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

  On the way home, the car was pretty quiet. Justin didn’t put on a tape or the radio. I think we were music-ed out.

  I had the weirdest feeling. Kind of empty and achy and sad.

  I’m not sure why.

  Dad’s home. Just heard him come in the front door.

  I didn’t realize he was out. I thought he was home sleeping.

  Midnight on a Saturday? This film must be in big trouble.

  More tomorrow.

  technically Sunday 11/16

  1:15 A.M.

  I didn’t shut my light in time.

  Dad came stomping upstairs, demanding to know why I was still awake. Then he demanded to know what time I came home. Then he demanded to know where I’d been—even though I’d already told him.

  When I reminded him, he blew up.

  “You were out till midnight listening to a garage band?” he said.

  I could have gone to “a great Philharmonic concert.” He could have gotten me tickets to a touring company of a Broadway show. Or I could have used the time practicing piano.

  What I want to know is, Why didn’t he bring this up when I first asked?

  He is totally irrational. I cannot wait for the premiere, so he’ll become normal again.

  Sunday 11/16

  11:32 A.M.

  Had a dream last night. I was in the army, returning to Palo City during wartime. I hadn’t even served, but everyone was greeting me as if I were some great hero—parades and awards, commemorative statues, everything—just like the guy in Hail the Conquering Hero. In my dream, Justin had stayed home from the war for some reason. We were in love, and he found out about my lie. But he didn’t mind a bit. We were about to kiss when I woke up.

  I must admit, this means something.

  This is not healthy. Unrequited love is bad for the soul. Everyone knows that. I have to get over it somehow.

  Thank goodness Amalia called this morning. I blurted out all my complaints about Dad. She added a few choice ones about her dad. We were howling with laughter after a few minutes.

  Then we talked about last night’s rehearsal. I mentioned how strange I felt in the car.

  Amalia’s first reaction was, “You really like him, huh?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Justin. Who else?”

  Just like that. I hadn’t even given the slightest opinion of him.

  “Was I that obvious?” I said.

  Amalia laughed. “I don’t think so. I just know you, that’s all.”

  “But we haven’t been friends that long.”

  “I know. It feels as if we have, though. Isn’t that weird?”

  It is weird. But a good kind of weird. I feel as if Amalia is some kind of long-lost sister. She’s so open and smart. The kind of person I can talk to about anything.

  So I tried to explain how I felt about Justin. It wasn’t easy. Mainly because I’m not totally sure myself.

  When I asked her what I should do, she sighed deeply. It turned out that she feels just as confused about James. They hang together at school and sometimes go out, but they’ve never kissed or anything. “The right occasion just hasn’t happened,” she said. “Besides, I keep thinking he might like Patti.”

  I knew what that felt like.

  We decided boys are a total mystery and not worth it.

  Maybe.

  Next topic: Vanish auditions. Amalia said the group wanted to have them on Thursday. James had decided he would teach each auditioner two songs: “Hook Shot” and “Fallen Angel.”

  “Maybe not ‘Fallen Angel,’” I said. “We want the auditioners to like the music.”

  Amalia laughed. “I know what you mean. So why don’t you rewrite it?”

  “No way,” I replied. “I don’t want to insult them.”

  “They’d fall on their knees and kiss your feet,” Amalia replied, “if they knew what was good for them.”

  She is so flattering.

  After we hung up, I prepared a flyer. Simple and direct. It looks like this:

  !! FEMALE BACKUP SINGER NEEDED !!

  FOR PALO CITY’S

  NUMBER-ONE ROCK BAND

  VANISH

  MUST SING POP, R&B, ROCK

  AUDITION ON THURSDAY NOVEMBER 20—7 PM

  RICO CHAVEZ’S GARAGE

  1371 PALOMITO AVE.

  On neon-colored paper, it’ll look great.

  Sunday afternoon

  FALLEN ANGEL—new lyrics

  Respectfully suggested by Maggie Blume

  Down to earth,

  Feet on the ground,

  I look straight ahead

  Don’t turn around.

  In all I do,

  I’m here for you.

  I’m your Fallen Angel.

  Stretch my arms,

  Reach to the sky,

  My wings are broken

  But I need to fly.

  Look at me,

  I’m not what you see,

  I’m a Fallen Angel.

  Fly high

  Where the eagle sings

  Fly high

  Fix these broken wings

  A breath of wind

  A whisper of sound

  I rise through the mist

  With my feet off the ground

  Won’t you come with me?

  ’Cause I don’t want to be

  A Fallen Angel

  A Fallen Angel.

  © Maggie Blume

  Sunday 11/16

  8:07 P.M.

  I can’t show this to James.

  It wouldn’t be right. It would be like saying, I’m better than you.

  But I do like it a lot more than his version.

  Oh, well. I can always give it a different title and print it in Inner Vistas. I am the poetry editor, after all.

  Monday 11/17

  9:05 P.M.

  I’m fastening my seat belt.

  The teachers are piling on the work. They see the end of the marking period coming, and they realize they haven’t gone as fast as they were supposed to.

  So we students have to suffer.

  Just what I need.

  Couldn’t write in this journal at all today. Too much work. Can’t write much now either. Math and English exams tomorrow.

  So just a quick recap for now.

  Morning. I put up Vanish flyers all over Vista.

  Lunch. Sunny and Dawn sat by themselves in a corner. Sunny looked like she was crying. I asked Dawn about it later. She said Sunny’s been staying at the Schafers’ a lot. Sunny still feels so trapped by all the painful happenings in her life. Sometimes she wants to run away again, even though her last attempt was very scary.

  Just out of curiosity, I asked if Sunny seemed at all interested in Justin. Dawn looked at me as if I were crazy. “After what happened at Venice Beach, Sunny’s sworn off boys for awhile,” she said.

  I feel guilty for judging Sunny. I’ve got to apologize.

  After school. On the way to the Inner Vistas meeting, I saw at least a dozen kids reading the audition flyer in the front hall.

  At the meeting, I showed “Fallen Angel” to Parker Price. (I told her it was a poem.) She read it carefully, then murmured, “Verse, verse, bridge, verse. It sounds like song lyrics.”

  How did she get so smart?

  Home. Study. Practice Beethoven. Study. Play with the cats. Study.

  I am beat.

  I cannot look at one more textbook.

  But I have this idea for a poem. Just fragments and thoughts.

  For Sunny

  We held hands at the Hollywood Bowl

  As the summer sun set

  I was afraid I’d be lost

  If I let go.

  We were two, we were three,

  We were thirteen.

  And still the sun sets

  But my fingers grip air

  And I feel lost.

  Have I let go

  Or have you?

  Rise, my friend,

  Blaze, my friend.

&nb
sp; Use your light

  And find me, my friend.

  Tuesday 11/18

  5:05 P.M.

  I have flunked.

  I could not keep my eyes open during the math exam.

  I was so flustered, I went on to botch the English test. I had to race through the last two essay questions.

  I almost cried on the way home.

  Why should I even bother going to school tomorrow to get my grades? I know what they’ll be. F and F.

  The last person I wanted to see today was Mrs. Knudsen. When she showed up, I was feeling so depressed. I almost asked her to go home.

  It was my worst lesson ever. Mrs. Knudsen actually stopped me at one point and asked if I needed something to eat. “You seem a bit fragile,” was how she put it.

  Fragile was exactly the right word. I could feel myself starting to cry.

  She was looking at me so patiently. Forgivingly. As if the Beethoven didn’t matter as much as I did.

  So I told her how I was feeling. About the tests today. The tension in the house. My worries about the future. Then I blurted out, “The only thing that gives me any pleasure is my writing.”

  That was stupid. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized I was insulting her. Like I hated my lessons.

  Mrs. Knudsen was giving me this hurt look. I tried to cover up. I said I liked music too—but since I believe it is connected to writing, I hadn’t mentioned music specifically.

  Mrs. Knudsen’s face suddenly brightened. She asked if I’d been composing, and could I show her my “pieces.”

  That was when I should have shut my big mouth. “You wouldn’t like them,” I said. “They’re rock songs. I wrote one for this group that I’m thinking of joining. As a singer/songwriter.”

  I nearly melted into the piano bench. I mean, I haven’t admitted that to anybody.

  Mrs. Knudsen nodded. “When I was a little older than you, I ran away from home to sing in a big band. I was going to be the next Anita Oday or Rosemary Cloony.” [Something like that.] “I was just as good as they were. Better.”

  “Ran away? You?” I was shocked.

  “I wasn’t gone long. The band broke up and I returned home. But I never lost my love for music. It just grew in a different direction.”

  “Are you glad you did it?”

  “Well, my parents never did forgive me. I feel as though I lost their trust.” Mrs. Knudsen placed her hand gently on mine. “Think about this carefully, Maggie. Experiment, yes. That’s what youth is for. But measure the pros and cons, and don’t let yourself get in so far that it takes over your life. And definitely avoid burning your bridges. Your parents love you, even though that may be hard to see.”

  How utterly strange.

  When I try to imagine Mrs. Knudsen as a runaway band singer, I picture a white-haired lady with spectacles and a leather jacket, smoking a cigarette and riding a motorbike.

  But it’s nice to know she was a normal kid. She liked the pop music of her time. And she actually did something I’m too chicken to do myself.

  So…what if I do take her advice?

  JOINING VANISH—PROS AND CONS

  CONS:

  I would:

  1. Not have enough time for homework and Inner Vistas duties.

  2. Possibly flunk school.

  3. Be involved in something that has no impact on my future whatsoever.

  4. Totally give up on finding another extracurricular activity.

  5. Have to buy new wardrobe.

  6. Get a reputation I don’t want. (Like what’s happening to Sunny.)

  7. Lose sleep.

  8. Make Mom and Dad angry.

  PROS:

  I would:

  1. Find out if I really can sing.

  2. Find out how good my songwriting really is.

  3. Do something I want to do.

  4. Have fun.

  5. Hang out with kids I like.

  6. Possibly get to know Justin.

  7. Get out of the house more often.

  8. Make Mom and Dad angry.

  Eight to eight. Not such a big help.

  Oh, well. Maybe by Thursday night it’ll all be a moot point. Vanish will find some fantastic singer, 10 times better than me, and I’ll be off the hook.

  I have to forget about it. IN THE LONG RUN, IT IS NOT IMPORTANT.

  Tuesday night

  There’s a war. Inside.

  In the battlefield of my brain.

  Should I stand and fight?

  Or will it drive me insane?

  I’m a rebel. You don’t like it?

  Then just get out of my way.

  You tell me you’re the future.

  Well, the future’s far away.

  This is now.

  This is me.

  This is War.

  I can feel you all around me.

  All righteous. Not a doubt.

  Well, time to choose a weapon.

  ’Cause now I’m coming out.

  Raise my head above the muck.

  Take my aim, you’re out of luck.

  But I drop my gun and duck.

  ’Cause the enemy

  The face I see

  Is me.

  Wednesday 11/19

  study hall

  A 101 on my math exam.

  English, 97.

  I’m still in shock.

  I did not want to make a big deal about the grades, but Dawn asked point-blank at the lunch table. So I had to announce them in front of her, Sunny, Amalia, Marina, and Cece.

  Dawn laughed at me. She said maybe I hadn’t worried enough. If I had, I might have gotten a 101 on the English too.

  “Look, if I didn’t worry, my grades wouldn’t be so good,” I explained.

  Sunny groaned. “Yeah, your average might drop to a 97.”

  “You’d be a lot happier,” Amalia suggested.

  “I am happy,” I protested. “I just want to do well in school. Don’t you?”

  “If I had your brains, your work habits, and your talent,” Amalia said, “I wouldn’t be worried a bit.”

  “I’d be singing in two bands,” Sunny added.

  I told them all that they didn’t understand. That they should try being in my shoes.

  Amalia said that I should step out of my shoes. I should pretend to be someone else looking at me. Make it into an exercise.

  I know she meant well, but I felt picked on. So I clammed up and ate.

  But I thought and thought about it. And I tried out that exercise. Just a few minutes ago.

  Stepping out of myself is easy. In a way, I do that whenever I’m writing.

  But I don’t look at myself when I write. I look out. At the world.

  So just now I pretended that I was a fly, hiding just inside the overhead fluorescent light. And I imagined looking down.

  I scanned the room, looking at all the kids.

  But when I got to myself, I had the most horrible feeling.

  A huge inferiority complex.

  I saw the money. The nice clothes. The house and the pool. The grades.

  Then I suddenly wanted to cry. Because I could see my face. It was so tight and sad.

  And I had this image of an invisible cage around me.

  Then I started hearing my song lyrics. And that’s when I stopped the exercise.

  I was convincing myself I was one of the characters in my songs. Which is just not true.

  Those lyrics are not about me.

  I just write them. They pour out.

  They’re just songs.

  Wednesday night

  Hey

  Down There

  Who are you?

  Why do you look at me the way you do?

  Eyes

  Like leather

  Aged and tough

  Won’t let me in; they say you’ve had enough.

  Well, you write and you write, and your words just lock you in.

  And sooner or later they’ll harden like a second skin.

  Open
up.

  Unlock the gate.

  You’re young enough

  To control your fate.

  Do it now.

  Before it’s too late.

  Hey

  Down there.

  I love you.

  © Maggie Blume

  11/20

  I just looked over my list of pros and cons. I decided most of the cons are ridiculous.

  Back when Amalia asked me to sing with the band, I should have said yes.

  If I had, there would be no audition now. I would be Vanish’s official backup singer. Dad would be annoyed, but he’d get over it. I’d find time to study and edit poems.

  Now it’s too late. Tonight’s the audition. In a few hours, some future Madonna is going to show up in Rico’s garage.

  I have really, really blown it.

  Thursday

  11:31 P.M.

  Right now, I do not know how to feel.

  I am ecstatic.

  I am angry.

  I am confused.

  At dinner tonight, I could not eat a thing. Mom had ordered a fancy meal with all these heavy sauces from some French restaurant. Zeke kept making gagging noises and demanded we go out to Wendy’s. By the end of the meal, Mom was pretty disgusted with both of us.

  Normally I wouldn’t have minded eating, but all I could think about was the audition. I’d told Amalia I’d go help out, but the thought of watching all the singers was making me sick.

  This time Rico’s dad picked me up, not Justin. I was relieved. I didn’t need one more thing making me nervous.

  About 10 girls were gathered outside Rico’s garage door. They all looked perfect. Like they just stepped out of a music video. Weird hair, body jewelry, cool sunglasses, clothes never before seen on a human. As Amalia and I walked toward the garage, I felt so conspicuous in my chinos, Topsiders, polo shirt, and headband. The auditioners were all giving me these what-is-she-doing-here? looks. If they looked at me at all.

  Good old Amalia didn’t seem fazed a bit. I followed her inside and tried to absorb her attitude.

  Marina was there too. Her job was to let the girls in one by one.

  The first girl’s name was Amethyst. She was absolutely gorgeous. Her outfit was so incredibly revealing that the guys could not stop staring at her. Amalia and I were cracking up. But the moment she opened her mouth, no one was amused. She sounded like a screaming tomcat.