Dear Dumb Diary Year Two #4: What I Don't Know Won't Might Me

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by Jim Benton




  From New York Times bestselling author Jim Benton

  DEAR

  DUMB

  DIARY,

  What I Don’t Know

  might Hurt Me

  YEAR

  TWO

  WHAT I DON’T KNOW

  MIGHT HURT ME

  THINK YOU CAN HANDLE

  JAMIE KELLY’S FIRST YEAR OF DIARIES?

  #1 Let’s Pretend This Never Happened

  #2 My Pants Are Haunted!

  #3 Am I The Princess Or The Frog?

  #4 Never Do Anything, Ever

  #5 Can Adults Become Human?

  #6 The Problem With Here Is That It’s Where I’m From

  #7 Never Underestimate Your Dumbness

  #8 It’s Not My Fault I Know Everything

  #9 That’s What Friends Aren't For

  #10 The Worst Things in Life Are Also Free

  #11 Okay, So Maybe I Do Have Superpowers

  #12 Me! (Just Like You, Only Better)

  AND DON’T MISS . . .

  Year Two #1: School. Hasn’t This Gone On Long Enough?

  Year Two #2: The Super-Nice Are Super-Annoying

  Year Two #3: Nobody’s Perfect. I’m As Close As It Gets.

  Jim Benton’s Tales from Mackerel Middle School

  YEAR

  TWO

  DEAR

  DUMB

  DIARY,

  What I Don’t Know

  Might Hurt Me

  BY JAMIE KELLY

  SCHOLASTIC INC.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

  Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted,

  downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into

  any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

  whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without

  the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding

  permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557

  Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  eISBN 978-0-545-60694-3

  Copyright © 2013 by Jim Benton

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.

  scholastic and associated logos are trademarks

  and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  DEAR DUMB DIARY is a registered trademark of Jim Benton.

  First printing, July 2013

  For the Dicky Flartsnutt in all of us.

  Bully for you, Kristen LeClerc, Shannon

  Penney, Abby McAden, Anna Bloom, Jackie

  Hornberger, and Yaffa Jaskoll.

  Dear Whoever Is Reading My Dumb Diary,

  I know you think it’s okay to read my diary,

  and I know that you think that there is

  know

  way I’ll never find out.

  But I know I will find out, and when I do, I

  know you’re going to regret it, because I know

  things like that. You know?

  You never know when I’ll find out, or where

  you’ll be when I do, but there is

  know escaping

  it — and you know it.

  Knowingly,

  Sunday 01

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Today was the best day ever.

  Said nobody.

  My mom dropped me off at Isabella’s house,

  because it’s Sunday and that’s our main day to do

  the homework that was due on Thursday, except

  that we got an extra day to turn it in and then

  another extra day after that because Isabella told

  our teacher that her house had been robbed and the

  burglars had stolen our homework. Again.

  I think the teacher bought it because Isabella

  had a sketch of the burglar, which looked really

  official because she had me do a drawing of

  Abraham Lincoln with long hair. Isabella thinks he

  may have been a burglar before he went into

  presidenting. (She thinks a full beard without

  an accompanying mustache is suspicious.)

  We often do our Thursday/Sunday homework

  at my house, but since my mom was working on

  getting dinner ready, I was concerned that there

  was a chance she might try to make us eat it, so I

  did what I could to avoid being there. Isabella’s

  1

  mom, on the other hand, is such a good cook that

  she could even work at a Burger King or someplace

  awesome like that.

  Unfortunately, Isabella’s mean older brothers

  exist and were home, which meant that everybody

  was on Extreme Red Alert. Isabella and her

  brothers were listening carefully for anything that

  anybody said to be either:

  1) Insulting.

  2) Very Insulting.

  And, if one of them did say something

  insulting, the other would say something back that

  was either:

  1) Very Insulting.

  2) Astonishingly Insulting.

  3) Insulting enough that it could get repeated to

  a psychologist twenty years from now.

  Then it was the first person’s turn again. It

  was a lot like people playing tennis, but instead of a

  tennis ball, they used a dirty diaper full of wasps

  and grenades.

  One of these fights broke out (because one

  always does), and it became so intense that at one

  point they were exchanging insults about each

  other’s mothers.

  “Your mother is so ugly that the mirrors charge

  extra to reflect her,” Isabella spat.

  “Oh, yeah, well, your mother is so fat, she has

  different weather on her front than she does on her

  back,” one of her brothers said.

  Here’s the thing: Isabella and her brothers

  have the same mother, and she walked in just as

  they were exchanging these insults.

  3

  “So this is what my kids think of me?” she

  asked angrily.

  “No, Mom,” Isabella said, and ran up to her

  and gave her a big hug.

  “So you think I’m fat?” her mom said quietly,

  the way the hissing fuse on a stick of dynamite is

  pretty quiet.

  “No, no. Don’t you remember? I was the one

  that said you were ugly.”

  By the time my mom got there, Isabella’s

  mom had screamed until her voice was hoarse, and

  I had to go home early and eat the dinner my mom

  had made (a big salad, which she had somehow

  badly burned). Plus, I had to finish my

  homework by myself, which is one of the nine worst

  ways to do homework.

  Monday 02

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  You might recall, Dumb Diary, that Isabella

  and I joined some clubs last month, since my Uncle

  Dan (who is also the assistant principal at my

  school) kind of demanded it.

  It’s hard to know what to call your uncle when

  he is also the assistant principal. Away from school,

  I go with Uncle Dan. At school, I go with Mr. Devon or

  Assistant Principal Devon. In o
uter space, I go with

  Devon the OverSeer.*

  He didn’t actually demand that I join

  clubs. He did that thing where an adult says that

  they think something would be a good idea,

  but deep down you know that’s kind of like when a

  pirate tells you that they think swimming would be

  a good idea after they make you walk the plank.

  Nobody is really demanding that you swim. You

  make up your own mind. “Swim,” they say, “if

  you think that’s what’s best.”

  *Haven’t actually had the chance to use this one yet.

  5

  But the problem with clubs is that they

  expect you to participate. Isabella also thinks it’s

  deceptive that they don’t give us actual clubs,

  but that’s another story.

  I joined the Cuisine Club, which is taught by

  my gorgeous art teacher, Miss Anderson. We learn

  how to prepare wonderfully delicious dishes that

  are so beautiful to behold that it seems wrong to

  eat them, in the same way that people don’t feel

  they should eat beautiful paintings.

  Isabella joined the Videogamer Club, not really

  because she’s that into video games, but because

  she knows how much it will irritate her mean older

  brothers when she gets good enough to beat them,

  and she likes being the most beautiful girl in

  the entire club.

  Okay, the only beautiful girl.

  Okay, the only girl.

  Okay, a girlish person in the club.

  Isabella and I are also co-presidents of the

  Student Awareness Committee, which is a club we

  invented in order to get credit for joining a club.

  Originally, just I was the president, but Isabella and

  I felt that both of us should be president, and I

  wanted her to get up off my stomach.

  It sounds pretty official, and you would

  assume that any club we started would be a

  Bustin’-Out-the-Drawers-Party-

  Spaceship-O-Fun, but frankly, we’re already

  kind of bored with it. We just sit there and discuss

  what we’re aware of, and as it turns out, we’re just

  not aware of many things.

  As the presidents, Isabella and I decided the

  club should meet on Wednesdays, which is when

  she and I attend other clubs so that we can never

  attend the Student Awareness Committee meetings.

  This makes Angeline, the secretary, angry, but we

  told her that if she’s ever aware of something she

  can email us and we’ll consider becoming aware of

  it, too. Problem solved.

  7

  We’ve discovered that this is the time of year

  when all of the clubs have their “membership

  drives,” where they try to recruit more members.

  The school actually gives a prize to the club that

  increases their numbers by the highest percentage.

  They do this because:

  1) The school just does things like this.

  2) There is no other reason.

  3) Why are you still reading the list? I told you

  back at number 2 that there were no other

  reasons.

  I can’t imagine this being a very big deal,

  anyway.

  Tuesday 03

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  So now Angeline has to go and be aware of

  something. Just when I was pretty sure we could

  let the Student Awareness Committee quietly die

  a dignified death, like some majestic old

  elephant or the Square Dancing Club, Angeline has

  to be aware of something. Great.

  And, of course, it couldn’t be something

  interesting like nail polish or why maybe there

  should be a special class in nail polish and how to

  get it out of your beagle’s ear. (Mom, if you’re

  reading this, I’m not admitting anything. Somebody

  else could have painted a heart in his ear.)

  Angeline just had to be aware of one of those

  THINGS THAT ADULTS LIKE.

  She stopped us right in front of the office

  where Assistant Principal Devon happened to be

  standing. Oh, yeah, right. Like that wasn’t totally

  planned. She probably laid out some sort of bait

  that attracts assistant principals, like neckties

  dipped in coffee.

  “Mr. Devon,” Angeline squeaked, “I was

  wondering if the Student Awareness Committee

  could count on you for your support for some work

  we want to do regarding bullying.”

  Isabella stepped forward.

  “Who do you need bullied, Angeline? I

  got this.”

  10

  Uncle Dan looked at Isabella as if she had

  just volunteered to burp on his breakfast.

  Then he said we could count on his full

  support, since the school faculty is always looking

  for ways to reduce bullying.

  Angeline nodded at me with this big smile,

  like I was going to nod and smile back the way that

  dorks do in dorky TV shows about dorks doing dorky

  stuff at school.

  Sorry, Blondie, I don’t do dork. The best I

  could do was hiss a weak sound of false approval

  through the thin sliver of a fake smile.

  I didn’t want to be all negative or anything.

  11

  Wednesday 04

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  So today after school, I went to the Cuisine

  Club, which, I may have mentioned, is taught by

  Miss Anderson, who is extraordinarily lovely and

  therefore shares with me that special bond that

  truly beautiful people have.

  You know how it is, Dumb Diary. You’ll see

  a couple of us standing around looking amazing,

  laughing attractively about something pretty, and

  you’ll think, “Gosh. Why can’t the whole world be

  that glamorous?” But you would never say it out

  loud, because if you did, we’d just look at you from

  behind our three-inch-long eyelashes and smirk

  glamorously, and you would wither and crumble

  right there on the spot and we’d giggle prettily at

  your steaming remains.

  In your case, Dumb Diary, we’d also probably

  discuss how weird it was that a diary talked.

  Miss Anderson was focusing on salads today,

  because with all the colors and textures, they’re

  sort of like bouquets you can eat. You know, if you

  poured dressing all over your bouquets.

  Isabella doesn’t really like vegetables. She

  says that vegetables aren’t food — vegetables are

  what food eats. It’s probably best that she didn’t

  join this club.

  At the end of the class, Miss Anderson told us

  that we have to try to get more people to sign up

  for our club, because she really wants to win this

  membership competition. There are nine kids in the

  Cuisine Club right now, and only so many kids left in

  the school with their Wednesday afternoons free.

  She gave us a goal: By next week, we’re all

  supposed to have signed up three other kids.

  Should be a breeze.

  You never want to admit bad things about the

  people you love, like your grandma, or
your dad, or

  yourself. I can imagine Dracula’s granddaughter

  at his trial, being all like, “Yeah, well, lots of people

  probably have blood that is way too delicious and

  it’s their own fault.”

  So I hate to admit that my grandma is not a

  Dracula, but she is a Gitoffma. That’s one of

  those old people who shouts at kids who walk or ride

  bikes across their lawns.

  “Gitoffmalawn!” they yell, and then

  stab their canes in the air threateningly as if they

  are trying to shish kebab any invisible children that

  have wandered too close.

  Gitoffmas are under the impression that,

  while grass can endure mountains of snow, blistering

  sun, thunderstorms, and driving winds, if a forty-

  five-pound child steps on it, it will instantly die. It

  is as if nature has struck this delicate balance so

  that old people freak out about their lawns, and

  in turn, the lawns give them something to freak

  out about.

  I found out today that my grandma, in her

  haste to give a child nightmares, rushed out onto

  her porch to yell at one, took a few hilarious steps

  into the sky, fell back to Earth, and broke her hip,

  which is what old people break most (after wind).

  Dad said that this means that Mom has to go

  stay with Grandma for a while to help her get around,

  and maybe yell at kids if the pain medications

  Grandma is on keep her from swearing well.

  I asked why Aunt Carol couldn’t go, and it’s

  because Aunt Carol went and stayed with Grandma

  a couple years ago when she broke her other hip

  when she ran off the porch to yell at a moth that

  appeared to be preparing to land on her lawn.

  So it’s going to just be me and Dad at home

  for a while. I’m sure it won’t be a big deal.

 

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