Dear Dumb Diary #9: That's What Friends Aren't For Read online

“your” to use instead? It probably meant that they

  could take their old-timey leotards off as well.

  15

  I’m going to show the list of books to my

  parents and let them make a suggestion. I’m

  sure they know all the classic books on the list,

  since they’re both really “classic” themselves.

  They’re always doing something classic, like

  when my mom grunts when she stands up. My dad

  is so classic that he has hair growing out of his

  classic ears.

  16

  Wednesday 04

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  HOORAY! ! In art class today, Miss

  Anderson (who is pretty enough to be a hairstylist

  but settled for teacher instead) announced the

  SCHOOL ART SHOW.

  The Art Show is a big deal at Mackerel Middle

  School —if your work is chosen, it gets framed and

  hung up, and they put up an official card with your

  name underneath it, and then they have a party

  with refreshments. They even put an ad in the paper

  to let people know about the show. The parents all

  come and look at the stuff on the walls and lie to

  you that yours is the best. Except my parents, who

  don’t lie when they tell me mine is the best.

  17

  As you know, Dumb Diary, I love to draw, and

  one of my artworks has won an award at the Art

  Show every year since I first entered way back in

  second grade.

  For some reason, back then I was obsessed

  with drawing naked Barbies. The teachers didn’t

  feel that those were appropriate for a kids’ art

  show, so they used the only artwork I did all year

  without a naked Barbie in it, which was this picture

  of a cow in front of a barn. It really wasn’t a very

  good drawing, but I thought it was cool because I

  made it out of cut -up construction paper and the

  doors of the barn could open.

  At the Art Show, I discovered that they had

  neglected to open the doors on my little barn, so

  I opened them myself, which revealed the dozen

  little naked Barbies within. I won a prize right then

  and there, because they felt they needed to use the

  third- place ribbon to quickly seal the doors

  closed, probably for eternity.

  18

  This year’s big Art Show isn’t for a month,

  but I’m planning on starting early. A masterpiece

  could take days to complete, and I really want

  my new friend Angeline to be terribly, terribly

  proud of how excellent her friend Jamie is at art,

  in spite of the fact that

  Angeline couldn’t draw flies

  even if she was covered in manure.

  WAIT. That was not a friendly thing to say. Let

  me try again, as a friend: I would really and truly

  encourage Angeline not to give up, and motivate her

  to keep working at it, and eventually I’m sure

  she could draw those flies.

  19

  Thursday 05

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Thursday is Meat Loaf Day. Did you ever

  wonder how they make meat loaf, Dumb Diary? It’s

  really fascinating. Here’s what they do:

  1. Start out with a big lump of meat,

  probably from some kind of an animal.

  2. Run it though a grinder.

  3. Bake it back into a big lump of meat.

  Miss Bruntford, the cafeteria monitor, used

  to hassle us all the time to finish the meat loaf

  because she hated us so much. But now she’s

  friends with Aunt Carol, so she hassles us to finish

  it because she cares about us so much. Either

  way, it winds up with me trying to squeeze down a

  plate full of horse meat once a week.

  20

  In between today’s lunchtime gag reflexes,

  Isabella showed me a poster she had torn down

  announcing the School Talent Show. Isabella

  thought it would be cool to enter, and when I asked

  her what she thought we could do, she got this

  weird look on her face.

  My psychic powers told me that she was

  thinking something like: What do you mean

  “WE” ? Plus, my ear powers were telling me the

  exact same thing at the exact same moment,

  because that’s what she actually said.

  21

  See, Isabella actually does have a talent all

  her own. She does magic. I was right there when she

  discovered her love of it for the very first time. We

  were at my house watching TV, and this magician

  came on and sawed a lady in half. Isabella got

  hysterically happy and said, “Do you think they’d

  let him do that to anybody? Could he do that to

  his brothers?”

  The fact that the magician restored the lady

  at the end made no impression on Isabella. “He

  didn’t have to put her back together,” she said.

  22

  As time went on, Isabella learned that the

  whole cutting-a-person-in-half thing

  was just a trick, but she has a natural fondness

  for deceiving people , and she’s not even bothered

  by the nerd factor that comes with doing magic.

  And the fact that magic will probably never be

  her job doesn’t bother her, either. For Isabella,

  the mere joy of making people look like idiots is

  reward enough.

  23

  “You’re thinking about doing a magic act,

  right?” I said.

  And Isabella just said, “Maybe.”

  “Well, maybe I could help you,” I said.

  And Isabella just said, “Maybe.”

  “Magicians need beautiful assistants,” I said,

  “and I could do that.”

  Isabella said, “You know, an assistant could

  be a good idea.”

  And then, right in the middle of a private

  conversation,

  Angeline (who was probably bred by

  scientists with the exact physical requirements to

  be a Professional Magician’s Assistant)

  flopped down in a chair, distracting me and Isabella

  and everybody at the table— which is the EXACT

  THING a magician’s assistant is supposed to do

  to the audience — and said, “Have you guys heard

  about the Talent Show?”

  24

  “Have you ever seen a magic act?” Isabella

  asked her right away. “You know how they have

  assistants? Like, blond assistants?”

  The conversation didn’t go any further,

  partly because the bell rang, but mostly because I

  grabbed Isabella’s backpack and she had to chase

  me down to get it. I shouldn’t have done it, but

  I just don’t want Isabella to do the Talent Show

  without me, even though I know it would be perfect

  for her and

  Angeline to go and do the Talent Show

  together.

  I mean it would be

  totally

  perfect Just

  PERFECTLY PERFECT. So terribly, terribly,

  terribly perfect. It really shouldn’t bother me if I’m

  left out of that, right? It’s no big deal, right?

  So what if I’m not in the Talent Show with

  my BFF and w
e don’t have our morning locker time

  to be mean to people anymore? I can live with

  that, right?

  It’s not like I should tear blond handfuls

  of somebody’s blond hair out of their blond

  skull, right?

  25

  Friday 06

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Aunt Carol called to invite me to a movie

  tonight, because she is the awesomest aunt In

  The History of Ever, and she knew that I really ,

  really wanted to see this movie about a werewolf

  that falls in love with this girl and then a tragic

  thing happens or something. I don’t know, I only

  saw the commercial. But Aunt Carol knew I wanted

  to go, and to show that her awesomeness is even

  awesomer than awesome, she also invited Isabella

  to go with us.

  26

  I was getting ready for the movie and pulling

  on my sock, but it must have shrunk because it was

  really hard to get on, and so I was hopping around

  on one foot when Aunt Carol pulled up. Out my

  bedroom window, I saw Aunt Carol and Isabella get

  out of the car . . . followed by

  Angeline, who my Aunt

  Carol must have invited since we’re automatically

  friends now. Isn’t. That. Great.

  I was still bouncing around trying to pull

  my sock on, when the PURE JOY at seeing that

  Angeline was going to the movies with us made

  me slip and fall. Fortunately, I fell on my soft,

  cushy bed.

  27

  Unfortunately, my bed is exactly where

  Stinkette had recently been furiously slobbering

  all over Grossnasty. As I fell, my mouth open in

  scream-position, a large portion of the Heinous

  Object ENTERED MY MOUTH DEEP ENOUGH

  FOR ME TO EAT IT.

  28

  Through my horror, I could hear Aunt Carol

  and my mom yelling for me to hurry up or we’re

  going to miss the movie, and then Angeline yelled

  up an apology for getting the movie time wrong.

  So that’s why I had to hurry like crazy and not stop

  to give my mouth the three -hour toothbrushing

  it required. Don’t worry— I didn’t actually eat

  Grossnasty, but it was fully, almost completely

  in my mouth and that was bad enough.

  I didn’t have any gum or mints and I was in

  a big hurry, and so all I could do was grab a tube

  of toothpaste and stick it in my pocket. I figured I

  could just get some of it in my mouth secretly.

  I kept gagging a little all the way to the

  theater, on account of having a mouthful of

  dog- saliva flavor, but I smiled prettily through it all

  because of my intense acting abilities.

  29

  When we got to the theater there was no time

  to stop at the concession stand. The movie was

  packed, so I had to sit right next to a little girl who

  was at least two full years younger than me, and

  therefore MUCH TOO YOUNG to see a movie

  with werewolves in it. MUCH, MUCH, MUCH

  TOO YOUNG.

  I just can’t emphasize enough that the little

  girl’s mom should have known that a werewolf

  movie could be TOO FRIGHTENING to take a

  little girl to.

  30

  The movie might have been great, I don’t

  really know. I was focused on the horrible taste

  in my mouth. Every time I tried to secretly get the

  toothpaste up to my mouth, the little girl next to

  me would notice that I was doing something, and

  she would look over and smile at me. So, being a

  super-friendly person, I smiled back.

  Finally, the movie came to a really scary

  part — so scary that when I tried again to get the

  toothpaste to my mouth, the little girl, horrified by

  the werewolf on screen, didn’t look over at me, and

  I finally delivered a big gush of toothpaste to my

  yucky mouth.

  Maybe TOO big of a gush.

  31

  So then I had a huge mouthful of toothpaste.

  I swear, toothpaste really seems to get bigger in

  your mouth, and you can’t swallow it, so it just sits

  in there getting foamier and foamier.

  This time, when the little girl looked over, it

  wasn’t because she saw me doing something. It was

  because she was petrified. And me, being friendly,

  did what I had been doing all night: I smiled

  at her.

  32

  Okay. Let me just say, for the record, that

  I look nothing like a werewolf. Nobody could ever

  mistake me for one.

  Except maybe if they were really young,

  and it was really dark, and they were watching a

  scary werewolf movie and I smiled at them with

  a mouthful of dripping, frothy slobber.

  33

  Aunt Carol calmed down by the time we got

  home. As many times as I told her that I hadn’t

  tried to scare that little girl on purpose, I don’t

  think she ever really believed me. I didn’t want to

  admit that I had mouthed Grossnasty, so having the

  toothpaste with me was impossible to explain.

  It was the first time Aunt Carol had ever been

  that mad at me, and the first time any of us had

  been asked to leave a movie theater. Except for

  Isabella, of course, who has been asked to leave

  most places.

  Not that I can blame this on anybody. I mean,

  I guess if

  Angeline hadn’t shown up in the car and

  startled me I wouldn’t have mouthed Grossnasty,

  and if she hadn’t read the movie time wrong I would

  have had time to brush my teeth at home, and if her

  dog hadn’t married Stinker then Stinkette wouldn’t

  be around to leave Grossnasty on my bed in the first

  place, but you can hardly blame my terribly good

  Automatic Sisterfriend for any of that, right?

  34

  Saturday 07

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  I tried having some talent today.

  I’m just not going to let this go. I have to

  come up with something that Isabella and I can do

  together in the Talent Show. Otherwise, I’m going to

  be sitting unhappily in the audience watching the

  Isabella and Angeline Show. Which would be perfect

  for them, but every now and then I also have to

  think of myself.

  I’m a really good dancer. I mean, everybody

  knows that. It’s been said that my moves are

  funktastic —and not by just anybody, but by

  those who know their funky. But Isabella can’t

  dance. Or won’t. I’ve never figured out which. It’s

  one of Isabella’s Great Mysteries.

  35

  I’m really good at acting and drama

  stuff, too. In fact, I’m so good I pronounce it

  “duh-rama” because it sounds more dramatic

  that way. Isabella has spent her whole life

  perfecting only fake- crying in order to get her mean

  older brothers in trouble, so if a role were to call

  for anything else, like Delicate Sweetness

  (a specialty of mine), duh-rama would become

  impossible for her.


  36

  I tried singing, and I thought I sounded pretty

  good until Stinker bit me a little for it. I had to

  admit that if somebody bites you for singing, you’re

  doing it wrong. (It’s really one of the main ways

  to know.)

  Ventriloquism seems sort of like evil ghostly

  possession to me, which I oppose, and I don’t

  want to juggle or twirl a baton. I’m not even sure

  baton twirling is a talent, exactly. You’re really

  just playing a showy game of catch with yourself in

  an adorable sparkly outfit, and I think that makes

  it less of a talent and more of a sport that guys

  won’t play.

  37

  I ran out of talent ideas, so I went downstairs

  and flipped on the TV because TV doesn’t really

  demand that you have any ideas. But right there

  on the TV, I saw this show with this band and it was

  made up entirely of girls.

  Not only that, but they also solved mysteries,

  and went shopping for guitars and stuff, and

  looked really fashionable doing it. It was like a

  miracle. TV was actually telling me something

  useful.

  TV was telling me that for the Talent Show, I

  needed to Form a Band. Thanks, TV!

  Then it told me that our kitchen floor looked

  dingy and that I had to try this new gum. TV is

  smart, but it has a hard time staying on topic,

  kind of like that one kid at school who screams if

  anybody touches his locker.

  38

  Sunday 08

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  I showed my dad the list of classic books we

  had to pick from for school. He made me think of

  the list because he was taking a nap in the middle