Dear Dumb Diary Year Two #6: Live Each Day to the Dumbest

by Jim Benton

  and Aunt Carol said that was because my mom is an

  expert on how butts sound.

  As the two of them laughed, I thought about

  Grandma for a second, and I wasn’t sure if it was

  right for them to have this dumb conversation,

  considering that their mom was . . . you know.

  And I think that must have occurred to them,

  too, because they stopped laughing before they

  got to the honking-cackling-snorting phase.

  I’ll know that Mom is officially herself again

  when her laugh starts sounding like something

  going very wrong in a petting zoo.

  MONDAY 16

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Today Mr. Smith probably taught us some

  things about stuff. I don’t really know. Maybe it was

  one of those lessons I’ll need later in life. They’ve

  been telling me I’d need these school things later in

  life since kindergarten. I’m really looking forward

  to seeing how the macaroni art comes in handy.

  I was trying to concentrate on what Mr.

  Smith was saying, but he was doing that thing that

  teachers do sometimes when it’s obvious that they

  don’t want you to learn what they’re teaching.

  They pick something that doesn’t matter to

  anybody and talk about it in this way that makes

  you think about anything else in the world.

  You know why they do this? Think about it: It’s

  because if you managed to learn everything they had

  to teach, you could just steal their job the following

  year. They really NEED you to miss some things.

  And so I thought about other things.

  I kept thinking about how things were so

  different in the olden times when my grandma

  went to school. The Internet hadn’t been invented

  yet, and there were maybe three television channels,

  and I seriously doubt that there were any of the

  high-quality chewing gums that modern humans

  require.

  The only thing you had to distract you from

  reading your schoolbooks was reading your not-

  schoolbooks.

  Try to imagine this.

  You know how you get impatient waiting ten

  seconds for your computer to start? My grandma

  had to wait fifty years for hers to start.

  Maybe that’s why she seemed a little

  dumb to me.

  Angeline stopped me in the hall today and

  asked how I was doing. I appreciated her concern,

  but I also resented it. It made me feel like she

  thought I was weak, and in the wild, that would

  mean that she was planning to take over my banana

  tree or something.

  “You can’t have my bananas,” I

  said, immediately realizing that she might not be

  bright enough to understand what I meant by that.

  It must be hard being so dim-witted.

  “There’s another dance coming up,” she went

  on, seemingly deaf to my banana warning.

  I wondered just how much dancing the school

  thought we needed to do. Honestly, you probably

  only medically need to dance for a few minutes a

  day, so they don’t really need to organize a special

  event for it. I mean, you’re supposed to get a lot of

  vitamin C, too, but we don’t have a big orange-

  juice-drinking party every week.

  This was the point when I realized that I wasn’t

  just wondering this stuff. I was saying it. Out loud.

  Maybe even shouting it. Perhaps damply.

  I shouldn’t get mad at Angeline. I know she

  means well, but for some reason, I always get mad at

  well-meaners. Plus, I know that she is attractive

  on purpose, and I feel that this is a hurtful action on

  her part, maybe even a form of nonaggressive and

  deeply pleasant bullying.

  “Don’t go to the dance if you don’t want to,”

  Angeline said, “but we need posters. And you’re the

  best postermaker in school.”

  She was right. School posters can be

  disastrously amateurish.

  TUESDAY 17

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Isabella was in the library on a computer

  every free minute she had today. I figured she was

  doing homework, or trying to crash the Internet, or

  bidding on a boa constrictor.

  “They’re just like kittens,” she

  always says. “Legless kittens that choke people

  sometimes. You wouldn’t hold it against a kitten,

  would you, if it had to choke somebody?”

  I kept trying to sneak a look at what she was

  doing on the computer, but the librarians always

  crowd around her when she’s online to make sure

  laws aren’t being broken, so I couldn’t see

  anything.

  I asked her about it later and she just

  scowled and said, “Mind your own fat hairy

  business, nosy,” which is Isabella’s way of

  smiling and winking and saying, “It’s a secret.”

  When I got home this afternoon, I read

  another entry from Grandma’s diary:

  My best friend, R., says that even though M.B.

  seems to be attracted to A.S., I shouldn’t give up —

  even if that means giving A.S. a punch in the nose right

  in front of the entire school. R. says the worst that

  could happen is that my parents will double my chores

  and maybe the principal will give me a paddling.

  A PADDLING? They paddled kids at school?

  Isabella is probably pretty glad they don’t do that

  at our school.

  I wish there was some way I could send a

  note back in time and tell my grandma not to be so

  dumb. Don’t you know that you’re going to grow up

  and be a grandma? Stop acting like a dumb kid.

  Stop acting like me.

  WEDNESDAY 18

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Angeline used her face to bother me today by

  making sounds come out of it prettily.

  “We need those posters for the dance, Jamie.

  You said that you’d take care of it. If you won’t do it,

  then I’m going to have to find somebody else.”

  She shook Dicky Flartsnutt at me to make

  her point.

  “Point taken,” I said, wondering how

  Dicky felt about being used as a point.

  He just grinned. Nobody wants to be a point,

  but Dicky seems to enjoy any form of human contact.

  And not many of the boys would object to

  Angeline using them as a visual aid.

  I don’t think shaking Dicky Flartsnutt is a

  good idea. I often get the impression he’s already

  a little shaken.

  One time he asked me, “Jamie, when I lick my

  own palm, it doesn’t make me scream. But when I

  do it to a stranger’s palm, they always scream. Do

  you think there’s something wrong with those

  people?”

  When I got home, I started working on the

  posters. I’ve learned that my grandma spent too

  much time on dumbness like this dance, and I don’t

  think we should dumbly encourage kids to be dumb.

  I think MY future granddaughter would

  approve of my reasonable and intelligent posters.

  Thursd
ay 19

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Angeline used a bad word. About my posters.

  Okay, so she didn’t think my posters were

  right for the dance and said that she had imagined

  that they would be — in her words — “good.”

  She also said that the idea was for people to

  want to come to the dance, and that my posters

  looked more like something advertising a funeral.

  That’s right. She said FUNERAL. And then

  she clamped her hand over her mouth.

  I don’t know how long after somebody has

  to go to a real funeral that it becomes okay for you

  to use the word “funeral” around them, but I’m

  pretty sure it’s never ever ever ever again.

  Of course, Isabella was right there to

  support me and my posters, which she did by

  shrugging and wandering away. She probably meant

  to say, “Angeline, you horrible smear of insensitivity,

  stop being cruel and blond.”

  I told Angeline that she gave me the

  responsibility for the posters, and I’m not going to

  change them.

  She nodded and backed down, although I

  know it’s only because my grandma died and she felt

  awful for accidentally using a bad word on me.

  Maybe we need better words for funerals.

  Friday 20

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Another entry in Grandma’s diary:

  Only one week to the dance. I can hardly wait.

  I wish I had something better to wear, but money is

  pretty tight around here. I asked Mom to give me some

  dancing lessons. I don’t want to look like an oaf at

  the dance. Can A.S. dance? I’m not sure. I don’t

  want M.B. dancing with that imbecile all evening.

  Can you believe it, Dumb Diary? Entry after

  entry about the most ridiculous things you can

  imagine. All the important things she should be

  thinking about, all the meaningful things she could

  be saying, and she’s all twisted up over some boy

  and some pretty girl that’s making her jealous.

  I should ask Hudson what he thinks about this

  sometime when Angeline isn’t gorgeously leading

  him around by his eighth (possibly seventh)

  cutest nose.

  Saturday 21

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Hudson called here this morning before I was

  even awake. Back when I was dumber, I probably

  would have dumbly called him back right away to say

  something dumb, but those days are behind me now.

  Or maybe — back in those dumb old days of

  mine— I would have called Isabella to see if she

  wanted to hang around and do something dumb

  like have a dance -off with my beagles, who can

  practically never beat us, except for that one time.

  It may have been a little mean of me, but I

  have to say, nobody can out- twerk a beagle with

  a balloon tied to his tail. Scientists are certain that

  this is how twerking was invented in the first place.

  Mom asked me if I wanted to go with her to

  drop off a picture of Grandma for framing. I wanted

  to, but I actually have a lot of homework this

  weekend and I needed to get started pretending

  that I was doing it.

  Sunday 22

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  What the heck.

  I hopped out of bed early this morning and

  DID my homework. Not pretended to do it. I

  did it. Like with actual pencils and words and

  numbers.

  I know what you’re thinking, Dumb Diary, but

  no, the TV was working fine.

  And the Internet was functioning normally.

  And the dogs didn’t have Diarrhoyal on my

  bed again. (That’s my medical term for a royal case

  of diarrhea.)

  I just felt like maybe I need to be smarter,

  you know, for the sake of my granddaughter, who is

  surely reading my diary right now.

  (You hear that, Elialexithity? Grandma

  here, not being dumb. And by the way, your name:

  Elialexithity is one I created by combining the three

  most beautiful names I know - Elizabeth, Felicity,

  and Alexandra.

  So you’re welcome.)

  I also cleaned my room, and I didn’t even use

  the method where you put everything in a drawer.

  It took me hours to do, and I found a sock that I

  remember losing in the third grade that has evidently

  been sitting here, on the floor, in plain sight for the

  entire time. I wonder why I didn’t think of looking

  for it on the floor.

  I brushed Stinker, too, and it may be the first

  time I ever did because I had enough hair to make a

  new Stinker. This interested him so much that while I

  was downstairs getting a broom, I believe he may

  have eaten his hair twin. I can’t blame him. It

  was a magnificent thing to behold. I probably

  would have eaten mine.

  I even helped Mom with her special project

  today. Sometimes Mom likes to wreck a few dinners

  in advance on Sunday, and then freeze them for

  us to microwave during the week when there isn’t

  enough time to wreck them from scratch.

  It was the kind of productive,

  meaningful Sunday that you kind of wish your

  grandmother would have written about instead

  of this:

  If I live to be a hundred years old, nothing will

  ever matter to me as much as this dance and making

  the right impression on M.B. I’m telling you, Diary,

  NOTHING.

  Snap out of it, Granny!

  C’mon! Care about something

  smarter than this! Don’t you

  know that you’re not going to

  live forever.

  Monday 23

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Isabella was up in the library at lunch today,

  doing whatever it is she’s doing on the computer

  these days. She still won’t talk about it.

  Dicky got caught sneaking out of the lunchroom,

  trying to smuggle a lunch for her in his hat.

  Bruntford got a confession out of him pretty

  easily — she was using that teacher grip where

  they’re not really hurting you but you know they

  could if they wanted to. It’s a grip they develop

  through years of opening countless aspirin

  bottles. Teachers eat those like salted peanuts.

  Not much of a loss for Isabella anyway. I

  can’t imagine what school macaroni marinated in

  Dicky’s dirty little hat would taste like. Oh wait,

  yes I can:

  NO DIFFERENT.

  Angeline sat down next to me while I was

  smartly eating kale. It’s pretty much the only way

  you can eat it. Not happily, not enthusiastically,

  not attractively. Just smartly.

  “You going to the dance?” she asked me.

  “Not the best use of my time,” I said

  gagfully, as the taste of the kale snuck up on

  me a little as I was talking.

  I saw Angeline consider, just for a moment,

  putting her hand on mine. And then she changed

  her mind.

  Her eyes were even bigger and more watery

  than ever. They were
so watery that it actually

  started to feel a little humid around her face. I

  knew she wanted to say something kind and

  sensitive. She’s like that.

  I smiled at her.

  “Hey, why don’t you fart off?” I said sweetly.

  Is that a thing? Telling somebody to “fart

  off” ? I think it must be, because it seemed to

  have the desired effect on Angeline. She inhaled

  sharply, stood, and turned quickly, making her hair

  crack like a little whip.

  Though, okay, there are probably smarter

  ways to say the same thing.

  Because, you know, I’m all about the

  smart now.

  Tuesday 24

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  I read another entry from Grandma today.

  My best friend, R., pointed out that I’m

  developing a blemish right in the middle of my forehead.

  I suppose I should be grateful to have it brought

  to my attention, but I could have done without the

  laughter. I’ll have to see if the pharmacist can

  recommend something. I don’t want to look like a

  Cyclops at the dance.

  A.S., as you can imagine, has never been afflicted

  with a pimple or blemish or wart, and struts around with

  a complexion that looks like the finest satin cloth.

  And like cloth, I might enjoy putting a few

  stitches in it.

  Hudson Rivers stopped in front of my locker

  today. He didn’t say anything at first, which made

  me think that something was bothering him.

  I really wanted to know how to help. I wanted

  to find out what was wrong.

  So I asked.

  “What’s your problem?” I said.

  I immediately realized that I hadn’t sounded

  as caring as I meant to, and I made a note to myself

  to sound more caring when I actually do care.

  Then Hudson stood there, saying things