Just Another Day in My Insanely Real Life

by Barbara Dee

  “You mean you were putting on makeup while you were talking on the phone just now?”

  “Oh, really, Casshead, would you just please relax! This is what girls do, in case you haven’t noticed lately.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Figure it out.”

  Then she flounced into the kitchen. I followed her, watching as she started boiling water, presumably for Jackson’s pasta. We didn’t have any butter, which he absolutely had to have on his “squiggles,” but after she’d just insulted me like that, I was too stunned to say anything. And anyway, it was fine with me if Miranda had to deal with one of his meltdowns for once.

  “So, about Jackie. What’s going on?” she asked, gritting her teeth as she opened the jar of tomato sauce.

  The phone rang again. “Shoot!” she shouted. Then she picked up the receiver. “NO, SHE ISN’T, SORRY!” She slammed the receiver down.

  “Telemarketer?”

  “No, some psycho named Pauletta Rivera who keeps calling and calling to talk to Mom.”

  Pauletta Rivera? As in Mrs. Rivera?

  “Uh, Randa, I don’t think you should have done that just now,” I said slowly. “I think that was Jackson’s teacher you just hung up on.”

  “Really?” She blinked her no-clump eyes. “Well, why didn’t she say so? Jackson, get over here!”

  Jackson walked into the kitchen like he was afraid of getting yelled at, which was a pretty good guess.

  “Were you naughty at school today?” Miranda asked.

  “Noooo,” he said, looking at his feet.

  “You sure?”

  “Morgan said I pushed him on the swing, but I told Mrs. Rivera I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t push him, or you told Mrs. Rivera you didn’t?”

  Clearly he didn’t get the difference. “I told Mrs. Rivera I didn’t push him, but she didn’t believe me,” he announced.

  Then he burst into tears. Way to go, Miranda.

  Even she seemed surprised by his reaction. She gave him a big long hug, like he was her favorite stuffed animal. Then she sat him, still hiccupping, in front of whatever was on Cartoon Network. From the kitchen I could hear that the TV was buzzing, just like Jackson had said it was.

  “I can’t watch this,” I heard him say. “It’s broken (hic).”

  “Well, read a book, then,” Miranda snapped, her patience clearly over. “I’m not Mr. Fix-It, you know!”

  She stormed back to the kitchen, shaking her head. “What’s the deal with Jackie?”

  So, finally I had her attention. “Listen, Miranda, I don’t know, but I seriously think Jackie may have some sort of learning disability or something.”

  “Whoa,” she said. “What makes you think that?”

  Then I told her about sadistic Farmer Joe, and how Jackson hardly even knew the alphabet, and how teary he’s been after school, which, of course she didn’t know about because she was never here, or if she was here, she was in her room putting on mascara and yakking to Madison or dreaming about this Adam person or listening to “music.” Except I left all that last part out, because I was too tired for all-out war.

  She listened quietly, like she was finally getting it. Then she heaved one of her world-famous big dramatic sighs. “Cassandra,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I really, really think you’re making way too much of this. Jackie is just a little boy who misses his mommy, his nanny, and guess what, maybe even his daddy. That’s why he cries all the time, not because of Farmer Joe. And if he’s having trouble reading, he’s supposed to be. He’s only in first grade, remember?”

  “Of course I remember! But after spending all that time working with him on his stupid book report, I also think he may have some sort of reading problem!”

  “Cassie, my love, I think you have some sort of life problem, in the sense that you need to get one.”

  Then she sprang up. “Whoops! The pasta!” she cried. She drained it frantically, scrunching up her face in the cloud of steam.

  I watched her, but I wasn’t going to help. I wasn’t finished talking. Besides, the way she kept running out on me, locking herself in her room to “study,” wasting all that time at Madison’s house, this might be my only chance. “Randa?”

  “Yup?”

  “I have a public service announcement for you: All girls don’t wear mascara. You don’t have to wear mascara to be a girl!”

  “Oh, come on, Cassie. That’s not what I said.”

  “And for your information I have a life! A twelve-year-old life.”

  “Well, good for you, Casshead. Congratulations. Now let’s just get supper on the table, okay?”

  I stared at her, amazed. “Get it yourself, Miranda,” I said.

  Then I stomped back to my bedroom and slammed the door.

  I sat at my desk for the next half hour, writing a list of all the insulting adjectives I didn’t call Miranda to her face:

  Insipid

  Trivial

  Superficial

  Vapid

  Girly-girly

  Egotistical

  Shallow

  Hopeless

  Barfheaded

  Potatobrained

  Vain

  These were all new additions, joining the long list of other Miranda-related adjectives, such as “selfish,” “lazy,” and “irresponsible.” Don’t get me wrong, Miranda was definitely still selfish, lazy, and irresponsible. Incredibly, as a matter of fact. But after that crack about the mascara, I was starting to see her in a completely different way. Now, in addition to blowing off Jackson and sucking up to Mom and forgetting to shop for the basic necessities of human life, she seemed to be the complete and total President of the Club for Girls Who Think About Nothing All Day Long Except Their Own Meaningless Appearances.

  Whereas I thought about literature. And writing. And books. And words in general, especially cool words, like “vapid” and “insipid.”

  Plus, I also thought about people’s feelings, which Miranda clearly didn’t have a clue about. She didn’t care about Jackson, and she certainly didn’t care about me. Because if she did, even the tiniest fraction of an iota, she never would have said such a vicious thing.

  This is what girls do, in case you haven’t noticed lately.

  What in the world was that supposed to mean? That I didn’t know how to be a girl, just because I used my brain instead of my face? Or that lately I’ve been so busy taking care of everything and everybody that I’ve forgotten how to be a girl?

  Well, even if that was true, whose fault was that?

  I don’t think I’d ever been so angry in my whole life.

  I was so angry that even listing insulting adjectives wasn’t calming me down. And when I heard a knock on my closed door, I just shouted, “GO AWAY!”

  But the door opened anyway, and in walked Miranda.

  “You’re in my room,” I growled.

  “Well, duh,” she said. Then she sat down on my bed, startling Buster, who jumped off on principle. “Listen, Cassie, I’m really sorry. I said a stupid, nasty thing before, and I didn’t mean it.”

  “Ha!”

  “But I didn’t. I was just so stressed out with the phone ringing and Jackie crying, and having to make supper. Then you made that big speech about learning disabilities, which I totally disagree with, by the way. Anyway, I took it all out on you, and I’m very, very sorry.”

  I stared at her, shocked. This was maybe the first real, totally sincere, from-the-bottom-of-her-heart apology Miranda had ever given me. I mean, ever, in her whole life. Her eyes were so serious that I had to smile.

  “Well, okay.”

  She grinned back, looking incredibly relieved. “So, are you hungry, Casshead? There’s still some pasta left, if you want.”

  Actually, I’d forgotten all about supper. It’s funny how sometimes food is so important, more important than anything else in the universe, and other times it’s
the last thing on your mind.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “Where’s Jackie?”

  “In his room putting on pj’s. I just finished giving him his bath. That kid was filthy.”

  “I know. We need more of that strawberry shampoo he likes.”

  “I’ll make a list. So, what do you say? Wanna watch some TV or something?”

  “We can’t,” I said. “It buzzes, remember?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, right. Too bad Dad’s not around. He could fix anything.”

  “He could?”

  “Of course! You don’t remember? Well, yeah, I guess you were really little that time you broke the washing machine.”

  “I what?”

  “Yeah, you clogged it up with some rocks. They fell out of your pocket, I think. Anyway, Dad fixed it. He was really proud of himself. And remember that old computer?”

  “No. What old computer?”

  “This huge enormous piece of junk they didn’t want at his office? Maybe four or five years ago?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, Dad lugged it home and fixed it. It took him, like, two weeks, but he did it. Then Mom ordered a pizza to celebrate.”

  “It’s amazing that I don’t remember that,” I said, wondering.

  “Yeah, well, you were younger. And I guess you don’t notice everything when it’s happening. You just assume it’s the way things are.” She stood up then, which clearly meant the subject of Dad was over. “So, come on, Cassie. Wanna do some stupid girl stuff?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Like polishing our toenails. Or looking at fashion mags. Or checking out Mom’s perfumes.”

  “You’re kidding, Miranda, right?”

  “And we can eat frozen Ring Dings,” she continued, grinning mischievously. “I threw them in the freezer. They’re probably not totally solid yet, but I tried them at Mad’s house and they’re the best!’

  I started giggling. “And we can wear fuzzy slippers and give each other new hairstyles, and you can tell my fortune.”

  “That’s right,” she nodded, happy that I was playing the game. “And then we’ll read each other’s diaries, and you can tell me all about the boy you secretly like.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Stop right there!”

  She batted her no-clump eyelashes. “But why, Cassandra? Did I say something wrong?”

  I laughed. “Never mind. How about if we just eat frozen Ring Dings instead?”

  “You’re on,” she said, and we went into the kitchen.

  Third period the next day, Mr. Mullaney handed back the journals. Normally when teachers hand back tests and quizzes and the stupid, mindless homework they even bother to collect, I just glance at the grade ultracasually, as a kind of anti-Smirky Hairball policy. But this time I immediately flipped to the last page of my Cat story, where Mr. Mullaney had written something in spidery black ink in the middle of the margin: “12”.

  Right after my last paragraph, the one where the Mystyck Beast is attacking the castle.

  “12”.

  Not: “Great start, Cassie!”

  Or: “I love your dialogue!”

  Or: “You’ve created some excellent characters! Cat is cool!”

  Or: “Great action scenes! I love the way you build suspense!”

  Not even: “I can’t wait to read the next installment!”

  Just: “12”.

  Twelve! For about two and a half seconds I thought maybe it was twelve on a scale of one to ten, like it was so great it was just off the charts, you know, an A plus-plus. But then Mr. Mullaney announced that Zachary Hairball got the highest grade, because he turned in twenty-six pages. Whereas I, who was working on a whole novel, got a puny, pathetic twelve because I was short three pages. And of course, page count was all that mattered, as far as Mr. Mullaney was concerned.

  “Um, excuse me, Mr. Mullaney, but I was wondering if you really read my story,” I said to him after class was over, my voice coming out kind of strangled.

  He gave me an icy look. “What’s the question here, Cassie? Whether or not I did my job, or whether or not you did yours?”

  And that’s all he would say. He started stacking some loose papers from his stupid “fiction textbook,” not looking at me, clearly wanting me to leave. So I left. I was furious. After I spent all that time worrying that he would be offended by Sir Mullvo Clausebiter, he didn’t even bother to read my stupid journal, he just counted the stupid pages! Why had I even bothered to do it? Why had I taken it so seriously? Why had I stayed up so late, sitting at my desk, trying to make it as perfect as possible?

  I was still steaming when I sat down at lunch.

  “Can you believe that?” I demanded. “He just counted the pages, he didn’t even read what I wrote!”

  Brianna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, what did you expect, Cassie? Like he’s going to start respecting us all of a sudden?”

  “Well, I worked really hard on this story I’m writing,” I said. “It’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever written, and he didn’t even look at it!”

  She snorted. “So? He did that to all of us, not just to you, Cassie.”

  Then Danny, who happened to be sitting at our table, said, “You should do what I do.”

  I stared at him. After my Zachary Hairball imitation that day we were sketching trees, I didn’t expect he’d ever talk to me again, and here he was offering advice.

  “All I did was write some top-ten lists, you know, Top Ten Video Games, Top Ten Movies, Top Ten TV Shows, Top Ten Basketball Players, Top Ten Baseball Players—”

  “We get it,” Hayley, said, laughing.

  “Okay. Then I just explained why they made the list. Like, for Top Ten Movies, I wrote, ‘Great car chase’ or ‘Great special effects,’ something like that.”

  “That was smart,” I said. “You probably didn’t work very hard.”

  Shut up, Cassie! I yelled at myself. What a completely dorkheaded thing to say!

  But Danny shrugged, like I’d paid him a compliment. “Yeah, thanks,” he said.

  “I just wrote summaries of books I like,” Hayley said. “Lots of details. And I wrote really big, and had really big margins. He didn’t mind—I got a fifteen.”

  Bess Waterbury was sitting by herself at the next table over, but now even she joined in. “I wrote nineteen haikus,” she said.

  “One to a page?” I sputtered. “He COUNTED that?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I worked kind of hard on them, but they’re only three lines each.”

  I groaned. Shhhipwreck. Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

  “And what were they about, Bess?” Brianna asked, in this kindergarten teacher sort of voice.

  “What difference does it make?” I snapped. “That’s not even the point.”

  “Well, maybe you don’t care about Bess’s hard work, but we do,” said Hayley. “Tell us all about your haikus, Bess.”

  “Don’t, Bess,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, Cassie, I wasn’t going to,” she answered, but her voice had a funny catch.

  “Oh no, now Bess is upset,” Hayley announced. “And we were just trying to include her in the conversation.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  “Of course we were. What were we doing, then?” She raised her eyebrows first at me, then at Brianna.

  Brianna shook her head. “Cassie doesn’t believe us,” she informed Hayley.

  “I know,” Hayley agreed, nodding. “That really, really hurts my feelings, Cassie.”

  I gave them my evilest glare. “Just stuff it, both of you, okay? Okay?”

  Brianna sighed. “Well, Cassie, if you absolutely refuse to believe us, why don’t you just get up and go over to Bess. You can sit there for the rest of lunch and comfort her.”

  “Maybe I will!”

  “Okay, that’s it, I’m out of here,” Danny muttered. We watched him cram his Styrofoam tray into the trash, then shove open the door with his shoulder as he
left the cafeteria.

  “Oops,” said Brianna. “I think you scared him away. Nice going, Cassie.”

  “Just. Shut. Up,” I hissed.

  “Aren’t you going to run after him?”

  I didn’t even bother to answer that, because it wasn’t close to an actual question. Anyway, pretty soon Brianna and Hayley started talking about some swim team thing, which was a way of announcing that as far as they were concerned I was officially invisible. For an iota of a second I actually did consider switching tables to sit with Bess. Then I decided, no, that would just be a formal declaration of war, and I wasn’t in the mood.

  Besides, I had something else to think about. Something way, way, way more important. Namely this: Here I’d been all worried that Jackson had a learning disability, when it turned out that I, Cassandra Baldwin, was the one with a complete and total school disability. After eight grades (counting kindergarten) I didn’t know the first thing about getting good grades with the least amount of effort possible, which was clearly something everyone else was mastering big-time. Instead of watching TV or reading or riding my bike or doing something meaningful, I was spending my entire free time writing this whole fantasy saga. I was thinking about the characters all day long as if they were real people, planning plot twists, imagining costumes and castles and horses and swordfights, hearing dialogue in my head as if I were watching a really good movie. Cat was real to me—better than real. More important than real. Her story—my story about her, I mean—was the biggest, best thing in my life these days. Meanwhile, everybody else in my class was treating this journal thing as if it were a big fat, stupid joke. And guess what: The joke was really on me, because I cared so much that I missed the whole point of the assignment, which was that it had no point. Top-ten lists? Book summaries? Haikus? Big margins? Maybe Miranda was right. Maybe, for once in her life, my sister was actually right about something.

  Maybe I really did need to get a life.

  From then on I decided not to care. If everyone else was writing totally pointless garbage in their journals and getting away with it—getting praised for it—then that was exactly what I was going to do. Why share my story—which was something really precious, which was so-called fantasy, but also, in some weird way, FACT, with this mindless, sadistic teacher who was just going to count the stupid number of pages? If all he wanted us to do was fill pages, fine, I’d fill pages. I’d give him exactly what he wanted, and I’d get an A. And I’d have a life. Maybe not a Miranda-life (yakking to Madison Avenue, dreaming about this Adam person, blah blah blah), but better than that. Well, if not exactly better, at least my own.