturday 14
Dear Dumb Diary,
As foretold, Margaret came over. We finished the homework junk, and I realized that, even though at first I had thought that Margaret was sort of an Unpopular Goof, after I got to know her a little, I realized that deep down she was much worse than that.
If there was anything to this Unpopularity-infection thing, I was in serious trouble.
Fortunately, Isabella stopped by and we had a minute to talk privately while Margaret was in the bathroom, doing whatever it is that Unpopular people do in there. (Make themselves LESS presentable?)
Isabella had stopped by out of concern. She was concerned about her jar of SuperFragrance, which was gone, probably found by Mrs Palmer. She was concerned that her lab partnership with Hudson didn’t bother me enough. I assured her that it did, but since she was my best friend I’d decided not to dwell on it. And she was most concerned that Margaret could drag down my Popularity, and since I’m friends with Isabella it could affect her Popularity as well.
But Isabella had the solution …
And it was an excellent one:
A MAKEOVER.
Just like on TV. We will help Margaret fix herself up a little, and thereby undo whatever damage she has done to us. Like all of our plans, this is surely a great idea.
I was trying to figure out a delicate way to suggest the makeover, but Isabella had already come up with a gentle way to introduce the idea to Margaret.
Margaret did not take this as hard as you might think. She seemed kind of sickly grateful for the attention. I felt a little bad and might have pulled out right there, except for how much fun it is to put make-up on somebody else’s face. Tomorrow, Isabella and I, Known Experts on Fashion, will begin PROJECT MARGARET.
Sunday 15
Dear Dumb Diary,
Project Margaret begins.
Amazingly, Mom was totally okay with taking us all to the mall today. I was fully prepared for a huge argument, followed by some crying, an apology and, finally, a trip to the mall. Mom’s saying yes right away saved me about four minutes.
On the way to the mall, we passed the park and saw Angeline again. But this time the kids looked entirely different from before. Obviously, her plastic surgeon dad had already started cutting the kids up to make perfect little miniature Angelines out of them.
We took Margaret around to the best stores at the mall. It was a little bit spiritual, because Margaret had not even heard of a lot of them. Isabella and I felt a little bit like we were doing something profound and wonderful, like teaching a gorilla sign language.
Margaret started to chicken out a little at the clothes and accessories that Isabella and I had selected. She was craving some pencils pretty badly, but finally she caved because we used Peer Pressure against her.
Adults think that Peer Pressure can influence what kids do, but it’s actually a thousand times more powerful than that.
Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Jedi mind tricks have nothing on Peer Pressure. Seriously. Isabella and I could have had Dar
th Vader in a miniskirt and braids in about five minutes.
We dropped Margaret off at Sally Winthorpe’s house after the mall. I guess Sally had asked her over or something. (Maybe a Big Pencil Dinner.) But who cares? Because the main thing of the day or, as French people call it, le main ting of ze day, was MY new jeans! When we were at the mall, Mom found me a pair of Bellazure Jeans. They are the coolest jeans ever made and she bought them for me without my even having to ask. Why did Mom buy me these really cool and really expensive pants?? I may never know.
But who cares?
Yeah, yeah. Mission accomplished with Margaret. She’ll probably be a little bit better off. But now I own the coolest pair of jeans ever.
Stinker, I hope you are reading this, because I want you to know that an enraged girl can pick up a beagle by his fat little tail and hurl him directly into the core of the sun if she is sufficiently antagonized, pants-wise.
Monday 16
Dear Dumb Diary,
I wore my new jeans to school today, and I felt like I was the most beautiful bottom-half-of-a-girl on Earth. I was just getting ready to drink up all the compliments when Margaret walked into science class.
Then I heard something that I had never heard before. It’s not a sound you often hear. It was sort of a soft, wet, popping sound. I realize now that it was the sound of twenty-six jaws dropping open at exactly the same time.
Margaret was, well, she was GORGEOUS. Her hair, her perfume, her jewellery, her new clothes, were working together like a symphony orchestra comprised of the rare supermodels who are smart enough to read music.
Isabella and I took a little bit of pride in it, feeling sort of like the people who own those incredible dogs at dog shows. You know what I mean: we’re not the dog, but without us the dog would be licking a fire hydrant somewhere instead of looking like a million bucks. (That’s SEVEN million bucks in dog money.)
Note: Nobody is currently prepared to accuse Margaret of this sort of fire-hydrant lickage.
Margaret was so happy. And Isabella was happy. And I was happy. And Hudson was happy. (Grrr!)
And, okay, I wasn’t. There was something vaguely sinister in the air, and I’m not sure what it was.
Tuesday 17
Dear Dumb Diary,
Here’s a peculiar scientific phenomenon I learned in class today and, like all of the important scientific discoveries, it involves choosing your deodorant wisely.
Margaret borrowed my pencil today. She must have forgotten that she was no longer a Gerd, because when I looked up she had it in her mouth and was enjoying what could only be described as a relationship with it. It was one of those moments when you find yourself looking around for something to hit somebody with. (I have this moment about fifteen times a day.)
But then this soothing breeze of fragrant excellence comes wafting off Margaret and I felt, like, soothed. That is one excellent deodorant. I even let her keep eating my pencil.
But the soothery didn’t last forever. Is soothery a word? Whatever. By lunch I was no longer soothed. And Isabella was visibly shaken.
Sure, she’s always visibly shaken, but today, she was picking up a really strange vibe. Bad Mojo. Evil Juju.
Isabella, who is sharply attuned to this sort of thing, walked in and instantly observed that the precarious Lunch Table Dynamic had been upset.
She said that some of the Medium-Popular kids were sitting with the Less-Than-Medium-Popular kids. For a moment I thought she was nuts, until I saw Margaret was sitting at THE ULTRA-MEGA-POPULAR table. Isabella said this really should not happen. For Margaret to escalate that quickly, it could destroy the Natural Order of the Universe, and worse …
Isabella said that it meant that we had fallen a notch. By accidentally inserting Margaret in at such a high level of popularity, we had actually pushed everybody below her down. She said we’re suddenly tumbling into the Pit of Zero Popularity. Can she be right? Is there really such a thing as Popularity, or is it all some sort of weird scientific theory?
Wednesday 18
Dear Dumb Diary,
Wore the New Pants again. I didn’t wear them yesterday, of course. You can’t wear them every day, or people will say you only have one cool pair of pants, which they would be jerks for being right about.
Thankfully, Stinker had not gone mental on them, but I don’t know if that’s because we are friends again, or because I’ve been hanging them in my closet where stubby little beagle legs can’t reach.
Isabella and I may have destroyed The Entire Universe. (I, for one, do not believe the Universe should be this fragile, because it’s where I keep all my stuff.)
But here’s what makes me think we destroyed it. Today at lunch, somebody was missing at the Mega-Popular table. Isabella was right. We did such a magnificent job on Margaret’s makeover that she has bumped everybody. She has even bumped … Angeline!
It was a truly beautiful moment. Angeline had been taken down a notch! It was the most beautiful lunchtime moment since the time Miss Bruntford, the cafeteria monitor, slipped on a smear of creamed corn and gave an involuntary figure-skating performance that ended with a double axel into a face-plant.
But, just like that beautiful moment — which was shattered by our having to stare at Miss Bruntford’s massive underpants until the paramedics arrived (you’re not allowed to move somebody in that condition — we also learned that tossing French fries at her wasn’t a good idea, either) — this beautiful moment was shattered by the realization that if Angeline had been demoted then we were even lower than we thought.
And Angeline was, in her typical deceptive way, not acting like it bothered her.
As we were standing there alternately blaming each other for making over Margaret in the first place, we noticed Hudson walking over to the Mid-Popular table and, just as he did, my pants — how can I put this? — decided to join the conversation. You get my drift, Dumb Diary? My pants cut the cheese. Let one fly. Baked a batch of brownies. Got the picture?
I know what you’re thinking, Dumb Diary, pants can’t get gas. And yet …
Fortunately for me, Isabella, who comes from a large family and is therefore an expert on swiftly blaming others, pretended to be horrified by some confused innocent kid nearby. She made Hudson think that the noise came from Confused Innocent Kid, or Stinkypants, as I have learned since lunch that he has come to be called. By everyone.
Of course, I admire Isabella for being so good at getting others in trouble, but she didn’t believe me when I told her that it was the pants all by themselves, and not me.
There’s no WAY Isabella would have believed that the pants actually made me walk past the Mega-Popular Table, and that they also made me bump the table a little bit as if I was some sort of angry tough kid looking for trouble. Although, now that I think about it, there’s that one kid who actually bumps into everything, including lunch tables, and he’s never looking for anything except his hat, which is routinely hidden from him.
What is with these pants, anyway?
Thursday 19
Dear Dumb Diary,
So tell me, Dumb Diary, if you were something small and ghastly, like a tiny, hairy creature that lived in a shower drain, and two beautiful fairy princesses took the time out from their very busy schedules to transform you into some sort of flying sparkling unicorn with diamond hooves that could shoot rainbow butterflies out its ears, would you just decide to throw it all away and cram yourself back into the shower drain?
Well, that is exactly what Margaret did. She showed up today in science class without the new clothes, without the new jewellery, without the make-up.
Isabella and I were floored. This meant that everything was back to normal. I accidentally let out this big cheer, and Mrs Palmer dropped an alcohol burner, and then the whole room smelled like that substitute teacher who got fired last month for falling asleep in class.
Of course, Mrs Palmer employed he
r strategy of switching lab partners around. This means that now my lab partner is Mike Pinsetti, and Margaret is partnered up with some other kid, I forget who.
But I was so happy about Margaret’s terrible judgement that this new partnerfication didn’t really sink in.
In fact, as we switched seats, I even smiled at Mike Pinsetti, which made him try to smile back (I think), but it looked more like he had his hand caught in a car door. I may be the first person who has ever smiled directly at Mike’s face.
Yes, indeed, everything seemed pretty wonderful until lunch. That’s when we saw IT.
Margaret was sitting at the Mega-Popular table, talking to Chip, in her old, pencil-eating-shower-drain-creature form. Even Sally Winthorpe seemed to take notice. It was as though the very Wonderbread of Reality had been besmeared by the Peanut Butter of Illusion, and further obscured by the Strawberry Jam of — oh, I don’t know, I’m trying to make it all relate to lunch.
The simple fact is that, according to Isabella, we’re much, much lower on the Popularity scale now than ever before, since it appears that Margaret has ascended on her own (yuck) merits.