by Carol Weston
“Wow,” Bea said. “You’re braver than I thought.”
“Or dumber?”
“No, Ava. Braver. You’re a risk-taker.”
“Me?”
“You,” Bea said, and suddenly I did feel a little extra brave.
AVA WREN, RISK-TAKER
12/3
BEDTIME
DEAR DIARY,
I like thinking of myself as a risk-taker, so I decided to take a risk. I mean, it always helps to pour my thoughts out into you, but somehow I knew I had to talk to Mom directly. So I went to see her, my insides as fluttery as if they were crawling with ladybugs. (Gross simile.)
When I got to Dr. Gross’s, Mom was busy as usual. At least Butterscotch was thrilled to see me. So was a shaggy sheepdog named Shep who just got shampooed for fleas. And so was a calico cat named Fever whose owner is always dropping him off for “observation” even though Dr. Gross keeps telling her that Fever is fine. (Fever once got his tail caught in a drawer, so now he has just a short nub because cat tails don’t grow back; only chameleon tails grow back. Mom says Fever’s owner feels guilty because it was her fault the file drawer was open.)
Anyway, I waited as patiently as I could, but at 5:05, I passed Mom a note. It said, “Mom, we have to talk now.”
I knew the conversation would be awkward, but as Bea once told Pip, no one ever died of awkwardness.
Mom glanced up, and from her expression, I swear, I think she was afraid I was going to ask her to explain puberty. (Hellllo! I’m a kid. I don’t even have B-O-O-Bs!)
“What is it?” she asked.
When Pip and I were little, whenever we got fussy, Mom would say, “Use your words.” Well, as Wilbur found out in Charlotte’s Web, even a few words can make a giant difference. And I’d been saving up a humongous pile of words—so it was time for me to let them out.
“It’s me!” I said. “Me! I’m here and I matter!” Next thing you know, it was like a dam inside m had broken. I couldn’t stop talking. “Mom, you pay way more attention to Pip than to me. You can’t even deny it!”
Mom sat there as silent as the Old Pip. “It’s true!” I said. “You favor her! You always have! Sometimes you act like she’s as fragile as an old canary. Other times you act like she can walk on water, like that dumb lizard. Maybe it’s the whole getting born early thing, but that was a long time ago, and Pip is a big girl now!”
“You’re taller.”
“Oh, Mom, that is so not the point! She’s thirteen! She’s a teenager! And she’s not as small as she used to be. Not as quiet either—in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I have noticed. I’m proud of her.”
I took a deep breath so I wouldn’t explode into a billion boiling lava bubbles all over the walls and ceiling. “You should be proud of me too because I’ve been helping her. And I am totally awesome!” It came out much louder than I meant, so I was glad the waiting room was end-of-the-day empty. No dogs on leashes or cats in boxes or upset pet owners.
“I am proud of you, Ava.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”
“Okay, go on.” For once, I had Mom’s full attention.
“First of all, will you admit that you favor Pip?”
“No. I love you both equally!”
“I didn’t say ‘love,’ I said ‘favor.’” Mom stayed quiet, so I did too.
Finally she said, “If it sometimes seems that I favor Pip—and I’m not saying I do—I suppose it may be because I worry more about her. She’s older, but she struggles more than you do. She’s our Early Bird, and she still doesn’t really fly.” She met my eyes. “Can you keep that to yourself?”
“Yes,” I said, because it doesn’t count that I’m telling you, my diary.
“I can see how this might have felt unfair, and I’m sorry,” Mom continued. “Maybe you and I should have talked about it sooner. But I never meant to favor her, just protect her, encourage her. I wish she could be more like you: friendly and fearless.” She looked up. “Is there any chance you could take it as a compliment that I don’t worry about you as much as I worry about her?”
“Depends,” I replied. “Is there any chance you could start noticing me more?”
“Absolutely.” Mom smiled softly. “What’s ‘second of all’? And what did you want to say?”
I liked that she’d been listening and that she thought of me as friendly and fearless. “Well, you know my story about the new girl—”
“Yes, I tried to e-mail it to Nana Ethel today, but for some reason, it wasn’t online anymore…”
I told Mom that the girl who gave the party turned out to be a very nice person, and that appearances can be deceiving. I also told her that I had to apologize to the girl’s mother, and the principal took the story off the school website.
My voice caught a little when I said all this, because I was remembering that in Principal Gupta’s office, first I wished my parents were there and then I was glad they weren’t.
Since Mom was looking right at me, I added, “Pip has her struggles, but I have mine too.”
Mom’s eyes got a little shiny when I said that.
“If I tell you something else, will you keep it to yourself?” I asked.
She nodded, so I told her about the five assignments and how when Bea started coming over, Pip started overcoming her shyness. I didn’t tell her about Pip’s crush, but I did tell her about Loudmouth Lacey and the Squeaky Boys. Mom looked pained during that part, but I said I stood up to them.
“C’mere, Ava,” she said. “You’ve been a super S-I-S, haven’t you?” She gave me a big hug, and I pictured myself as a hero in a book: Ava Wren to the rescue! “And Pip has been more extroverted lately,” she added.
I didn’t want the subject to switch back to Pip quite so fast, but I said, “Extra what?”
“Extroverted. Outgoing. Talkative. Last week, she told me she participated in class.”
Mom said Pip had told her that a substitute teacher called on her and she’d answered. “A lot of the regular teachers have stopped trying to call on her,” Mom admitted.
“She participated? That’s incredible,” I said.
“Ava, you’re incredible!” Mom said and looked right at me. “Thank you for what you’re doing. And for telling me about it. I’m sorry I let work and other things get me so distracted.”
“Thank you for listening,” I answered. Then I think we both felt a little embarrassed about all the thank-yous, even though it’s nice to be thanked and Thanksgiving wasn’t that long ago. “Mom, can you not tell Pip that I told you about Bea? She’ll probably tell you herself sometime. And don’t mention the Squeaky People either. It would just hurt her feelings. Plus, one of the boys might not be as bad as the other.”
“I hear you,” Mom said, and I felt like she really did hear me. “We’ll both keep quiet. Mum’s the word.”
“M-U-M,” I said.
Mom looked up and stroked my hair. “Hey, you could use a haircut, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I said, like it was no big deal.
AVA THE ASTOUNDED
12/4
AFTER DINNER
DEAR DIARY,
It snowed today! Big fluffy flakes that didn’t stick.
Three weeks till Christmas. Four till my birthday.
January 1st is a new year and a number palindrome (1-1) and the day I turn eleven (also a number palindrome).
I was thinking about what to give my family and I thought: maybe I’ve already given them pretty good gifts. Pip needed to get a life, and I helped her get one. And now, not only is Pip happier, but Mom and Dad seem happier too.
Dad’s in the next room humming.
Is “hum” an onomatopoeia? Mrs. Lemons says those are words that are spelled the way they sound. Comic book examples are “pow,” �
��bang,” and “wham.” Animal examples are “meow,” “buzz,” and “quack.” A cereal example might be “snap,” “crackle,” and “P-O-P.”
I went into Pip’s room and asked, “Pip, do you think you and I are word nerds, like Mom and Dad?”
“Yeah, we can’t help it,” Pip said. Then she told me that in Spanish, she learned that “Yo soy” (Y-O-S-O-Y) means “I am”—which means other languages have palindromes too.
I told her that I knew a word that was eight letters and had only one vowel.
“In English?”
“Of course in English.”
“How can that be?”
“It just is.”
“Give me a clue.”
I made a fist and pointed right at my bicep, but she didn’t get it. So I said, “It’s hard to guess. It’s STRENGTH.”
She nodded like she was impressed.
I told her that in the library, Mr. Ramirez lectured everyone about the Internet. He said we should not give out personal info, not believe everything we read online, and always be respectful of others. “Think before you click,” he kept saying. “Fortunately,” I said, “he did not say what inspired him.”
AVA THE INSPIRING
12/6
AFTERNOON
DEAR DIARY,
This morning, Pip and I got haircuts, or in my case, a hair-fix. I got a B-O-B, like Maybelle.
On the way home, a flock of Canada geese honked in a V above us, and Pip turned to me all serious and said, “Do geese see God?”
I said, “What are you talking about?”
She spelled it out: “D-O-G-E-E-S-E-S-E-E-G-O-D?”
“Good one!” I said.
After lunch, Maybelle, Lucia, and Carmen came over. The twins were both wearing red, and we started playing a four-person card game of “I Doubt It.” But then Carmen had to go home. Lucia didn’t want to stop, so she said, “Think you can get Pip to play with us?”
I said, “I doubt it,” and everyone laughed. But it occurred to me that Pip hadn’t acted like a sore loser for a long time and hadn’t been hiding in her room as much either. So I knocked on her door and asked her to play with us, and she said, “Sure,” and took Carmen’s place. And instead of us doing Pip a favor, Pip was doing us a favor. Which was nice, to tell you the truth.
When she sat down, Lucia said, “You’re in seventh grade, right?”
Pip nodded.
“Don’t the seventh- and eighth-graders have a dance coming up?”
Pip said, “Yes,” and blushed a little.
“Are you going?” Maybelle asked.
“I don’t know,” Pip said.
Maybelle sneezed and Pip said, “Bless you,” and I started thinking I should write Ben a note telling him that Pip likes him and asking if he likes her. But then I thought: nah, it’s better to think twice (or three times!) before putting some things in print.
A-V-A WITH A B-O-B
12/7
AT 7:12
DEAR DIARY,
In the library today, I went straight into Spy Mode—A-K-A Keen Observation Mode.
Pip and Ben were on opposite sides of the room, sneaking peeks at each other. I kept watching them watch each other, and soon only two minutes were left in the period.
I wanted to jump up and shove them together. It was time for one of them to make a move!
Suddenly Ben stretched, stood up, walked toward Pip, and said, “Oh, hey, hi,” as if he’d bumped into her by pure accident.
“Hi,” she said, barely looking up.
Neither of them said another word. I wanted to shout, “Talk! Talk! Talk about music or sports or TV! Or the weather! Or anything at all!”
But it was like they had talker’s block.
At last, Ben said, “I like your watch. What time is it?” This was a funny question since there was a wall clock right by the door.
Pip said, “1:59. Thanks. I got it for my birthday.”
They fell silent again.
His eyes landed on her book and he said, “Great Expectations.”
“Have you read it?” Pip asked.
He said no, and Pip told him there was a character in it named Pip.
From the corner of my eye (not that eyes have corners), I could see Mr. Ramirez starting to take giant steps toward them. I knew he was going to ask them to “pipe down,” which is how he says, “Be quiet.”
Well, I couldn’t let him ruin the moment, so I looked straight at him, human being to human being. And just like that, Mr. Ramirez stopped in his tracks. It was as if he read my mind and decided to do a good D-E-E-D and let Pip and Ben talk (or at least try to).
“Some of my friends are going to the dance on Friday,” Ben finally stammered. “Are you?”
I thought P-I-P might P-O-P, but she stayed M-U-M.
Then she said, “I haven’t really thought about it,” which I knew was not true.
Then they both went quiet again! They were M-U-M as mummies!
I wanted to jump up and say, “Don’t believe her! She has thought about it, and she’s dying to go with you, you, you!”
The bell started to ring, and Ben managed to mumble, “Maybe we could go together.”
Pip looked up and said, “K,” very softly, and their eyes met for a split second, and then Ben went back to his seat.
Well, neither of them said another word, but I knew that inside, they were both all melty. And I felt sort of proud of them, and proud of myself too.
If Pip’s life were a book, this would be the start of a whole new chapter! And I helped her turn some important pages!
AVA THE ALTRUISTIC
12/8
BEDTIME
DEAR DIARY,
Mrs. Lemons asked us to do some in-class creative writing, and instead of worrying or getting blocked, I just wrote and wrote as if I were writing in you.
I got so inspired that I wrote a three-page story called “Invisible Girl.” It’s based a little on me and a little on Pip, but not quite on either of us. The first line is: “Once there was a girl who could disappear at will.” I read the story out loud, and my whole class liked it, including Chuck, all three Emilys, Pony Girl Riley, and of course Maybelle.
Tonight when Dad tucked me in, I showed him “Invisible Girl,” and he laughed at all the right parts. “Ava, this is good!” he said. “I like it even more than the other one.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a real writer,” he said. “You have the gift of gab.”
I said, “The gift of what?”
Dad said there’s a castle in Ireland, and millions of tourists climb its tower, lean over backward while a guard holds their legs, and kiss the Blarney Stone so they can get the “gift of gab” and become better talkers.
“Is that a G-A-G?”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Is it scary?”
“No, it’s fun!”
“Is it germy?”
Dad laughed. “Life is germy.”
“So why didn’t you take Pip?” I asked.
“County Cork is a long way from Misty Oaks!” he said.
“I think she’s figuring out how to talk anyway.”
“I think you’re right,” Dad replied. He ruffled my hair, and I knew Mom must have told him about our conversation. I thought he was going to say, “Good night,” but he said, “Do you sometimes feel that way?”
“What way?”
“Invisible.”
My eyes stung, and the tip of my nose got all tingly as though I’d had too much wasabi on my sushi. I blinked a few times then said, “Sometimes. Maybe. A teeny bit.” I didn’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings, but then again, he was asking about my feelings.
Dad nodded. “Ava, I’m sorry. Next time I’m talking too much or joking too much or reading too
much, speak up, okay? If Mom and I get sidetracked with work or Pip, just talk to us. Don’t wait for an invitation. I want to know what’s important to you and what’s upsetting you.”
“Okay,” I said and blinked some more. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I got another 100 in spelling. That’s all I ever get. Nothing but 100s. The kids in my language arts class think I’m a genius because I can spell words like ‘genius.’ And ‘invisible.’ They’re rooting for me to get every word right for the rest of the year. Even this boy Chuck who can’t spell to save his life and wants to be a championship boxer.” I was talking way too fast, but the words came flying out. “Dad, I’m the best speller in the entire grade. I’m, like, a great speller!”
Dad kissed me on the head. “You know something, Ava? You’re a great daughter too.”
I smiled. “It’s good I never kissed the Blarney Stone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You once called me a ‘chatterbox.’ What if I never stopped talking?”
Dad laughed. “You’re a talker, but you know how to listen too.”
He was about to turn off the light when I asked, “Can I write for a few more minutes?”
“Sure.” He glanced at my diary and added, “Hey! You’re almost out of pages, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” I said.
He left, and I wrote down our whole conversation. Then I heard his footsteps and a knock on the door. “It’s getting late,” he said, poking his head in. He added that in Ulysses, James Joyce coined the longest palindrome in the Oxford English Dictionary.
“H-U-H?”
“Tattarrattat. T-A-T-T-A-R-R-A-T-T-A-T. It means ‘knock on the door.’”
“Can I write that down?”
“Okay, but then lights out in one minute.”
“Okay.”
“And by the way,” Dad said, “I meant what I said.”