by Jim Benton
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.
Year Two #4: What I Don’t Know Might Hurt Me
Year Two #5: You Can Bet on That
Year Two #6: Live Each Day To The Dumbest
Copyright © 2015 by Jim Benton
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. Publishers
since 1920.
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dear dumb diary is a registered trademark of Jim Benton.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
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any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
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e-ISBN 978-0-545-64352-8
First printing 2015
For the Grandmas and Grandpas.
Special thanks to Kristen LeClerc and the
dumbest team at Scholastic: Shannon
Penney, Yaffa Jaskoll, Emily Cullings, Sarah
Evans, and Abby McAden.
Dear Whoever Is Reading My Dumb Diary,
Seriously, how dumb are you? Wasting your
time while you read somebody else’s diary?
Maybe the only thing dumber than
writing
a diary is
reading somebody else’s.
Think of all the important things you
could be doing instead — you could be doing
homework, or washing the dog, or washing
your homework.
That last one might not actually be a thing.
You think I don’t know that? I know you don’t
wash homework. I’m not
dumb, you know.
Anyway, if you really want to waste your time
on something as dumb as reading my diary, be
my guest.
Go right ahead. I do hereby
swear that everything in it is true, at least as
true as it needs to be.
Signed,
P.S. Okay, just kidding. Don’t read it.
P.P.S. No, really. I didn’t mean it before.
Don’t read it.
P.P.P.S. Is there a limit to how many of these
P.S. things you can do? I hope it isn’t three.
P.P.P.P.S. DON’T READ IT.
SUNDAY 01
Dear Dumb Diary,
Mom told me to clean the shower today, and
I calmly explained that cleaning is what showers
already do, so it’s ridiculous to clean them.
“Just go take a shower in it, Mom,” I said, adding
“DUH” because at that moment, it seemed like a
good idea.
That moment has since passed, and now she’s
also making me clean my room.
You know how when you clean your room you
just shove everything into a drawer and push it
closed and the room is magically clean?
Why don’t we design houses so that our entire
bedrooms are just huge drawers that we can push
closed?
Honestly, when I think of something obvious
like this, I wonder if architects are even really
trying that hard.
It’s like my idea for when you’re looking in
the refrigerator for something to eat and your dad
starts yelling for you to not stand there with the
door open. If architects were really thinking it
through, they’d design refrigerators with a back
door that dads didn’t know about.
And what about glitter? Since we all love
glitter so much, why don’t we make more glittery
food? Who wouldn’t like a fantastically glittery
sandwich with sparkly ingredients in all sorts of
twinkly colors?
Or fluffy? Why don’t we have more fluffy
foods? Fluffy like a kitten. Wouldn’t it be great to
eat a kitten?
Not like a real kitten but, like, some kind of
cake that you could pet and snuggle and kiss and
then eat. And it would look like a kitten and maybe
meow and chase a laser-pointer dot.
And it would purr.
Okay, so purring would make it harder for me
to want to eat this cake.
Not impossible, but harder.
And what about clothes? Everybody knows
that there are four main things that are done with
clothes:
1. They are loved deeply.
2. They are totally hated right after that.
3. They are thrown on the floor.
4. They are yelled about and washed by Mom.
But what if we took everything that was
so great about my edible kitten technology (and
there’s a lot) and applied it to socks? What if,
after you realized that you hated your clothes, you
could just eat them? Then Mom wouldn’t have to
yell and you could —I don’t know — eat clothes,
I guess.
That’s not as good as I thought it was now
that I see it written out like that.
More genius tomorrow, Dumb
Diary!!!!!!!!! Good night.
P.S. How about an exclamation point that
means NINE exclamation points for those
situations where you want to exclaim something at
nine times the normal volume but don’t have the
time to write that many punctuation marks? It looks
like this:
Smart, right?
MONDAY 02
TUESDAY 03
WEDNESDAY 04
THURSDAY 05
FR
IDAY 06
SATURDAY 07
SUNDAY 08
MONDAY 09
Dear Dumb Diary,
Grandma died.
That’s why I haven’t been writing.
It was a week ago. I didn’t really know what
to write. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever left diary
pages blank.
When Dad first told me about Grandma, I
didn’t believe it was true. But then, of course,
I realized it’s not the sort of thing people joke
about:
“Hey, sweetheart, Grandma died. Just
kidding. Should have seen the look on
your face.”
Dad was the one to give me the bad news,
because Grandma was my mom’s mom and she was
too broken up to talk about it for a while.
I really didn’t know what to tell my mom,
which is weird because I’ve always known what to
tell people, even when I didn’t know and I just made
something up. I couldn’t even think of a fake
thing to tell her.
You should have heard me go on and on when
my goldfish died. I wonder if people knew I was
faking the things I said when my goldfish died.
I tried praying to God about my grandma.
It went something like this: “So, God, I
was just wondering if maybe you could bring
Grandma back and take somebody else in her
place, because I’m guessing that you have a certain
number of people you need to kill every week or
something. I’ve even made a helpful list here of
people that I think might really enjoy dying. I can
just put it up on the roof, if that would make it easier
for you to read from up there. Also, there’s a dog on
the list, if you would be willing to consider that a
fair trade since my grandma was pretty old.”
Then I suddenly realized how dumb the whole
thing was. C’mon, Jamie — the list could get rained
on up there.
It also occurred to me that maybe it was
wrong to ask God to do exchanges. Even the mall
won’t do them without a receipt.
“You know what, God?” I prayed. “Forget
it. I’m sure you probably know what you’re doing,
so I’m just going to, uh, oh hey, I have another call
coming in, so I’ll have to call you back.”
Now, I realize that he might have guessed
that I didn’t really have another call coming in,
but I figured he would probably give me a break. I
know that I’d give me a break, and God has to be
way nicer than I am.
Also, if he granted my wish, and Grandma did
suddenly walk in the door, it would be hard to not be
at least a little alarmed.
It could make the funeral super awkward:
“Grandma, it’s so nice to have you back, but
all of us have to scream in terror for, like, an
hour now.”
Speaking of which, her funeral was last
Thursday. There were a lot of people and a lot of
flowers.
It kind of made me wonder about the flowers.
It’s like, “Your loved one died, so we killed these, too.”
People told stories about her, and shared
memories, and it was kind of like she was still
alive, but not really. It made me think we should
share memories of people before they become
just memories. My grandma would have liked
hearing them.
I also realized that I wasn’t really very close
to Grandma.
But she was my last one. I’m fresh out of
grandmas now. No more birthday cards with five-
dollar bills in them. No more clothes that don’t fit
for Christmas. No more conversations about what
somebody used to be able to get for a quarter.
At the funeral, Dad said that, as time goes
on, Mom will be able to pull herself together better,
but way deep down inside, a part of her will probably
always feel like a little girl that lost her mom
forever.
Lost. Her. Mom. Forever.
That’s when I lost it. I mean, REALLY lost
it. You hear people use the phrase KOO -KOO-
BANANAS all the time, but I was really crying like
koo-koo- bananas.
I don’t remember the last time I cried like
that. I was crying for Mom the most, but also for
myself. I cried for Mom’s sister, Aunt Carol, who had
lost her mom, too.
Then I cried for Dad, because I knew how
bad he felt for my mom, and how bad he felt for
me because I was crying. And I cried for Grandma,
because if she knew she was making us all cry this
way, she would have felt really, really terrible
about it.
I went to the ladies’ room and even cried a
little for my reflection in the bathroom because I
looked so sad, but I also couldn’t help noticing
how adorable I looked when I cried. Then I cried
for noticing my adorability when I was supposed to
be funeral-crying.
I cried a little for my beagles, Stinker and
Stinkette, because I knew that if they did something
like poop on the carpet while we were at the
funeral, I would have to spank them until I needed
to pack my hand in ice.
Spoiler alert: They didn’t do it, but I still
cried. I pre-cried.
But here’s the weird thing about crying:
Eventually, you just run out of tears.
It’s like peeing.
The next day, I guess it must have been
Friday, I didn’t cry at all. And I didn’t see Mom cry,
either.
I think we all wanted a day when we didn’t
talk about it. I thought about talking about it, but
Mom was still not herself, so I thought it was better
not to say anything to her about anything.
So even though Mom is the one I’d normally
go to with beauty questions, I asked Dad if I could
get my lip and nose and eyebrow pierced. Then I got
a solid ten- minute lecture about what should
and should not be pierced.
There’s a pretty long list of things Dad says I
can’t get pierced, by the way, including a few that
I wouldn’t have even thought of. His main point
was that there’s a lot of beautiful jewelry you can
wear that nobody has to stab you with.
Glad I asked him before I got it done. Now I
know not to ask Mom before I get it done.
Aunt Carol and Uncle Dan took on the
responsibility of going through my grandma’s old
stuff and packing it up in boxes. Aunt Carol even
brought over a box of Grandma’s things she thought
I might like. I haven’t opened it yet, because it just
feels weird to go through somebody’s belongings
that way.
I thought about how, one day, Angeline might
go through my old stuff and try it on and probably
even use my toothbrush and get her delicate
cooties all over everything. I’m telling you right
now, Angeline, if you’re reading this, I’m letting the
dogs lick my toothbrush THIS VERY MINUTE.
Don’t feel so sma
rt now, do you?
P.S. I really and truly am doing that.
TUESDAY 10
Dear Dumb Diary,
Isabella was super gentle and kind to
me today about my grandma dying.
(After I convinced her that there was nothing
contagious to worry about.)
She also said I could probably get out of
some homework, since the teachers always go easy
on kids for a while if they know that something like
this is going on in their lives.
Isabella once used a stubbed toe to delay
a book report for two weeks, until she could no longer
convince the teacher that she needed a healthy toe
to read.
Isabella also thought that if Grandma hadn’t
shared a last wish, maybe we could just assume
it had something to do with Isabella not having to
do homework, either. She thought I might like to tell
the teachers that.
I told her that there was no way the
teachers would even know about my grandma. She
was sure they would because sometimes parents
call and let the school know about things like this,
and also, since my aunt works at the school and is
married to the assistant principal, the word was
probably out.
My social studies teacher, Mr. Smith — you
remember, Dumb Diary, he’s the one who wears
fake hair in order to look like a younger man with
a full head of fake hair — actually gave me a sad
little greeting card in class today.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Jamie,” he said, and
he seemed genuinely sad.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Your grandma. I’m sorry you lost her.”
A few other people have said the exact same
thing to me, but it makes no sense when you think
about it. When somebody dies, you don’t lose
them. You know right where you put them, and you