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

  But for me it was a stage. I never had body piercings. I never cut school. And I never shut myself off from my friends. You can’t even talk to her anymore. She’s in another world.

  I thought she was coming out of it today at lunch. She sat right down with Dawn and me, all friendly and excited.

  But then I learned the reason. She wanted to show me her copy of Variety, with every mention of Dad’s name highlighted.

  I tried to be polite. But how many times can I stand reading the ads for Fatal Judgment?

  When she was the old Sunny, I never minded her starry-eyed attitude about the movie business. She thought it was so cool that we had intercoms in every room. Infrared burglar sensors. The landscaped pool. Movie people visiting the house all the time. All my private at-home lessons. Never mind that the alarms go off by themselves in the middle of the night. Or that Dad holds loud poolside meetings outside my bedroom window. Or that I have to play piano all the time for strangers in power suits. Or that Dad’s mood swings go up and down with the box office grosses. And so does Mom’s drinking.

  I even showed Sunny that pathetic photo of me as a newborn, with the words A HAYDEN BLUME PRODUCTION taped onto my bassinet. She thought that was cool too.

  But Sunny was always so much fun to be with. If she thought my life was glamorous, fine. However, since she’s decided to be Punk Dropout of the Year, I’m having much less patience with her.

  Now she also thinks she’s a casting director. Variety decided to print the casting notice of Dad’s NEXT film, even though Fatal Judgment hasn’t opened yet. Right there in the cafeteria, Sunny read aloud one of the character descriptions—something like, Male, late teens, dark, drop-dead handsome, young Pierce Brosnan features with Harrison Ford swagger.

  She announced that only one person in the world was destined to play the role.

  Yes. Justin Randall.

  Here we go again.

  One time in my life I just happen to mention I think he’s good-looking. (And he IS. Anyone would agree.) But it’s an OBSERVATION. Like judging a work of art.

  Not to Sunny, however. To Sunny it is a declaration of love.

  Sunny made sure to point out he’s a junior. And he has a car. Then she warned that I should not “blow this opportunity.” But of course I shouldn’t make it easy for him either. “Let him twist in the wind,” advised Sunny. “Tell him you may let your dad audition him. Seduce him. Then call me right away with the details.”

  Seduce him.

  I could not believe her. I mean, the nerve.

  I should have told her off. But I didn’t. I was chicken. I said something stupid like, “Dad is looking for professional actors only.”

  Sunny had an answer for that too. She told me Justin played “the Gentleman Visitor” in last year’s high school production of The Glass Monastery. Plus he’s dying to be a movie star and he has head shots.

  I did not tell her the character was “Gentleman Caller” and the play was The Glass Menagerie. I did not want to lengthen the ridiculous conversation.

  Good old Dawn the Peacemaker was trying valiantly to change the subject. She kept remarking about how healthy the new vegetarian menu is. She made a few cracks about how the entire school reeks whenever the cafeteria serves beef. Typical Dawn stuff. But it wasn’t working. Sunny wouldn’t give up. “You have the perfect opening line, Maggie. ‘Wanna come home and meet my dad, the famous movie producer?’ I wish it were that easy for me. Not in this life. I mean, ‘Wanna meet my dad, the bookstore owner, and my mom, who’s dying of cancer?’ just doesn’t have that same ring.”

  This is so typical. Just when I’m about to lose my temper, she reminds me of her problems. And I feel bad for her, because her problems really are serious, so how can I possibly be angry? On the other hand, she throws the problems in my face, so I can’t exactly sympathize either.

  So I babbled clichés. I told her to think positive. And, of course, I felt guilty.

  But I was beginning to develop a theory. Maybe Sunny was interested in Justin Randall. I mean, it’s possible. Sunny’s unattached. And she does like older guys. That guy she met at the beach—Carson—he was a high school dropout.

  Okay, let’s say my theory is true. She’s in love. But Justin’s not too interested. After all, Sunny’s only thirteen.

  So Sunny must find a way to get close. Something that separates her from the average eighth-grader.

  So she says: “I happen to know the daughter of Hayden Blume, the movie producer, who just happens to be looking to discover a new star, in a role that just happens to be perfect for you!!!!

  What’s the next logical step? She tries to arrange an audition, through me. And what’s the best way to convince me to do it? To make me think she’s matching me up.

  Maybe she’s just getting to Justin through me.

  Would she be so devious? Sunny, who used to be one of my best friends?

  I wouldn’t put it past her.

  Tuesday

  8:27 P.M.

  What do I care if Sunny’s being sneaky? Why am I even thinking about it? Especially on a night before a math exam that I know I will flunk.

  If Sunny wants Justin Randall, fine. She has every right to pursue him. Just as I have every right not to listen to her advice about inviting him for an audition.

  Period. End of discussion.

  The strange thing was, I spotted Justin in the hallway right after lunch. And then later, between classes.

  And I couldn’t help thinking, he would actually be right for that part.

  If I cared.

  Which I don’t.

  Wednesday 11/12

  lunch period

  Got a 94 on my math test.

  Two problems wrong. Easy ones.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid mistakes.

  100

  95

  99

  100

  94

  488/5 = 97.6 avg.

  One more test before the end of the marking period. If I get a 100 I can pull my average up to 588/6 = 98. The final counts double, of course, so a 100 on that would make it 788/8 = 98.5.

  If I could average in what I really got on that first test—105 with the bonus points—I’d already be at 98.6. Ms. Sevekow keeps saying she doesn’t believe in counting bonus points into your average if they gave you over a 100 test score. Fine. So why won’t she let me transfer the points to another test? Like, bring the 94 up to a 99? That is so unfair. But I can’t argue about it. There are enough nerds in the class who would, and I am not one of them.

  I’ll just have to do better next time.

  Wednesday

  5:17 P.M.

  Why are my fingers SO STIFF?

  Something must be wrong with me. Maybe I’m coming down with arthritis.

  Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s Mrs. Knudsen. She assigned me the Beethoven “Pathétique Sonata” on purpose. She knew I couldn’t possibly play it. She knows my fingers can’t handle so many notes.

  She’s trying to make me quit. That way she won’t have to listen to all my clinkers anymore.

  Listen to me. I am feeling so sorry for myself. Even Curtis (such a good cat) seems sick of my complaining. I don’t even have to say anything—he just knows.

  I just need to practice more. That’s all. Plus I have to insist on pieces that are more fun. Classical’s nice, but once in a while I want to jump forward to this century.

  Next week I’ll give Mrs. Knudsen an ultimatum. I’ll agree to learn Beethoven if she agrees to teach me the blues.

  On piano, that is.

  A knock on the door. Got to go.

  Wednesday

  9:46 P.M.

  The good news: That knock was Dad.

  He was home early from work. Which is pretty amazing, considering Fatal Judgment opens in three weeks. At this point, he’s usually in the office 24 hours a day.

  The bad news: He had heard every minute of my piano lesson.

  And that was what he wanted to talk about.


  “So, practicing enough, honey?” he asked.

  I said no. I told him how busy I’d been—math test, book report, and so on.

  He nodded. He told me he’d just beaten Carlton Grant in tennis.

  “You always beat him,” I said.

  “That’s because I keep up my game,” Dad replied. “No matter how busy I am, no matter how many meetings I take, nothing stands in the way of my tennis game. Why? Because it’s my passion, Maggie. Always make time for your passion.”

  At first I had no idea what he was talking about. Then I realized.

  “You mean, I should practice piano more,” I said.

  Dad nodded. “You do enjoy it, don’t you? I mean, I hope I haven’t been paying Mrs. Knudsen for eight years in vain.”

  Why does he always bring this up?

  I reassured him. I said I enjoyed lessons. I promised I’d practice more.

  But he still had this strange, super-concerned look. “This Dustin fellow? Is he—are you and he—?”

  Dustin.

  Dustin Hoffman?

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Sunny just called. I didn’t get you because you were in the middle of your lesson. She mentioned this fellow!!!”

  Justin.

  Dad was asking me if Justin and I were going out.

  Why? Because Sunny had gushed about him. And she’d asked if I had mentioned him yet.

  And somehow Dad got the idea that I had a crush on him.

  I was so humiliated.

  How could she do this?

  I explained everything to Dad. I told him about my lunch conversation with Sunny. I explained that I didn’t know Justin.

  Dad nodded. But he still had that concerned look. “Mind if we talk a bit, Maggie? I was sitting in the kitchen, listening to you play, and I thought: Maybe she needs to branch out. Something more than just piano lessons. A school activity. You’d still have plenty of time to practice.”

  I reminded him of my extracurriculars. Honor Society. Inner Vistas.

  “What Vistas?” he asked.

  I know I’ve explained Inner Vistas to him. But when I told him it was a literary magazine, and I explained I was poetry editor, he seemed to be hearing it for the first time.

  He barely even acknowledged it. It was as if I’d told him I was on the school wallpaper committee or something. Right away he asked me if I’d be interested in joining Drama Club.

  “You know I don’t like show business,” I said.

  “Just checking,” Dad replied. “Interests change. Anyway, you do like music, right? How about the school orchestra?”

  I told him that wasn’t a bad idea, but I was happy doing just what I’m doing now.

  His face got really serious. He said I needed to think about college. According to him, “the top-drawer schools” want more than excellent grades. They want interesting, involved kids with lots of extracurriculars.

  “You have to work up to your best ability,” he said. “Because you’ll be competing shoulder-to-shoulder with other kids who are. And now that you’re in high school, it’s a good time to start.”

  I reminded him I was not in high school. Just in the high-school building.

  “I don’t want to split hairs,” Dad said. “Most eighth-graders are already putting their five-year plans in order.”

  Five-year plan?

  I never heard of such a thing. But Dad knows all about it. He had one.

  When Dad was my age, he was already making films. Which was one of the reasons he got into UCLA. Which put him on the road to future success. He’s told me that a hundred times.

  Well, I’m not going into filmmaking, that’s for sure. No matter how much he tries to convince me. Someday I want to say to him, “Look what I’ve done.”

  Maybe I’ll head up a magazine someday. Or establish my own. Or publish a book of poems. Or be a veterinarian. Who knows?

  Dad is right about one thing. I’ll need to go to a great college. But for my reasons. To follow my road to success, using my talents.

  If I need extra activities to do that, fine. I’ll join some.

  Tomorrow I can talk to Mr. Pearson about orchestra.

  Thursday morning, 11/13

  Too early

  Chains

  Prison Confine

  Capture.

  Chamber Skin Shell

  Tough. But breakable. Thin/hard

  It’s lonely in here

  But it’s lonely outside

  Get me out of this shell

  No, I don’t wanna hide

  Wanna fly!!!

  Wanna feel the air beneath my wings

  Wanna taste the air

  But I’m locked up in here

  In this shell that I’m in

  My home, my mind, my body

  Me, myself, and I.

  or something like that.

  I have to go to school.

  to be continued

  Thursday

  lunchtime

  Got to write fast. Get my thoughts down before lunch chat starts. Dawn’s in line, which means she’ll be sitting here any minute.

  Talked to Mr. Pearson in the orchestra room before homeroom. Told him I wanted to join the orchestra.

  His reaction? He danced.

  “Hallelujah, a volunteer!” he said. Then he asked what instrument I play.

  “Piano,” I said.

  Droop went his smile. He explained the piano is more of a solo instrument. Used in concertos and chamber music, which the school orchestra doesn’t play.

  I sort of knew that, but I hadn’t thought it through. I felt like such a fool.

  Then he asked if I play anything else, so I told him guitar.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Not in the orchestra either. But we do have a spot for a sousaphone player.”

  That sounded cool. I asked what that looked like.

  He pointed to a tuba.

  Thanks but no thanks.

  In the hallway after first period I saw Mr. Schildkraut, who runs the school newspaper. I figured, why not? As long as I’m not going to be in orchestra.

  But he said editorial positions are filled.

  He suggested submitting an article. Maybe I’ll do that. If I can think of a topic.

  I’ll ask Dawn what she thinks.

  More later.

  Thursday

  study hall

  Done with math homework. Now I can write in this until I have to go to English.

  Okay. I must write about what happened at lunch.

  We did not get off to a good start. When I told Dawn about my meeting with Mr. Pearson, she suggested I learn the flügelhorn. (Frankly, I think she just likes the sound of the name.)

  Soon Sunny sat with us, looking very distracted (and VERY tan). Her suggestion?

  “Join the chorus!”

  I nearly burst out laughing. I sound like a sick moose when I sing.

  Sunny just shrugged and said, “So? The guys in the bass section are cute. That’s all that really matters.”

  Dawn told me I have a great voice. She pointed out that I’m always going around singing.

  “Yeah, with people who won’t laugh at me,” I replied, “like you. Besides, the only songs I like are rock. Pop. R&B. The chorus is so…formal.”

  “So’s the stuff you play on piano,” Sunny remarked.

  “That’s different,” I said. “I’m used to it. Mrs. Knudsen’s been teaching me that music since I was five.”

  Then Sunny suggested I volunteer to play piano for the school musical.

  Dawn shook her head. “We’d have to assassinate Mrs. Dunlap. She’s been playing for the musicals since my dad was a student here.”

  Dawn kept on trying to think of ideas—French Club, Astronomy Club, cheerleading squad. Sunny, however, started making fun of me. Telling me I should take up surfing. Intermediate coed lip wrestling. Typical juvenile sense of humor.

  When I asked her to be serious, she called me a nerd.

  I a
lmost lost my temper. But I didn’t want to cause a scene so I just stayed silent. She kept talking about the book she’s reading—On the Road. It’s like her bible. (I wonder if surf-boy Carson introduced her to that.)

  On the way out of the cafeteria, Sunny began twanging air guitar and singing “R E S P E C T.” (She knows I love Aretha.)

  Then Dawn began singing along too. Both of them put their arms around my shoulders, sandwiching me.

  “Come on, Maggie, sing!” Sunny said.

  I was way too embarrassed. I shook my head.

  But the halls were pretty crowded. No one was even looking at Dawn and Sunny.

  They were getting to the best part of the song. And I was dying to join in. So I did. Softly.

  But you can’t really sing “R E S P E C T” softly. You kind of have to let it all out at the end.

  Well, when we reached the loudest part, we were under that dome-shaped area in the ceiling. Our voices sounded incredibly loud there. I could not believe it. It must have been a natural echo or something.

  Anyway, it was really embarrassing, so we stopped. But now people were staring at us.

  One of them was Amalia Vargas. She started applauding.

  “Aretha!” she called out.

  “You like her?” Sunny asked.

  Amalia nodded. “You sound great.”

  Well, I figured she was talking about all of us. So I just nodded.

  But Dawn said, “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell her.”

  “Did you ever sing in a band?” Amalia asked.

  That was when I realized Amalia was looking straight at me.

  I nearly burst out laughing.

  “Seriously,” Amalia said. “You’re good.”

  Well, I barely know Amalia. I thought maybe she had some weird sense of humor. Or she was musically challenged.

  But Dawn and Sunny were agreeing with her. And I was convinced they all were crazy.

  Amalia started talking excitedly about some upcoming Battle of the Bands. It’s going to be at this coffeehouse called Backstreet. She said she’s “more or less going out” with a guy, James, who’s in one of the competing bands, called Vanish.