The Dirt Diary

by Anna Staniszewski

  Okay, so Mom might not actually murder me, but she loves coming up with cruel and unusual punishments. One time in fifth grade, after I had accidentally broken the TV and tried to hot-glue it back together, she made me visit a nursing home every weekend for a month to help the old people. To this day, I have nightmares about massaging smelly, wrinkled feet.

  “I still think you should just come clean,” says Marisol. “Even if you do repay the money, how will you explain to your mom that you’re going down to Florida during summer vacation?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. Okay, so my plan isn’t perfect. “I’ll figure something out.”

  Marisol shakes her head, her long earrings jingling. “You know what I think about lying. It always leads to trouble.”

  “Well, not everyone can be honest about everything like you are.” Marisol has three older brothers who are always brutally honest. That’s probably why she doesn’t care what people think of her, because she expects everyone to have an opinion. I can’t imagine not caring how other people see me.

  I grab a pair of purple-tinted glasses that make everything in the store look grape-flavored. “Besides,” I add. “This is a special situation. I’m only lying because I have to.”

  “It’s just…” Marisol starts chewing on her lip again. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what if your parents split up for a reason?”

  The glasses fall out of my hand. “My dad’s weird midlife crisis is the reason. My parents were fine before he left. They never argued or anything, and their personalities totally balanced each other out. That’s why they’re meant to be together. If I can just get my dad to come back and apologize to her, I know they can patch things up.”

  “I guess you know them better than anyone.” Marisol shrugs. Then she turns to me, a mischievous grin on her face. “So, you know what time it is?”

  I can’t help smiling, even though I feel a little sick to my stomach. “Ugly montage time?”

  “That’s right!” she says before rushing off to grab some hideous clothes for us to parade around in like people do in movies. I follow after her, trying to push down the stinging feeling in my chest.

  It hurts that Marisol doesn’t believe me about my parents being meant for each other. But I’ll just have to prove her wrong.

  Chapter 7

  That night, Mom and I sit at the kitchen table eating leftover spinach-and-artichoke casserole. As usual, we barely have anything to say to each other. I try to avoid glancing in the direction of the dining room where we used to eat dinner when Dad was still here. He always had an endless supply of silly jokes to liven things up.

  I can almost hear him saying: “Two sausages are in a frying pan. One turns to the other and says, ‘OMG, it’s hot in here!’” Then Dad would wait for me to say the punch line: “OMG! A talking sausage!” Then we’d giggle like we’d been dosed with laughing gas.

  “How’s school going?” Mom asks, breaking the silence. It figures she’d try to get me to open up with a generic question. Sometimes it seems like she has no idea how to talk to me.

  “Fine.” Of course, that’s not true at all, but I’m not about to tell Mom that Briana and her friends have been making my life miserable all year. Mom is the type of person who can’t just let a problem go unsolved. That’s how I got stuck apologizing to Brett Stevens in the third grade for throwing an eraser at him, even though he was the one who threatened to wipe snot in my hair.

  The oven timer goes off, and I jump up to pull out the latest batch of brownies. The kitchen fills with the scents of warm chocolate and coconut.

  “Is that a new recipe?” Mom asks.

  “I was in the mood for coconut.” Thinking about Florida so much has made me crave tropical flavors. But now that I’m looking at the coconut creations, they just make me miss my dad even more.

  I take out my notebook and jot down the proportions I used, feeling like a scientist. Dad’s the one who gave me the idea of keeping a cooking journal, and he even bought me this special notebook for it. After a while I started pasting in photos and recipes to help me keep track of everything. I tried showing Mom the journal once to prove to her how serious I am about cooking, but she just commented on how it was a miracle I could find anything in my chaotic collection of recipes.

  As I put the brownies out on the counter to cool, I catch Mom staring at me with her lips pursed into a tight line.

  “I’m not crazy about how much time you’ve been spending baking,” she says. “I know you want to win top dessert at the sale this year, but that can’t be at the expense of your grades.”

  “I’m doing fine.” I’ve never been a straight-A student, but I’ve always done okay in my classes. Maybe I’m not going to go to Harvard one day, but as long as I get into culinary school, that’s all I care about.

  Besides, the bake sale is a lot more important than Mom realizes. Whoever gets the most votes for their dessert wins a hundred-dollar cash prize. That money will go a long way toward paying back the amount I—let’s face it—stole from my college fund. There is no way in Hellmann’s I’m coming in second place behind Angela Bareli again this year.

  “It’s just…” Mom sighs. “I don’t want you to jeopardize your future because of a lack of focus.”

  I can’t believe it. We’ve had this conversation dozens of times, but Mom acts like she has selective amnesia whenever the topic comes up. “I am focused! Cooking is what I want to do. Why can’t you accept that?”

  Mom folds her paper napkin into a tight square. “You’re barely fourteen. How can you know what you want to do with your life? You might change your mind.”

  “I won’t.” I grab my dinner plate and stomp over to the sink.

  Why doesn’t Mom get it? I mean, I literally have mornings when I wake up still smelling the meals I was cooking in my dreams. Isn’t that a big sign that I’m meant to be a chef one day?

  Mom seems to accept that our conversation is over as she brings me her dirty plate and then goes to add up our cleaning earnings from yesterday. I try to patiently wash the dishes, but I’m dying to find out how much I made. The amount I still need to put back into my college fund ($287.22) keeps bouncing around in my brain.

  When the dishes are done, I have to stop myself from chucking the sponge next to the sink like I normally do. Instead, I carefully put it back in the brand-new wire basket marked “sponge.” Mom has really started scaring me with her mega-organizing act. I know it’s probably some weird attempt to get things under control when her life is falling apart, but I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with it.

  I dry my hands and glob on some moisturizer. (Ugh, if my hands are so chapped after only one day of hard labor, what will they be like after a month?) Then I cut the coconut brownies into squares and take a little nibble of a corner. The rush of flavors is amazing, but I think I might have overdone it with the coconut. I guess next time I’m thinking of Florida, I’ll try to keep the exotic flavors to a minimum.

  “Okay,” Mom says finally, waving me over to the table. “This is for you.” She hands me a twenty-dollar bill.

  “That’s it?” I spent an entire day scrubbing, and that’s all I have to show for it? That means instead of having $13.78 in the old peanut butter jar under my bed, I’ll now have $33.78. At this rate, I won’t be able to put the money back into my college account until I’m actually in college.

  “I’m afraid that’s all I can give you right now,” says Mom. “I know it’s not fair, but I need the rest of it for bills.” She sighs and pushes her bangs off her forehead, but they fall right back into her eyes. “I just hope it’s enough.”

  Mom is usually obnoxiously optimistic, but when it comes to money, she’s always been really serious. Even before Dad left, things were tight.

  “We won’t…” I don’t want to say it, but I have to know. “You said there was a chance we might have to
sell the house.”

  Mom nods slowly, and I suddenly notice the dark circles under her eyes. “There is. My job at the office barely covers the mortgage. If this cleaning business doesn’t go well, I don’t think we’ll be able to keep the house.”

  My parents bought our small house when I was three years old. I don’t remember ever living anywhere else. How can we just leave it behind?

  This is all Dad’s fault. Before he quit his job, we were okay. And now he’s broke and we’re barely getting by, all because he decided diving with tropical fish is more exciting than being with us. I want to hate him, and I guess part of me does, but mostly I just want him to realize he’s made a huge mistake and come home.

  “Nothing’s decided yet,” Mom adds. “For now, we just have to do the best we can and save up every penny.” She glances at the twenty she gave me, and I know she wants me to give it back to her so she can save it too. But I pretend I don’t see her expectant look and slip the money in my pocket.

  Yes, it makes me feel like a jerk, but it’ll be worth it when I go down to Florida and convince Dad to come back. I haven’t been able to talk sense into him over the phone, but I’m sure that when he sees me again, he’ll change his mind. Once he’s home, we’ll be able to stay in our house and not have to worry anymore. Then my family, and my life, will go back to normal.

  Chapter 8

  On the way to school Monday morning, I sit in the front of the bus dreading seeing Briana and Caitlin after Saturday’s humiliation. I keep replaying the time I spent in their houses over and over, like an endless loop. I wish more than anything Dad was still around so I could tell him about everything, but it feels like he’s in a different universe now.

  Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I pull out a pen and my cooking journal and turn to the last page. If I can’t tell Dad about what’s been going on, at least I can write it down in the notebook he gave me.

  Dirt Diary, my fingers write down before I really know what I’m doing.

  I stare at the words for a minute before leaning forward and scribbling again. I start by describing Briana’s room, her golden furniture, her amazing wardrobe, and (okay, fine) her adorable brother. Then I jot down some things I noticed at the other houses we cleaned: Mrs. Foster’s enormous collection of garden gnomes (creepy) and Mr. Eklund’s habit of leaving dirty socks all over the house (gross). When I start writing about Caitlin’s house, I describe the zombielike way she was watching TV and her family’s surprising lack of money.

  When I’m done, my brain feels a little lighter. After dealing with so much stuff in one day, I guess I needed to get it out and organize it somehow. Oh my goldfish. I hope I’m not turning Type A like my mom.

  With that terrifying thought in my head, I get off the bus and head to homeroom. Not surprisingly, Briana’s on me the minute I sit down in my seat.

  “Hey, Rachel,” she calls across the room. “My desk is really dirty. Can you come here and clean it for me?”

  Saying anything back will just make things worse, so I stab my pencil into the cover of my math notebook, imagining it’s Briana’s forehead. Being around her always brings out my homicidal tendencies.

  I used to think mean girls only existed in movies, but that was before I met Briana. The worst part is, she isn’t just popular and pretty. She’s also smart and talented. And the devil.

  “Leave her alone, Briana,” says Marisol. Which of course doesn’t help anything, but I still love her for standing up for me.

  “Shut up, Parasol,” says Briana. “What are you even wearing? Are you like a housewife or something?”

  Marisol just rolls her eyes and smoothes down the skirt of her new pink dress. She’s worked her magic yet again by sewing dozens of delicate lace flowers along the hem and neckline of the dress, making it look soft and pretty instead of crazy and bright.

  Of course, Briana isn’t done. “Hey, Caitlin, did I tell you?” Her voice is on high volume even though Caitlin is at the desk next to hers. “Rachel Lee is my new maid.”

  A few desks over, Angela Bareli giggles, kissing up like she always does around the popular kids. Angela is Marisol’s next-door neighbor, but Marisol and I usually avoid her since all she does is gossip. The fact that she got the most votes at last year’s Spring Dance bake sale doesn’t make me like her any more.

  “Caitlin, if you want, I can loan Rachel to you,” Briana goes on. “I hear she’s good at scrubbing floors. She probably licks them clean.”

  The pencil in my hands snaps in half.

  I expect Caitlin to laugh and say she doesn’t need to borrow me because I’m her new maid too, but she just smirks and turns back to an art book she’s reading. I can’t believe she’d pass up a chance to make fun of me. Back when the Fake Boyfriend Troy thing first started, Caitlin was always there laughing right alongside Briana. Is it possible she’s actually being nice? No, there has to be another explanation.

  When the bell rings, I jump to my feet and race out into the hallway.

  “Did you see that?” I whisper as Marisol catches up to me. “Caitlin just sat there.”

  Marisol nods. “That was pretty weird. Though Caitlin hasn’t really been acting like herself lately.”

  “She hasn’t?”

  “Haven’t you noticed how quiet she’s been the past few weeks?”

  I haven’t noticed, but of course I’ve had my own issues to worry about. Caitlin’s always been quieter and less obnoxious than Briana, but is there more to it than that?

  After we take our seats in math class, Marisol leans over my desk, grinning. “So…tell me more about Evan Riley.”

  My cheeks instantly flare up.

  “Ha!” she says, like she’s caught me red-handed. “I knew you thought he was cute! Does this mean Stephanie is finally out of the picture?” Stephanie is our code name for Steve Mueller, so we can talk about him at school without worrying about anyone overhearing. When I don’t say anything back, Marisol groans and smacks me with her Algebra homework. “Rachel, you know he’s dating Briana! Not to mention the fact that his friends have been making your life a living hell all year.”

  “Stephanie’s not like the rest of them,” I insist. “He’s never said a word to me about the Troy thing.” Granted, Steve has barely said a word to me about anything. “I know he’s a nice guy. Remember that time last year when—”

  “When he was your knight in shining armor?” Marisol rolls her eyes. “The guy does one nice thing, and you think he’s a saint.”

  One day last spring, I was so busy gawking at Steve in the cafeteria that I somehow dropped my lunch money in the trash by accident. Steve saw what happened, and he stood there in front of the whole cafeteria and fished around in the mess of apple cores and ketchup-stained napkins until he found the money. I don’t care what Marisol says. Steve Mueller is amazing.

  “He didn’t have to help me, but he totally did!” I insist.

  Marisol shakes her head. “All I know is, your perfect guy shouldn’t be dating your arch nemesis.”

  She has a point. And there’s no way Steve will notice me when he has a girlfriend like Briana. But those hours of sniffing bleach over the weekend must have melted my brain because I can’t help thinking there’s a chance that one day, somehow, Steve Mueller could be mine.

  Chapter 9

  The next day at school, I spend all morning stressing about how little money I’ve managed to save up. I have just over three weeks before Mom looks at the account balance, and the only increase in my peanut-butter-jar savings is thanks to forty-seven cents I found in a pair of jeans.

  I wish I could get another job, but when I asked Mom about it last night, she went on a tirade about how I need to focus on school. I couldn’t exactly tell her why the money is so important, so I had to drop the whole thing. I’m starting to understand how Mom feels worrying about cash all the time. I’ve already told
Marisol that if I start putting labels on random things, she has my permission to shake me.

  I’m so busy trying to figure out how to earn some more money that I’m not paying attention as I make my way to lunch. I swing around the corner and slam right into Mr. Hammond, the vice principal.

  “Oof!” he says as my shoulder jabs into his round stomach.

  I jump back and drop my bag on the floor. Notebooks and pencils spill out on the linoleum, along with my cooking journal.

  “Rachel Lee!” Mr. Hammond says, rubbing his belly as I scramble to pick up my things. “That’s quite the tackle you’ve got there. You should try out for the football team next year.”

  I have no idea how he knows who I am. I’ve never been in trouble or anything. Most of my teachers have a hard time remembering my name, and it’s almost the end of the year.

  “I–I’m sorry,” I say, straightening up. I go to take a step backward, and my foot slides on something. I skid along the floor and land on my back. For some reason, my torso suddenly feels cold.

  I look down and—OH MY GOLDFISH! My shirt is up by my shoulders and my sports bra, the ratty one I’ve had since sixth grade, is on display for everyone. Including Mr. Hammond!

  I shriek and try to sit up so I can pull my shirt back down, but I only manage to slam my head into something. When I hear a loud grunt, I realize my head crashed right into Mr. Hammond’s chin.

  “I’m sorry!” I cry, finally managing to yank my shirt back into place.

  I hear people laughing all around us. Mr. Hammond tries to help me up, but I push him away as I scramble to my feet. I spot a pencil on the floor. That must be what tripped me. Stupid, evil pencil.

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Hammond says.

  I barely hear him because at that moment an all-too-familiar laugh echoes through the hallway, louder than all the others.