Dear Dumb Diary #8: It's Not My Fault I Know Everything
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Mr. Evans wanted us to talk about the
diaries today in class. But, of course, nobody really
wanted to talk about them, because talking about
homework is like doing it twice. And now I’m writing
about not talking about it, so now it’s like I’m doing
it three times. I wonder if doing my homework three
times like this is part of why I’m such a genius.
Isabella did not forget that I had blown
off her quiz yesterday. Isabella has an excellent
memory and remembers almost everything.
46
In English class, she waved the magazine
quiz at me in as threatening a manner as a quiz can
be waved. Mr. Evans saw Isabella shaking it at me,
and me trying to tell her to put it away with just my
facial expressions, and of course he just HAD to
say something. Teachers are very nosy about things
you do while they are teaching.
“Jamie,” he baldly began, “is there something
that you and Isabella want to say before I give you
both detention?”
I had to think fast.
“Mr. Evans,” I prettily answered, “I have a
question about magazine quizzes.”
47
I braced myself to look at his face and
the throbbing veins within, and it didn’t really
look angry.
If anything, it looked a little confused.
It wasn’t the confused look he sometimes has, like
when Isabella asks him language questions. Like a
few weeks ago, when she asked him who makes up
swear words and is that something that anybody
can get a job doing because she has some good
ideas for new ones.
It was more of a stunned kind of confused,
like the look on somebody’s face when you walk
in on her and her ointment when she thought the
bathroom door was locked.
48
“What’s the question?” Mr. Evans asked, his
voice squeaking a bit.
“Have you ever seen those quizzes?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ve seen them.”
“Well, do you think it would be a good idea
to answer some of the questions from those things
in our diary entries? I mean, it seems like they are
supersmart and might be a good place to get ideas
for things to write about,” I said.
Isabella kind of deflated, because she is an
expert on knowing how adults and apes will react
to things. And she could see how this was going to
go down.
49
Mr. Evans stood up and smiled, which made
me swallow my gum.
“That’s a great idea, Jamie,” he said. “And I
think you’re right: Those quizzes do have really good
questions.”
Later on, I explained to Isabella that now
I’m saving my quiz answer for homework because
it’s easier to do that than to think up something
new, and besides, it was her fault that I had to
cleverly ask Evans the question in the first place.
Isabella didn’t like it, but working less on homework
is so deeply rooted in her soul that she was unable
to argue about it.
Oh, hang on. I almost forgot my fake entry.
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My Dearest Diary:
My friend says she started pooping gum at eight
years old because she’s more mature than most girls her age,
but that might just be bragging.
You see, scary teachers can be even scarier when
they are unexpectedly unscary, and this can make you
swallow your gum. According to my friend, Science says
most people don’t start pooping gum until they are at least
nine years old because it takes seven years to pass through
your system, and most parents don’t give gum to anybody
under two years old.
Sincerely,
Anonymous and I’ll have to get back to you about the gum
51
Wednesday 11
Dear Dumb Diary,
Isabella asked me to take a look at a few of
her diary entries for Mr. Evans’s class. Diareering —
or would it be “diarating”? — anyway, the keeping
of a diary is one of the few areas where Isabella will
admit that I am better than she is.
52
She said that she thought using ideas from
magazines was a good way to make the project
easier. So this was one of her entries:
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I chose this entry because it was one of
the entries that used the word “want” the least.
There was one that used it less, but it used the
word “demand” a lot, and it didn’t really reflect
Isabella’s best qualities. Best quality. Whatever.
I told her I really liked how she described the
way she felt about Magazine- Card Guy, throatwise.
And I reminded her NOT to use her real name
because they’re going to put these in the library
for anybody to read. Including Magazine-Card Guy,
whoever he is.
She said she didn’t care because she wants
people to know how she feels about them.
And then Isabella asked to see that entry
about how I think people feel about me. You know,
that question I never got around to answering
because I just don’t feel like it.
To be fair, she HAD shown me one of her
entries, and she IS my best friend and everything,
so I figured I should do the right thing and distract
her by telling her that her puppy would be ready
tomorrow.
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Okay, maybe that was not totally completely
100 percent true. But at least it should have
been true.
And when you think about it, SHOULD
HAVE BEEN TRUE BUT ISN’T is wayway
better than SHOULD NOT BE TRUE BUT IS.
Also I think wayway should be a word, as in the
sentence: Isabella was so wayway excited that
she totally forgot about proving to me that I am not
a magazine genius.
Tomorrow I’m going to have to talk to
Angeline and see if I can make her understand
that this is her fault, or the fault of her dog for not
getting these puppies ready in time for my lie to be
true. Maybe they can let one go early. Otherwise, I
am going to be wayway in trouble with Isabella.
Oh, I almost forgot the fake diary entry.
Here goes:
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My Dearest Diary:
Lies are something that people should not make you
tell, because there is a chance that somebody could actually
blame you for a lie that others put into your mouth.
This makes them Doubly Responsible: once
for making you lie, and again for getting you blamed for
it. Honestly, I don’t know how some people live with
themselves.
Sincerely,
Wayway Anonymous
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Thursday 12
Dear Dumb Diary,
I managed to find Angeline before school
started. It’s not hard, really. You just look around
for an emanation of golden light beaming up from
a crowd of normal people, and in the cent
er you will
find Angeline, emanating all over everybody.
I explained to her that I didn’t know how, but
Isabella may have gotten the impression that her
puppy might be ready to go home with her, and did
Angeline think maybe we could just hurry things up
a bit? I said that maybe some puppies are ready to
leave home earlier than others. Like my grandpa,
who always tells me how he left home when he was
only seventeen and headed out into the world to
seek his fame and fortune. And how kids today are
no good and he needs an operation to get a new
skeleton or something.
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Angeline said she doubted the puppies were
ready to be separated from their mother. But then
she said I should come over after school tomorrow
and we’ll have a look at them. And while I’m there,
SHE’LL TRY TO DO SOMETHING WITH
MY HAIR.
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It was just like if you spotted a unicorn in
your yard and didn’t want to scare it away, so you
lured it closer by offering it raspberry milk shakes
and sequins or whatever it is unicorns eat.
“Sure, okay,” I said, doing my best not
to commit sudden, violent pee. “Let’s not talk to
Isabella about this little puppy review, though —
let’s make it a surprise.”
Of course I knew that she’d find out sooner or
later. Now that I think about it, adults are always
saying that. “I’ll have to do something sooner or
later.” Why would anybody ever pick sooner?
“Sooner or later, you’re going to break your
neck if you keep that up.”
“Okay. I think that later is going to work
better for me, then.”
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I saw Isabella at lunch and told her that I
had to check with Angeline about how we could get
her the puppy. Even though my dog, Stinker, was
their father, Angeline’s dog was their mother, which
made Angeline a mother- in- law, and you do not
want to get one of
those
bent out of shape.
This was enough to make Isabella wait a little
longer, since dads fear almost nothing on earth
except their mothers-in-law.
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FRIDAY 13
Dear Dumb Diary,
OhmygoshabunchofstuffhappenedtodaybutI
can’treallyrememberanyofitbecauseIwentoverto
Angeline’shouseandshefixedmyhair. Idon’tknowwhy
shedidbutshedidandnowit’sbeautiful.
Wait a second. Wait a second. I have to
breathe. Oh my gosh when I breathe my nose is
filled with this delicious shampoo fragrance and
I’m having a hardtimebreathingnormallyI’mso
excitedStinkerisbarkingandIhavetocalmdownfora
minutebeforeIwriteanymoreIfeelalittledizzy.
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Okay. I’m okay now. I laid down for a while
and Stinker finally stopped barking at me. But I
think I know why he was barking — he hardly even
recognized me with My Gorgeous New Hair. I look
like an entirely different person. Also, I think I
might have been standing on his foot.
So, I went over to Angeline’s house earlier
and we talked about the puppies. Whatever, blah
blah blah.
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The main thing of all MAIN THINGS is
that ANGELINE FIXED MY HAIR. She did a
little shampooing, some conditioning, combing,
trimming, a spritz of this and a spray of that,
and now my hair looks exactly like hers, except
for instead of being golden-blond, mine is this
shimmering-toasted-auburn-brunette color that
is the exact same color as the most delicious things
on earth’s menus.
My head looks like this ridiculously expensive
teddy bear that first you fall in love with, and then
you can’t resist the impulse to eat.
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Angeline gave me a bottle of something that
I have to spray it with every hour or so, and some
little bottles of a special shampoo she mixed up.
My hair and I will be making some serious
plans for our future. I think that things are going
to be very different for us now. I wonder if I should
name my hair.
64
Saturday 14
Dear Dumb Diary,
My hair and I got up a little early today.
I slept with it in a protective pillowcase and
immediately gave it a big breakfast of shampoo
and this spray that it likes so much. While I was
brushing it, I looked out my window and thought of
all the people with ugly hair. I nearly cried a real
tear, except that Angeline said salt water isn’t good
for my hair so I laughed at them instead.
At breakfast, my mom said she loved my
hair, but my dad was all “Why did you do that to
yourself?” and “I liked it better before.”
Sometimes it’s very clear to me that I didn’t
just come from my dad. I actually evolved
from him.
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It was extra-good that I didn’t have school
today. That way I could spend some quality time
with my quality hair before it has to be exposed to
the foulness of the world. I wonder if I can make it a
requirement that icky kids aren’t allowed to look at
it. My uncle is the assistant principal. May be he can
hook me up.
I wonder why Angeline never thought of
making that rule before? I guess this is what comes
from being smart
and
beautiful.
Isabella called today (like, eleven times) to
find out about her puppy, and I had to keep telling
her that Angeline said it wasn’t ready and she’d just
have to be patient. Isabella started yelling that she
wanted it before all the cuteness wore off. (Or is
that cutenicity?)
I think I hear my hair getting up from its nap,
so I gotta go.
66
Sunday 15
Dear Dumb Diary,
Sunday is homework day, the day Isabella
usually comes over, but I really didn’t want to hear
her complain about the puppy, so I didn’t invite her.
I was kind of surprised when my mom called
up to me that “my friend” had arrived to do
homework, even though Isabella is not a person
that lets a lack of an invitation get in the way of her
showing up.
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But it wasn’t Isabella. It was Angeline. And
she had her backpack, full of homework.
“Thanks for inviting me over, Jamie,” she
said. “I do my homework throughout the week so
it doesn’t all back up on Sunday, but I can double-
check my work while you do yours.”
I can’t tell you how many things were wrong
with this:
• Angeline at my house.
• Somebody who does their homework
throughout the week.
• Double-checking. (I mean, how do you
even do that? If you’re too dumb to get
it right the first time,
you’re too dumb the
second time, too, right?)
68
I asked Angeline if we had planned this little
homework date earlier and it had just slipped
my mind.
She said she came over because I had called
her house and invited her.
Then I nearly knocked Angeline over as I blew
out the door past her.
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I ran all the way to Angeline’s house, my
exquisite hair trailing behind me like ribbons of
caramel silk. I know this because every time I
passed a parked car I checked out my reflection
in the windows. Plus, I pay very close attention to
candy commercials that feature caramel.
By the time I got to Angeline’s house,
Angeline had caught up to me. We were both
wheezing and holding our guts and trying to talk
in that broken way that you do when you’ve been
running.
“What’s. The. Deal. Jamie?” Angeline huffed.
“Check. The. Puppies. That. Wasn’t. Me. That.
Called,” I puffed back.
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Angeline went inside for a minute, then came
back out and sat down on the porch.
“My mom says that a girl was just here
claiming to be you, saying that she needed to pick
up one of the puppies because Stinker was getting
sick from missing his children and would probably
die within the hour if he didn’t get to see one
of them.”
“Claiming to be me?”
“My mom says that she either had a really
ugly wig or a gopher on her head,” Angeline said.
“But my mom knows I fixed your hair, so she knew
that the girl wasn’t you. When she said she knew it
wasn’t you, the girl just ran away.”
71
I told Angeline that it was Isabella. She
hadn’t seen me with my gorgeous new hair yet. And
it was Isabella who had called, pretending to be me
and inviting Angeline over to do homework.
“Really? She sounded exactly like you. But