The Dirt Diary (8 page)

I convince my mom to drop me off at Marisol’s house on her way to a PTA meeting. She’s usually not thrilled about me going anywhere on a school night, but she seems distracted today.

“Are you okay, Mom?” I ask as we pull into Marisol’s neighborhood.

“I’m fine,” she answers, twisting her wedding band around her finger. “Just tired.”

It’s like someone took one of our regular conversations and reversed it. Since when am I the concerned one and Mom the quiet one? Next thing you know, I’ll be telling her to have some confidence in herself.

“Rachel,” she says after a minute. “Did you tell Mr. Hammond that your father was coming back?”

I blink at her. I’d forgotten about my little outburst the other night. “Um, maybe?” I expect her to look mad, but instead she just lets out a long sigh like she’s disappointed in me.

“Why would you say that? You know it’s not true.”

Because I don’t want Mr. Hammond thinking he can start hitting on my mom. Because I’m not willing to accept that Dad is never coming back. And a million other reasons, none of which I can say in a way that won’t make Mom go ballistic.

“I–I don’t know,” I say instead.

“I understand things have been hard without your father around, but we’ve been managing on our own, haven’t we?” Her voice is soft and hesitant, like she’s afraid I might disagree with her.

“It’s just…Dad’s changed his mind about stuff before. Remember when he got his real estate license and then he decided he didn’t want to change careers after all?” I cringe, realizing that I’ve just reminded Mom how impulsive my dad can be. “I just mean, don’t you think he might realize he’s made a huge mistake and come back?”

Mom slowly shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Not when it comes to this.” We pull up in front of Marisol’s house. “All right, I’ll be back in an hour or two,” she says, her voice back to its usual volume. It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about my dad anymore.

When I get out of the minivan, Marisol’s front door swings open. I swallow, feeling like I’m entering a dragon’s lair as I go meet her at the doorway.

“Come on upstairs,” she says without her usual greeting smile.

When we get to her room, she rushes over to her desk to turn on some music. Yup, that means a boy-related conversation. Marisol’s mom wants her to save dating for when she’s older, so any talk about boys has to be conducted in whispers. This, of course, goes against Marisol’s policy of always being honest about things, but when it comes to boys, she’s willing to make an exception.

“Angela Bareli said she saw you talking to Steve Mueller in the hallway last week,” she says, pulling me over to sit on the bed.

“Um, yeah, I talked to him.” I look down at her cranberry-colored carpet. “He just wanted to ask me something.”

“And you didn’t tell me! Well, what did he say to you?”

I swallow. Now that she’s flat-out asked me about it, I can’t just lie to her face.

“Rach?” Marisol says, looking me right in the eyes.

I’m powerless. “He asked me to spy on Briana.”

“He
what
?”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just that he’s afraid she might be cheating on him. He wanted me to keep an eye out and let him know if I heard or saw anything suspicious.”

“What a slimeball!”

Okay, that’s crossing the line. “He’s not a slimeball! Briana’s the one who’s a big ball of slime. She’s the one who might be cheating on him.”

“If he has someone spying for him, then he deserves to be cheated on,” says Marisol. Why does she always expect that everyone will be as honest and perfect as she is? “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

I don’t dare look her in the eye.

“Ray-chul?” She draws my name out the same way Mom does when I’m in trouble. “Tell me you’re not really considering spying on Briana.”

It’s no use lying. Marisol can always drag the truth out of me. “You don’t have to try to talk me out of it,” I mumble. “Because I already did.”

“You
what
?” Marisol cries, acting like I just told her I murdered somebody.

I know what I did wasn’t exactly moral, but after everything Briana has done to me, is it really so bad?

“It’s just a way for me to make some more money to put back in my college fund.”

“So let me get this straight,” Marisol shoots back at me. “You’re getting paid to spy on someone so you can replace the cash you
stole
?”

It sounds bad when she puts it like that, but doesn’t she understand that I have no choice? No, she doesn’t, because her parents are still together and can pay for anything she wants.

“You don’t get it, okay? You don’t need money the way I do. If I can go to Florida and bring my dad back, then it’ll all be worth it.”

“Even if it means doing things you know are totally wrong?”

“Yes!” I jump to my feet, something inside me breaking loose. “I’m not scamming innocent people or anything. This is Briana Riley we’re talking about. Why can’t I make money off someone who’s been so horrible to me?”

“Because then you’re just as bad as she is!” says Marisol. “What are you going to do next? Start selling the secrets you’ve been writing in that diary of yours?”

“Of course not!”

She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me. “Maybe I don’t have to worry about money like you do, but that doesn’t mean I’m a spoiled brat. And I’m sick of you acting like you’re some kind of victim!”

“When do I act like that?” We’re face-to-face now, yelling at each other for the first time ever in our friendship.

“All the time! Whenever anyone says the slightest thing to you, you act like your life is over. ‘Poor me, people make fun of me.’ That’s why Briana won’t leave you alone, because you’re an easy target. And the only reason Steve Mueller asked you to spy on her is because he knew you would do whatever he said. You need to grow a spine, Rachel!”

“
You
grow a spine!” Comebacks have never been my thing.

“And this whole thing with your parents. Do you honestly believe you can get them back together? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!”

I can’t breathe. Did my best friend really just say that to me?

When my mouth opens, my tongue’s turned into a knife. “Oh yeah? Well, you need to face facts too. Your clothes suck, and everyone knows it. No one will ever want to wear that crap.”

Marisol steps back like I just punched her in the stomach. Instantly, I regret what I said. It’s not true, not at all. But it’s too late to take it back.

I can feel the tears stinging at my eyes. The last thing I want is to prove how spineless I am by bawling like a baby, so I push past Marisol and tear out of the house.

The sun is setting over the trees as I trudge through Marisol’s neighborhood, the light hitting me right in the eyes. I have no idea where I’m going, and I know Mom will be coming to pick me up soon. But I can’t face Marisol again, so I just keep going and going. Why does it feel like I’m always running away on the verge of an emotional meltdown lately?

Finally, I stop at the corner and plop down on the curb. There are lights on inside the houses across the street, and I can see shadows of people walking around and watching TV. None of them care that Marisol and I just had a screaming fight.

What she said swirls in my head.
Am
I a terrible person for agreeing to spy on Briana? Not only that, but I lied to Steve Mueller about it too.

But Marisol is wrong about my parents. I know they still care about each other. There has to be a way to get them back together, there just has to be. Otherwise…it means my family is really gone.

I’m pulled out of my mopey thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps. At first I think it’s Marisol coming after me, but then I realize the feet are wearing sneakers instead of heels. I turn to see Evan Riley jogging toward me. He’s dressed in basketball shorts and a faded T-shirt, his hair wet with perspiration.

I duck my head, hoping he won’t notice me and just run by, but he’s already slowing down.

“Hey, Booger Crap,” he says, smiling. “I didn’t know you were on my running route.” Even with beads of sweat glistening on his forehead he’s still super cute.

“Hey,” I mumble.

His smile fades. “Are you okay?”

I start to say I’m fine, but what comes out of my mouth is: “My best friend and I just had a huge fight.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You want to talk about it?”

There’s no way Evan wants to hear about my problems, and I’m not sure I want to rehash what just happened. “No, that’s okay.”

Evan shrugs. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

I don’t want him to see me like this, but I realize that I don’t want him to leave either. Having Evan here is better than being alone with my depressing thoughts.

“Sure.”

He smiles and perches on the curb nearby, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “So are you working with your mom to save up for something?” he asks.

I nod.

“Anything good?”

“I hope so,” I say. And before I know it, I’m telling him about my parents splitting up and about me going down to Florida. I leave out the part about lying and cheating my way to get there, but I tell him about my plan to try to get my parents back together. I even tell him about seeing the taping of
Pastry
Wars
with my dad. The words just pour out of me like they
need
to be said.

When I’m done, I expect Evan to make an excuse and run away. I mean, what guy wants to deal with all that drama? But instead he nods slowly and says, “Wow. That’s rough about your parents. I hope your plan works.”

“Yeah, me too. My mom’s been acting so weird. I’m afraid she’s starting to really lose it.” This is the first time I’ve told anyone about how bad things have gotten with my mom. Even Marisol only knows the bare minimum. I’ve been too embarrassed, and too scared, to tell anyone the truth before, but for some reason talking to Evan is easy.

“Your mom seems all right to me,” he says, “but I don’t know her that well. I bet she’ll be okay once things calm down, though.”

“I hope you’re right.” I’m still convinced that the best way to get my mom back to normal is to bring Dad home, but it makes me feel better that Evan doesn’t think she’s nutso.

“I can’t believe you’re going to see
Pastry
Wars
,” Evan says, looking over at me. “I love that show.”

“You do?”

“I watch it whenever it’s on TV, even reruns. Did you see the one where they had to make baklava?”

“Yes! I couldn’t believe the guy put candied honeybees on top as a garnish!”

“So gross,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “I don’t care if you do take the stinger out. There’s no way I’d eat a bee.”

“I know! Did you see the one with the frogs?”

“That’s one of my favorite episodes!”

We laugh about a few other crazy pastry concoctions before Evan turns to me and says, “Hey, I think new episodes are coming back on soon. We should watch them together.”

“That would be fun.”

“Cool. We’ll have to make a plan,” he says just as my mom’s car pulls up in front of us.

“There you are,” Mom calls out the car window. “Marisol said you ran off. I’ve been driving around looking for you.”

I jump to my feet, realizing it’s almost dark out. “Sorry,” I say. Mom’s face has that pinched look that means she’s annoyed. The last thing I want is to get yelled at in front of Evan.

“All right. Hop in,” she says. “We’ll talk about this at home.”

Relieved, I turn back to Evan. Despite the fact that we were just chatting like old friends a minute ago, I suddenly feel awkward around him again.

“Well, it was nice to run into you,” he says.

I nod.

“I’ll see you on Saturday?”

I nod again. Why won’t my tongue just work? I force myself to say something, anything. “Good luck,” I blurt out.

Evan looks surprised. “Thanks?” Then he smiles his little crooked smile, waves at my mom, and starts to jog away.

Only after I’m in Mom’s car do I realize something. Did Evan Riley just ask me out on a date? No, that’s impossible. Isn’t it?

Marisol sits quietly in the corner in homeroom the next day, doodling in her sketch pad. She glances up at me a couple times but quickly looks away. I know she’s waiting for me to go over and apologize, and to tell her she’s right and that I should’ve never agreed to be Steve Mueller’s spy. But can’t she see that I have no choice? And there are things I want to hear Marisol apologize for too. If she isn’t going to make the first move, then I’m not either.

Instead, I take out my Dirt Diary and start pouring my heart out. What started out as a log of cleaning jobs has quickly morphed into a mishmash of crazy ideas and observations, essentially all the things I can’t tell anyone else. The thought makes me feel even more alone.

Needless to say, I’m in a foul mood when I leave homeroom and head off to English. But that all changes when I spot Steve Mueller in the hallway. He’s walking toward me, like he has a million times before, but this time he actually looks at me instead of looking through me. And even though he doesn’t say anything, he smiles at me as he passes by. Steve Mueller smiled at me! In public!

The giddiness only lasts for about an hour, until I see Marisol again in Chemistry class. She and Angela Bareli are huddled together like they have some serious BFF secrets to share. Looking at them makes my teeth clench.

As I head to gym class later in the day, I’m lost in a jumble of thoughts, so it takes me a second to realize that someone’s calling my name.

I turn to see Andrew Ivanoff waving at me, his pale hair shielding his eyes.

“Um, hi,” I say, going over to him.

“Um, hi,” he echoes.

Wow, aren’t we the chatty duo.

“Have you started filming yet?” I finally ask.

He shakes his head. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. You’ve been so helpful. I was hoping…” He pauses and looks at his hands, like human speech has failed him.

“What’s the problem?”

“The zombies are ready, but I’m having trouble with the costumes for the people. I don’t know much about how kids our age dress.”

I take in Andrew’s outfit. Pressed khakis, striped button-down shirt, brown loafers. He’s pretty much dressed like my dad.

“I know the perfect person to help you,” I say, ready to tell him all about Marisol’s fashion skills. Then I remember that she and I aren’t speaking to each other. “Me. I can help you.”

“You can?” Andrew asks, clearly checking out my nondescript outfit.

“Okay, I may not be a fashion guru, but I know enough to make your movie people look like real people. If you want, I can help you brainstorm ideas on Saturday when my mom and I come by.”

He nods, and there’s even something like a smile on his face. “Thank you. You’re really nice,” he says. Then he walks away, and I can see that the back of his neck is flushed red.

As I go to change into my gym clothes, I realize that Andrew is wrong about me. It’s been days, maybe even weeks, since I’ve felt like a nice person.