So even if any of these places want to hire me, they’re not going to be able to call.
What am I going to do? I’ve only got $20 left from my last Burger Boy check, that property tax thing is due, and we don’t have much food left.
I mean it. What am I going to do?
April 12
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Matt and I just had Cheerios and peanut butter for supper tonight. That was all we had in the house. He went to bed crying because he said his stomach felt all squeezed-in and empty. And I think his cold isn’t just a cold—I think it’s flu.
I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to.
April 13
Don’t you dare read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I’m not the least bit proud of this, but I shoplifted today for the first time in my life.
I went to Haggarty’s, where Mom used to work. (I figured they owed us.) I stuffed a package of hamburger in my jacket before buying a loaf of bread and two candy bars. All those times watching Sandy shoplift must have paid off, because I didn’t get caught. I was smart enough not to put the package in my jacket right in front of the meat case, because everyone knows the butchers look out through those windows. Nope, I put the hamburger in my cart, and went over to the canned vegetable aisle to cram the package into my top when no one was around.
Then, stupid me, I didn’t pay attention to which check-out line I stood in, and ended up having Mom’s friend Brenda check me out. She wanted to talk and talk and talk—she asked how Mom’s new job was going and when Mom was going to actually call Brenda again. I had almost forgotten how Mom made up that story about getting a new job, so I almost gave everything away. And the whole time Brenda was asking me questions, the hamburger was slipping down inside my jacket. Finally I told her I had to go to work—hey, if you’re going to steal, you might as well lie, too.
Once I got out of the store, I couldn’t believe it, I felt free and trapped all at once. I whispered, “You’re a criminal now.” All I could think was, Granma would be so ashamed.
Then when I got home, and fixed the hamburger for Matt and me, I realized how dumb I was. If I was going to steal meat, why hadn’t I stolen something really good, like steak?
At least Matt got a lot to eat tonight—three hamburgers. And there was enough left over so we’ll have food for tomorrow night, too.
April 15
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Matt and I are still eating hamburger. For some reason, it doesn’t taste very good to me. I tell myself it’s just because I had so many burgers at the Burger Boy, but I know that’s not the reason.
Mrs. Dunphrey had me stay after class today so she could give me some big lecture about what a terrible student I’ve become. She asked me if I realized I’d been absent ten days in the past four weeks—I didn’t know it was that much, but she’s the one who’s counting. I told her I’d been sick a lot. Really, a lot of those days, I stayed home with Matt because he was sick. Or some of those days, I was job-hunting. And, anyhow, I haven’t felt much like going to school lately. But Mrs. Dunphrey was so suspicious I guess I’m going to have to. I don’t want her calling in the truant officer or anything.
Then Mrs. Dunphrey asked if I understood that I can’t pass the class without turning in my research paper. I guess it was due yesterday. I haven’t even opened a book. But I gave her some big story about how I’d been working on the paper, but it wasn’t quite done, and couldn’t she please give me an extension. I don’t think she believed me, but she was too nice to flat-out say, “You’re lying.” She did give me an extension, but it was like, “This is your last chance.” I haven’t turned in any work in any other class either, so why should English be any different? I am going to flunk this year. Why should I care?
Except, it kind of bothers me that Mrs. Dunphrey always looks so disappointed whenever she sees me. I wish I could just say, “Look, Mrs. Dunphrey, here’s why that paper doesn’t matter to me. You want to hear about what my life’s like?” It’d be such a relief to tell someone about Mom leaving. But then probably Mrs. Dunphrey’d tell someone else, and then where would Matt and me be?
No, I have to keep everything secret.
Tish,
Okay. I’m impressed that you have five entries again. Put some of that effort in on your research paper, too—all right?
April 22
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I can’t believe this happened—Sandy actually got caught shoplifting last night.
It was at this skaggy shop at the mall, Linda’s Place. Sandy tried to put an orange minidress in her purse, and she got sloppy. The clerk saw the edge of the dress hanging out.
Rochelle was with her, and the security guards made both of them call their parents. (Geez, what would I have done if I’d been with Sandy? Say, “Uh, I don’t know where my parents are, exactly”? That’d go over real well.)
Anyhow, the thing is, even though Sandy’s dad is Mr. Bigtime Lawyer, both Sandy and Rochelle have to go to court now. Chastity told me they might even go to jail, but Sandy said nobody goes to jail for a first offense. Not for shoplifting, anyway.
Sandy’s talking tough, but I think she’s really scared. And Rochelle’s totally freaked—she cried most of today. I don’t think she ever thought she could get in trouble just for being with Sandy when Sandy shoplifted. Who’d have known?
I got real panicked hearing about the whole thing. Chastity thought I was just upset for Sandy, and she kept saying things like, “Well, we both knew she was going to get caught someday. Maybe it’s better this way, so she’ll stop doing it.” (Of course she didn’t say that while Sandy was around.) But Chastity only made me feel worse, because I was really thinking what if I had gotten caught shoplifting?
I had been planning to go to Haggarty’s again tonight, and pick up something else. Now I’m too chicken.
Or, I don’t know, maybe I would have been too chicken anyhow. Ever since I took that hamburger last week, I’ve felt bad. Dirty, almost. I’m no saint, but I always thought at least I was a better person than Sandy Now, the only difference is—she got caught and I didn’t.
Still. If I don’t shoplift again, what are Matt and I going to eat now? I only have five dollars left, and we’re both getting tired of peanut butter sandwiches.
I stopped in at all the places I’d applied for jobs, just in case someone had tried to call me. Nobody had. I just ended up wasting a lot of money on bus fare.
What’s going to happen to Matt and me?
April 26
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
A notice arrived today about the property tax. I couldn’t make sense of half of it—what’s arrears, anyway?—but I think what it meant was that the city’s going to own our house if we don’t pay up right now.
So where are Matt and me supposed to live?
Maybe it will take a long time for the city to get around to taking our house. Sandy and Rochelle aren’t going to court until June—Sandy said her dad said everything the government does takes forever. Maybe by the time the city’s ready to take our house, I’ll have a job and have enough money to pay. Or maybe Mom or Dad will come back. Or maybe we’ll all wake up tomorrow and the world will be a perfect place. Yeah, right. I’ve got to do something, but I don’t know what. I ran out of yarn for that stupid afghan, so I can’t even do that to make myself feel better. It’s probably big enough anyhow.
What am I going to do? I wish someone could tell me. What would Granma do?
Oh, who am I kidding? She’s just a dead old lady who didn’t know how to do anything but crochet.
April 27
Don’t read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
When Matt and I got home from school tonight, we found out the electricity was shut off. I didn’t even bother going next door to call. Nobody has to tell me we haven’t been paying our bills.
I was going to walk down to the store on the corner to buy some candles, but then I remembere
d I don’t have any money left. I searched through the whole house and finally found two old candles in the cabinet above the refrigerator. I think they’re left over from the time we had that blizzard, when everyone’s electricity was out for a week.
Anyhow, I tried to make a game of it with Matt, telling him we were going to pretend we were pioneers on the frontier, just the two of us, eating and everything by candlelight. He said he wanted to watch TV. And then when it got dark, he was scared of all the shadows the candles made on the walls. He said they looked like ghosts. Maybe I laid the pioneer story on too strong, talking about the wind and the wolves howling outside.
But he was so scared of the shadows—they kind of frightened me, too. The shadows flicker like the candles do. They’re always jumping around. They could be ghosts. Nothing looks the same by candlelight.
I finally got Matt to just go to bed—I said he’d be in the dark then, regardless. And now I’m sitting up writing this, even though I’ve almost burnt down both the candles, and the shadows and the silence are really scaring me. I’m like Matt—I really would like the TV on. The radio, too. Anything.
I just stopped and tore out the last few rows of that old afghan, just so I could crochet them again. I needed to do something like that so I wouldn’t think, but it didn’t help. I can’t help thinking. Something’s got to happen. I’ve got to do something. We only have one more day’s worth of bread and peanut butter, and there wouldn’t even be that much left if I hadn’t opened the can of split pea soup for myself tonight. (It was gross, just like I thought.) We don’t have any money, and I can’t fool myself that someone from the city isn’t going to come to take our house away soon. And Matt—Matt’s acting more and more babyish all the time. He really misses Mom and Dad.
I think it’s the middle of the night—all our clocks are electric, so I don’t really know. But I’ve got to figure out something before tomorrow. We won’t have any candles left tomorrow night, and what are we going to do then? Sit in the dark?
I really, really, really wish Granma were alive to help me now. But she’s not.
April 27 Again Really April 30 very Early
DO read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I’ve thought and thought and thought about all my problems—you’ll know what I mean soon—and I decided the best thing I could do would be to give this journal to you, Mrs. Dunphrey, and just have you read the whole thing. I mean it—everything, from start to finish, all the entries I’d marked “Don’t read.”
The reason I’m doing this is, I realized I have to tell someone about Mom and Dad leaving us. I thought I could take care of everything myself, but I just can’t. I’m too tired. I’m too hungry. Maybe I’m too stupid, too. I don’t know.
I thought about telling maybe Sandy’s or Rochelle’s or Chastity’s parents—someone like that. But I don’t really know them, and Sandy and Rochelle and Chastity don’t make them sound like very great people. Then I thought about all those people you’d recommended—one of the counselors or something. But I don’t trust them. Really, Mrs. Dunphrey, you’re the only adult I could think of who seems even halfway decent.
But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if you’d really understand. I mean, no offense, but I was afraid you’d think I made up the whole thing to get out of turning in that research paper. I know I don’t have the greatest reputation. And anyhow, I just couldn’t figure out how I’d explain everything to you.
Then I thought, everything’s in this journal—you’d believe it because you can see I’ve been handing it in all along, and because, I don’t know, I think things make sense the way I’ve written them down here. More sense that what I could explain in person.
This is due tomorrow—today—anyhow. When I hand it in, I’m going to ask you to read it right away. I know you have a free period after our class. Then I’ll come back and talk to you about everything.
I know you’ll probably have to tell someone else. But please, can you make sure that Matt and I can stay together? I haven’t done very well taking care of him lately—he’s sick all the time, and he’s wetting the bed sometimes twice a night now. But I’m all he has, since Granma died and Mom and Dad left. And, really, he’s all I have.
Another thing—I didn’t mean a lot of those bad things I wrote about school. Well, maybe I did, but don’t take it personally. It’s not your fault school stinks.
And the last thing—don’t think too bad of Mom and Dad. They won’t have to go to jail or anything for leaving us, will they? I mean, they really screwed up their lives, and Matt’s and mine, too, but maybe they didn’t mean to. I can kind of see why Dad hits everybody—I hit Sandy that one time. I wanted to hit Matt lots of times when he was whimpering and being a baby. And Mom, I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but it’s like she can’t think about anything but Dad. I don’t think she’s really a bad person.
So, anyhow, here this is.
Can you help me?
Tish,
I feel terrible that all this was happening in your life while I did nothing but nag you about that research paper. All year I’ve wanted you to break out of that tough shell you wear and dazzle everyone. I never dreamed I should have been worrying about whether you had anything to eat.
I’ll be talking to you next period, but I wanted to put this in writing to help you believe me, just as you gave me your journal to help me believe you. I know you haven’t been given many reasons to trust adults, but I hope it’s not too late for you to start trusting someone now. I intend to be worthy of your trust.
I wish I could promise that everything will be fine now. I can’t. But I will try my best to help. You’re right that I’ll have to tell someone else: the law requires all teachers to report cases of child abuse and neglect to the Department of Children and Family Services. Your parents leaving certainly qualifies as neglect. I already talked to the DCFS about your situation, without using your names. (I don’t think it’s fair to make the official report without you.) As I understand it, the DCFS generally sends kids in your situation to stay with relatives, family friends, or a foster family. They try to keep siblings together. Ultimately, they will try to reunite you with your parents if that’s possible. The man I talked to said you shouldn’t worry about them going to jail; the DCFS’s focus would be on educating your parents, not punishing them.
I’m afraid you may not want to give the DCFS control over your life, but they will make sure you have food and clothes and everything else you need. You will be free to be a sixteen-year-old, instead of trying to make all those adult decisions for yourself and Matt.
Tish, you did the right thing letting me read this. But you shouldn’t feel that you failed in taking care of Matt. You took care of him the best way you knew how; in the end, that meant getting help.
—Mrs. Dunphrey
September 15
Dear Mrs. Dunphrey,
I ALMOST WROTE “DON’T READ THIS” BY YOUR NAME, JUST OUT OF HABIT. BUT IT’D BE PRETTY STUPID TO SEND YOU A LETTER AND NOT LET YOU READ IT, RIGHT?
BEFORE YOU GET TOO EXCITED ABOUT ME WRITING YOU, I SHOULD LET YOU KNOW THIS IS AN ASSIGNMENT. NOT FOR SCHOOL—IT’S FOR THIS FAMILY THERAPIST MATT AND MOM AND ME HAVE TO GO SEE EVERY WEEK. (THAT’S RIGHT, MOM. I’LL EXPLAIN.) THE THERAPIST, MR. SARCUSI, IS ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT HOW HEALTHY IT IS TO EXAMINE OUR FEELINGS. HE SAYS AFTER EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED, I HAVE EVERY REASON TO FEEL CONFLICTED. (“CONFLICTED” IS HIS WORD, NOT MINE. HE SAYS TEENAGERS TEND TO BE CONFLICTED, ANYHOW. THANKS, MR. SARCUSI.) SO HE WANTED ME TO WRITE ABOUT MYSELF AND PRETEND I WAS TALKING TO SOMEONE WHO DIDN’T KNOW MY WHOLE LIFE STORY. WELL, I THOUGHT THAT WAS DUMB. I MEAN, I DID THAT ALL LAST YEAR. BUT I HAVEN’T WRITTEN ANYTHING SINCE APRIL, AND YOU KEEP SENDING ME LETTERS SAYING, “PLEASE WRITE BACK”… WELL, HERE THIS IS.
THANKS FOR LETTING ME AND MATT SLEEP ON YOUR COUCH AND FLOOR FOR THOSE THREE DAYS WHEN THE CASEWORKER COULDN’T FIND A FOSTER FAMILY FOR BOTH OF US. I CAN’T TELL YOU HOW SCARED I WAS WHEN SHE KEPT CALLING
AND CALLING AND FROWNING AND FROWNING. WHEN SHE SAID, “THERE ARE A FEW MORE PLACES I COULD CALL, BUT THEY’RE NOT ENTIRELY, UH, ADEQUATE …” I WAS READY TO WALK OUT AND JUST RUN AWAY WITH MATT. I WAS SO HAPPY WHEN YOU SAID, “CAN’T I TAKE THEM HOME WITH ME?” AND I MUST SAY, YOU REALLY STOOD YOUR GROUND WHEN SHE KEPT GLARING AT YOU AND TELLING YOU IT WOULDN’T BE APPROPRIATE. EVEN YOUR HUSBAND WAS PRETTY COOL ABOUT THINGS, THOUGH I KNOW HE WAS AFRAID YOU’D BE STUCK WITH US FOREVER.
YOU KNOW THE CASEWORKER DECIDED TO SEND US TO THE GRANDPARENTS WE NEVER MET, DAD’S MOM AND DAD IN FLORIDA. AND YOU KNOW I DIDN’T THINK THAT WAS SUCH A GREAT IDEA. I FIGURED, LOOK HOW HE TURNED OUT. HOW COULD THEY BE ANY GOOD? AND IF THEY DIDN’T WANT TO SEE US FOR THE PAST FIFTEEN YEARS, WHY ARE THEY GOING TO WANT US LIVING WITH THEM NOW? I DON’T THINK I WOULD HAVE COME IF YOU HADN’T TALKED ME INTO IT. (JUST TO LET YOU KNOW—YOU WERE RIGHT. THE MALLS ARE BIGGER DOWN HERE. AND IT’S NOT BAD LIVING WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF A BEACH.) IT TURNS OUT, NANA AND POPPY, MY GRANDPARENTS, AREN’T TOO BAD EITHER. THEY’RE BOTH REALLY LITTLE PEOPLE—TINY AND SHRUNKEN AND OLD. THEY REMIND ME OF THOSE GRANDMA AND GRANDPA CORNHUSK DOLLS THAT WERE ALWAYS FOR SALE EVERY TIME VILLAGE MALL. HAD A CRAFT SHOW. BUT THEY DON’T SIT AROUND IN ROCKING CHAIRS OR ANYTHING. THEY BOTH GO JOGGING EVERY MORNING, AND NANA ASKED ME IF I COULD SHOW HER HOW TO DANCE LIKE MICHAEL JACKSON. (I DIDN’T TELL HER HE’S REALLY, REALLY OUT—IT MUST BE HARD TO STAY “WITH IT” WHEN YOU’RE SEVENTY-FOUR)
NANA AND POPPY WERE ALREADY PRETTY OLD WHEN DAD WAS BORN, AND THEY THINK THAT’S ONE REASON THEY WAITED TOO LONG TO GET WORRIED ABOUT HIM. DAD KILLED THE NEIGHBOR’S DOG WHEN HE WAS IN GRADE SCHOOL, AND POPPY AND NANA THOUGHT, WELL, THAT’S AWFUL, BUT IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE WE WERE KIDS, MAYBE THAT’S JUST WHAT KIDS DO. SO THEN DAD GOT WORSE AND WORSE, BEATING UP OTHER KIDS ALL THE TIME, GETTING ANGRY ABOUT EVERYTHING. BUT HE KEPT FOOLING THEM, DOING SOMETHING TERRIBLE, THEN BEING REALLY CHARMING SO THEY’D THINK, “OH, HE’S ALL RIGHT. HE’LL OUTGROW THE BAD STUFF.” I ASKED NANA WHAT THEY WOULD HAVE DONE, IF THEY’D KNOWN HOW BAD HE WAS GOING TO TURN OUT, AND SHE SAID SHE’S NOT REALLY SURE.