Dear Dumb Diary Year Two #5: You Can Bet on That Read online

  Just then, Hudson walked over.

  “Thanks for the post on your blog,” he said to

  me. “You should come watch us play sometime.”

  He walked away with a smile, and Isabella

  and I looked at each other.

  I immediately wondered if maybe, just

  maybe, there could be something good about

  goodness that the human mind can’t comprehend.

  63

  Strictly speaking, many of my posts to the

  Student Awareness Committee blog probably have

  very little to do with Student Awareness, but let’s

  face it, as far as students go, I can come up with

  LOTS more interesting things to be aware of.

  As an experiment, I put a new post up on our

  blog. First, I need to make it clear, Dumb Diary, that

  I HATE mushrooms. If planet Earth had a nose, I’m

  sure that mushrooms are what it would pick out of

  that nose, if Earth also had a finger.

  But I couldn’t say that. So here’s what I said:

  Mushrooms on a pizza? My mom loves 'em. But

  make mine pepperoni.

  — Jamie

  See? I didn’t come right out and say that

  mushrooms are squeaky little wads of soil and snot.

  I said something nice about them — I said that

  somebody else loved them.

  64

  I waited, and within a few minutes, a few

  people said that they also loved pepperoni, and

  green peppers, and bacon.

  Soon, the post was up to 72 likes — a new

  record. It turns out that there are a lot of people in

  the world who respond well to niceness.

  Weirdos.

  65

  Saturday 14

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  No school today. No plans. But as I was

  staring into space, Isabella’s wisdom on homemade

  clothes came back to me. There was only one

  thing to do.

  “Hey, Mom. Can I have that new shirt you

  made me now?”

  She was so happy I asked for it that she

  didn’t even question the fact that I wanted it on a

  Saturday.

  To work in the yard.

  Cleaning up my beagles’ turds.

  66

  But when I got outside, Dad was already busy

  cleaning up.

  In his tie.

  And he was purposely leaning waaaay over

  so that the tie would dangle enticingly in front of

  Stinkette’s nose. Stinkette is still a puppy, and will

  chew on just about anything.

  But not Dad’s monkeyvomit tie.

  He didn’t know I had come outside, and I

  startled him as he was trying to push the tie into

  Stinkette’s mouth.

  “I WAS NOT DOING ANYTHING TO IT

  JUST NOW IN THE DOG’S MOUTH,” he

  blurted out before he realized that I wasn’t Mom.

  “Don’t sneak up on me, Jamie,” he said,

  exhaling hard. “Now, tell your dog to eat my tie.”

  “Eat his tie, Stinkette,” I ordered.

  Stinkette stared stupidly, one eye wandering

  slightly.

  67

  “It won’t work, Dad,” I said. “These beagles

  only want to eat the things you don’t want them to

  eat. Trust me. I’ve put beef gravy on homework.

  They can sense what you want, and they live to deny

  you these things.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” he whined

  pathetically.

  “I dunno, Dad.”

  He held up the bag of turds he had scooped

  and smiled hopefully.

  “Do you think Mom would believe it if we said

  we got in a turd fight wearing her handmade

  clothes?”

  68

  Don’t worry. We didn’t have a turd fight. But I

  liked the way Dad was thinking, and it inspired me

  to spill on my shirt at dinner. His eyes lit up, and

  then he intentionally spilled on his tie when Mom

  was out of the room.

  “Oh, nuts!” she said, sitting back down at the

  table. “Look at you two.”

  We made our best WE ARE ASHAMED OF

  OURSELVES faces.

  “Good thing that fabric won’t stain,” she

  said. “Nope. That will all come off in the wash.”

  We made our best WE ARE GRATEFUL

  THAT WE GET TO KEEP THIS WONDERFUL

  CLOTHING faces.

  I wonder how many times you can lie with your

  face before you just wear it out and it won’t lie for

  you anymore.

  69

  Sunday 15

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Aunt Carol and Uncle Dan came over for

  coffee and donuts this morning. We don’t really

  observe a lot of nutritional rules on Sunday

  mornings, because evidently, calories eaten on

  Sundays don’t count.

  You can have a frosted donut, or a frosted

  jelly-filled donut, or a frosted jelly-filled ox. Have

  anything you want to eat for Sunday

  breakfast.

  Aunt Carol was bragging that Uncle Dan is

  getting some kind of educational award for his work

  as assistant principal at our school. I guess it’s kind

  of a big deal. They’re taking a picture of him and it’s

  getting framed and hung in the hallway until the

  end of time, so that future civilizations can dig

  up our school and see how strange we looked with

  our normal-sized heads and clothing not made out

  of aluminum foil and bodies not fighting aliens,

  which is how movies tell us we will be spending most

  of our time in the future.

  We all congratulated Uncle Dan through

  mouthfuls of breakfast. I think that if you’re going

  to talk with your mouth full, it should be full of

  donuts. This way, the things you say will sound

  nicer, as they are covered with deliciousness

  molecules.

  71

  Monday 16

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  More debate practice in social studies today.

  Everybody was paired off, so Isabella was working

  with Dicky Flartsnutt, and Angeline and I were

  having our small, private debates.

  “Pretty clever post about the soccer team,” I

  said, carefully phrasing it in such a way as to be

  perfectly nice. I nodded toward the letter jacket

  draped over the back of her chair.

  “You wish that you had thought of it,”

  Angeline said back, carefully selecting her words to

  be mean.

  “I’m learning how to pretend to be nice, like

  you,” I said. “People like it. Did you see how many

  people liked my little mushroom post? Like seven

  people commented.”

  “I’m learning, too,” she said. “And I might

  never change back, you butt.” There was something

  about the way she said “butt” — not the funny,

  joyous way that people usually say it — but something

  a bit sinister, like an evil wizard might say it.

  “Read my post tonight,” she said.

  72

  And I did.

  Angeline responded to my post about

  mushrooms. She wrote:

  Jamie, who are you kidding about mushrooms?

  They're a fungus. Know what else is a fungus? The
r />   stuff that grows in the grout in the shower.

  They're named “mush” as a warning for what they're

  going to do when you bite down on them, and “room”

  because that's what you're going to be running from

  after that first bite.

  They live in the dark, like some sort of miserable

  deformed little trolls. If you ever see me eating one,

  it means that somebody has kidnapped every single

  kitten on Earth, and the kidnappers have told me

  that unless I eat a mushroom, terrible harm will

  come to the kittens. Not just most of the kittens.

  Every. Single. One. It would take every single one.

  — Angeline

  I noticed that a few people had liked her post.

  75 people.

  SEVENTY-FIVE.

  I called Isabella.

  “Did you see how many people liked

  Angeline’s post on mushrooms?”

  “Sure did,” she said. “This new, mean

  Angeline is even more popular than nice Angeline.

  Maybe you should write a post and really give her a

  piece of your mind.”

  Nope. Nope nope nope. “I know you’re just

  trying to get me to lose the bet, Isabella. To be

  honest, I have to admit that I thought her post was

  pretty funny.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Isabella said. “You

  wrote it.”

  It suddenly came back to me. I did write

  that. A year ago. In an email to Angeline. I

  slumped down hard on my bed and then slumped

  right up again because I had slumped on Stinker’s

  face. I moved down and reslumped.

  74

  “She can’t do that,” I said.

  “Why not?” Isabella asked with a laugh.

  “Because it’s mean to copy off people? Angeline is

  supposed to be mean now, so I’m going to allow it.

  But is there anything you want to say about it?”

  There was a lot I wanted to say. But I wasn’t

  going to lose this bet.

  “NO.”

  75

  Tuesday 17

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  I wasn’t in a very good mood when I woke up

  today. I had dreamed that I was being chased by

  zombies but I wasn’t allowed to hurt them, even

  in self-defense. I spent eight hours trying to

  politely persuade the zombies to spit out my

  arm. Exhausting.

  I screamed a little when I woke up, because

  there was a grimy, hideous zombie torso dragging

  itself across my bed.

  After a couple of blinks, I realized that Mom

  had slipped in while I was asleep and carefully laid a

  new homemade shirt across my bed. This one even

  had a little happy face embroidered on it.

  Mom stuck her head around the corner and

  made me scream again.

  76

  “I was thinking that the little happy face

  could be, like, your thing. You know, because you’re

  so happy all the time. I’ll put it on everything. It will

  be your trademark!” she squealed.

  I looked down at the happy face. He looked

  happy-ish, but not totally happy. He also looked

  a little mutated, and maybe a little too pleased

  about being mutated.

  It would make somebody wonder if he was

  happy that the bear stopped mauling him halfway

  through the mauling, or maybe he was happy that

  the tree had fallen on only half his face, and not his

  whole face.

  I smiled at Mom.

  Ironically, I probably smiled the exact

  same smile that the embroidered happy-face

  guy was smiling.

  “DAD, CAN YOU TAKE ME TO

  SCHOOL TODAY?” I shouted.

  But there was no answer. A chill ran through me.

  “Mom, where’s Dad? I wanted him to drive

  me to school today.”

  She said he had left for work early. I looked

  down at my new monkeyvomit shirt. Embroidered

  guy smiled his mutated smile back up at me.

  “You’ll have to take the bus,” Mom said.

  That would mean wearing the shirt, and

  everybody seeing.

  I thought back to happier times, when Mom

  and I would buy my clothes at a real store, made by

  real people with fabric that did not appear to have

  once lined a sick monkey’s cage.

  Mom would pick something up, and hold it up

  to my back to see if it fit. . . .

  That was it.

  78

  I sat on my bed and waited, calculating the

  timing so I’d be just a little late leaving the house.

  When the time was right, I ran out the front door,

  yelling good-bye to my mom.

  I heard her yelling good-bye back to me as I

  left, and I knew she got a good look at her shirt as

  I ran away. She must have been so happy to see me

  wearing it.

  Half of it, anyway.

  I had remembered how Mom would hold up a

  shirt to my back to get an idea of how it would look.

  So all I had to do was tape the shirt to my back —

  and from behind, it would look like I was wearing it.

  By the time I rounded the corner, the other

  kids were already piling on the bus, so they couldn’t

  see anything but my front.

  I made sure I was the last one on the bus. As I

  climbed on, I gave monkeyvomit one quick tug and

  wadded it up in my backpack.

  79

  I was so happy that I had fooled Mom AND

  made her happy in the process, that by the time we

  got to lunch, it wasn’t even hard for me to make up

  something nice to say about the new menu item

  Bruntford was trying out.

  It was her personal tribute to the Beatles — a

  giant plate of peas that she called GIVE PEAS A

  CHANCE. She held it out to me for an opinion.

  “Gosh,” I said sweetly. “Look at ’em all.”

  “Try it,” Bruntford said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Have a taste,” she insisted.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Take a pea right here, right now,” she

  said loudly, and everyone turned around to look.

  Bruntford suddenly understood how that sounded,

  and she just stood there, turning red, with her giant

  mouth gaping open.

  Isabella leaned forward, eyes filled with

  hope, to hear my reaction.

  80

  It was a golden opportunity, but I

  didn’t say anything mean to Bruntford. I didn’t even

  give her a dirty look. I just took a pea and smiled

  about how delicious it was.

  I could see that Isabella was getting

  frustrated. She glared at Angeline. I think she is

  finally starting to sense that I’m not the one she

  should be working on.

  81

  After school, I ran home and hopped the

  fence into my backyard, which made both Stinker

  and Stinkette start barking at the back door, just as

  I had planned.

  I waited a second, ran around to the front

  door, went inside, and sprinted up to my room,

  yelling, “MOM, I’M HOME!” Mom was, of

  course, letting the barking dogs out, so she didn’t

&n
bsp; even see me. This gave me time to go in my room,

  change into the monkeyvomit shirt she thought I

  wore to school, and come back down.

  It was almost too easy.

  82

  After dinner, I checked our blog. It’s getting

  more hits all the time. Isabella posted this tonight:

  Isabella here. Haven't had a chance to run this by my

  partners at the Student Awareness Committee, so

  I'll just post it here for them to see. I think we need

  to really increase the amount of recycling we do at

  Mackerel, because a clean Earth is important to us

  all. Jamie and Angeline, what do you say?

  — Isabella

  I wasted no time in posting my response.

  Awesome idea, Isabella. We should be working much

  harder on this. C'mon, who doesn't believe we need

  a cleaner planet?

  — Jamie

  Click click click. 85 likes.

  And somewhere, tonight, if you close your

  eyes and listen carefully, you’ll hear the sweet, soft

  sound of a blond head exploding.

  83

  Wednesday 18

  Dear Dumb Diary,

  Today on the morning announcements they

  said something about Assistant Principal Devon

  getting this big award, and how his photo will go up

  in the hallway, and how he’s a terrific example to us

  all, and Isabella stood up and started applauding.

  It’s weird, but applause is contagious, so

  everybody joined in. And then, as it started to die

  down, she looked at me and Angeline and I suddenly

  knew what her devious plan was.

  “Angeline and Jamie, you guys must be extra

  proud, since Assistant Principal Devon is your uncle.

  This is pretty cool, huh?”

  “Awesome,” I said, and glanced at

  Angeline, who was looking like she had perhaps just

  swallowed a large burp that belonged to

  somebody else.