Dear Dumb Diary #11: Okay, So Maybe I Do Have Superpowers Read online

  OKAY, SO MAYBE I DO

  HAVE SUPERPOWERS

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  From New York Times bestselling author Jim Benton

  OKAY, SO MAYBE I DO

  HAVE SUPERPOWERS

  THINK YOU CAN HANDLE

  JAMIE KELLY’S FIRST YEAR OF DIARIES?

  #1 LET’S PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED

  #2 MY PANTS ARE HAUNTED!

  #3 AM I THE PRINCESS OR THE FROG?

  #4 NEVER DO ANYTHING, EVER

  #5 CAN ADULTS BECOME HUMAN?

  #6 THE PROBLEM WITH HERE IS THAT IT'S WHERE I'M FROM

  #7 NEVER UNDERESTIMATE YOUR DUMBNESS

  #8 IT’S NOT MY FAULT I KNOW EVERYTHING

  #9 THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS AREN'T FOR

  #10 THE WORST THINGS IN LIFE ARE ALSO FREE

  #11 OKAY, SO MAYBE I DO HAVE SUPERPOWERS

  #12 ME! (JUST LIKE YOU, ONLY BETTER)

  AND DON’T MISS YEAR TWO!

  YEAR TWO #1: SCHOOL. HASN’T THIS GONE ON LONG ENOUGH?

  YEAR TWO #2: THE SUPER-NICE ARE SUPER-ANNOYING

  YEAR TWO #3: NOBODY'S PERFECT. I'M AS CLOSE AS IT GETS.

  YEAR TWO #4: WHAT I DON’T KNOW MIGHT HURT ME

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  DIARY,

  OKAY, SO MAYBE I DO

  HAVE SUPERPOWERS

  SCHOLASTIC INC.

  Jim Benton’s Tales from Mackerel Middle School

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

  Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored

  in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in

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  publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc.,

  Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-65523-1

  Copyright © 2009 by Jim Benton

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.

  SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks

  and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  DEAR DUMB DIARY is a registered trademark of Jim Benton.

  First printing, January 2011

  No actual clowns were harmed in

  the making of this diary. Much.

  Superhuman thanks to Kristen LeClerc

  and my Scholastic partners in crime:

  Steve Scott, Elizabeth Krych, Susan Jeffers,

  Anna Bloom,and Shannon Penney.

  Dear Whoever Is Reading My Dumb Diary,

  I command you to stop reading it NOW.

  I am just an average, mild- mannered citizen

  of this fair city, and there is no reason for

  you to suspect that I am secretly keeping

  something about myself a secret.

  If you are my parents, I know that I am

  not allowed to call people names or point

  out their weaknesses or stuff like that. But

  I am allowed to write it. And, if you accuse

  me of doing anything that I’ve written in

  this diary, I will know that you read it,

  which I do not give you permission to do.

  (Although perhaps you used mutated

  mental powers to read my mind. If

  so, you’re just going to have to knock that

  off, too.)

  All other criminals, villains, misfits, and

  mutants be warned, for I am watching

  your every move — except gross, private,

  behind- closed- doors things — and will

  bring down a terrible justice upon you if

  you violate the sanctity of my diary.

  If you could see me now, you would be

  really threatened by how massively I am

  flexing.

  Signed,

  P.S. Also, even if you aren’t a villain or

  criminal, I’m still watching, so set down the

  diary and walk away. Still flexing here,

  so watch it.

  Sunday 01

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  If somebody ever asks you to kick her in the

  face, the first thing she will do is forget that she

  asked you to do it.

  Isabella was over today, and we were working

  on my hair. I cut my hair really short over the

  summer and thought that it might grow back

  beautiful and luxurious because that’s what

  would have happened in a fairy tale, and I believe

  that sooner or later I’m entitled to a fairy tale.

  But it grew in thicker. SO thick, in fact, that I

  think that maybe each of my hair holes now has two

  hairs crowding out through the space that used to

  have only one.

  Angeline also cut her hair really short, and

  of course hers DID grow back silkier and more

  spectacular, but I sort of expected that. I’m

  almost surprised that money didn’t grow out of her

  head as well.

  We actually had some fun with Angeline over

  the summer: going to an amusement park, going

  to the zoo, sitting quietly and listening to her hair

  grow. ( You really can hear it. Her nails, too.)

  At some point during the summer, I started to

  think that it was wrong of me to hate Angeline

  because of how she looked. And smelled. And

  laughed. And smiled. And blinked. And sat.

  When I finally saw past the gorgeousness, when

  I peered deep into the essence of Angeline, when I

  tried not to see the cascading waterfall of

  glimmering blond satin spilling over her shoulders

  and puddling in the hearts of every boy nearby, I

  saw a person who was kind, and generous, and

  honest, and good. And I realized that I shouldn’t

  hate her for her looks.

  There’s just so, so, so much more to

  hate her for.

  And yet, I really don’t think I do hate her

  anymore. While it’s true that she won the looks

  lottery, and the personality lottery, and the

  soul lottery, and all of the other lotteries, none

  of that is really her fault.

  So, if anything, I suppose I should pity

  Angeline for being born so hatable.

  I know, Dumb Diary. It’s hard to understand

  how excellent that makes me — to not hate

  somebody who seems to be asking for it — but let

  me clear it up for you: It makes me PURE

  excellent. As excellent as an angel with the power to

  shoot frosting out her eyes.

  Now, back to my foot and the relationship it

  recently had with Isabella’s face.

  We were watching one of those super- stupid

  superhero movies after we gave up on my hair

  (there’s really nothing to be done), and I noticed

  that there was a lot of face kicking — like, more

  than you normally see in a day. So, I commented on

  how fake it was. I mean: You don’
t have to kick a

  person’s face — if somebody just stepped on your

  face a couple times, you’d go into total meltdown.

  (I know what I’m talking about: In fourth grade,

  Isabella saw an ant on my cheek while I was lying on

  the couch.)

  Isabella said that getting kicked in the face

  isn’t that big of a deal and that I could kick her in

  the face just to prove it, and I said no way I would

  never do that and then I kicked her in the face

  anyway, because I guess I changed my mind

  really quick.

  Minds are so silly.

  Isabella stayed on the floor for about five

  minutes saying things that probably could only be

  understood by others recently kicked in the face. I

  explained what happened and helped her up. In her

  daze, she didn’t believe that she had asked me to

  kick her, but mostly she didn’t believe that I had

  done it.

  Fortunately, I’ve watched a lot of crime

  shows and so provided a smear of her lip balm on

  the bottom of my sock as evidence. (Also, I pointed

  out that her glasses were on top of the bookshelf.)

  Isabella was having a hard time with this,

  because her mean older brothers have made her

  into a good fighter. She couldn’t accept that a

  “huge, girly, sissy girl” like me could ever

  land a kick on her.

  Later on, as I was wiping her saliva off a wall,

  I apologized, but Isabella still seemed a little

  dazed. I feel bad now, but I think I proved my point

  about how dumb superhero movies are — and in

  particular, how much more significant face-

  kickery actually is than it seems in movies.

  Monday 02

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  So they’re still making me do science even

  though I have been helpfully pointing out for years

  that nobody really needs it.

  Seriously, the scientists we already have

  seem to have it under control. I can’t imagine

  them wanting me to walk into the lab and start

  fiddling around with some big bowl of electrons

  they had out.

  Wouldn’t it be simpler just to tell the

  scientists what we want them to discover, and leave

  it to them to figure it out? We don’t have to invent

  food when we go to restaurants; we just tell

  waitresses what we want and they bring it. Seems

  like this should work for science as well.

  Besides, scientists already have their lab

  coats and accessories and everything.

  My new science teacher, Mrs. Maple — who is

  always in a bad mood and likes to wear sandals so

  that we may observe that her third toes are, like,

  two inches longer than her big toes and are,

  therefore, medically considered to be fingers —

  doesn’t see it this way, of course. She is making me

  do science anyway. Right now we’re studying ants,

  which might sound boring, but let me assure you,

  it’s really a lot less interesting than boring.

  It turns out that ants have all kinds of

  complex and highly sophisticated features

  that have developed over millions and millions of

  years but can’t keep them from getting stepped on

  by a five- year-old, in spite of the fact that

  everybody who sees a five-year-old studying an ant

  knows what’s coming next.

  It’s kind of amazing that nobody in Antworld

  ever predicted the trouble that a size-two shoe was

  going to present. Seems like maybe it’s the ants

  that need some scientists.

  It was during the most fascinating part of the

  lesson about ants that Isabella woke me up with

  a nudge between my shoulder blades.

  She whispered, “You could never kick me in

  the face like that again.”

  Isabella must have been thinking about this

  all night. After many years, I know that whenever

  Isabella thinks about something too long, there’s

  going to be trouble. (Though if she doesn’t think

  about something long enough, it can go badly, too.)

  I blatantly tried to change the subject by saying,

  “The Fun Fair is coming.”

  The stupidly named Fun Fair is a big fund-

  raiser for our school. They set up games where you

  can win prizes and there’s a big auction of stuff

  that people donate.

  Isabella loves the Fun Fair because a lot of

  the games involve throwing things at other things,

  which is one of the Destructive Arts, and

  Isabella is an expert in them all. The Destructive

  Arts are exactly like Martial Arts, except they don’t

  have uniforms or usefulness and the end result

  doesn’t resemble art in any way.

  Of course, we are too sophisticated to

  officially enjoy the Fun Fair. But I’ve learned that

  as long as you keep laughing at how dumb

  something is, you can secretly enjoy it without

  risking your cool.

  When she noticed us whispering, Mrs. Maple

  gave me a mean look that I knew was meant to say,

  Be quiet or I’ll walk over there with my elongated

  toes and maybe one of them will brush up against

  you and how would you like that?

  She may not have meant to mention her

  elongated toes in this look, but if somebody has

  mutated third toes that are two inches longer than

  their big toes, that threat is always implied.

  Always.

  After class, Isabella was talking to Angeline

  about the Fun Fair, and how last year I made

  them stop doing the game where you pop balloons

  with darts.

  I hadn’t really meant to make them stop. It’s

  just that I got a little wild with a toss and it landed

  in Beepo’s nose.

  I had to point out — for her information —

  that this is actually precisely why clowns wear

  those protective fake noses. And by the way, they’re

  stronger than you think: They can pretty much very

  nearly almost stop a dart. Plus, they shouldn’t even

  have clowns at these things anyway, because they

  make some people a little uncomfortable since they

  are demons.

  The two of them were cackling pretty hard,

  and Angeline said that she was sure that I couldn’t

  be THAT bad at those fair games.

  This made Isabella laugh harder and explain

  that I was so rattled by the clown’s screams that my

  second dart — which I really think would have

  missed Beepo if he hadn’t flinched so bad — stuck

  in his palm when he put up his large, comical gloves

  to protect his face.

  Angeline correctly pointed out that these

  were just two accidents that could have happened

  to anybody, and the clown really wasn’t hurt due to

  his protective clown attire. Isabella agreed but

  gasped, between howls of laughter, “Jamie had

  three darts.”

  I don’t want to talk about the third dart.

  While it’s true that Dart Number Three is

  probably the main re
ason they banned the game at

  our school and most schools in the state, and why

  the hospital actually has an official procedure now

  called the Third Dartectomy, I feel that I’m

  much better at those games now. (I’ve heard Beepo

  feels much better now, too.)

  Angeline said that she was sure I was every

  bit as good as Isabella at the games, and Isabella’s

  eyes flashed first with a terrible anger, and then

  with an immeasurable joy.

  “Okay, we’ll have a contest at the Fun Fair,

  Jamie. You and I will play the bottle- toss game.

  And whoever loses,” Isabella said slowly as she

  tried to concoct a suitable penalty, “has to take

  a one- minute inhale of the inside of Mike Pinsetti’s

  locker.”

  “No,” Angeline whispered deviously. “Loser

  has to kiss him.”

  This caused a stomachache to ripple through

  all three of us, and possibly through all females in

  the universe. Honestly, when she drops him off at

  school, even Pinsetti’s mom just shakes his hand.

  I knew that anything that involved kissing

  Pinsetti had BAD IDEA written all over it. And it

  was written in pimple medicine.

  “Deal,” Isabella said.

  “Deal,” Angeline said.

  “Wait!” I said.

  But nobody waited, and I guess I made

  a deal.

  Tuesday 03

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept thinking

  about how, in just a few weeks, I will probably be

  boiling my lips. That is the only way to remove the

  Pinsetti stain that’s going to be left there.

  At school, I pointed out to Isabella that

  Angeline made this deal for the both of us, but

  that Angeline is the only one with nothing to lose.

  “I don’t have anything to lose, either,”

  Isabella said. “Because I’m going to win.”

  I asked her to please please please

  let me out of the deal, but she said no. I told her

  it wasn’t fair because my arm still hurt where Fat