Diary One: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Read online

  By the time I reached the arcade, I was a wreck.

  I hurried to a more secluded spot, far away from the arcade racket. Under a tall streetlight, I sat on an empty bench.

  Carson’s words came back to me: My mom probably just discovered I’m gone. Her boyfriend’s thrilled, I’ll bet…You have people who want you back. If I had what you have, I’d never have left home in the first place…

  I hadn’t really listened to him. I was so busy complaining, I hadn’t understood what he was trying to tell me.

  Whatever had happened to him must have been awful. Judging from his reaction, it made my life look rosy.

  I felt like a fake. A whining, tagalong, chicken-hearted fake. The moment Carson disappeared into the darkness, what was the first thing I did? Head for the bus home.

  Home to my nice, normal life.

  What if I had made that bus? I thought about how I’d have to explain myself to Dad, who was probably just coming home from work, sweaty and miserable. I thought about tomorrow—school, a hospital visit, food shopping, laundry, probably a few arguments along the way with Dawn, Maggie, and my teachers.

  It all made my stomach turn.

  I was furious at Carson. Was? I am. With him, I could have run away. He’s older, he knows his way around, he has more job skills.

  Without him, I’m really in trouble.

  How dare he leave me like that? How dare he judge my problems and decide I’m not worth his company?

  How dare he make me feel like a fake?

  Maybe his problems ARE worse, but that doesn’t make mine less important. My anger and disgust, all the pressure I’m feeling—they’re real. I am sick of my life. Sick of my mother being sick. Sick of my dad’s demands. Sick of not being understood by everyone, including Carson.

  If those feelings are fake, then why am I here? Why am I so unhappy?

  A couple passed by, eating ice-cream cones and giggling to each other. I felt hungry again. And lonely.

  A gust of ocean breeze made my skin prickle. I left the bench and began walking.

  And walking.

  By midnight I was still walking. But not too many others were. The crowd had cleared. The shops were closing up.

  Suddenly Venice Beach wasn’t looking so friendly.

  The sand was a dull bone-white in the moonlight, all mottled with footprints. Little piles of rocks and trash jutted up here and there, like underground creatures emerging. A few stragglers walked slowly by, stopping to pick things up.

  Panic. Blind panic. I was going to have to sleep here? Alone and out in the open?

  As I walked along, I caught sight of a tall sign I’d never noticed. In big letters it read NO CAMPING, NO FIRES, NO SLEEPING.

  Great.

  The wind had picked up, and I was shivering. I looked around frantically. Just to my left was an elevated pier. It began at the boardwalk and continued out over the sand and into the ocean. It was supported underneath by arched columns.

  If I slept under there, who could see me? It would be private. It would also be a warmer shelter, shielded from the wind.

  That was when I heard the footsteps behind me. I stopped and looked around.

  A man was window-shopping. At a store that had closed.

  I walked again, a little faster. The footsteps started again.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw the same man. He was lit from behind, and all I could make out was a black leather jacket and long, stringy hair.

  I stopped again. So did he.

  I took off at a dead run. I ducked into the nearest open store, an old-fashioned five-and-dime. Quickly I darted through the aisles until I was all the way in the back. I pulled something off the shelf, pretending to be shopping.

  “May I help you?” a voice asked.

  I nearly jumped. I turned to see a short, balding man wearing a name tag.

  “Oh…just looking.”

  “What size men’s briefs do you need?”

  Yikes. So that’s what I was holding. I tossed them back.

  Then I saw the man again.

  He was in the next aisle, looking through the shelves, busily moving things around. I could see now that the jacket was black fabric, not leather. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail now too, but he didn’t fool me.

  I leaned close to the clerk. “Um, do you know that guy?” I whispered, gesturing toward the man.

  The clerk glanced over without moving his head. “No. May I help you?”

  “No! Uh, well, thanks, but I have to go.”

  I flew out of there. I scanned the boardwalk and saw a few lonely figures, but I didn’t stop for a closer look.

  I headed straight for the pier and ducked under the nearest arch.

  It was pitch-black. I felt around until I touched the cement wall. It was cold and clammy, but I sat against it, panting for breath.

  Tears were cascading down my face. I felt like a prisoner on the lam. How was I going to make it through the night? What if rats lived under the pier? Crabs? Kidnappers?

  Calm down, Sunny. Think.

  Okay. All I had to do was stay still. If I couldn’t sleep, so what? I could keep my eyes open all night and nap in the morning, when it was safer.

  Then, when I was rested, I’d have to make a plan. Maybe I could lie about my age and find a job. I could serve coffee at Java Voom. Save enough money and travel to Mexico or South Dakota.

  The sound of a car engine broke the stillness, followed by the crackling of a two-way radio. I peeked out of the darkness and looked toward the boardwalk.

  A police car had pulled to a stop.

  I ducked back. Oh. My. God. They were after me. Dad had sent a dragnet out.

  I froze. I tried not to make a sound.

  After a few moments I peeked back out again.

  I saw two police officers emerging from a convenience store. One was carrying a box of donuts, and the other held two capped paper cups. They started laughing and climbed into the car, which continued cruising down the boardwalk.

  I let out a deep breath and sank back against the wall. My energy was gone. My eyelids were drooping. A dream was starting to seep into my brain…

  Scritch…scritch…

  My eyes sprang open. The sound was to my left. Deeper into the blackness.

  I squinted. My vision had adjusted about as much as it could, and I tried to focus on a couple of small, distant shadows. But they weren’t moving.

  I leaned back again and stayed rock still. Listening. Hearing nothing but the soft lapping of the waves.

  Snap!

  A sudden flare of light. To my left.

  I froze.

  A match was flickering about three feet away. In its amber light were two bloodshot eyes and a gap-toothed grin.

  “Cigarette?”

  The voice was like a slap. I bolted.

  “POLICE!” I shrieked.

  My shoes dug into the sand, slowing me down. I tried harder to run, but I bumped into something and fell. I rolled once and felt sand in my mouth and hair. Spitting and coughing, I scrambled to my feet.

  I heard a burst of wild laughter. To my right, near the water, a man in a raggedy coat was doubled over, pointing at me.

  Who were these people?

  What was I doing here?

  I heard a scream and realized it was me.

  I was hysterical. Sand was in my eyes now. I ran blindly.

  “EEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH!”

  “Sunny?”

  How did they know my name? They were calling me!

  “Sunny!”

  I stopped running. My heart felt like a jackhammer.

  But I knew that voice.

  “Over here!”

  He was waving to me from the open door of a car in a small, deserted parking lot beyond the convenience store.

  “Ducky?” I could barely get the word out of my parched throat.

  Ducky was walking toward me now, a curious smile on his face. “What happened to you, girl?”

  “
Duckyyyyyy!” I practically tackled him to the sand. All I could do was hold him tightly and sob and sob.

  “Sssshh,” he said gently, wrapping his arms around me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m so glad you’re here! It’s horrible—I was almost—how did you find me?”

  “I heard you screaming, and I said, ‘Sunny?’”

  “Not funny!” I said, laughing through my tears.

  “I heard your parents have been worried sick. When your dad brought your mom home from the hospital tonight, they saw your note and freaked.”

  “M-my mom’s ho-home?” I said, choking back sniffles.

  “She was feeling okay, so the doctors let her go. Anyway, your dad called Dawn, and she called me. And I remembered what you said about meeting your boyfriend—you mentioned something about a cafe, a boardwalk, and weight lifters.” Ducky smiled. “I had a hunch.”

  “Th—” Sniff. “Thanks, Ducky.”

  “Well?” he said. “What now? Are we going home or running away?”

  Ugh. Mom and Dad had told everyone about the note. If I went home now, I’d be explaining myself for months.

  For a moment I considered asking Ducky for some money and walking off.

  But that moment passed. At this point, the last thing I wanted was to be alone.

  “Take me home,” I said.

  Ducky’s cool. He called Mom and Dad from a pay phone and told them we were on our way. I didn’t talk to them. I couldn’t.

  I fell asleep on the ride home. Ducky had to wake me when we were in front of my house.

  I climbed out and waved good-bye as he drove off. But I couldn’t go inside. I couldn’t face them. Not yet.

  I turned and went straight to Dawn’s. I stood outside her window and tossed pebbles at it until a light blinked on.

  The window opened. Dawn looked surprised. Relieved a little. But definitely not pleased. She did come to the front door, though, and she wasn’t swinging a baseball bat. Those were good signs.

  “Hi,” I said.

  I thought she was going to yell at me, but she didn’t. Instead, she put her arms around me and started to cry, blubbering about how worried she had been.

  It felt good. Really good.

  For awhile.

  When we went inside her house, the first thing Dawn did was call Mom and Dad. She held the receiver out to me.

  “Hello?” it was Dad.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s—”

  Before I could say another word, Dad started gasping. I thought he was having a heart attack, but he was crying.

  Mom picked up the other extension. She sounded breathy and tired. I told her I was at Dawn’s, and she said, “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  I felt like a total worthless subhuman. Mom was up late, feeling horrible, all because of what I had done—and she was asking me if I was okay!

  I had let her down, big-time.

  I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a strangled croak. And then tears were running down my cheeks.

  “Shush, sweetie,” Mom said tenderly, “It’s okay. We’ll talk it out when you come home. It’s been tough for you. I understand…”

  I was practically hiccuping my sobs now, but I managed to say good-bye. Dawn had found a box of tissues and set it before me.

  I blew my nose and took a few deep breaths. “Sorry.”

  Dawn was shaking her head. “Sunny…why?”

  It was a simple question. But just thinking about an answer was like preparing for a major war. I didn’t have the energy to do it.

  “Can we talk about it tomorrow?” I asked.

  Dawn shrugged. “Okay. Sure. If that’s what you want. I guess I’ll walk you home.”

  No way. The thought of it turned me inside out. I could not face Mom and Dad. I couldn’t stay up and answer their questions. I was ready to collapse.

  I asked Dawn if I could spend the rest of the night on the living room sofa.

  She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. I knew she wanted to yell at me. I could see it in her eyes. And I wouldn’t have blamed her if she did.

  But all she said was, “You call your parents and tell them. I’ll get a blanket. And you owe me an explanation, first thing in the morning.”

  Dawn has amazing self-control.

  I nodded and promised to tell her everything. And I called Mom and Dad right away.

  They’re mad at me too. I just know it by their voices.

  Tomorrow is going to be awful.

  Thursday 11/6

  Study hall

  I was right.

  Dawn was up at 7:00 this morning. She wanted to talk to me before her dad and Carol awoke.

  I barely remember what I said. Just the basics, I guess. The way I was feeling, how I met Carson, what happened last night.

  It must have sunk in, because Dawn was pretty nice to me. Not exactly warm and cuddly. Not exactly full of forgiveness. But concerned.

  I’ll take what I can get.

  Going home afterward was the worst. If Dawn hadn’t walked with me, I might have bolted for the bus stop.

  But she did. And I didn’t. And I had to face Mom and Dad. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I tried to be honest. I told them I felt neglected. I told them how tense and afraid I’d been. I explained why I found Mom’s “heirlooms” so upsetting. And I admitted my trips to Venice Beach.

  Well, not all of them. And I didn’t mention Carson.

  Mom and Dad listened gravely. The whole thing was a big shock to them.

  They reacted kind of the way I expected. Dad asked a few angry questions—“Why didn’t you tell us?” and “Don’t you think it’s been hard for us too?”—but mostly they listened. Mom even comforted me.

  “Things will be better,” she said, “as soon as I’m back to normal.”

  Right.

  That statement really turned me inside out. I had to fight back tears.

  Normal?

  I could not tell Mom what I know. Normal is a thing of the past. I know enough not to expect normal anymore.

  Somehow I made it to school today. But my brain is pretty useless. Dawn is still acting weird. Maggie isn’t talking to me. Only Ducky is friendly.

  So my work is cut out for me here.

  Sometimes I wish this were all one big story, and this were the hard part. The middle, where everything goes wrong before everything goes right.

  But it’s not. And happy endings are for fairy tales.

  I would never, ever tell anyone this, but I’m scared.

  Really scared.

  And I desperately want to escape.

  Somewhere.

  Maggie: Diary One

  California Diaries

  Ann M. Martin

  Contents

  Sunday 11/9

  Monday 11/10

  Tuesday 11/11

  Wednesday 11/12

  Thursday morning 11/13

  Friday morning 11/14

  Friday 11/14

  Saturday 11/15

  Sunday 11/16

  Monday 11/17

  Tuesday 11/18

  Wednesday 11/19

  11/20

  Friday 11/21

  Saturday 11/22

  Sunday 11/23

  Monday 11/24

  Tuesday 11/25

  Wednesday 11/26

  Friday 11/28

  Sunday 11/30

  Monday 12/1

  Tuesday 12/2

  Sunday 11/9

  10:43 A.M.

  God, that is sad.

  No, sad isn’t the word.

  Bad.

  That’s what it is. Bad.

  Awful.

  Who ever told me I could be a songwriter?

  No one. Just myself.

  I was wrong.

  Monday 11/10

  5:57 P.M.

  Feeling better today. Even though (1) I have tons of homework, (2) I am about to flunk Wednesday’s math test, and (3) dinner is delayed because Dad is arguing on the phone with some studio exec about his upco
ming movie, Fatal Judgment (which may be one of his worst ever, judging from the rough cut we saw).

  The reason I am feeling better is this:

  At 3:50 P.M., during Inner Vistas elections after school, I, Maggie Blume, was chosen as poetry editor. I remember the time because I was staring at the clock, trying not to look jittery. Parker Price, the editor-in-chief, announced I was the first eighth-grader ever elected to the editorial staff. (Not so impressive, considering this is the first year Vista eighth-graders have been switched to the high school building.) After the election, Parker told me she hopes I’ll take over as editor-in-chief someday. Now, THAT was impressive.

  Magazine editor. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. For my life’s work.

  It’s perfect. Get paid to read. Judge other people’s writing and tell them what to do. Launch the careers of talented writers. Hire a music reviewer so the magazine can receive free CDs from record company PR departments.

  This is almost as good an idea as becoming a veterinarian (which is what I’ll probably decide to be).

  I swear I am going to be the best editor Inner Vistas has ever seen. When I’m editor-in-chief, who knows? Maybe I’ll lead us to a national award.

  Then the sky’s the limit.

  I just have to remember not to tell Dad. He’d decide to manage my career. He’d have the presidents of all the major magazine companies over for dinner, just to meet me. He’d make me recite my poems. Sing my lyrics. Show how I edit, using an overhead projector.

  He might even forget about making me play my latest piano piece for all his guests.

  That, at least, would be a relief.

  Tuesday 11/11

  2:07 P.M.

  Where would I be without laptops? I am so glad Vista allows them in the classroom.

  Ms. Newell has given us 15 minutes of independent work time. She thinks we’re all typing our book reports. But I finished last night. So I have plenty of time to write in my journal.

  Thought for the day:

  Sunny Winslow is a high-maintenance friend. These days, you give her a lot more than you get.

  It’s hard enough dealing with this rebel phase she’s in. I mean, I know what she’s going through. The black lipstick, weird hair, funky clothes—been there.