Ava and Pip (10 page)

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

DEAR DIARY,

I don't know how Pip survives without talking. She may think talking is hard, but
not
talking is so much harder.

I wish I could talk to my parents the way some kids do. Or the way Bea talks to her aunt.

This afternoon, Maybelle and I sat in the library near Pip, Isabel, and Nadifa. Nadifa's hair is even shorter than mine, and she wears two earrings in one ear and one in the other.

Maybelle and I were playing I Spy. Here's what I spied with my little eye: Pip said a quiet hi to Bea's freckly brother! And Ben said a quiet hi back!

Questions:

1.
Is Ben her crush??

2.
Does Pip know that Ben is Bea's brother?

3.
Does Ben know his mother hates my guts?

4.
Does Pip have any idea about all the drama going on?

After the bell rang at the end of the period, I got up the nerve to talk to Mr. Ramirez. Since my story is no longer on the school website, I asked if he could ask Mrs. (Bright) White to take it off the town library website and also take it out of the running for the anthology. He said, “Why don't we call her together?”

I wanted to say, “Can't you just do it?” but he punched in her number. I was hoping a machine would pick up, but Mrs. (Bright) White said, “Hello,” and Mr. Ramirez handed me the phone. I had no choice but to talk!

“Hello, this is Ava Wren, and I'm sorry,” I said, apologizing to my third grown-up in one day. I admitted that I should have given more thought to my stupid story before handing it in and said, “I wish you could just make it all go away.”

Mrs. (Bright) White said she couldn't “just make it all go away,” but that she could remove the story from the library site. “May I ask why?” she said, and I had to tell her that I'd based Queen Bee on Real Bea in a not-nice way. “Well, that's a shame, Ava,” she said. “When you have talent, you owe it to yourself and others to put it to good use.”

I felt like a puppy who'd piddled on the carpet, but I said, “If you have a contest next year, I'll submit a story I can stay proud of.” I hadn't expected to say that.

“All right, it's a deal. I'm looking forward to reading it already.” It was funny that Mrs. (Bright) White was looking forward to reading a story I hadn't started thinking
up
or writing
down
. “And I'll notify the publisher that the author of ‘Queen Bee' wishes to withdraw her story.”

“Thank you,” I said and added some more “I'm sorry”s for good measure.

Believe it or not, after I hung up, Mr. Ramirez apologized to
me
. He said, “Ava, I'm sorry this all got so out of hand and that we didn't discuss your story in the first place. In my day, kids could show poor judgment and their mistakes didn't go on their permanent record.”

“This is going on my permanent record?!” I asked, horrified.

“No, no. I just mean, in the age of the Internet, you have to be extra careful. Mistakes can follow you around.” I pictured my mistakes swarming after me like stinging bees.

I nodded, glad that at least Mr. Ramirez knows I'm
not
a bad person—I'm just a person who did a bad thing.

AVA WHO DOES
NOT
WANT HER MISTAKES TO FOLLOW HER AROUND

IN OUR CAR

DEAR DIARY,

Hi
from the
high
way.

Dad and Pip and I are driving back from shoe shopping. Dad and Pip are up front, and I'm in the backseat—with you.

Bea called this morning and said, “Sorry about my mom.”

I said, “It's okay.” I told Bea that my runaway story had been taken off the school website and library website and that Mrs. (Bright) White had submitted it to be in a book, but I'd asked her to un-submit it.

“Wait. Why?”

“Because I want my story to disappear!”

“Wait a sec, Ava,” Bea said. “I'm glad people in Misty Oaks won't be reading about the evil new seventh-grader named Bea, but I don't care if kids in Alabama or Alaska do. If you can get it published, you should.”

“I don't know…”

“Well,
I
know. If Mrs. White thinks your story is good enough to get into a collection—”

“But it's
not—
”

“Never say no to yourself, Ava! Let other people do that for you. Because who knows? They might say yes.”

I wondered if she'd gotten that from a quote book. “Too late,” I said. “I already told her to withdraw it.”

“So un-tell her! Let's un-tell her together! C'mon, we're biking to the library right now! I'm picking you up in five.”

With Bea, there was no point in even protesting, and minutes later, we were pedaling to Misty Oaks Library.

I was hoping Saturday was Mrs. (Bright) White's day off, but she was at her desk wearing a cream-colored sweater speckled with maple leaves. I asked if she'd withdrawn my story, and she said she was “just about to do so.”

“You can keep it in if you want,” I said.

“Really?” She met my eyes. “What made you change your mind?”

I turned toward Bea. “Remember Bea Bates?” Bea took off her helmet, and her long blond hair came tumbling out.

“Of course! Hello, Bea. I love Bates Books, and I liked your ‘Bookshop Cat' story—especially the bit about the fluffy orange cat who plays favorites among the customers. The competition among seventh-grade entries is quite stiff and…”

“Mrs. White,” I said, “Bea thinks I should keep my story in the running.”

“Really? May I ask why?”

“Bea is a very encouraging person,” I said and looked over at her. Bea stayed quiet and gave me a smile.

“Well then,” Mrs. (Bright) White said, looking at us in turn. “We'll simply leave everything alone and wait to see what the editors decide.”

I thanked her, and we left. But here's the funny thing: I still don't know if I want my Queen Bee story to go into a book…or to just go away.

AVA, AMBIVALENT BUT WITH NEW SHOES

BEFORE DINNER

DEAR DIARY,

This morning, Bea came over and asked Pip if she'd been saying hi to a lot of people.

“Not a ton,” Pip answered and looked at me. I could tell Pip was thinking of spelling out N-O-T-A-T-O-N, and hoped she wouldn't. I didn't want Bea to know how strange our family is!

I nodded to Pip, as if to say, “Don't,” but then I was afraid Pip might tell me not to nod—and spell that out too: D-O-N-T-N-O-D.

Bea said, “I just mean: did you talk to someone new every day?”

“Yes,” Pip said and mentioned the lunch lady, a substitute teacher, and a bus driver. She did
not
mention that some of her someones were boys, and that two did not smile back (in the lunchroom) and one did (in the library).

She also did not mention Ben by name. Is that because he's a boy or because he's Bea's brother? Or does Pip still not know? I'd thought of telling Pip, but since I wasn't sure if that would help or backfire, I didn't.

“Great job!” Bea said to Pip, and we snacked on pretzels.

After a while, Bea checked her cell phone and said, “Gotta go. My parents are waiting for me because we're going to my grandparents for Thanksgiving. I hope I don't get
ill
in
Ill
inois—get it?”

“Got it!” I said, surprised by her wordplay. “You won't!”

Bea handed Pip a fourth assignment.

Week Four:

Compliment one person every day—on anything at all.

After Bea left, I asked Pip if she still thought Bea was bossy. Pip thought about it and said, “Yes, but somehow I don't mind.”

“Same,” I agreed. Because Bea isn't really bossy. More like bold and encouraging and generous.

And she likes us—and we like that!

I went into my room and scooped up two handfuls of Mini M&M's then went into Pip's room with both hands behind me. “Pick a hand,” I said.

Pip pointed. I opened my right hand and dumped the Minis into her palm.

“Yum!” she said. “Lucky guess!”

“Actually,” I said, “lucky is having
me
as a sister!” I opened my other hand and showed her that it was also full of Minis. And I spilled those chocolates into her palm too.

AVA THE ADORABLE

AFTER DINNER

DEAR DIARY,

I found another Pip note in my room. It said, “I know I'm lucky.” At first I was confused, then I realized she wrote it after I told her she was lucky to have me as a sister.

Well, even though it's just four little words and not a bouquet of roses, four words from Pip are a lot.

I was going to throw the note away, but instead I'm taping it right here.

AVA THE ANGELIC

THANKSGIVING MORNING

DEAR DIARY,

As soon as we woke up, Mom said, “Kids, we have a lot to do before everyone gets here. Give me a hand in the kitchen.”

Pip said, “Okay.”

I said, “I don't mind helping, but I need both my hands.” Mom didn't react, so I added, “I'll give you a hand if you promise to give it back.” She still didn't crack a smile. (Do people crack smiles? Or only eggs?)

I wondered if Mom thought I had a bad attitude when I was just trying to be funny.

Finally I said, “What do we have to do?”

“Set the table for seven,” Mom said. “With cloth napkins.”

AVA WITH AN ATTITUDE?

THANKSGIVING NIGHT

DEAR DIARY,

I'm as stuffed as our turkey was, but I'm confused too. My feelings are all jumbled.

Nana Ethel and Aunt Jen and Uncle Patrick flew in early, and everyone gave everyone
hug
e
hug
s.

When Uncle Patrick and Aunt Jen got married, Pip and I got to be flower girls. Aunt Jen didn't want to change her name to Jen Wren, so she kept her own name, which is Jen Honoroff, which sounds like On or Off, which makes Pip and me laugh.

Anyway, Nana Ethel, Mom's mom, asked Dad how his writing was going. Dad said, “Oh, you know, this morning, I took out a comma, and this afternoon, I put it in again.”

Uncle Patrick said, “Oscar Wilde!”

Dad said, “Bingo!” which is a weird word. (It's not like kids go around saying, “Bingo!”)

Dad and Uncle Patrick both love talking about Irish writers. Uncle Patrick once told me about a bunch of monks who wrote one of the first books ever—the Book of Kells. Instead of paper, they used calfskin. Instead of ink, they used ground-up rocks and gems!

When Dad started preparing the turkey, Uncle Patrick asked, “Is the FOWL FOUL?”

Dad smiled and said, “The NOSE KNOWS.” Then he asked Uncle Patrick to hand over some herbs.

“You're running out of THYME,” Uncle Patrick said. “TIME to get some more.”

Dad said, “Homonym jokes are NOT ALLOWED. At least NOT ALOUD.”

They were playing the Homonym Game! I thought Pip and I had made it up, but I guess not. Dad once told me that his father was the original word nerd and “pun pal” of the family. So maybe
he
invented it?

“No one BEATS your BEETS,” Uncle Patrick said.

Pip must have decided to use one of her compliments, because she said, “You guys are funny. Ava and I like homonyms too.”

I was surprised, but Uncle Patrick looked
really
surprised. His bushy eyebrows shot up and practically met in the middle. I think he'd forgotten Pip could talk.

Next thing you know, he was asking Pip about her sketches and schoolwork, and she was answering, and they were having a normal-ish back-and-forth conversation. She even showed him her “portfolio,” and he called her work “very accomplished.” She showed him two book covers she drew for English, and he said, “You've always been such a good reader.”

Well, I wanted him to know that I'm a good writer and I thought about showing him
Winning
Words
or telling him about the
Kids' Eye View
competition, but forget it, no way. I also thought of showing him my spelling tests, but I didn't want to seem desperate. And since I hadn't told Mom and Dad about all my 100s, I didn't see how I could tell Uncle Patrick.

Still, it was
not
easy listening to him praise Pip to the skies.

Who knew that Pip would keep on soaking up all the attention whether people are worried about her or proud of her?

To tell you the truth, it's making me feel upside down.

BEDTIME

DEAR DIARY,

Thanksgiving is over and I'm still mad.

For starters, I did way more cleanup than Pip. I took out tons of garbage—turkey bones and yam peels and pumpkin cans—and
I
got treated like garbage! Well, not garbage exactly. More like Cinderella before the fairy godmother part. No one asked about my life or realized that I deserve some credit for the fact that Pip was blabbing away about hers.

I wanted to invite Maybelle over, but there's some prehistoric rule that Thanksgiving is only for families.

While Pip was at dinner chitchatting with our relatives, Mom kept asking me to refill glasses and clear away dishes. I could tell she didn't want to interrupt Pip. Pip would say something, and Uncle Patrick or Aunt Jen or Nana Ethel would say something back, and it was like a jolly little ping-pong game was going on while I was running around being “helpful.”

You know what? I'm sick of being helpful!

Have Bea and I created a monster? Pipenstein?

I wish I could talk about all this because, not to use a bad word but…#-A-M-M-I-T-I-M-M-A-D.

At dinner, I started to feel like a volcano full of hot simmering lava.

At least I can get my feelings out in you. For a few minutes, I couldn't find you, and I thought I was going to lose my mind. (Lost: one pen, one diary, one mind…)

AVA FULL OF LAVA