Just Another Day in My Insanely Real Life

by Barbara Dee

  Still.

  All I knew for sure was that I couldn’t stand imagining Mr. Mullaney flipping through my pointless, mindless journal, even if he wasn’t going to read a single stupid word. Just the thought of him doing that made me feel like barfing.

  I had to get it back. There was simply no choice.

  By the time I got back to school, it was three twenty. I parked my bike without even locking it, and raced up to room 206. The door was partly open, so I walked in.

  And there he was sitting at his desk, twining his long bony fingers around a steaming mug of tea. A stack of papers took up all the room on his desk. But no journals.

  “Ah, Cassie,” he said, looking surprised. “How may I help you?”

  “I need my journal back,” I said, panting. “I forgot something.”

  “Really? What did you forget?”

  “It’s too complicated,” I said desperately. “Anyway, can I please just have it back?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But why?”

  “I brought them home at lunchtime. I have to carry things in shifts. I have a bad back, you know.”

  I didn’t know. Or maybe I did. Because that explained why he was moving so weirdly when he helped me find my key.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked, so quietly I thought his teeth probably hurt too. “Anything you’d like to chat about, perhaps?”

  “Not really. Thanks.”

  “I’m always here, you know.”

  How pathetic. “Yeah. Well, see you tomorrow, Mr. Mullaney.”

  “Good-bye, then, Cassie,” he said. “Don’t forget: quiz tomorrow on prepositional phrases. I expect significantly better results from you this time.”

  “I know,” I said miserably. “Bye.”

  And then I got back on my bike and raced home to rescue Jackson from the smoke-breathing dragon. But he didn’t even say thank you; he just stomped into his room and slammed the door.

  Four thirty. Back at my desk. Still no Miranda, still no word where she was. But she’d been in such a nasty, sulky, snotty mood this morning that it wasn’t exactly surprising that she hadn’t called. Of course, I had a pretty good guess where she was, anyway: probably at Madison Avenue’s, eating frozen Ring Dings, waiting by the phone for that Adam person to call. Even though she was supposed to be here, taking care of Jackson, baking the stupid potatoes.

  Monkey droppings, I thought. I was much too mad at everybody to do my Math homework, but I sort-of-did it anyway. Then I started sort-of-studying for that stupid quiz on prepositional phrases. Jackson was back in his room, stinking like cigarettes, playing Power Rangers under his blanket. The phone rang. I answered and immediately shrieked: “MIRANDA? WHERE ARE YOU?!”

  “Cassie?” The voice was shocked, a little husky. Definitely not Miranda.

  Yikes. I’d just sounded like a total psycho. “Yes?”

  “Hi, it’s Danny?”

  Gulp.

  “Danny?”

  “Danny Abbott. From school?”

  “Oh. Hi.” (Cassie, get a grip!)

  “Hi. Um, can I get the Math homework? I didn’t copy it down.”

  “Sure. One moment.” (Cassie, you spongehead, now you sound like a receptionist!) “Hi, Danny? It’s pages one-sixteen to one-seventeen, even problems only.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Now what?

  “Well, bye,” Danny said.

  “Bye.”

  I hung up, kind of dizzy. He got my number, he called: That was good. I sounded like such a jerk: That was definitely bad. What just happened? And what was I supposed to think about what just happened? Suddenly I needed to talk to someone. Not Brianna or Hayley, that I knew. Who else, then? Miranda? No. No way. She’d tease my head off. She’d never let me alone. Besides, she’d feel— what’s that word? Vindicated. She’d feel vindicated. She’d think I was turning out to be just like her: not a gifted writer—probably a novelist, with a journal—but just another Styrofoam-headed girly-girl all excited because some boy called. She’d love it. She’d be thrilled.

  I couldn’t let her have that satisfaction. No, not Miranda. Definitely not Miranda.

  Mom, then? Sure. But when? When she came in the door exhausted from work, and all she wanted was a hug and a cup of tea and to sit on the sofa and stare at CNN?

  So, who else?

  Dad? Dream on, Cassie.

  Bess? Maybe.

  Probably.

  “Cassie? Can I tell you something?” Jackson was standing at my desk.

  “Yeah. What.”

  “When’s Miranda coming home?”

  “That’s it? That’s what you have to tell me?”

  He blinked. “Yeah.”

  “That’s a question, not a statement, Jackie. You don’t tell someone a question.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  I glared at him. Spider-Man sweatshirt with a yellow paint stain, probably from “Art.” Scruffy blond hair sticking up again. Booger in left nostril. Why wasn’t this kid ever cleaner-looking? And on top of everything, now he stank like cigarettes.

  “Why do you want Miranda?” I challenged him.

  “Because I’m hungry?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No. I’m really hungry.”

  “How can you be hungry? You had brownies at Mrs. Patella’s.”

  “I didn’t eat very many. They were burnt.”

  “Well, poor you.”

  “Cassie? Can I tell you something?”

  “What?”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  At this point I didn’t know whether to strangle Jackson or hug him. Instead I reached out and messed his weird hair. “No, Jackie. I’m not. I’m just incredibly busy right now.”

  “When’s Miranda coming home?”

  “Don’t know. In a little while.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll call her friend.” I sighed and dialed Madison’s number, which by now I’d memorized. I was already gritting my teeth, getting ready for when Miranda got on the phone and acted all snotty, like it was all my fault she’d been grounded in the first place.

  But there was no answer. That was weird. Before when I called, Madison Avenue had answered the phone on the first ring, then acted real casual. Now the phone was ringing and ringing. Where were they?

  “Where’s Miranda?” Jackson repeated.

  “Jackson, you’ve got to quit asking the same questions over and over!” I snapped. “I told you, I don’t know!”

  Jackson stuck out his lower lip, then stomped away to his bedroom, slamming the door.

  Nice going, Cassie.

  But now I had to think. It was almost five, when Mom usually called to check in. What should I say when she called? That Miranda wasn’t here? That she never even bothered to call to say where she was or when she’d show up? Yeah, right—I could just imagine Miranda’s reaction if I said that But what choice did I have? How could I cover up for Miranda if she wasn’t even telling me where she was? And more important, why should I cover up for her, when she blamed me anyway, no matter what? Even if I lied for her, even if I cooked for her, even if I watched Jackson for her, day after stupid day?

  I had one other thought. Maybe Miranda’s wish had come true and she was hanging out, “studying Chem,” with this Adam person. She wasn’t at Madison’s, so where else could she be? She never mentioned anybody else, just Madison and Adam, Madison and Adam, blah blah blah. Maybe she was at Adam’s house, eating Ring Dings. It was worth a try.

  I went to her desk. You’d think I’d have noticed by now, but somehow it shocked me to realize it was the complete opposite of mine. Everything was tidy, perfect, organized, with five stacks of folders clearly labeled (“Math,” “Chem,” “U.S. Hist,” “Eng,” “Span”) and rainbow-colored Post-its stuck to every single piece of paper (“Due Tmrw!” “Due 2 Days!” “Due 3 Days!” “Long Term!”). She
had three blue gel pens, two highlighters, five sharpened pencils, and two bottles of Wite-Out all stuck in a freakishly ugly mug we got in the gift shop at Disneyland. She had two white Beanie Baby kittens curled up on her desk like mascots (which struck me as incredibly hypocritical, considering how she neglected our real cats). And everything smelled sweet and kind of bathroomy, like her desk was dusted in flowery powder, the cheap kind they sold at CVS.

  Miranda’s desk made me want to barf. I scanned her hutch. All her books were lined up side by side, even books she hadn’t read in, like, eight years (The Baby-sitters Club, Sweet Valley High). This killed me. How could Miranda’s desk be so neat, so insanely organized, when she couldn’t even remember to set her alarm clock or buy the stupid cat food? How could such a lazy, sloppy, irresponsible person take such good care of her own things?

  Then I spotted what I was looking for: her Emerson High School directory. It was standing upright, slightly open. I grabbed it. Something fell out: a box of Merits, half-empty. Gross. So, lovely Miranda was now smoking cigarettes, stashing boxes in her powdery, perfect desk. How could she be so stupid? Did she really want to stink like Mrs. Patella? And was I supposed to cover this up for her too?

  I flipped open the directory. What was Adam’s last name? Did she ever mention it? Maybe not. But then I remembered the smiley-faced note, with the P.S. about Adam calling. I ran into my room, which was its usual disaster, papers and books and random thingies everywhere, and wadded-up garbage poking out of the trash can. Good thing I didn’t believe in emptying the trash! There at the bottom, stuck to a dry wad of Juicy Fruit, was Miranda’s old note:

  cass:

  I’m at madison’s studying chem for test tmrw. Be back at 6 (STILL YOUR TURN TO COOK!!!!!) Don’t worry, I went shopping!!!!!

  Be good,

  Randa

  P.S. If Adam klein calls, PLEASE call me at mad’s: 555-0198. Thanx!!!!!

  Okay, so Prince Charming was named Adam Klein. I flipped open to K in the directory. There he was: 555-2735. I raced back to the phone and dialed.

  “Yeah?” this guy answered, as if he was just napping.

  “Um, is this Adam Klein?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, my name is Cassie Baldwin. I was wondering if maybe my sister, Miranda, was at your house. It’s kind of an emergency.”

  “Who?”

  “Miranda. Miranda Baldwin.”

  He paused. Maybe to think, maybe to wake up. “Miranda?”

  “Yes, Miranda Baldwin. She’s not at your house?”

  “No. Why should she be? Did she say she’d be here?” All of a sudden his voice sounded different, like he thought something was really amusing. I was starting to think I’d made a big mistake by calling.

  “Well, no. Okay, sorry to bother you,” I squeaked. “Bye.”

  I hung up wincing. Yikes. If Miranda ever found out I’d called Adam, she’d probably vaporize me. But of course, I told myself quickly, it was all her own stupid fault, anyway. If only she’d told me where she was, then I wouldn’t have had to call him.

  Right? Right?

  Jackson was still holed up in his room when Mom called at five thirty. “Cassie, I need to speak to you. I’ll be home at seven,” she said, in this all-business sort of voice.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “We’ll discuss it when I get home. Where’s Miranda?”

  “In the kitchen,” I said, lying.

  “Jackson’s okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s in his room.” Not lying.

  “Well, okay, then. I’d better get back to work if I’m going to catch my train. We’ll talk when I get home.” Then she hung up.

  “Was that Miranda?” asked Jackson, standing in his doorway.

  “No, just Mom,” I said. “She’ll be home soon.”

  “For supper?”

  “No, later than that.”

  “Then who’s making supper?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Me, I guess.”

  Jackson stuck out his lower lip. “Where’s Miranda? I thought you said you were calling her friend.”

  “I did call her friend. I called two of her friends. I don’t know where she is!”

  “Call Mrs. Patella.”

  “Jackie, what good would that do? Mrs. Patella doesn’t know where Miranda is.”

  “I know that! But maybe she can make us supper!”

  I snorted. Just the thought of any food cooked by Mrs. Patella, the Walking Ashtray, made me want to barf. “Ah, c’mon, Jackie boy. You think I can’t bake us some stupid potatoes? What am I, helpless?”

  I went into the kitchen. Jackie followed. “Set the oven,” he instructed.

  “I know what to do!” I snapped. Sheesh, this kid could really get on your nerves sometimes. Five hundred degrees. That should cook just about anything.

  “What about the hamburgers? Mom said we were having hamburgers for supper,” Jackson reminded me.

  “I know, I know, I know!” I opened the fridge. There were three patties, all set to go. “Okay now, Jackie, first we have to wait for the oven to heat up, then we cook the potatoes, then we make the hamburgers.” I liked how I sounded: totally in control.

  Jackson didn’t argue. All of a sudden he switched gears. “Can I watch Cartoon Network?”

  “The TV’s still buzzing, but sure.” Anything to get him out of the kitchen.

  I sat him down in front of the TV, which was now sounding like a whole hive of bugs. Pretty soon we’d have to wear beekeeper helmets just to watch the news. The thought of Miranda wearing a beekeeper helmet while she ate Doritos and watched MTV made me laugh in my head. Then suddenly I realized that I hadn’t returned the Emerson High directory to Miranda’s bathroomy desk. If she saw her cigarette pack all exposed on her hutch, she’d know that

  (A) I knew she smoked cigarettes (blech!)

  and

  (B) For some strange reason I had her directory.

  A wasn’t so bad. In fact, it could work to my advantage, especially if she knew I hadn’t told Mom when I clearly could have. But there was no way of explaining B. And judging by that Adam person’s reaction to my call, this “relationship” she sat by the phone dreaming about was entirely in her own head. Poor Miranda, I thought, suddenly feeling sorry for her, for some weird reason. But then I remembered why I’d needed to call Adam in the first place, and I just got mad at her all over again. Where was she, anyway?

  I put the directory back on Miranda’s hutch, carefully hiding the Merits in the middle, then went back to my own nonpowdery desk. I sat down, still feeling jumpy about the Journal Fiasco. Maybe even jumpier, after talking to Danny, and then to that Adam person. And of course to Mom: What did she need to come home to talk to me about? Why did she sound so serious? Whatever this was about, it wasn’t good, that much I knew.

  I re-scrunchied my ponytail. Then I uncapped my black extra-fine-point Rolling Writer. Then I re-capped it. Then I uncapped it again. Suddenly I felt like writing in my journal, but, of course, tonight Sir Mullvo was clutching it in his evil talons, maliciously counting pages. And anyway, even if I had it right now, what would I write about? More pointless no-brain nonsense? More virtual tours of my insanely messy desk? More lists of funny words and HAHAHAHAHAs? To tell you the truth, what I really, really felt like writing was more of my Cat story, but by now I couldn’t even remember where it ended. Since I’d gotten my “12,” I hadn’t looked at it, hadn’t edited it, hadn’t thought about it. What if I couldn’t just pick up where I’d left off? What if I lost the feeling for it, the momentum? What if my story was ruined, what if it was just gone?

  Maybe Bess was right that day in the cafeteria. Maybe if I stopped writing what I really cared about, Sir Mullvo had won.

  I sighed a big sigh, a Miranda sigh. And when I inhaled, something definitely smelled weird.

  “Cassie?” Jackson was standing at my door, his eyes wide. “Can I tell you something? I think something’s wrong in the kitchen.”<
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  I shot out of my room. Smoke was coming into the hallway. Weird-smelling smoke.

  “Jackson, run and tell Mrs. Patella. Right now!” I pushed him out the door.

  I ran into the kitchen. Black smoke was pouring out of the oven. I turned the oven switch to off, then yanked open the windows. The smoke detector started screaming anyway.

  A second later, who should walk in the kitchen but Miranda. “WHERE’S THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER?” she hollered over the smoke detector’s screams.

  “Under the sink,” I said. “But there’s no fire!”

  “THERE’S SMOKE!” she thundered. “GET IT!”

  So I hauled it out of the cabinet under the sink and thrust it at her. She aimed it at the stove. She looked fierce, like Cat aiming her dragonfire arrow at the Mystyck Beast. She yanked something, and then white foam shot out, sudsing up the oven like a big crazy bubble bath.

  “NOW TURN OFF THAT SMOKE DETECTOR!” she yelled.

  I stood on a chair and pulled out the battery. The screaming stopped, but the air was still vibrating when Mrs. Patella ran in. “What happened?” she cried.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I was just heating up the oven. Then it got smoky.”

  “You were just heating up the oven?” She furrowed her brow. “How could this happen if you were just heating up the oven?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What temperature did you set?”

  “Five hundred, but—”

  “Five hundred? What in the world were you making?”

  “Baked potatoes.”

  “Five hundred for baked potatoes? Why did you set the oven so high?”

  Good question. I decided to ignore it. “The oven hasn’t been cleaned in a while. Maybe it was greasy or something.”

  Mrs. Patella perched herself on a chair. “Why were you baking potatoes?”

  “For supper,” I said. I flashed Miranda a look. Help me, I mouthed.

  “Do you always do the cooking?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Miranda said firmly. “I do. But I wasn’t here.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Where were you?” Mrs. Patella demanded, staring accusingly at Miranda.

  “Out,” she said. “Well, thanks for coming over, Mrs. Patella, but everything is just fine now, and Mom’s on her way home, so we really need to clean up this mess.” Then she opened the door, and even Mrs. Patella could tell that she was being kicked out.