Diary Two Read online

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. It startled me, but I realized it was my father before I screamed. I know he overheard me talking to Gracie, but I don’t care.

  “She’s so tiny, Dad,” I said.

  He sighed. “She’s a big responsibility. I can’t sleep. I keep waking up to check on her.” He reached into his bathrobe pocket and took out a framed picture. “I had this made up for you,” he said. “So you’d have it for Stoneybrook.”

  He held the picture near the night-light so I could see it better. It was a photo Dad had taken of me holding Gracie the day she came home from the hospital. In it Gracie has on the “I’m here!” T-shirt.

  I smiled up at my father. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I love that photo,” he said. “My two girls. I framed a copy of it for my office desk too. And I framed a picture for Jeff, one of him standing with Gracie in front of the Michael Jordan poster.” He handed me an envelope. “Here are copies of the rest of the pictures from the roll. I figured you would want to show them to your mother and the rest of your Stoneybrook family and friends.”

  “That’s perfect, Dad,” I told him.

  And it was.

  I said good night to my father, kissed my sister, and went back to my room. I’ll miss my West Coast room and my house. But I’m beginning to think about my other room—the one on the East Coast. I like that room too.

  And I have a mother in Stoneybrook. I realize I’ve missed her a lot lately. It’ll be so wonderful to wake up in the morning and know my mother is in the same house. I also remember that I have good friends in Stoneybrook. And another sister. And a stepfather whom I’ve come to like a lot. We have a great time together.

  I’m starting to look forward to tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. It’s summertime. Time for fun.

  Everything will be here when I come back.

  Maybe in the fall Maggie and I can become better friends. I’ll try even harder to understand her. I also want to become better friends with Amalia and Ducky.

  The hardest person to leave is Sunny. I can see her house from my window. I remember the summer we’d sit near our windows and talk with walkie-talkies. That seems so long ago.

  Where is that Sunny? Where is our old friendship?

  Have I changed too?

  I feel an ache in my heart whenever I think of Sunny. We didn’t outgrow one another, the way you do some friends and certain childhood things like your training wheels, or certain clothes, or playing with dolls. I didn’t outgrow Sunny, I lost her and I shouldn’t have. Something went terribly wrong with our friendship. And it should not have happe

  I thought I just saw Sunny at her window. I waved. I waited to see if the curtains would part and her window fly open. I held my breath. Maybe this was it. Maybe I’d go over to her house and we’d talk through the night until it was time for my flight tomorrow. Maybe she’d even ride out to the airport with me. Please, Sunny, I thought. Please wave back.

  I waved again. Nothing.

  Maybe she wasn’t even there.

  I could telephone her. And say what? “Good-bye.” And then what?

  Why doesn’t Sunny call me? She knows I’m going away tomorrow.

  Maybe one night of talking isn’t enough to fix what has gone wrong between us.

  For the first time in my life I’m going away without saying good-bye to Sunny. I wish with all my heart it wasn’t so.

  But it is.

  Sunny: Diary Two

  California Diaries

  Ann M. Martin

  The author gratefully acknowledges

  Peter Lerangis

  for his help in

  preparing this manuscript.

  Contents

  Friday 3/13

  Saturday 3/14

  Sunday 3/15

  Monday 3/16

  Tuesday 3/17

  Wednesday 3/18

  Thursday 3/19

  Friday 3/20

  Saturday 3/21

  Monday 3/23

  Tuesday 3/24

  Wednesday 3/25

  Thursday 3/26

  Friday 3/27

  Saturday 3/28

  Sunday 3/29

  Monday 3/30

  Tuesday 3/31

  Wednesday 4/1

  Thursday 4/2

  Friday 4/3

  Saturday 4/4

  Sunday 4/5

  Monday 4/6

  Thursday 4/9

  Friday 3/13

  6:00 P.M.

  Just got back from visiting Mom at the hospital.

  God, I am tired of writing that.

  I know. I’ll write it a hundred times.

  Then I can cut and paste. Save some energy.

  Just got back from visiting Mom at the hospital.

  Just got back from

  No. I’ll have a stamp made. Much easier.

  Never mind.

  I’m not in the mood to write.

  Saturday 3/14

  4:04 A.M.

  Mom just called.

  She asked me if I could bring her the Palo City Post.

  At

  4

  In

  The

  Morning.

  I told her, uh, we don’t get it for another two hours.

  She kind of freaked. She apologized about a hundred times. She said she must be losing her mind. She thought it was already tonight.

  I had to calm her down. I told her the phone did not wake anyone but me—which is a lie, because I hear someone walking around in the kitchen. I also said she couldn’t be losing her mind. If she were, she wouldn’t have remembered I was staying at Dawn’s house.

  That didn’t convince her.

  Doesn’t convince me either.

  Mom is slipping.

  I mean, the hair loss and weight loss were bad enough. But we expected that.

  Not the mind, though. Lung cancer isn’t supposed to affect the brain.

  I don’t understand this. All the hospital visits, all the chemo and radiation—they’re all supposed to help. But they’re not. She’s just getting worse and worse. Plus she’s exhausted from all the trips to the hospital.

  Face it. Winslow.

  Read between the lines.

  Dr. Merwin has stopped talking about “good signs.”

  There are no good signs.

  She’s not going to get better.

  So what’s the point? Dad should just take her away from that horrible place, bring her back home where she’ll be comfortable. Take care of her.

  In sickness and in health. Isn’t that what they say at weddings?

  Dad wouldn’t remember. He only remembers sales figures. Everything’s the store, the store, the store. What’s he going to do when the store is all he has?

  Till death do us part. That’s the other thing they say.

  The truth is, Mom would be better off dying at home.

  There.

  I said it.

  And I’m not sorry.

  Why do I do this to myself?

  I am staying at Dawn’s to escape. I’m not supposed to get all worked up.

  Why do I bother writing in this thing? This doesn’t help my insomnia!

  I am crazy, that’s why. I not only have a miserable, depressing life, but I write about it. Just to make myself feel worse.

  And what’s Dawn doing? Snoring. Dreaming about happy Dawn stuff, probably. A perfect world, with lots of flowers but no allergies. Animals roaming freely on the streets. People giving up their cars, riding bikes to work, picking berries and vegetables for lunch. Peace on earth. Whatever.

  I love her.

  I really do.

  Dawn, if you find this and are peeking at this page, that paragraph was a joke. I love you!

  She is my best friend. She lets me stay at her house. If I couldn’t do that, if I had to be home every day, I’d be a nutcase.

  I have to be kind to her.

  Even if she snores.

  I have nudged her a few times. That shuts her up for, oh, 30 seconds. The
n she starts up, louder than ever.

  I can’t stay in this room.

  I know what I have to do.

  Eat.

  4:32

  Bad bad bad idea.

  I think I have permanently lost my appetite.

  Carol was puttering around in the kitchen. Well, maybe not puttering. With that big old pregnant belly, it was more like lumbering.

  I was relived. Any other grown-up would have yelled at me for being up so late. But Carol was … Carol. 32 going on 15. “Insomnia too?” she said. “Cool, let’s have a midnight snack.”

  Which sounded great. I mean, if I had to have company while I was awake, it might as well be someone I like.

  So Carol began chatting away about her pregnancy and her crazy appetite, and about how she had to “eat for two” now.

  I politely went along. I took a plastic container of leftover Chinese food out of the fridge. I put it on the table, ready to inhale it.

  And then I saw what Carol was eating.

  Tuna fish.

  And chocolate.

  Together.

  She was standing there, blabbering away, with strands of stringy brown glop stuck between her teeth.

  Back into the fridge went the Chinese food. And here I am again. In bed, listening to Dawn’s snores.

  At least I’m not hungry.

  Now I can’t eat or sleep.

  Oh, well. I’ll just stay awake. I’ll fill up this journal. I’ll fill 2 journals. Ms. Newell will be so impressed. Maybe I’ll even pass English.

  I can publish it. The Incredible Revolting Life of Sunshine Daydream Winslow, A Memoir.

  Oh. I forgot. We have to keep these journals private. No one is ever supposed to see them. That’s part of the vista school experience.

  So what happens if you show them to someone? You flunk?

  I think Chris has the right idea. Just fill your pages with random words. “Peas carrots rabbits pigs oink thunder and lightning,” stuff like that. Why knock yourself out if the teachers aren’t going to read it?

  Chris is so funny. Cute and funny.

  Chris.

  I like writing his name.

  Chris.

  I’m feeling better already.

  Chris?

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  What am I going to do when he comes over tomorrow night? Not tomorrow—tonight! I’ll have bags under my eyes. I’ll be staggering with fatigue. I’ll look like Mom.

  How ironic. Maybe I should say I have cancer. That’s a good excuse.

  Hey, it works for Mom.

  I didn’t write that.

  I did write that.

  I disgust myself.

  Saturday

  9:46 A.M.

  I did it.

  I actually slept.

  I think.

  It felt like sleep, anyway. A sort of wakey kind of sleep. Full of nightmares.

  Whatever it was, it’s over.

  Dad just called.

  Nothing like a few words from Paul Winslow to get the morning off to a bad start.

  First he reminded me that I have my own bed at my own house, and maybe I should spend a few nights at home instead of sponging off Dawn’s dad and stepmom.

  Well, he didn’t actually say “sponging,” but that’s what he meant.

  Then he dropped the big news: he was shorthanded at the store.

  I should have told him to grow another hand. I should have told him something. But I didn’t. My brain was fried from lack of sleep.

  So guess where I have to go now?

  To Winslow Books. To work.

  For free.

  With the boss from hell.

  Dear old Dad.

  Saturday

  12:25 P.M.

  Lunch break.

  A sleep break would be better. Fat chance for that.

  I am huddled in the corner of Winslow Books. Earth sciences to the left. Engineering to the right.

  No one will bother me here. I hope.

  So. Guess why I have to work on a Saturday when I have a big date coming up and I couldn’t sleep the night before? Because one of Dad’s clerks quit. Again. This guy didn’t even give notice. He just called up and said he wasn’t coming in anymore.

  Needless to say. Dad is on the warpath.

  Dad is always on the warpath about something.

  Maybe if he got off it, his clerks wouldn’t quit all the time.

  You know what I wish?

  I wish that Dad and Mom could change places. Just for a day.

  That sounds awful.

  No. I don’t want Dad to have lung cancer.

  I just want him to feel what real problems are like.

  Saturday

  6:14 P.M.

  Why can’t he leave me alone?

  I was minding my own business. I was shelving books, exactly what he asked me to do.

  Did I know I wasn’t supposed to be listening to my radio? Did I know one of the customers was offended? Would I have done it if I did know?

  He had no right to blow up at me in front of the whole store!

  He’s lucky I slave for him. He’s lucky he has me.

  I don’t deserve this treatment.

  I don’t deserve this life.

  I should have run away from home when I had the chance.

  I blew it with Carson that time at Venice Beach. I never should have told him I was 13. I should have lied and said 16. That’s only a year younger than him. He would have believed me, I know it. He would have let me travel across the country with him. We’d probably be in some cool place by now, like the Rockies or New York City.

  But no. He had to leave me all alone.

  Jerk.

  Well, I’m a jerk, too. I could have run away on my own. Hopped a bus. Hitched a ride. Something.

  But I didn’t. I came crying home. And now I’m paying for it.

  Let’s see what Chris is like. Hey, I can always run away with him.

  If he ever gets here.

  10:02 P.M.

  Maybe it’s destiny. Maybe this was just meant to be the worst date of my entire life.

  It started out fine. Chris looked so cool when he picked me up. All excited and happy. “You ready?” was the first thing he said.

  “Ready for anything,” I replied.

  He drove through the streets with the convertible top down. We were shouting at the pedestrians. Having a great time.

  I was hoping for the beach. I would have settled for less, though. A movie. Dinner out. The arcade. A walk in Las Palmas County Park. Even just the parking lot. Something fun.

  Then he looked at his watch and said, “Whoa, the game starts in five minutes,” and I figured, okay, we’re going to the baseball park.

  But no.

  He drove to his house. And I had to run after him as he rushed inside. Why?

  To catch the basketball game between the Chicago Bulls and the Los Angeles Lakers.

  On TV!

  That was our date—sitting with his Dad and some stale chips and salsa in front of the tube.

  He said he’d already warned me about it. (He’s lying.) He insisted it’s the biggest game of the year. He acted like I was supposed to thank him.

  So what could I do? I was trapped.

  His parents were really nice to me. They gave me lots of snacks and drinks. And Chris kept trying to explain the rules of the game.

  But after awhile everyone was ignoring me. They were too busy shouting at the screen and getting mad because the Bulls were killing the Lakers.

  So I did the only thing that made sense.

  I cheered for the Bulls.

  Why not? They were winning. Besides, their team is much better looking. So are their uniform colors.

  I was only trying to liven things up.

  Chris didn’t have to get so furious at me.

  Frankly, I don’t care anymore.

  Chris is history.

  Sunday 3/15

  Early

/>   I slept.

  End of good news.

  The bad news?

  While I was with what’s-his-name last night, I was supposed to be visiting Mom at the hospital.

  She called Dawn’s house, trying to reach me.

  Dawn felt sorry for Mom, so she went to visit. In my place.

  That is so Dawn.

  I guess she meant well. But I feel weird. I mean, how does that look to Mom—her own daughter forgets, but her daughter’s best friend shows up?

  Dawn looked kind of annoyed when she told me this. Everything I do these days seems to annoy her.

  Guess it’s tough being perfect.

  I was in no mood to be scolded. So the moment Dawn started in, I walked away.

  “You’re welcome,” she called out.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I mean, thanks.”

  Who needed this? I said good-bye and made a really dumb decision—I decided to leave and have breakfast at home.

  I mean, what did I think—Dad wouldn’t know about my missed visit?

  “Have fun last night?” he asked as I walked into the house.

  “I know, I forgot,” I said.

  “I reminded you a thousand times yesterday!”

  Which could be true. He probably yelled it at the top of his lungs, in the middle of the store in front of everybody. Along with a million other things I tuned out.

  I told him to chill, I mean, what is the big deal? Mom probably didn’t notice. She’s in a lot of pain. Visitors make her tired. Maybe Dawn’s visit was a burden.

  Could Dad understand that concept? Nope. I had to stand there and listen to all the ways I was a rotten, irresponsible person.

  Again.

  I guess the opinion is unanimous.

  School. Home. Work. Dawn’s house.

  Fine.

  I don’t need any of them.

  Which is the main reason I am at the bus station right now.

  Maybe I’ll go to the beach.

  No. Better idea. I’ll go to Ducky’s. And he can drive me to the beach.

  Misery loves company.

  Sunday

  4:13 P.M.

  I did it!

  I found him!