Dear Dumb Diary #3: Am I the Princess or the Frog?
Page 3
many other less inky pies to enjoy.)
Also, Isabella has very strong powers of
persuasion.
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I asked Isabella if she wanted to go to the
mall with me this weekend, but she said she was
going with her dad again. I quizzed her on this —
complete with gagging noises — and she refused to
talk about it. Isabella is up to something, Dumb
Diary. I can tell.
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I made another little garbage sculpture for
Mr. Prince today. This one was a wadded -up lump of
cheeseburger with some fries stuck in it to resemble
the Statue of Liberty’s head (in keeping with our
cute French thing). Before I slid it into the trash
can, I tried to direct Mr. Prince’s attention to it with
head nods and eyebrow twitches until I saw Mr.
Evans coming at me with that You’re-Having-
Another-Seizure look in his eyes and I had to
dump and run.
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Mr. Prince and I are practically like Cinderella
and Prince Charming except that, in our case,
Cinderella is mutilating her food for attention and
exhibits false seizure symptoms, and Prince
Charming isn’t all obsessed with footwear. But
other than that . . .
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I gave some more thought to helping Stinker
run away from home this afternoon. After school, I
made him watch a show on wolves on The Discovery
Channel, hoping that maybe it would make him
want to run wild and perhaps haul his chubby rump
up some mountain and howl at the moon. But I
don’t think he understood .
Not even when I got a big round pillow and
tried to make him howl at it by holding it over his
face. I was only playing, but Stinker seemed to get
a little panicky, and his wolf howl sounded a little
like a whine.
He was so upset afterward that it took him,
like, thirty minutes of constant gnawing on his chew
toy (which I have named Grossnasty) to
calmdown.
I have no idea how I’m going to avoid giving
Isabella a photo of Stinker.
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Late -Breaking News: Carryout tacos
for dinner. Get this: Mom didn’t have time to make
dinner because she went to Miss Bruntford’s house
for a visit. MISS BRUNTFORD’S HOUSE!
Surprised, Dumb Diary? Me, too. I mean: A
house?? I always assumed Miss Bruntford lived
under a bridge, where she asked travelers riddles
before she’d let them pass.
Since when would Mom visit Miss Bruntford?
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Who cares. Dad and I don’t want to ask too
many questions. I ate so many tacos, my neck
hurts. Note to Taco Company: Invent a taco
that one may consume without suffering head
dislocation.
Seriously, can you imagine trying to invent
a brand-new food nowadays and telling people
that there’s one catch: You have to be sideways to
eat it?
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Saturday 14
Dear Dumb Diary,
It’s amazing. On school days, when I get up
early, I’m so exhausted I can hardly walk, but when I
get up early on a Saturday, I’m not even tired. How
do your muscles know what day it is?
I walked over to Isabella’s this morning. I
figured that if I just happenedto be there when
she and her dad went to the mall, they’d have to
take me along.
When I got to Isabella’s house, unbelievably,
right in the middle of her front lawn was this
incredibly cute puffball of a kitten. I scooped it up
and knocked on her door. When Isabella answered, I
thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head.
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“Where’d you get that cat?” she said, in one
of those whispers where you’re kind of yelling and
whispering at the same time. I told her I found it on
her lawn. She said that it belonged to one of the
neighbors and they were looking for it and I had to
give it to her to return to them. That was all fine
with me, but I couldn’t help noticing that Isabella
was breathing just like Stinker did when I had him
under the pillow during his wolf training.
Then she took the kitten and said the mall
trip was cancelled, she’d call me later, and then
SLAM. Just that fast, I had been de- kittened,
de - malled, and blown off by my best friend.
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When I was walking home, thinking about
things I’d like to happen to Isabella, and trying to
look sad (I’m rather pretty when I’m sad), I had
that feeling you get when you’re being watched. I
looked up, and there, in a minivan —which was not
the giant golden carriage drawn by the perfect
white horses you might expect— was Angeline. And
when we locked eyes, she waved. Not a big You’re -
My-Best-Friend wave, but not one of those weird
upright rotations that the girls on parade floats do,
either.
This in itself was odd, as Angeline and I are
not friends because she is too beautiful and stuck-
up to be a friend, but what was reallyodd was
her mom . . .
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I think this was the first time I had ever seen
Angeline’s mom, and I don’t know what I would have
expected, but it was not at all what I saw.
You know when a movie star brings one of her
parents to an awards ceremony and you always
think: Wow. Her parents are as ugly as mine. How
did THAT happen?
That’s kind of what it was like with Angeline’s
mom. Except not in the face.
Years ago, my folks and I were at the zoo, and
a three- year- old, thinking he was looking at a
porcupine or a sloth or something, tried to feed a
peanut to the back of my head. It was at that
moment that I knew I had The World’s Worst
Hair. That is, until now.
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Angeline’s mom had Angeline’s beautiful
face, but growing out in curly shiny sprouts here,
and straight dry wisps there, her hair looked as
though the stylist had misplaced her scissors and
just tried chewing it off.
A handful of clips and ties and barrettes did
nothing to improve things. It only made it look like
she had stumbled into the display rack on her way
out of the salon.
I believe that, somehow, while she was
pregnant, the tiny, evil, infant Angeline spawn had
totally sucked all the quality out of her mother’s
hair. I mean, what else could it be? Unless . . .
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Unless this means that Angeline is going to
grow up that way! Of course! Angeline is using up
all of her hairpretty too soon. She’s going to
burnout.
As Angeline and her mom pulled away in their
white minivan, I just stood there for a Moment,
confused and stunned . . . and happy. All I could
think was that maybe, just like in fairy tales,
IS an Ugly Fairy, and one day, she will visit
Angeline!
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Sunday 15
Dear Dumb Diary,
It’s Sunday and I figured I should start
thinking about my fairy- tale report.
I’ve ruled out The Pied Piper since I don’t buy
kids following a flute player. A guitar, maybe, but
not a flute.
I’ve also ruled out The Emperor’s New Clothes
because, well, simply put: Ick.
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So I’ve decided to do my report on The Frog
Prince. The story really speaks to me, because I’m
practically identical to the Princess in the story
except that I don’t have a frog to kiss and make
into a Prince, but I do have a Prince (Mr. Prince)
who loves a place where they eat frogs (France).
Gross.
Okay, okay. Strictly speaking, not everybody
in France eats frogs. And they only eat the legs,
anyway. And lots of gross people everywhere eat
frog legs, not just gross French people. Leave me
alone. It’s a good comparison.
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I’m sure that Angeline is doing her report on
Rapunzel. I mean, how could she NOTdo it on
Rapunzel? Here are a few versions of Rapunzel I’d
like to see Angeline star in:
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Monday 16
Dear Dumb Diary,
Another poem today from You-know-
who!
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Can you believe the pain he’s in? His suffering?
The crushing heartache he endures every time he
sees me?
God, it just makes me so happy!
Also, it’s like a totally amazing coincidence
that he wrote about me as a blossom after I did the
same thing in my poem to my mom. It’s like we
share a common head. Isn’t that sweet?
I showed this one to Isabella, and I think she
may be even a little jealouser. Yeah, I’m pretty sure
he’ll wait for me to grow up.
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Tuesday 17
Dear Dumb Diary,
Today Mr. Evans told us that fairy tales were
sometimes used to teach a lesson. He asked for
examples and I said Rumplestiltskin taught an
important lesson. (Rumplestiltskin, Dumb Diary, is
the one about the creepy little guy who helps the
imprisoned maiden spin gold from straw so she can
escape a lifetime in jail, in exchange for her first -
born baby.)
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I said it taught us that pretty young maidens
break deals all the time, even if you give them a
mountain of gold and get them out of jail. If
anything, I said, these pretty young maidens are
the cause of all the trouble in the world, breaking
into bears’ houses and busting up their junk,
antagonizing wolves, getting lost in the woods,
making their stepmothers crazy. It goes on and on.
Mr. Evans’s vein throbbed, and he said I was
the first student that he had ever heard of rooting
for Rumplestiltskin and against Red Riding
Hood,which I thought might mean I was a genius.
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But failing to cheer for the Goldilocks type is
evidently a symptom of seizurism in Mr. Evans’s
book. So he sent me down to the nurse’s office
AGAIN for a little cot time. It’s not a big deal
anymore. The office ladies know me now and they
just wave me in and I make myself comfortable.
They even gave me my own key to the cot room this
time and said that if I want different drapes in
there or something, I can decorate it any way I want
since I am the only one using it. This made them
laugh at me a little, which made me say something
like “old bats” or “old hags” or something like that.
Anyway, I had to give the key back, and probably
the drapes are out.
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Wednesday 18
Dear Dumb Diary,
I found another poem in my locker
this morning! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
! ! !
Okay. So maybe it’s not his best work. Even
Shakespeare probably had some off days.
But let’s not forget the yearning. It probably
hurts when he yearns, and that’s probably throwing
off his poetry. Shut up. He’s calling himself an
admirer now.
75
I returned his sentiments with a token of my
affection that I presented in the form of artistically
fingered food at lunch. I had captured The Sphinx
quite well, considering how infrequently The Ancient
Egyptians sculpted in spaghetti and Jell-O. Even
Isabella agreed, and she says that since she is
Italian, she is an expert on pasta.
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As I slid my love tribute into the garbage with
a sad, slippery smush, Mr. Prince said that I had
done a fabulous job and that, even covered in
spaghetti sauce, my hands still looked like beautiful
petite little doves that were bleeding badly (and at
which somebody had thrown Jell-O).
He didn’t exactly say that mouthfully. He
said it more with his eyes. Or maybe I read his mind.
I don’t know. Anyway, when I turned around,
Hudson was right behind me in line and he said “Hi,”
but since I’m sort of involved with Mr. Prince right
now, I had taken a few steps before I even realized
that Hudson had been speaking to me, so I didn’t
respond.
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Angeline was right there, too, and she
seemed a bit surprised. Maybe she was surprised by
Mr. Prince’s yearning. Or maybe she was surprised
that I had blown off Hudson. Or maybe she was
surprised to learn that The Sphinx would have
looked better with a big meatball nose.
In any event, I’m sure I noticed her give her
head a little forward flip, casting her hair fumes at
poor unsuspecting Hudson, who I now think of as a
child compared to my charming Mr. Prince.
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Thursday 19
Dear Dumb Diary,
First thing this morning, I took another shot
at Isabella. I tried to get her to let me say that I
didn’t have a pet, but she said that would
undermine her integrity as an artist. I reminded her
that last month she turned in a drawing she had
done of Angelina Jolie for her self-portrait
assignment.
I asked her if I could just use a picture of a
different beagle, like, one that was less of a
disgusting slobber-mouthed odor museum than
Stinker, but she said that would be dishonest. Then
I reminded her that two months ago, she had drawn
on her glasses with a marker in order to make
everybody think she had blue eyes.
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I asked her if she really believed that people
look like their pets, and she said that it was not her
but Science that had made this dec
ision. I then
reminded her that judging by the shape of her head,
she must have a balloon for a pet.
Which meant, of course, that we did not eat
lunch together today.
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At least there was no meat loaf for the
second Thursday in a row, and no Miss Bruntford,
either. I wonder if they’ve just decided to keep Mr.
Prince on permanently. That would be excellently
awesome, of course, although I suppose I should
consider Mr. Prince’s pain.
Okay, I considered it. It would still be
excellently awesome.
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Friday 20
Dear Dumb Diary,
Angeline stopped by my locker this morning,
and she had “our” art project almost completely
finished, except that she wanted me to apply the
glitter. No surprise, really. I’m known widely for my
skills with glue and glitter, or Glittifying, as
those of us in the biz like to callit.
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Angeline had pictures of all the teachers
when they were younger. Some were babies, some
were teens. I have to admit, for a minute, it seemed
like this WAS a pretty good idea.
But then I saw the picture labeled
“Bruntford.”
It looked like a kindergarten photo of a
plain-looking little girl . . . who looked like me. And
not just a little bit like me, Dumb Diary. She looked
totally exactly precisely like me.
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