The Dirt Diary (5 page)

After we’re done with our cleaning jobs for the night, I convince Mom to drop me off at Marisol’s house so I can have her fix my journal. I expect Mom to yell at me for rushing out of Mr. Hammond’s house like that, but she seems to be in her own little world. She has the radio turned up louder than usual, and she keeps humming along to every cheesy song that comes on. I pray it has nothing to do with the giggling (and possible flirting) I witnessed earlier.

When we get to Marisol’s house, Mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out ten dollars. “Here, for your hard work tonight.”

“Wow, thanks.”

Mom looks like she’s about to say more, but then she just nods and gives me a stiff smile. I wonder if the money is her way of apologizing for what she did to my journal. Or maybe it’s out of guilt for going all gaga over another man right in front of me. After all, getting paid twenty bucks for an entire day of labor and ten for a couple hours’ worth doesn’t really add up.

“Have fun with Marisol,” she says as I get out of the car. Then she starts singing along to another cheesy song as I close the door behind me.

I’m glad to get away from Mom’s weird behavior, but I’m also nervous about seeing Marisol. I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to tell her about my conversation with Steve Mueller without her freaking out about it.

As I go up the front walkway, I spot Angela Bareli sitting on the porch next door, like she always seems to be doing whenever I go over to visit Marisol. My theory is that she stays out there so she can spy on everyone in the neighborhood and gather gossip.

Angela isn’t usually too bad when she isn’t trying to impress Briana, but I still try to avoid eye contact with her as I hurry to ring Marisol’s doorbell. Unfortunately, Angela calls out my name, leaving me no choice but to stop and talk to her.

“Are you doing the bake sale again this year?” she asks.

“Yup. Are you?”

Angela smiles. “Absolutely. Do you know what you’re making this time? Last year was what, pecan pie?”

“Caramel pecan squares.” The best I’ve ever made. I got tons of votes too, but Angela still beat me with her chocolate peanut-butter cookies. I might not love being the center of attention, but I know my food can outshine Angela’s. And that hundred-dollar prize will bring me one huge step closer to getting my family back together. “Not sure what I’m making this year.”

“Well, good luck,” Angela says with a too-bright smile.

“Thanks,” I mumble before rushing away to the safety of Marisol’s house.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Marisol says when she opens the door. “I need your opinion on something.” She waves for me to follow her upstairs.

Marisol’s house isn’t as flashy as most of the other houses in the neighborhood, but it’s still pretty fancy. It feels cozy, though, like it’s meant to be lived in instead of displayed. The couches are plush and inviting, and Marisol’s cat, Chanel, is always nearby waiting for a scratch behind the ears. The walls are painted in bold reds and oranges, and Marisol’s bright handmade quilts hang all over the house. Even though two of Marisol’s brothers are away at college and the third one is almost never home, I can still feel the energy of all those people in the house, so different from my almost-empty one.

When we get to Marisol’s bedroom, I gasp. The most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen is spread out on the bed. It’s red and sparkly and looks like something a movie star would wear.

“Do you like it?” she asks. “I still have to sew on some more sequins, but I think it came out pretty good.”

“It’s gorgeous!” I run my fingers over the cool satin. It’s easily the prettiest thing she’s ever made.

“I’ll have to take some pictures once it’s done and put them online.” Marisol has a website where she posts photos of all her creations. Hardly anyone visits it, but hopefully one day a famous person will see it and want Marisol to make clothes for them. “Now I have to figure out where to wear it,” she adds with a shrug. “I guess I could just wear it to school.”

“No! You can’t waste something like that on a regular school day. It has to be for a special occasion.”

Marisol smiles. “I do have a math test coming up next week.”

“You know what I mean.”

She picks up the dress, and the entire thing shimmers in the light like a disco ball. I can’t stop looking at it until Marisol finally puts it in her closet and shuts the door.

“So what’s new?” she asks, coming to sit on the bed.

I know it’s time to tell Marisol about Steve Mueller. The secret is sitting in my chest like heartburn. But when I open my mouth to tell her, I realize I’m crazy to think I can come clean. If I admit to Marisol that I’m considering spying on Briana, she’ll be so disappointed in me. I’ll tell her later, I decide, after I figure out what to do and it’s too late for her to try to change my mind.

“I need your help,” I say instead, carefully taking my journal out of my bag. I explain what happened and show Marisol the neon tabs.

“Let me see that.” The determined tone in her voice makes me relax. If anyone can put my journal back the way it was, it’s Marisol. She grabs some scissors and other crafty supplies and gets to work. “What’s this?” she asks after a minute.

Oh no. She’s found the Dirt Diary. In all the craziness, I forgot to tear out the pages before giving it to her.

“Just some notes to myself,” I say. “About our cleaning jobs the other day.”

Marisol’s eyebrows keep going up as she scans the pages. “What do you plan on doing with these notes?”

“Nothing. They’re just for me. No one else is supposed to read them.” I think of my mom and how close she was to discovering the diary. “Anyway, I’ll be careful.”

That seems to be enough for Marisol because she gets back to fixing the journal. “So what else has been going on?” she asks.

I tell her about cleaning the Singhs’ house. Both twins were out of the house, so the only sign of them was the dirty laundry all over their room. And yes, I had to pull on gloves and put their smelly boxers into the hamper before I could vacuum. I will never look at the twins again without shuddering.

“Then we cleaned Mr. Hammond’s house,” I say, grabbing a handmade pig-shaped pillow and hugging it tight.

“Was that weird after the whole hallway incident?” she asks, flashing me a sympathetic look. Even Marisol, who’s practically incapable of being embarrassed, still cringed when I told her about my moment of bra-flashing glory.

“Not as bad as I was expecting,” I say. “It turns out he went to school with my mom.”

“Really? I wonder what she was like back then.”

“According to Mr. Hammond, pretty much the same. He was going on about how smart she was.” I know my mom’s big regret in life is not going to college. She took time off after high school to work and save up for tuition, but then she met my dad and had me and college went out the window. She claims having me was a great trade-off, but I can’t help wondering sometimes. That’s probably why she’s always telling me I have to focus on my future. “She was acting pretty weird when we first got there, though, all giggly and stuff.”

“Maybe she was flirting with him,” Marisol says, carefully snipping off one of the tabs.

“No way!” I say, a little too loudly. If even Marisol thinks Mom might have been flirting, then maybe it really is true.

“Well, your mom is single now, right?”

I almost choke. “What? She’s not single. She’s married.”

“I know that. I just mean—”

“Even if my mom was interested in other men, which she isn’t, she’d never be into Mr. Hammond. He’s the vice principal!”

“So?” says Marisol.

“And he wears diapers!”

Marisol puts down her scissors and looks at me like I’ve just turned into an elephant. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t repeat this to anyone, okay?” When she promises not to, I tell her about my discovery in the bathroom. “See, there’s no way my mom would be into him. And anyway, she isn’t interested in anyone besides my dad, so don’t even say that, okay?”

Marisol raises her hands in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just saying that if your parents do stay split up, eventually your mom might—”

“That won’t happen! I’m doing all of this so I can get them back together, remember?”

“Okay, I get it. I’m sorry,” says Marisol. I can tell by the look on her face that she means it, but I also realize that Marisol doesn’t really understand. I wonder if there’s anyone who really does.

In the morning I make sure to pack my journal in my school bag so Mom can’t get her hands on it again.

Marisol worked her magic and managed to get most of the tabs off the pages without ripping them. The ones that did rip, she carefully patched together. I almost cried when she gave the notebook back to me all in one piece. When I got home, I promptly updated the Dirt Diary with details about the houses we cleaned last night. I described Mr. Hammond’s house and his diapers, but omitted my mom’s flirting and what he’d said about my dad. Those weren’t things I wanted to put in writing. I also made sure not to mention anything about Steve Mueller’s offer.

I find Mom paying bills online at the kitchen table. I have to keep my heart from thumping out of my chest as I make some breakfast. Since she’s not trying to choke me to death, that must mean she hasn’t looked at my college-fund balance yet. If all goes well, I still have about three weeks left before I have to grow a mustache, change my name, and leave the country.

When I sit down beside her, Mom lets out a long sigh and murmurs, “I hope we get a check from your father soon. It would really help with expenses.”

I’m surprised to hear her bring up Dad. She’s barely wanted to talk about him since he left.

“Do you miss him?” I can’t help asking.

“Of course,” she says softly, her eyes getting squinty. “But your father expected us to uproot our entire lives for one of his whims. We have family and friends and responsibilities here, and he wanted us to just drop all of that.” Her voice gets louder, and her cheeks start turning pink. “He made the decision by himself, and he can deal with the consequences when it crashes and burns.”

“But would you forgive him if he came back?”
Please, please, please?

“Oh, Rachel. I know you miss your father, but I can’t just take him back unless he’s willing to grow up.”

I’ve heard Mom say that for years, that Dad has to stop acting like a child. My parents never really argued, but sometimes Dad would do something impulsive and drive Mom nuts. Like the time he got me a kitten for my tenth birthday without running it by her first. We had to give it away since Dad didn’t remember that Mom was allergic. He apologized and tickled Mom until she laughed and forgave him. I don’t think that approach will work this time.

“But what if—?”

“Please, Rachel. Enough,” she says, rubbing her temples like our conversation is making her head ache. “And don’t bother asking if you can go visit him again. I told you, your father can’t be counted on.”

Any hopes of Mom changing her mind seep out of me. How on earth am I going to convince her to let me go to Florida once she finds out I’ve bought a ticket? I take a deep breath and tell myself that I’ll figure it out when the time comes. I have to.

“I know it’s hard,” Mom goes on, “but sometimes we just have to move on. That’s what life is all about.”

I don’t think life is about bulldozing your way through situations and not even attempting to make things work, but I don’t want to argue anymore. Mom is mad enough already. If I do manage to get Dad to come home, I want there to be a possibility that she’ll put all that anger aside and actually give him a chance. Otherwise, all the lies I’ve been telling will be for nothing.

I spend all day Friday avoiding Mr. Hammond, which isn’t easy. How did I not notice before that he’s all over the school? Every time I see him, all I can think about (besides adult diapers) is what Marisol said. Is it possible my mom really will start dating again? I try to purge the idea from my head, but it stays stuck there like a piece of old gum.

At least everyone else leaves me alone. Caitlin is still being strangely quiet, and Briana’s in full-on concentration mode for the big softball game this afternoon, so she’s ignoring everyone around her. I used to think everyone has some kind of redeeming quality, but with Briana I’m not sure her talent at softball is all that redeeming. It just lets her chuck balls at people.

My only close call is the sight of one of the Singh twins walking down the hall after lunch. My skin immediately starts itching, like I’m holding his dirty underwear all over again. I dart into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face until the itchy feeling fades. Who knew cleaning people’s bedrooms could be so traumatizing?

I’m relieved when the last bell rings and it’s finally time to go home. That is, until I can’t get my locker open. After a bunch of useless tugging and pounding, I have to ask the janitor for help.

It takes him a few tries with a variety of tools, but finally he manages to saw his way in.

“Looks like it was glued shut,” he says. “Someone must have played a joke on you.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who that was, especially when I find a note in my locker that says: “I’m stuck on you, Rachel. Love, Troy.” My books aren’t ruined, but my fleece is caked with dried glue. And I have to slam my locker three times before it clicks shut. Plus, when I rush out of the building to try to catch my bus, it’s long gone. I’ll have to walk the three miles home. Perfect.

It’s windy out, so I throw on my crusty fleece as I cut behind the school past the softball field. As I hurry along, I can hear people cheering for our team, and someone even calls out Briana’s name. How can she be so evil and still have people rooting for her?

“Look, it’s that maid girl,” a seventh-grade girl says to her friend as they walk by me. They both laugh, and I hear them say something about a sports bra.

Blood pounds in my ears. I hate Briana. When I think about Steve asking me to spy on her, I realize I don’t feel so bad about it anymore. If she can go out of her way to laugh at me and play pranks on me, why can’t I rifle through a few of her drawers? She started the war in the first place.

As another cheer erupts from the crowd, I glance over at the softball field and spot Evan Riley standing by the bleachers. I freeze. Part of me wants to make a run for it so he won’t see me. But another part of me wants to stay put since I’m actually kind of excited to see him again.

After a second, probably feeling my creepy stare, Evan turns and looks right at me. And then he smiles. I suck in my breath like I’ve just been hit in the stomach. I want to run. I want to stay. So I just stand there.

As he comes toward me, I realize I’m still wearing the glue-covered fleece. But it’s too late to rip it off and shove it in my bag.

“Hey, Booger Crap,” he says with a grin. “Are you here to watch the game?”

I shake my head. “Just going home.”

“It’s supposed to be a good one. The other team is the best in the district. Briana’s pitching really well so far.” He glances over his shoulder as the crowd lets out another cheer. “Usually I have baseball practice after school, so I don’t get to see her play much. But the coach canceled today. Are you sure you don’t want to stick around?”

His tone is so friendly that I’m actually tempted to stay, but I don’t think I can handle the sight of Briana. “Sorry, I can’t.”

“Oh well. Maybe another time.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a handful of peppermint candies. “Want one?”

I shake my head. The last thing I need today is to accidentally choke to death on a piece of hard candy.

Evan shrugs as he pops one into his mouth and starts crunching away. Then he gives me a crooked grin. “I steal them from my dad’s office. They’re kind of addicting.”

That explains Evan’s yummy peppermint smell the other day. Oh my goldfish. Did I just call a guy’s scent
yummy
? On cue, my cheeks start to burn.

“Well, I’ll let you get going,” says Evan. “But I’ll see you at my house tomorrow, right?” He sounds so genuine that it makes me relax a little bit.

“I’ll be there,” I say.

“Great, I’ll—”

“Hey, Riley!” another guy says, coming up to us. He has curly blond hair and eyes the color of Windex. (Yup, apparently I’ve started comparing things to cleaning products.) The guy looks me up and down. “Who’s this?”

“This is Rachel,” says Evan. “Rachel, this is Kurt. We play baseball together.”

“Hey,” Kurt says, giving me a little nod, his eyes still on me like he’s trying to see through my shirt. At least I’m wearing normal undergarments today. The old sports bra has been sent off to the dresser in the sky.

His gaze makes me feel so icked out that when I try to say hello, nothing comes out but air.

“Are you mute or something?” Kurt says with a smile that looks more like a sneer. “Or do I just make you speechless?”

I don’t even know how to respond to that.

“Hello?” says Kurt, so loudly that the whole crowd behind us can probably hear. “Anyone home?”

“Wow, Kurt,” says Evan. “I don’t blame her for not wanting to talk to you when you’re being such a jerk.”

“I’m just trying to be friendly. She’s the one who’s acting like I’m not even here.” He leans in and gets right in my face. “You do see me, right? You’re not blind or something? And what’s that crap all over your jacket?”

His hot breath makes my eyes water. I step back, and his smirk tells me what he’s thinking. That I’m a loser. That he doesn’t know why someone like Evan would be talking to me. And of course, he’s right.

“I have to go,” I manage to whisper. Without giving either of them another look, I hurry away.