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

were raised to fifteen a week. It's still not that great, but it's certainly better than five. I felt like doing a victory dance, or something. But then Bud sent me out into the dining room to clean up a table where the whole football team from Gable had been eating-talk about a mess! They'd mixed gobs of ketchup and mustard and used it to fingerpaint on the chairs. And then they'd unscrewed the lids on the salt and pepper shakers and poured barbecue sauce in the shakers and on about fifty napkins ... It took me an hour to clean up. Even so, I still felt good. I told Rochelle about getting more hours, and now she's calling me a "warrior for womankind." Who would have guessed Rochelle-Rochelle, who spends two hours a day, I swear, putting on makeup and curling her hair-who would have guessed she was such a feminist?
I am feeling so very, very good tonight. I brought home a sackful of Burger Boys and fries for Matt and me, and we sat around telling knock-knock jokes. For some reason he thinks every single one is just hilarious, even if it's just something stupid I made up. He laughed hardest at, "Knock, knock-who's there?-Burger-Burger who?-Burger Boy." I don't even know why it was funny, but he was laughing so much I had to laugh, too.
And then Mom looked over from where she was watching TV; and she said, "Knock-knock."
"Who's there?" Matt said.
"No one," Mom said.
That kind of scared me, because Mom had
such a weird look in her eye. But Matt screamed out, "No one who?"
"No one's as funny as you two," Mom said.
And then we all laughed, and it seemed like maybe for once, for the first time in years, everything might be all right in the Bonner house.
Oops-I just realized-I wrote five entries this time. Oh well. Bonus for you. I'll have to watch it-I don't want you thinking I like this journal stuff.
Tish,
Fine. Glad you're writing so much.
Please don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I can't believe I thought things were going to be all right. I came home from school today and Mom was sitting in the rocking chair in the living room, not even watching TV, just rocking back and forth, back and forth. I asked her if she was okay, and she said, "He's back in town."
Of course I knew she meant my dad. "So?" I said. "Who cares?"
That made Mom mad. "Who cares? Who cares? I do. You should-he's your father, for God's sake."
I told Matt to go to his room and do his homework. Matt got all whiny-"I don't want to ... Can't I go see my daddy?" Matt's so young, he doesn't even remember what having Dad around was like. He just has this idea it's like on TV- those "Cosby Show" reruns maybe-where the father's all nice and kind and helpful. Matt should know our mom's not like TV mothers-why should Dad be like TV dads? In the end, I got Matt to leave.
"So what are you going to do?" I asked Mom. I put it just the way I'd put it with Rochelle or Chastity or Sandy, when they're worrying about their boyfriends.
"I don't know . . . What should I do?" Mom said. Same old wimpy Mom as ever. "I've got to see him. Maybe he'll move back in ..."
I just snorted and went to my room. I wished Granma was still alive. She could tell Mom how
dumb she was being about Dad. Of course, Mom didn't listen to her either.
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
It's all Mom's fault-I can't stop thinking about Dad. I've been trying to remember a time when he wasn't mean, when he and Mom weren't fighting, when he wasn't always yelling at someone. And I kind of can. When I was little-real little, maybe two or three-Dad had a job driving a cement truck. I called it a round-and-round truck, and Dad used to laugh about that. In a good way. Like he was proud of me. I remember one time, he took me and Mom for a ride in his round-and-round truck, and we all sat in the cab eating Chee-tos. If I close my eyes, I can almost see us, all laughing, getting the orangy Chee-tos dust all over our hands and faces, nobody caring. I was happy. I think Mom and Dad were, too.
So what happened after that? Any other time I ever remember, if I'd been eating Chee-tos and getting messy, Dad would have been yelling about what a slob I was and how Mom just didn't know how to take care of me. Why'd he have to change?
I do know he got fired from driving the round-and-round truck. It was after that we all came to live with Granma.
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Mom's going to do something stupid, I know she is.
She's missed work the last three nights-I had to call in sick for her, because she forgot to do that. She just sits in the rocking chair rocking, muttering things like, "I could see him . . . It could work . . ." It really wasn't a lie for me to tell her boss that she was sick, because she hasn't been sleeping or eating, and she looks really terrible. I was trying to be funny, and I told her, "Mom, if you do go see Dad, do yourself a favor. Take a shower and put on some makeup first."
I shouldn't have said that, because then she started sobbing, and went running to the bathroom. She locked the door, and I know she was staring in the mirror because she kept screaming, "I'm too ugly for him now ..." Then she had the shower on for almost forty-five minutes. I was half afraid she'd try to slit her wrists or something. The only good thing is, I don't think Mom would ever have the nerve for that.
I've been trying to keep Matt away from Mom while she's acting so scary. Last night I didn't have to work, and I kept Matt at the mall until it closed. He got all whiny-"Ti-ish, can't we go home? My feet hurt." But at least when we did get home, he went to bed and fell asleep right away, and didn't hear Mom at all.
I tried to ask Chastity and Rochelle and
Sandy what they would do if they had my problem, without letting them know how freaked out Mom really is. "Do your mothers ever act weird?" I asked them.
Sandy just kind of snorted and said, "Mothers are made to be weird." And then Chastity started telling this long story about how her mother doesn't like Chastity to use so much hairspray or pouf her bangs up so high, because she thinks it's slutty. That's why Chastity waits until she gets to school to do her hair right.
"No. I mean really weird," I said. But it was lost on them. What'd I expect? All they really care about is makeup and boys. They're no smarter than me. How were they going to have any great answers?
I wish so bad that Granma were still alive. She would know what to do about Mom. Granma used to take care of all of us so well. I remember for a long time after we first moved in with Granma, I was scared of the dark. And Granma would come in every night and say, "What do you think is in the dark that's so scary?" And I'd say goblins, or bogeymen, and she'd wave her arms and say, "They're gone. All gone." And the way she said it, I believed her. I'd smell her old-lady perfume-lavender or lilac, something like that-when she waved her arms, and it seemed like the scent would protect me from any bad
thing. And after a while, I ran out of bad things to be scared of.
Now that I think of it, I don't think Dad was living with us when we first moved in with Granma. That was later.
Tish,
I'm delighted that you finally let me read a "real" entry in this journal. I've felt frustrated seeing almost all your previous entries marked "don't read," because I can tell you're writing a lot. But of course I've wanted to respect your wish for privacy.
Based on this one entry, I think you may have a knack for writing-a knack you've managed to hide in practically everything else you've handed in. Perhaps you've needed the power of a childhood memory to stir you. Whatever, I think you ought to consider trying out for the literary magazine staff here-probably you've seen it, The Lodestar? You could make quite a contribution. Talk to me if you're interested.
You're rather vague here about the problem with your mother (and father?). I don't want to pry, but you know there are lots of people here at the school who are ready and willing to help you with any personal prob-lem(s). You could go to one of the counselors or take advantage of the new Student Assistance Program. Or if you'd feel more comfortable talking to someone your own age, the peer
counselors might help. And of course, I'd be perfectly willing to talk to you, if you want. Just don't assume you have to handle everything by yourself.
Do NOT read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.
I can't believe I forgot to put the "don't read this" label on my last entry. How dumb can I be? So now Mrs. Dunphrey knows I'm having problems. Great. She kept looking at me funny all during class today, and I didn't know why until she handed the journals back and I saw what I'd done. Hey, Mrs. Dunphrey, everyone has problems, okay? Leave me alone.
I'm so embarrassed that she made all those suggestions for where I could go for help. The counselors? Yeah, right. Like Mrs. Herzenberger has time for anyone. Last year when I went in to show her what classes I wanted for this year, the whole conversation was, "Um-hm, um-hm. Okay. Fine. Can you send the next student in?" Or, wait-I'm supposed to go to the peer counselors? That's the biggest joke of all. Everybody knows the peer counselors are the worst gossips in the whole school. Just look at poor Ronda Hartshorn. She talked to Heather Owens and Mitch Ramirez "strictly confidentially" and, funny, next thing Ronda knew, everybody in the school had heard she was pregnant and thinking about having an abortion. Poor Ronda. Even Mr. Tremont tried to give her advice.
So, thanks but no thanks, Mrs. Dunphrey. I can handle my problems all by myself. I may not do a great job, but they stay my problems.
At least I didn't say too much in that last entry. It's just about Granma and the bogeymen
and the smell of her perfume. I guess there are a lot more embarrassing entries I could have let Mrs. Dunphrey read by mistake.
Isn't it hilarious that she thinks I should try out for The Lodestar*? Like Megan Satterthwaite, with her $150 sweaters, would let me within 100 feet of that thing. Like I'd want to hang out with those snobs. Like I even care about writing anything.
Don't read this, Mrs. Dunphrey.