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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NORMA FOX MAZER
“Mazer is one of the best of the practitioners writing for young people today.” —The New York Times
“It’s not hard to see why Norma Fox Mazer has found a place among the most popular writers for young adults these days.” —The Washington Post Book World
A, My Name Is Ami
“A satisfying novel about the ups and downs of 12-year-old Ami’s relationship with her best friend Mia … The writing is light but consistently sensitive and realistic, as the joys and disasters of the characters flow towards a moving and memorable ending.” —School Library Journal
“The atmosphere and the girls are right on target.… An accurate slice of teenage life.” —Publishers Weekly
B, My Name Is Bunny
“[Bunny] is a likeable, true-to-life character who hates her name and wants to be a professional clown. Her friendship with Emily is the source and depth of this simple story of two teenagers learning about life … [a] story of growth and acceptance with accurate and touching emotions.” —School Library Journal
C, My Name Is Cal
“Deftly sketched … Mazer’s skill in telling the reader more about Cal than he knows about himself, while narrating Cal’s unique, taciturn voice, is especially memorable.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Readers will recognize themselves.” —Booklist
Dear Bill, Remember Me?
A New York Times Notable Book and a Kirkus Choice
“Highly accomplished short stories, variously funny and moving, about ordinary, contemporary girls and their relationships with mothers or boyfriends.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Eight short stories, powerful and poignant, about young women at critical points in their lives.” —The New York Times
“Stories that are varied in mood and style and alike in their excellence.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books
Summer Girls, Love Boys
“Featuring female protagonists, the stories mix the bitter and the sweet of life while encompassing a variety of narrative techniques, settings, themes, and tones.… Mazer writes honestly and provocatively of human emotion and circumstances while she demonstrates her versatility as a writer.” —Booklist
Good Night, Maman
“Mazer writers with a simplicity that personalizes the history.… Direct … honest.” —Booklist, starred review
Dear Bill, Remember Me?
And Other Stories
Norma Fox Mazer
For my sisters,
Adele and Linda
CONTENTS
Up on Fong Mountain
Peter in the Park
Something Expensive
Mimi the Fish
Dear Bill, Remember Me?
Chocolate Pudding
Guess Whose Friendly Hands
Zelzah: A Tale from Long Ago
About the Author
Up on Fong Mountain
TO: All Students Taking English 10
MEMO FROM: Carol Durmacher
DATE: February 3
“That favorite subject, Myself.”—JAMES BOSWELL
Your term project will be to keep a weekly Journal. Purchase a 7¾ x 5-inch ruled, wire-bound notebook. (Woolworth’s at the Mall stocks them, so does Ready’s Stationers on East Avenue.) Date each entry. Note the day, also. Make a minimum of two entries each week. The Journal must be kept to the end of the school year. It is to be handed in June 24.
I will not read these Journals—only note that they have been kept faithfully. There will be two marks for this project—Pass and Fail. Only those students not handing in a Journal or blatantly disregarding the few rules I have set down will receive a Fail.
In writing in your Journal, try to be as free as possible. This is your Journal: express yourself. Use the language that comes naturally to you. Express your true feelings without reservation. Remember, I will not read what you have written (unless you ask me to). Once I record your mark I will hand the Journal back to you. (You may be present while I check to see that the Journal has been kept in the required manner.)
These Journals are for YOU. To introduce you to the joys of record-keeping. To help you think about your lives, the small events, the little graces, the funny, sad, or joyful moments. Record these as simply and directly as possible.
A moment recorded is a moment forever saved.
Carol Durmacher
February 6, Thursday
I don’t know what to write really. I have never kept a journal before. Well, I better write something. I have to do this two times in the next three days. Miss Durmacher, you said, Write your true feelings. My true feelings are that I actually have nothing to write. Well, I’ll describe myself. My name is Jessie Granatstein. I’m fifteen years old. My coloring is sandy (I think you would call it that). I ought to lose ten pounds. My eyes are brown. I have thick eyebrows that my sister Anita says I ought to pluck. My father says I’m stubborn as a bulldog. He said that last week when we fought over the Sunday papers. I was up first and started to read it, then he got up and took it away from me. He says he ought to get it first, the whole paper, every single section, because he’s the father, the head of the household, and that I should learn to wait patiently. We argued for an hour. He didn’t change my mind and I didn’t change his. He got the paper first.
February 8, Saturday
Anita and I made a huge bowl of popcorn tonight, then ate it watching TV. Then we were still hungry, so we made a pot of spaghetti, slathered it with butter, and ate it straight from the pot. We had a good time till Mark came over, then Anita acted like I didn’t exist.
February 12, Wednesday
Lincoln’s birthday, also my parents’ anniversary. Mom made a rib roast, baked Idaho potatoes with sour cream and chives, frozen corn on the cob, and strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream for topping. I stuffed myself like a pig. It half rained, half snowed all day. Why would anyone want to get married on Feb. 12, in the middle of winter? Mom just laughs when I ask her, and looks at Dad. “Sex rears its ugly head,” I whispered to Anita. “Don’t be vulgar,” she said.
February 14, Friday
I don’t have anything to write. I’m sorry, Miss Durmacher, but all I seem to be writing about is food. I had tuna fish with celery and mayo for lunch, plus two ice cream sandwiches which I should have resisted. Mom says not to worry about my weight, that I’m “appealing.” She’s nice.
February 18, Tuesday
Yesterday I was talking to Anita and we got called to supper right in the middle of a sentence. “Girls!” That’s my father, he won’t eat till we’re all at the table, and he’s hungry when he sits down, so he doesn’t want to wait very long for us. Like, not one extra second.
But, anyway, that wasn’t what I was going to write about today. I was going to write about Brian Marchant—Brian Douglas Marchant III. Kids call him BD. I’m pretty sure he was watching me in geometry class today. Fairly sure, although not positive. What I am positive of is that I was watching him. In fact—well, I’m not going to write any more about it. I thought I wanted to, but I take it back. And that’s all I have to say today.
Feb. 21, Fri.
Well, Miss D., it’s a Friday, it’s winter, I feel sort of depressed. I wish I had someone I could really talk to. It snowed again today. I’ve always loved snow, loved to see it caked in big thick white clumps on all the trees when it first falls, loved to jump around in it. Today, for the first time ever I didn’t like it. I hated it. And that depressed me even mor
e.
And to tell the truth, Miss D., while we’re on depressing subjects, I just can’t believe this journal. Almost three more months of my real thoughts and feelings—that’s depressing!
Monday, February 24
Brian Marchant borrowed paper from me, and winked at me. I have always hated winking boys.
Feb 28, last day of the month, Friday
BD winked at me again.
I said, “Why are you winking at me?”
“What do you mean? I’m winking at you because I feel like winking at you.”
“Don’t,” I said.
“Don’t?” He looked at me in astonishment and amazement. I mean it, Miss Durmacher, like nobody ever said don’t to him before.
“I think winking is dumb,” I said.
He stared at me some more. Then he gave me a double wink.
March 3, Monday
I saw BD in the cafeteria today. I said, Hi. He said, Hi. I said, Have you given up winking? He said, What? Then he laughed. He has a nice big laugh.
Tues. Mar. 4
BD and I ate lunch together today. No winking.
Thursday, March 6
Lunch again with BD. I forgot to bring mine and didn’t have any money with me, either. BD brings enormous lunches. Two peanut butter jelly sandwiches, one tuna fish with pickle relish, one salami with cheese, three Hostess Twinkies, one bag of chips, an apple, an orange, a banana, plus he bought three cartons of milk and two ice cream sandwiches. And parted reluctantly with one of the pbj’s for me. Also, he bigheartedly gave me half his apple.
And that makes three entries for this week, Miss Durmacher. Not bad, huh?
Tuesday, March 11
BD walked home with me and came in for cocoa. Then we went outside and he looked up at the pignut tree in the backyard which is almost the tallest tree around. “I think I could climb that, Jess,” he said.
“Don’t, BD,” I said.
“Why not? I like to climb trees.”
“I don’t like heights, and it might be slippery.”
“You don’t have to climb it,” he said. And up he went. I could hardly bear to look. All I could think was, He’s going to fall. He’s going to fall and crack his head.
When he got nearly to the top he yelled, “Jess-eee! Jess-eee!” I yelled back, “I hear you, Beee-Deee!” Then he came down, laughing all the way.
Wednesday, March 12
Anita said she thought BD was funny-looking. I said I didn’t think he was any funnier-looking than most human beings.
She said, “You have to admit he’s, one, shorter than you, and two, has got big pop eyes. Green pop eyes, like a frog. Also, a big mouth which looks like he could swallow your whole face when he kisses you.”
“How do you know he kisses me, Anita?”
“Well, sister, I hope he kisses you! At your age, you’re not going to tell me you’re sweet fifteen and never been kissed! I had boys running after me and kissing me since I was nine years old!” She laughed merrily.
Are you reading this, Miss Durmacher? Don’t, please. The truth is, I have only been kissed a few times—well, not even a few, three to be exact—at parties. But I’m not going to tell Anita that.
March 21, Friday
Anita doesn’t stop making cracks about BD’s looks. I just don’t understand it. Her boyfriend, Mark Maloff, is supposed to be super-good-looking, but I really can’t stand him. He wears pink ties and has a little green ring on his left hand. It’s true BD looks as if he never thinks about what he’s wearing. Nothing ever matches. But something about him really pleases me. Maybe it’s the way he walks around with his hands stuck in his back pockets, sort of jaunty and jolly and swaggering. (The other day he was wearing one green sock and one dark blue. When I pointed it out to him, he said, “Really?” and looked down at his feet, very interested. Then he said that his eyes were never really open in the morning, not till about ten o’clock, and by then, for better or worse, he was dressed.)
Saturday night, March 22
Miss Durmacher, don’t read this—you said you wouldn’t. I love kissing BD. I love it!
Wednesday, March 26
Mom thinks she and I are alike. She’s always saying it. (She thinks Dad and Anita are alike, she says they are both very good-looking. True. While she and I are both chunky and sandy-haired.) But Mom doesn’t say boo to Dad, she’s always very sweet to him. (Actually she’s sort of sweet to everybody.) I’m not like her in that way at all. I’m not sweet In that regard, I’m more like my father than Anita is. I became aware of this because of BD. I have been noticing that he likes things his own way. Most of the time he gets it. I have noticed, too, that I don’t feel sweet about this at all!
March 29, Sat. afternoon
BD came over last night and said we were going bowling. I said why didn’t we do something else, as we went bowling last week. He said he liked bowling and what else was there to do, anyway? I said we could go roller skating. BD laughed a lot. I said what’s the problem with roller skating. I like roller skating. (Which I do.) BD said, “Jessie, why are you being so picky? Why are you being hard to get along with?” I thought, Right! Why am I?
And we went bowling. And then, later, I realized, just like that, he had talked me out of what I wanted to do and into what he wanted to do.
Monday, March 31, last day of the month
I don’t even mind writing in here anymore, Miss Durmacher. I have plenty to write all the time. Now, lately, I’ve been thinking about what you wrote at the top of our assignment sheet. That favorite subject, Myself. Everyone got a laugh out of that when we first read it. Who wants to admit they are their own best, most favorite topic of conversation?
But I think it’s the truth. Last night, at supper, Dad was talking, and I noticed how I was pretty much waiting to get my own two cents in. It seems Anita was, too, because she actually beat me to the punch. The only one who didn’t rush to talk about herself was Mom, and sometimes I think that’s just from long years of practice listening to Dad.
Also, today, I noticed when BD and I were hanging around school that he is another one whose most favorite subject is—myself. That is—himself. The thing is, I really like to listen to him go on because, mainly, I like him. But if he never wants to listen to me, after a while, I get this horrible lonely feeling. I think that’s it. A lonely feeling. Sad.
April 2, Tuesday, no I mean, Wednesday
A dumb fight with BD today. He came home from school with me and not for the first time got going on his ancestors who came over here about 200 years ago. Pioneers, he said with a big happy delighted smile. As if because they got on a boat about 150 years earlier than my family this made them really special. So I said, “Well, BD, I think there’s another word for your ancestors. Thieves.”
“Thieves!” His cheeks puffed up.
“They stole Indian land, didn’t they?” (I have just become aware of this lately from Mr. Happy’s American History class.)
BD whipped out his map of the Northeast from his pocket and stabbed his finger about a dozen places all over Maine and Vermont. “Here’s Marchantville, Jessie. Marchant River. Marchant’s Corners. East Marchant! West Marchant, and Marchant’s Falls!” He looked at me very triumphantly.
“BD,” I said, “I’ve seen all that before.” Which, indeed, I have. In fact, the first time I realized BD actually carried that map around with him, I burst out laughing. And at the time he didn’t take too kindly to that. But this time, I made him truly furious.
“You think thieves were the founders of all these places, Jessie? You think that’s why all these rivers and towns were named after the Marchants? They were pioneers, Jess—” And he got that fanatical happy look on his face again at the mere sound of the word. “Pioneers, people who had the intelligence and foresight to go to the new country, the unexplored territory, the virgin lands—”
“Now listen, BD,” I said, and I had to talk loud to slow him down. “Suppose a boatload of people came over here tomorrow from
China and landed smack in the middle of our town, and pushed us all out—”
“The boat’s in the middle of our town?” BD said.
“You know what I mean! The people, BD. The people from across the ocean. And they say to us, From now on, we’re going to call this Fong City after our leader, Mao Tze Fong, and this river here, this is going to be Fong River, and over here we’ve got Fong Mountain—”
“Jessie, that’s dumb,” BD yelled. “That’s inaccurate, the comparison just won’t work—”
Well! I can yell, too. “Like I was saying, BD, although we don’t know it, the Chinese have developed this ray gun. Instant death. Superior to anything we have. Okay? Now—”
“No, it’s not okay. We’ve got atomic weapons, we’ve got sophisticated weapons, an army, police—”
“So here comes Mao Tze Fong,” I went on, “and all the others with him and they’ve got these ray guns which we can’t do anything against. They kill off a bunch of us, take over our houses and land, and the rest of us run to hide in the mountains—”
“Fong Mountain, I presume?” BD said.
“Right! We’re up on Fong Mountain. From there we survivors would try to get our homes back, but after quite a few years of battling, the invaders would beat us enough so we’d have to agree to anything they said. Because, remember, we have just a few old hunting rifles against their ray guns. They, after a while, would let us have some land they didn’t care about, some swamps and stuff, and they’d stick us all on it and call it a reservation. And meanwhile, meanwhile—BD, are you listening?—they’d have been wiping out all the old maps and making new ones. With Fong Mountain, East Fong, West Fong, Fong’s Corners, and fongoo, BD, if you don’t want to understand the point of what I’m saying!”
April 3, Thursday
In geometry class today: “How’s your revered ancestors, BD?”
“How’re things up on Fong Mountain, Jessie?”
Dear Bill, Remember Me? Page 1