Ava and Pip

by Carol Weston

  Anyway, I figured it out instantly: Pip must have given Dr. Gross one of her smiles. And it must have worked!

  AVA, ASTUTE

  11/11 (A PALINDROME DATE)

  AFTER SCHOOL

  DEAR DIARY,

  The doorbell rang. I put down Charlotte’s Web (which is short), and Pip put down A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (which is long), and we let Bea in.

  “Hi, Ava! Hi, Pip! How’d it go this week?” she said.

  Pip stared at Bea as if she were deciding whether or not to smile at her. But Bea just started taking off her gloves, scarf, jacket, and bike helmet.

  “It’s ccccold out!” she said, and for some reason, that seemed to warm Pip up.

  We talked a little about the wind and rain, and then Bea plunked herself on the sofa. “Want some gum?” she asked, and Pip and I each took a piece. It was raspberry mint, which is my favorite after bubblemint.

  “So who’d you smile at?” Bea asked Pip with a smile.

  “A few people.”

  “A few? Or seven?”

  “Five.”

  “Well, spit it out…”

  I imagined Pip spitting (yuck!), but Pip started to answer. “Let’s see, on Thursday, I smiled at Ava’s friend Maybelle. On Friday, I smiled at the gym teacher, but I don’t think she noticed. On Saturday, I smiled at our postman. And on Monday, I smiled at my mom’s boss, and he actually told our mom.”

  “Positive reinforcement!” Bea said, and I wondered how positive she was going to feel once she found out that our stories had gotten posted online.

  “On Tuesday,” Pip continued, “I smiled at a girl, Nadifa, who just moved here from Somalia. She smiled back and sat by me at lunch. But it was a little awkward because neither of us knew what to say.”

  “No one ever died of awkwardness,” Bea said. “Overall, how did it feel?”

  “Overall, pretty good,” Pip admitted.

  “You think you can keep smiling this week and do a whole new assignment?”

  “Depends on the assignment,” Pip said.

  “Here it is. When you see your reflection in a mirror, I want you to say, ‘You are totally awesome!’”

  “No way!” Pip said.

  “Yes way. But don’t worry, not loudly! Mostly just say it to yourself. Or say it in your head. It’ll boost your confidence.”

  “My confidence?” Pip repeated. “No. Sorry. I can’t. I really can’t.”

  “Yes, you can! You can do anything!”

  “I’d feel too stupid.” Pip looked at me for backup, but I stared straight down at my shoelaces.

  “Never question your life coach,” Bea said. “It may sound weird, but it works. Instead of letting shyness conquer you, you have to conquer it!” She handed Pip the second strip of yellow paper.

  Pip looked at me and read the words aloud:

  Week Two:

  Every time you see your reflection, tell yourself, “You are totally awesome!”

  She rolled her eyes, so Bea added, “If you’d rather give yourself a specific compliment, like ‘I draw well,’ or ‘I’m good in school,’ that would be okay too.”

  Pip shrugged, and Bea shrugged back, so I shrugged too.

  “I’ll try,” Pip said softly, and I wanted to jump up and down shouting, “Y-A-Y!”

  “Great,” Bea said. “Okay, same time next week!” She started putting back on her gloves, scarf, jacket, and bike helmet, and then got on her bike and rode off.

  When she was out of sight, Pip said, “Seriously, Ava, why couldn’t you have just minded your own business?”

  I didn’t know whether to say, “I don’t have a business,” or “C’mon, it’s kind of working,” or “Can’t you see I have worries of my own?”

  So I pulled a Pip—I kept quiet.

  AVA, AGITATED

  11/11 (STILL A PALINDROME!)

  BEFORE DINNER

  DEAR DIARY,

  I heard Pip talking in her room, so I slowed down by her door.

  Here’s what I heard: “You are totally awesome.”

  I thought that was funny (H-O-H-O-H-O-H) and was tempted to call Maybelle. But I decided not to, even though Maybelle and I usually tell each other everything. (In first grade, she was the first person I told when I got lice, which Pip says I called “head lights.”)

  Thing is, if I tell Maybelle about what’s going on, Pip might kill me, and I’m big on life. Besides, I’m also trying to be a kinder, better person.

  I’m glad I can at least tell you that I am—

  AVA THE AMUSED

  11/12

  IN THE LIBRARY

  DEAR DIARY,

  Mr. Ramirez just said, “I read your story online, Ava. The link went out to all the regional schools and town libraries.” He also told me that Mrs. (Bright) White nominated it for a nationwide contest for a book called Kids’ Eye View: Short Fiction by Young Writers.

  “Why?” I asked, though he probably expected me to say W-O-W or Y-A-Y.

  “Why? I imagine she liked it! And if your story becomes part of a collection, that brings recognition not just to you, but to the entire Misty Oaks School District.”

  Here’s what I did not say:

  1.“I wish you’d never told me about the stupid contest.”

  2.“Help! I wrote a mean story about a nice person!”

  3.“My stomach hurts. Can I go see Nurse Abrahams?”

  4.“Am I really a ‘Young Writer’?”

  Here’s what I did say: “Did she nominate other stories too? Like ‘Bookshop Cat’?”

  “No, just yours,” Mr. Ramirez answered.

  “I don’t think I even want to win,” I mumbled, imagining all my words on the loose in cyberspace.

  “Why not?”

  I didn’t answer, but I wondered if he would figure it out. After all, he’d been there when Bea and I had our meetings and made the Pip Pointers.

  AVA, ASHAMED

  FRIDAY THE 13TH

  BEDTIME

  DEAR DIARY,

  I do not believe that unlucky things happen on Friday the 13th. I believe that bad and good things happen all the time. Sometimes they just do, and sometimes people do dumb stuff or smart stuff that makes them happen or not happen.

  I also doubt one pen is luckier than another. And I know pens can be replaced and don’t really and truly have magical powers. But I still wish I hadn’t lost the pen Dad gave me. When I wrote with it, it felt as if Dad were right there helping me or, I don’t know, rooting for me.

  Anyway, Mom said Nana Ethel has laryngitis and “lost her voice.”

  I said, “I hope she finds it.”

  Mom didn’t laugh.

  I’m still hoping I can find my voice. I know it didn’t get “lost” like my pen, but is it the kind of thing you can find—ah-ha! (A-H-H-A)—like a four-leaf clover? Or is it something you have to discover little by little?

  Yesterday, Dad was helping a high school senior write his essay for college. They were in the dining room reading out loud. It started out like this: “I feel fully prepared to undertake rigorous academic challenges.”

  I thought that sounded good, but Dad said, “Can you put more of your personality in there, Taylor? Let them hear your voice.” He even added, “Kids think about how they look, but not how they sound.”

  The whole voice thing still confuses me. I know it’s more than tra-la-la-la-la, but what is it?

  Being a writer is way more complicated than I ever thought.

  To tell you the truth, I started feeling a little overlooked as I overheard Dad tutoring Taylor. Dad was so full of encouragement, and I don’t think he gets that I need extra courage too. And that a little attention would go a long way.

  Bea and I have been encouraging Pip with the Pip Pointers, but I wish Mom and Dad realized that I co
uld use some advice too.

  Do they need Parent Pointers??

  AVA, ABANDONED?

  11/14

  BEDTIME

  DEAR DIARY,

  We went to The Great Wall for dinner. It was raining, and I said I liked the sound of the raindrops on the sunroof.

  “Raindrops on the sunroof,” Dad repeated. “That’s almost a poem.”

  When we sat down, we ordered egg rolls and dumplings, and I looked at the menu and said, “Wonton? Not now.” Then I spelled it out: W-O-N-T-O-N-N-O-T-N-O-W.

  Pip said, “Good one, Ava!”

  Dad laughed, and I liked that they appreciated my wordplay. It made me want to keep playing with words.

  Pip went to the bathroom, and I followed her. I wanted to ask her how things were going with her crush, but she was blabbing away about how she and Nadifa are going to be lab partners. (Blab partners??) Well, Pip was so busy talking about science experiments that she didn’t notice that Mrs. (Bright) White walked in behind her—and between us.

  Mrs. (Bright) White didn’t notice me either, and I didn’t say anything because it’s awkward to see a librarian outside of a library. Especially in a bathroom!!

  What was really awkward was what happened next.

  Pip marched up to the mirror, fluffed her red hair, smiled, and proclaimed, “You are totally awesome.”

  Mrs. (Bright) White said, “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”

  “No!” Pip replied, all flustered. “I thought you were my sister!”

  “Your sister?” Mrs. (Bright) White turned and saw me hiding in the doorway. “Oh! Hello, Ava!” She looked back at Pip and said, “I quite agree: Ava is awesome.” She smiled and added, “And how nice that you two get along so well.”

  Pip and Mrs. (Bright) White went into separate stalls, and when they came out, they washed their hands side by side like it was no biggie. I just stood there wriggling, because I was not going to pee with Mrs. (Bright) White in the room!

  They left, and after a minute, I left too.

  Guess what? Mrs. (Bright) White was at our table talking to Mom and Dad! She was telling them that she sent my story to the publishers of Kids’ Eye View. “I think it has a real chance in the fifth-grade category,” she said.

  Mom and Dad smiled, and I tried to. But as Pip knows, sometimes even a little smile takes a big effort.

  AVA, AWKWARD

  11/15

  LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  DEAR DIARY,

  After breakfast, I went to Maybelle’s. Maybelle’s mom congratulated me about the writing contest, and I mumbled thank you. I still hadn’t told Maybelle about the Pip Pointers or my Queen-Bee-Real-Bea worries.

  We went to her backyard, and she said, “Want to trim my hair?”

  I said, “I’ve never trimmed hair before.”

  “Yes, you have,” she said. “Remember when we gave haircuts to all of Pip’s Barbies?”

  Actually, I still feel kind of bad about the time we pretended we had a barbershop. It was a long time ago, but Pip got really upset when she saw all the yellow Barbie hair on the floor of our basement. Mom and Dad got mad too, so it’s something I try to forget. But when you try to forget something, you usually remember it extra.

  “We didn’t exactly do a great job,” I reminded Maybelle.

  “That’s true,” she admitted. “But we’re older now. And how hard can it be to trim hair?” She lifted a strand of her hair and examined the ends. “The thing is, at my mom’s salon, they always cut off way too much.”

  She handed me scissors, and I objected a little more, and she said, “C’mon. Just snip off half an inch.”

  I protested, but she begged, so I started: snip, snip, snip.

  (Funny: snip, snip, snip backward is pins, pins, pins.)

  I was nervous but not pins-and-needles nervous, so I kept doing it, cutting Maybelle’s hair. At first it came out a little slanty: the right side was longer than the left. I said this out loud, and Maybelle said, “Just even it out.”

  I tried, but then the left side was longer than the right. “That’s okay. You can fix it,” Maybelle said, so I tried. I was getting a little worried though. What if I kept evening it out until there was no hair left? Fortunately, that didn’t happen. But all in all, I ended up cutting about four inches—not half an inch. And it still wasn’t completely even.

  “I’m sorry!” I said.

  She said it was okay, and I blurted, “Want to trim my hair?” I don’t know why I said that, because I didn’t even need a haircut. But before I could take it back, Maybelle said, “Sure.”

  Next thing you know, she was behind me chatting and snipping.

  “I meant to tell you,” Maybelle began, “the other day in school, Pip smiled at me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And in the lunchroom last week, I saw her sitting with a new kid, laughing.”

  Well, next thing you know, I told Maybelle everything. When you’re not facing someone face-to-face, it’s easier to spill your guts. (Yucky expression.)

  Thing is, I needed to talk, and I knew I could trust Maybelle with my secrets—I was trusting her with sharp scissors at my neck!

  When I was done explaining everything, she said the Pip Pointers sounded cool and not to worry too much about my Bee-Bea story getting read by too many people.

  “I hope you’re right,” I said, feeling better. I was tempted to tell her about Pip’s crush, but resisted. Besides, I didn’t want to distract her. “How’s it going back there?” I asked.

  “I’m just trying to even it out.”

  A little later, I said, “Almost done?”

  “Almost.”

  For a few minutes, things were quiet. Then she said, “Oops.”

  “What??”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I knew it was not nothing, but I didn’t want to add another worry to my list of worries.

  “I’m on the finishing touches,” Maybelle said. “Hold still.”

  “I’m trying!” I said, even though I was also trying to take my mind off my head, which is as hard as it sounds.

  “Done!” Maybelle finally announced, sounding apologetic. She ran inside to get a mirror. I looked at all the curled wisps of brown hair on the grass. Mine was a little darker than hers.

  When she came back, we checked each other out, front and back. We both looked worse instead of better, and we knew it.

  “Is your mom going to be mad?” I asked.

  “No. She hardly ever gets mad.”

  I felt a pang of jealousy, but a little bit of relief too. “Good,” I said, because I would hate having a friend’s mom mad at me!

  “Is yours?” Maybelle asked.

  “She might not even notice,” I had to admit, and Maybelle looked a little sad for me.

  “You know what we need?” she said.

  “What? Hats? Wigs? Brown bags?” I was trying to be funny.

  “Moonglasses!!” she pronounced and dug into her pockets. She brought out two pretend pairs and put hers on the movie-star way. I did too.

  “Look!” she pointed up. “The moon! And the man in the moon!”

  We looked, and in the middle of the blue sky, surprise! There was a big round white moon. That made me feel a little better—it was like the moon was watching over us or something.

  “Is it really 24,000 miles away?” I asked.

  “Multiply by ten!” Maybelle laughed. “240,000 miles!”

  AVA WITH ALTERED HAIR

  11/16

  AFTER DINNER

  DEAR DIARY,

  Mom and Dad went to a party and told Pip and me to “look after each other.”

  Pip asked about my hair, and when I told her, she said, “It’ll grow back.”

  “I know,” I said and nuked some alphab
et soup.

  I’ve liked alphabet soup ever since I was a baby. I used to eat it at room temperature in a high chair. I even have a poster next to my bed of a can of Campbell’s alphabet soup. It’s by Andy Warhol and is called P-O-P art.

  If Pip keeps drawing, maybe she can make P-I-P art.

  Tonight, all Pip made was a mess. She poured herself some Lucky Charms, and then her cell phone buzzed—practically a first. It said: “Nadifa.” Pip jumped up and—unlucky for her—spilled the Lucky Charms.

  On the floor was a pink puddle of soggy shamrocks, pots of gold, shooting stars, rainbows, and mushy hearts.

  “Smooth!” I said, but Pip just picked up her phone with one hand and a sponge with the other. Last week, she might have cried over spilt milk. Today she mopped up and kept talking.

  “Tomorrow? Sure!” Pip said into the phone. “I love ice-skating!”

  I stirred my letters, looking for words and keeping myself company. It’s not that I expected Pip to include me. But I didn’t expect to feel left out.

  AVA WITH NO APPETITE

  11/17

  BEDTIME

  DEAR DIARY,

  Dad told me he’d googled “Wren Misty Oaks” and three of his plays popped up. “So did ‘Sting of the Queen Bee,’” he said. “There are two writers in town now!”

  “I never thought my story would show up online,” I mumbled, quiet as Pip.

  “Well, no need for modesty. The more people who see your work, the better.” He put his arm around me. “Maybe it’ll go viral!”

  “Like a virus?” I asked.

  Dad laughed, but I didn’t.

  I wished I could tell him that even though “Sting of the Queen Bee” got an honorable mention, it’s making me feel like a dishonorable person!