"Haddix, Margaret Peterson - Dont You Dare Read This Mrs Dunphrey" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haddix Margaret Peterson)

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.
Mom's crying louder now. Those stupid actors in the movie she's watching are talking about true love, like it's something real. I'm going to call Sandy and see if she'll go to the mall with me. Maybe we can take Matt, and he won't have to listen to Mom either.
Don't read this entry, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Aren't you proud of me? This isn't due for two days, and I'm doing my last entry already. I wouldn't admit this to anyone, of course, but this journal stuff isn't too bad. It's better than any of the other homework you teachers make us do. As long as you're not reading this, I can just put down whatever I'm thinking.
I'm feeling bad because I had a fight with Matt this morning. Well, not really a fight, but- a problem. I always help him get ready for school, because Mom's working nights now, at Haggarty's SuperValu. Cash register. She doesn't get home until after we're at school, but I'm not sure if that's when she gets off or just when she
finally gets around to getting in. Anyhow, this morning, Matt was taking a long time eating his Cheerios. It's like he had to eat each one individually. I told him to hurry up. I didn't mean to be mean, but it came out sounding nasty. Like maybe something my dad would say. Matt started gulping down his cereal, and then he picked up his bowl and was going to drink all the leftover milk. Only, he was going too fast, and half the milk spilled down his front.
"Now look what you've done," I said, and this time I really did sound mean. And I didn't care, because I knew that meant he was going to have to change his shirt, and I wasn't sure if he had any clean ones left. There was no way we were going to be able to leave on time.
It would have been okay if Matt had yelled back at me-maybe told me it was my fault for making him hurry. But he just sat there and bent his head down, and I could see his lip trembling. And then these little tears started rolling down his cheeks. His yellow hair was sticking out all over the place, and he had a milk moustache, and he looked totally, totally defenseless. I felt like I'd done something awful like drowning a kitten. Matt's like that-like some little kitten. Or like Bambi. It's like hurting him would be the worst thing in the world.
So I cleaned him up, and found the least dirty shirt in the laundry basket for him to put on. And because I felt so bad, I was really rough with him, and I couldn't get him to stop crying. He was still crying when I walked him to school. And of course we were late-I've got detention for the rest of the week for being tardy. That means I'm not going to be able to pick Matt up after school today, tomorrow, or Friday. So I can't stop worrying. He is seven, of course, which should be old enough to walk home by himself-I was walking hqme by myself at seven-but, you know, somehow he doesn't even seem as old as I was at five.
I hope he's not still crying. The other kids make fun of him, I know they do. Maybe I'll stop at Sackbury's after detention tonight and buy him a bag of Snickers. They're his favorite. At least then he'll know I'm not mad at him anymore.
I tried to tell Sandy about all of this with Matt, and she looked at me weird and said, "Hey, he's just your brother, not your son. Can't you let your mom take care of him for once?" She's still kind of mad at me because I insisted we take Matt to the mall with us on Sunday, and I wouldn't let her shoplift with him around. And there was this great hot pink miniskirt she really, really wanted, but didn't have enough money for.
I don't know why she was so upset. It was no skin off her nose. She just went back and got the skirt on Monday.
Tish,
I appreciate the amount of writing you're doing in here. But do you think that every once in a while you might write an entry
that you would allow me to read? I don't expect you to reveal anything you don't want to reveal, but I would like to know how this journal-keeping is going for you.
Yes, Mrs. Dunphrey, you CAN read this entry.
Well, it's hard to believe that school has been going on for almost an entire month now. I feel like I've learned so much. Ha, ha.
You wanted to know how this journal-keeping is going for me-okay, I guess. I know everyone's complaining about having to do two entries a week. But hey, you're the teacher, right? You could make us do five a week if you wanted, right? (That ISN'T a suggestion.)
I'm sorry, I really don't have much else to say. I'll write more later.
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Geez, was yesterday's entry bogus or what? You shouldn't take it personal or anything. For a teacher, you're not too bad. I mean, you don't yell at us like Mrs. Rachethead does, and you at least try to make things interesting. It's not your fault that none of us really care about Shakespeare or-who's that other guy you were talking about today? Faulkner? Neither one of them has anything to do with my Life, as far as I can tell. Did either of them have a father that left them and a mother that might as well be a zombie? Did either of them have to work at a dumb job like mine, frying up thousands and thousands of French
fries for all the kids who don't have to work? I don't think so.
But anyhow, because you're a teacher and all, I'm not going to write anything for you to see that really says anything. For all I know, you could go tell someone Mom's mistreating Matt and me, just because she's not there to fix us breakfast every morning. Something like that happened to Rachel Samson-she went and told Mrs. Rhodes that her father beat her when she got a D in math, and Mrs. Rhodes reported it to some state agency. Next thing you know, there was some social worker nosing around, asking all Rachel's friends if Mr. Samson molested her. Rachel was so embarrassed, she didn't come to school for a week.
So-I know you're not reading this, but if you were, I'd have to say that you shouldn't feel bad that I'm not letting you read what I really think about.
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I can't believe this happened. I still feel sick. Bud Turner asked me out.
Bud Turner, who I know I've never mentioned here before because he is so gross that I don't even want to think about him-Bud Turner is my boss at the Burger Boy. I mean, he's old enough to be my father, but he still has more pimples than Robbie Richards (the guy everyone calls Clearasil Face behind his back). And he's not that
tall, but he must weigh 200 pounds-you can tell he's eaten way too many Burger Boys and Big Burger Boys in his lifetime.
Bud is just the assistant manager, not the manager, but he acts like he's totally in charge. Last night it was just him and me working, because he sent Charmaine Stewart home when things got really slow. I was cleaning out the shake machine, and Bud came up behind me.
"Tish," he says in kind of a sappy voice. I thought he was just going to tell me something else to do, like mop the floor or wait on a customer- he's big on telling everyone else to do something when he doesn't do anything himself. So I stopped working and looked him right in the face.
"Tish, you're really pretty," he says. "Wanna go see a movie with me sometime?"
"I don't go to movies," I said. Which was a lie, but who cares? I turned around and pretended to be scrubbing real hard on the inside of the shake machine.
"It doesn't have to be a movie," he said. "I'd just like to go out with you."
And I said, "No way, Jose. Not in a million years."
He got mad, of course, and started asking why I had to be so mean about it. It was kind of funny, actually. He was almost begging, like Matt does when I tell him to go to bed and he wants to stay up and watch another hour of TV
I told my friends about it, and Rochelle told me I should file a sexual harassment suit against Bud. Is it sexual harassment if your boss asks you
out? Sandy laughed and said I was being stupid- she said I should have gone out with him. Then maybe I could get off work whenever I want, and maybe he'd make Charmaine clean out the bathroom all the time instead of me always doing it. Sandy said, "You should take advantage of the advantages you have."
Except, I'd rather clean out the bathrooms a million times than go out with Bud Turner even once.
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I am so pissed. The work schedule for the next two weeks was posted today, and guess who got her hours cut back to five a week? Uh-huh- me. And guess whose job it is to make up the work schedule? That's right-Bud Turner's.
I was so mad when I saw the schedule posted above our punch cards, I was shaking. The only thing that stopped me from storming into Bud's office and calling him every name in the book- and then quitting-was that I'm saving up to buy Matt a Nintendo for his birthday next month. Maybe I should have cussed Bud out, anyhow- working five hours a week, I'll never have enough for even the cheapest Nintendo. I called Rochelle and said, "How do you file a sexual harassment suit?" Then Mr. Seagrave, the manager, came out of his office and told me with so many customers waiting, I wasn't allowed to make a personal call.
Maybe I should have picked a better time, but I said I needed to talk to him urgently.
I've always liked Mr. Seagrave-I don't know why he ever hired Bud-but he wasn't very sympathetic. He gave me a whole song and dance about how everybody's hours are being cut back a little, because business has been slower lately- "and if we don't sell burgers, we don't make enough money to pay our employees." Yeah, right. In an hour, I make the equivalent of exactly one Big Burger Boy with a side order of fries (and that's a small side order, too.) I pointed out that Charmaine was still getting eighteen hours a week, and so were four or five other people.
"If you don't like the way things are run around here, you don't have to work here," Mr. Seagrave said.
That was really low. I was all ready to say, "Okay, I quit." It would have been so much fun to just turn around, yank off my apron and leave. But then I thought, "Nintendo. Matt." I straightened up, looked Mr. Seagrave right in the eye and said in my best sweet-talk voice, "I understand that, Mr. Seagrave. Would you mind speaking to Bud anyway?"
And then I did turn around and leave. I was very dignified.
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Surprise, surprise. Bud posted a revised work schedule today and strangely enough, my hours