Don’t You Dare Read This, Mrs. Dunphrey
Also by Margaret Peterson Haddix
Because of Anya
Escape from Memory
Just Ella
Leaving Fishers
Running Out of Time
Takeoffs and Landings
Turnabout
The Shadow Children Sequence:
Among the Hidden
Among the Impostors
Among the Betrayed
Among the Barons
Among the Brave
Available from Simon & Schuster
www. SimonSaysKids.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With thanks to Janet Peterson, Susan Zaffiro, Bob McHale, and the wards of the state of Indiana who told me their stories.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This Simon Pulse edition June 2004
Text copyright © 1996 by Margaret Peterson Haddix
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster, Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
The text of this book was set in Century Book.
Manufactured in the United States of America
8 10 9 7
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Haddix, Margaret Peterson.
Don’t you dare read this, Mrs. Dunphrey / Margaret Peterson.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In the journal she is keeping for English class, sixteen-year-old Tish chronicles the changes in her life when her abusive father returns home after a two-year absence.
ISBN-13: 978-0-689-80097-9 (hc.)
ISBN-10: 0-689-80097-5 (hc.)
[1. Child abuse—Fiction. 2. Father and daughters—Fiction.
3. Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title.
P27.H1164DO 1996
95-43200
ISBN-13: 978-0-689-87102-3 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-689-87102-3 (pbk.)
eISBN-13: 978-1-43911-527-5
Contents
Chapter 1: August 28
Chapter 2: August 30
Chapter 3: September 1
Chapter 4: September 4
Chapter 5: September 7
Chapter 6: September 11
Chapter 7: September 13
Chapter 8: September 16
Chapter 9: September 22
Chapter 10: September 23
Chapter 11: September 25
Chapter 12: September 28
Chapter 13: October 1
Chapter 14: October 6
Chapter 15: October 7
Chapter 16: October 12
Chapter 17: October 15
Chapter 18: October 21
Chapter 19: October 23
Chapter 20: October 24
Chapter 21: October 27
Chapter 22: November 3
Chapter 23: November 6
Chapter 24: November 7
Chapter 25: November 12
Chapter 26: November 18
Chapter 27: November 17
Chapter 28: November 23
Chapter 29: November 26
Chapter 30: December 3
Chapter 31: December 5
Chapter 32: December 8
Chapter 33: December 10
Chapter 34: December 16
Chapter 35: December 18
Chapter 36: December 21
Chapter 37: December 28
Chapter 38: January 12
Chapter 39: January 15
Chapter 40: January 20
Chapter 41: January 22
Chapter 42: January 27
Chapter 43: January 27
Chapter 44: February 1
Chapter 45: February 4
Chapter 46: February 12
Chapter 47: February 15
Chapter 48: February 17
Chapter 49: February 23
Chapter 50: February 24
Chapter 51: February 25
Chapter 52: February 28
Chapter 53: March 5
Chapter 54: March 7
Chapter 55: March 11
Chapter 56: March 15
Chapter 57: March 17
Chapter 58: March 24
Chapter 59: March 26
Chapter 60: March 27
Chapter 61: March 30
Chapter 62: April 1
Chapter 63: April 7
Chapter 64: April 8
Chapter 65: April 12
Chapter 66: April 13
Chapter 67: April 15
Chapter 68: April 22
Chapter 69: April 26
Chapter 70: April 27
Chapter 71: April 27 Again Really April 30 very Early
Chapter 72: September 15
Chapter 73: Later
August 28
All right, Mrs. Dunphrey, you said we had to do these journals, but if we wanted to write something personal and private we could mark an entry, “Do not read.” And then you wouldn’t read it, you’d just check to make sure we’d written something. Right? Okay that’s what I want. Don’t read the rest of this entry.
Did you stop reading? I can’t believe a teacher would be so stupid. That’s what Eric Lynch was getting at, when he asked, “So, like, we could mark every single entry, ‘Don’t read’? And then we could write anything?” Everybody knows that Eric handed in the words to “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” written over and over again, instead of outlines in his history notebook last year. And Mr. Tremont never even noticed, because he doesn’t really check anything, even though he says he does. Eric told everyone Mr. Tremont wrote, “Good job. Nice penmanship. A”
And you’re telling us you don’t check? I can tell you’re a first-year teacher, Mrs. Dunphrey.
But what if I do write something personal, and you really are reading these?
I’m going to give you a test. I’m going to write something that’s secret, that no one else would know about me, and see if you are reading this. Let’s see, the secret is… I know how to crochet.
You think that’s not such a great secret? Well, you probably haven’t figured out whose journal this is. This is Tish Bonner writing. I’m one of the girls who sits in the back row. We all have big hair. Mr. Tremont calls us the gum-cracking brigade. You looked kind of scared when Sandy, Rochelle, Chastity, and I walked into the room today. Let me clue you in: we don’t crochet. Crocheting’s for old ladies and prissy girls like Heather Turner. You probably haven’t met her yet—you’d know her because she’s got the flattest hair in the school. It’s a little greasy, too. She wants to be a home ec teacher when she grows up. She had a crush on Mr. Tremont last year (Have you met him yet? He’s bald and ugly and has a stomach bigger than the globe in his classroom.) and she brought him homemade cookies. Oatmeal. That’s Heather Turner. That’s not me.
So, you’re probably wondering, how is it that I know how to crochet?
Hey, I said one secret. That’s it. If I can’t trust you—if you are reading this—I can’t give too much away.
August 30
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Do you know what a drag school is? Maybe you really don’t—maybe you liked it when you were a kid. Maybe you think it’s fun now. You looked like you were having fun today, or trying to, talking about
commas at the board. I mean, commas! Who cares? Don’t you have anything more important to worry about?
I do, let me tell you. And I would tell you, but I haven’t handed this in yet to see if you pass my test.
School, though. That’s what I was talking about. You’ve got us doing this stupid journal, Mr. Tremont wants another stupid history notebook from us every six weeks, Mrs. Rachethead (oops, sorry—Mrs. Racheau) is going to make us dissect frogs soon, Mr. Steinway gives us three pages of geometry homework every night… Who cares? I’ve got to work at Burger Boy most nights and almost every weekend. If I don’t—hey, no clothes, no food, no nothing for Ms. Tish Bonner. Or probably not for Matt Bonner (that’s my brother), either. You don’t think my mom gives us money, do you?
If it weren’t for getting to see my friends at school, I’d probably drop out. Hey—that’s another test for you, isn’t it? You teachers are programmed to freak whenever someone talks about dropping out. If you really are reading this, I’d be slapped into the dropout prevention program so fast my head would spin. You know what everybody calls the dropout prevention program? Drip prevention. Smart, huh? It gets the drips out of school without them dropping out.
Really, I can’t drop out, though. Then what would I do? No laying around the house watching TV for Ms. Tish Bonner. My mother’s already doing that herself. (Ha, ha.) I’d probably have to go to full-time at the Burger Boy. I’d probably be doing that the rest of my life.
And you know what? I really hate the Burger Boy. A lifetime of dishing out burgers and curly fries—no thanks.
September 1
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
You sure you want us to write in these twice a week? My life’s not so exciting that I have something to say twice a week. I don’t have anything to say at all. But you said we had to have four entries before we handed these in on Friday … So, hey, here this is.
I’m writing this in Mr. Tremont’s class. He probably thinks I’m taking notes. Except no one else is taking notes, so why would I? It’s not like he would expect me to be a standout student.
I’ll tell you now: I’m a C student. Sometimes I get B’s, when I get lucky. I don’t study. One time last year when we were freshmen, they made us take some aptitude test. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I really tried hard for once. Guess I just wanted to see what I could do. And you know what? I knocked the socks off everybody. I did better than Susan Stanwick and Mike Hardy, and everybody knows they’ve got computers where their brains are supposed to be. (After that, Susan went around telling people she was coming down with the flu that day—that’s why she didn’t have the highest score for the first time in her life. Yeah, right.)
It was too much hassle, though. For about a week, I had all the counselors and teachers swarming all over me. I can still hear Miss Anthony saying, “Now that we all know what you’re capable of, Tish, I’m going to expect a lot more out of you …” Like I was really going to start doing my algebra homework. Mrs. Herzenberger started talking to me about college. Then it’s like everybody remembered what they were dealing with, and forgot me. Hey, I’m not one of those kids who grew up in Chateau Estates or Golf Terrace. I only live four blocks from the school. You’ve probably been past my house—and if you haven’t, you’ve seen ones just like it. Small. Poor. Falling down. You think there’s any money stashed away in some college fund for me? Uh-huh. Right. Tell me another joke.
Have you ever noticed Mr. Tremont says “so to speak” every other sentence? He’s doing it now and it’s driving me crazy. I’ll take down every word he says: “The French and Indian War, so to speak, was part of a much larger event… something, something (I can’t get this all) and Americans, so to speak, get a little egocentric looking back on this event, so to speak…”
Gag, gag, gag.
September 4
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
This is due next period, so I’ve got to get this done quickly. Mrs. Rachethead is looking at me …
Oops, I couldn’t go on because Mrs. Rachethead was really, really suspicious. I guess we were supposed to be taking a test. Now it’s two minutes before your class is going to start and I’m trying to write fast, but it doesn’t matter because this entry isn’t going to be long enough.
Tish,
Except for your fourth entry, you seem to be writing plenty. Please try to keep up the volume. If you make this a regular habit, you’ll find it easier and easier to do. Just this once, I’ll give you full credit, because your first three entries are long. But try to turtle long entries every time.
September 7
Don’t read this entry, Mrs. Dunphrey.
So I need to keep up my volume. Yes, ma’am. I hope you didn’t write anything like that on any of the boys’ journals. They’d make a dirty joke out of it. And they already make enough comments about you, just because you’re young and smile a lot. You know, if I foufed up your bangs some, you could pass for one of us.
But anyhow, maybe you can’t help writing stupid things on our papers. Maybe it’s required, being a teacher and all.
You did pass my test, though. I went up to you after class today, after you’d handed back our journals, and asked, “Do you know how to crochet?” And you looked at me so stupidly I knew you hadn’t read that entry in my journal.
I still think you’re being dumb, but at least I feel safe now. Safer, anyway.
Because I don’t have anything else to write about, I will tell how I learned to crochet. My Granma taught me a long time ago. My Granma’s dead now. She died four years ago. After the funeral, I took the afghan she’d been teaching me to crochet and threw it to the back of my closet. I think it’s still there, but hidden, under a bunch of old tennis shoes.
This is funny, because I hadn’t really thought about crocheting or that afghan in a long time. But lately, sometimes when I’m lying in bed almost asleep or almost awake, my fingers kind of twitch, and I realize they’re moving the same way they used to move when I crocheted.
Weird, huh? I’m glad you’re not actually reading this. I’m glad no one is. Only—it’d be nice to have someone to talk about things like this with.
September 11
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I guess I made it sound in my last entry like I didn’t have any friends. I do. I have lots, actually. Sandy and Rochelle and Chastity are the best friends anyone could ever have, and then there are lots of other people who at least kind of like me.
Sandy and Rochelle and Chastity and me, we hang out a lot together, on the weekends and after school, when none of us are working. We go up to the mall and find the tightest jeans and shortest skirts. Sandy’s been known to shoplift some of the clothes or sometimes just lipstick or eyeshadow at Target. She says the stores expect a certain amount of shoplifting—they build it into the prices. So, really, she’s just getting her money’s worth if she shoplifts. You’d think she’d know better, since her father’s a lawyer. But maybe she figures if she gets caught, he can get her off. Rochelle and Chastity and me, we wouldn’t be so lucky. Our dads couldn’t help us. (Like, I’d have to find my dad first, even if he could help me.) Maybe that’s why we never take anything.
Chastity and Sandy both have boyfriends, and Rochelle’s always madly in love with some new guy. They’re always wanting to fix me up with someone. I don’t know. I usually find some excuse. Usually I have to work. The guys they like, the ones they try to fix me up with, they always have pimples or bad breath, or they say dumb things like, “So, you want to get laid?” when you’ve just met them. Rochelle says I’m picky. I told her once that she had no standards. She got mad and wouldn’t speak to me for three days. Chastity—she’s the one who’s always making people make up—Chastity finally made us both apologize.
But, really, are there any guys out there who aren’t jerks? I don’t even know any grown-up men who aren’t jerks. My dad was never Mr. Wonderful, not that I ever saw. Who else am I supposed to look up to? Mr. T
remont? (So to speak.)
You must be married, Mrs. Dunphrey, if your name is Mrs.—is your husband a jerk?
September13
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m going to go crazy if I don’t get out of this house. Mom’s watching some dumb movie—one of those black and white things from before I was born. She’s got it turned up real loud, like that’s going to keep Matt and me from knowing she’s crying. Only I don’t think she’s crying about the movie.
She’d be crying anyway.
Since my dad left, it’s been like Mom’s not really here, either. She could be a ghost or a shadow. Now that I think about it, though, she’s always been kind of a shadow. When Dad was here, it was whatever Dad wanted, Mom did. I don’t know why she misses him. It’s not like anyone was happy when he was around.
I remember one winter when I was maybe ten, it was really, really cold. It was Christmastime, and Granma had Matt and me trying to decorate the Christmas tree. (It was just one of those fake silver ones—real ugly.) Dad came home, and he had icicles hanging from his beard, it was that cold. Matt ran up to him and started gibbering about Santa Claus coming and bringing presents—Matt was only two or three then, so he didn’t know any better. Anyhow, Dad told him, Oh Matt, don’t you know? It’s so cold outside that all Santa’s reindeer are going to freeze. No presents this year.”
Matt started crying, and Granma took him up on her lap and kept saying, “Ssh, ssh, it’s all right. That’s not true. Reindeer can stand any kind of weather.” The whole time she was glaring at Dad. Dad got mad and started yelling about how Granma thought she knew more about taking care of his kids than he did. He ran outside and Mom ran after him, even though she was just wearing slippers and a robe. No coat Dad couldn’t get the truck to start, and Granma and Matt and me, we could hear the engine turning over and over; and Mom and Dad yelling at each other. And Mom crying.
The weird thing is, I remember that as a happy moment, because Matt and Granma and me were all cuddled up on the couch together. It was warm in the house, and Mom and Dad yelling was something outside, like the wind, that couldn’t get to us. The lights on the silver tree were blinking on and off, all bright and shiny. I thought it was beautiful.