Ava and Pip (5 page)

BEFORE SCHOOL

DEAR DIARY,

So here's what happened: when Bea walked into the library, I tried not to look nervous, scared, or petrified. She saw me and smiled as if she recognized me from our middle school. I did
not
smile back!

Well, the first prize in the sixth- and seventh-grade category went to a boy from an all-boys' school. His story was about a
pen
guin with a
pen
, and Judge Jerry said it illustrated “the extraordinary power of words.” The boy stepped up but did not say a single solitary word, let alone any extraordinary powerful ones. He just got redder and redder (R-E-D-D-E-R and R-E-D-D-E-R) until he sat down again.

“The next honorable mention,” Judge Jerry announced, “goes to seventh-grader Beatrice Bates who wrote a story called ‘Bookshop Cat.' Bea, come on up!” She hopped up, and he welcomed her on stage and asked what inspired her.

She flicked her long blond hair behind her ears and leaned into the microphone and said, “I'm a cat person, and my parents are book people. They own a bookshop.”

I looked at Dad, and he was smiling. Clearly he had
not
put two and two together. Why would he? Nobody realized that the villain in my story was standing in front of our very eyes, basking in the library limelight. I couldn't believe Bea-Bee the two-faced was attempting to come off as a decent person! What a little faker! Everyone (except me) clapped until she sat down, all full of herself.

If only people knew what she was really like!!

Judge Jerry gave the last honorable mention to an eighth-grader named Charona who has lavender braces and wrote “a humorous story” about a timid turtle named Timmy who wouldn't come out of his shell. Charona was there with her parents, grandparents, and even a teacher.

Finally it was time for “punch and nibbles.” A photographer told us “winners” to smoosh together and say, “Stories!” with a big cheesy “eeeeez” at the end. Guess who plunked herself right next to me and started smiling away? Bea! I fake-smiled as well as I could.

Outside, I may have looked happy, but inside, I was worried. If Bea found out about my story, would she punch or nibble
me
? Bea bruises and Bea bites were something I did not want!!

Mrs. (Bright) White tapped the microphone and said, “Thank you all for coming, and don't forget to pick up your free copies of this year's
Winning
Words
.” She pointed to a big stack of sky-blue booklets, which were really just colored paper that got printed on and folded over and stapled in the middle. I started praying that the booklets included only the stories that won-won,
not
the stories that got mentioned-mentioned.

“Every story is in here,” Mrs. (Bright) White continued, “so you're in for a treat. Congratulations again to all our winners and their proud families.”

My heart sank to my belly button. A
treat
? If Bea read my story, I'd be dead
meat
!

I looked over at Bea. She was talking with her parents and brother. He's in eighth grade and has sandy hair and is new in school too (duh). He has as many freckles as Pip and is the kind of boy who's cute if you're the kind of girl who notices. Which I'm not.

Riley's mom asked if she could take a picture for us, and Dad handed her his camera. But it was APPARENT that I was with just A PARENT. Where
were
Mom and Pip?

I get that Pip's favorite place is home-sweet-home (which she's turning into home-sour-home). But they'd told me they were coming!

Riley's mom took pictures anyway, and I tried my best to real-smile, not fake-smile.

Soon I started wondering if we were all taking this contest too seriously. Judge Jerry was making it sound like we were destined to be the next J. K. Rowlings or Judy Blumes, but c'mon, we're just a bunch of kids writing about worms and ponies and bees. Were we like those sports teams where everyone gets a shiny trophy, even if she can't catch a fly ball to save her life?

When Dad and I finally got back to our sweet-and-sour home, Pip and Mom were there. Pip said she'd gotten stomach cramps at the last minute, and Mom said she hadn't wanted to leave her alone. I didn't ask Pip whether it was because of her “stage of life” or her allergy to people. I was just sorry she'd missed the reception and mad that because of her, Mom had too.

Now I'm wondering if, deep down, Mom was a tiny bit relieved that her favorite daughter wouldn't have to listen to a bunch of people clapping for her
other
daughter. Or maybe Mom thought Pip had something serious—like appendicitis? Or that going to the reception didn't matter much because it was just a dumb kid contest, and Dad showed up and besides, I didn't really win?

Secret: it
did
matter!!!

Here's my new worry: What will happen when Bea reads my story? Will
Bea
bea
t me up? Or turn all of Misty Oaks Middle School against me? I wish I'd never entered the stupid contest!

I wish my writer's block had blocked me for real!

AVA IN AGONY

AFTER SCHOOL

DEAR DIARY,

No Bea stings in school. No Bea bites either. Maybe Bea threw away her
Winning
Words
, and my little story won't get me in big trouble?

As for my library booklet, I was going to put it on Mom and Dad's bed, but I didn't want to get disappointed if they didn't like it—or didn't read it.

Besides, since Dad saw Bea on stage, what if he figured things out and instead of being proud of me, started asking questions?

I decided to stash the booklet under my underwear in my dead diary graveyard.

Then I changed my mind again and put it in Pip's room by a sketchpad with a note that said: “For Your Eyes Only, see page 8.” I'd meant to show it to her when I first wrote it.

Speaking
of Pip, she's hardly
speaking
. She brought a book to dinner, but Mom made her put it away.

I wish Pip weren't so moody, or should I say, bad-moody?

I also wish I didn't care. But when she gets down, it gets me down. Her moods are contagious—I'm like a sponge for bad feelings.

AVA THE SPONGE

AFTER SCHOOL

DEAR DIARY,

Bea passed me in the hall today smiling as though we're besties. I half-smiled back because I didn't know what else to do.

Does this mean I can relax? Because when I see Bea, I still feel very jjUUmmPPyy.

It's insane! At school, I worry about Bea, and at home, I worry about Pip!

Tomorrow is Halloween. Maybelle came over, and we played Hangman. I won with “gypsy” because Maybelle wasted five guesses on the regular vowels, A-E-I-O-U.

Afterward, we microwaved marshmallows. At first, it got messy because we nuked them too long. Then we got the hang of it, and we even invented variations like adding jelly beans and chocolate chips.

We also planned our Halloween costumes: we are going as yellow-and-black-striped bumblebees. (
Not
queen bees!)

Tomorrow I am not going to think about anything except candy. Candy. Candy. Candy. Candy. Candy.

Sweet!

AVA WITH AN APPETITE

HALLOWEEN

DEAR DIARY,

Halloween can also be spelled Hallowe'en because the
e'en
stands for “evening.” Dad said it's from All Hallows' Eve—which is the night before All Saints' Day, which is when ghosties go floating around. (Not really.)

Pip is staying home tonight to help Mom give out candy.

I invited Pip to trick-or-treat with me and Maybelle. Mom didn't even have to ask. But I didn't beg her or anything. If Pip wants to be antisocial, that's her problem, not mine. I mean, it's not my fault that she's not
outgoing
and doesn't like
going
out.

Observation: all year long, parents say, “Don't eat too much candy,” but on October 31, no one cares.

Here's my two cents on that:

1.
Y-A-Y

2.
M-M-M

AVA IN COSTUME

1:11

DEAR DIARY,

Today's date and time would be a number palindrome (111111) if you left out the dash and dots, which no one does, so never mind.

I reread what I wrote yesterday: “If Pip wants to be antisocial, that's her problem, not mine.” But that's not totally true, is it? When one family member is sick or stressed or writer's-blocky, it affects everybody. Or
infects
everybody.

Like right now, I feel like saying, “Hey, Pip, did you read my story?” or “Hey, Pip, want to watch a movie?” But she'd just say something gloomy, so I'm being as quiet as she is. We're like
two
mice!

I feel bad for Pip, but I also feel like yelling at her again!!

Last night after trick-or-treating, I was going to show her my bag of candy, including some palindromic Milk D-U-Ds and Blow P-O-Ps, but I didn't want to make her feel worse about missing a fun night. Later, Mom went in, and they talked for a long, long time. That made me mad, because I'd set aside five red licorice sticks—Mom's favorite—but I fell asleep before she came to say good night.

Things are too quiet around here. Personally, I don't like living in the House of Silence. We're the Wrens! We're supposed to be singing!

AVA WREN, SONGBIRD

SUNDAY NIGHT

DEAR DIARY,

Dad gave us snack money, so Pip and I biked to Taco Time, which is four blocks away. We rode past the yellow, orange, and red trees, and I tried to remember the last time we even went. We used to go every week!

The first time was last spring. Dad was tutoring a high school junior, and Pip and I were starving, so he handed us $14 and said, “Take care of each other.” And off we went—all by ourselves.

Today when our tacos came, I saw a Toyota out the window, so I said, “A Toyota!” (A-T-O-Y-O-T-A). Pip was supposed to reply, “A Toyota's a Toyota!” (A-T-O-Y-O-T-A-S-A-T-O-Y-O-T-A), which is our family's new inside joke. But she didn't.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Why wouldn't I be?” she said. And I realized that the person I really wanted to yell at is Queen Bea. Just thinking about that girl drives me 100 percent
crazy
!

Pip must have read my mind, because she said, “Hey, Ava, I meant to tell you, I liked your story.”

“Really?” I tried to sound casual.

“Yes. It was funny. And I know you meant well.” I waited for her to say more about my way with words or how she was glad I'd trashed her archenemy. “But I wonder what Bea Bates is going to think,” she continued. “She might freak out. She
is
a real person, after all.”

Well, that made me so nervous, I forgot to hold my taco properly, and the beef and sour cream insides came sliding out and plopped onto the table and some splattered onto my lap.

Did I really pick a fight with a popular seventh-grader? How could I be so dumb?

“Maybe she won't read it?” I said. “At school, she always smiles at me.”

Pip shrugged.

AVA THE DOOMED

AFTER SCHOOL

DEAR DIARY,

I passed Bea in the hall this morning, and she did
not
smile at me. She gave me an odd look.

I spent the rest of the day trying not to panic.

In language arts, I finally got a little distracted because Mrs. Lemons was talking about “perspective” (which she said is like “point of view”) and was going over spelling words (including the bonus word “throughway”). She said there are many ways to pronounce “ough,” and on the board, she wrote:

1.
“oo” as in thr
ough

2.
“oh” as in th
ough

3.
“uff” as in en
ough

4.
“off” as in
cough

5.
“aw” as in
ough
t and

6.
“ow” as in b
ough

I said, “That's so cool!” at the same exact time that Chuck said, “That's so complicated!” Everyone laughed. Even Mrs. Lemons.

At home, I wanted to tell Dad about the “ough” thing, but he and Pip just went out to buy groceries.

Probably pretzels and mangoes.

EY•VUH

A LITTLE LATER

DEAR DIARY,

The phone rang, and instead of checking caller ID, I picked up like an idiot. I thought it would be Dad, and I was going to ask him to buy some grapes.

“Hello,” I said.

“Is this Ava?”

“Yes…” My heart started doing flip-flops because I thought I recognized the voice.

“It's Bea. Bea Bates.”

I didn't know whether to hang up, apologize, defend myself, or say, “Wrong number.”

“Hi,” I mumbled.

“Hi,” she repeated. Why had I picked up? Pip never picks up! She lets the machine take messages unless it's Dad or Mom or me.

“First of all,” Bea began, “I don't have a big nose.”

I was torn between saying, “I don't know what you're talking about” and “Poetic license.” Dad says writers get a “poetic license” when they exaggerate to make a point.

“Second, I don't have a pool or a lifetime supply of Popsicles.”

I kept quiet.

“And third, I am not rude, but your story was.”

“Rude?” I repeated, which meant that so far, all I'd said was: “Yes,” “Hi,” and “Rude?” I'd heard of one-liners, but never one-worders. Bea was making me as tongue-tied as Pip!

“Why did you write about me like that?” she asked.

“My story isn't about you! It's about a girl with a big nose and a big pool…” Suddenly I was glad no one was home, because I didn't want Dad or Mom or Pip to hear me trying to defend my story.

“Named Bea? Who's new? Ava, don't insult my intelligence.”

I went quiet again. I didn't want to insult her intelligence, but I didn't want her to insult me either.

“You know what? Maybe you're right,” Bea continued. “Your story is
not
about me. But you should think twice before you set out to ruin someone's reputation.”

“Well,
you
should think twice before you set out to ruin someone's birthday!” I blurted, surprising myself. “My sister still hasn't gotten over it!”

“Excuse me? How was I supposed to know your sister was having a party that day?” Bea asked. “I barely knew she existed! If she or her friends had said something, I could've invited her. No big deal. So blame Pip, not me.”

“Wait. You're saying it's
Pip's
fault you stole her friends?!”

“Stole her friends?! Ava, you're in fifth grade, right? When you're my age, you'll realize that friends aren't objects you can steal. I'm friendly, so I have lots of friends. Your sister is unfriendly, so she doesn't. To be honest, when I first met Pip, I thought she was a snob because she keeps to herself so much.”

What?! Did Pip really come off as a
snob
? Do some people think she doesn't talk because she thinks she's too good for them? “You shouldn't say mean things about someone you don't know!” I said and started pacing around our living room with the phone at my ear.

“You shouldn't
write
mean things about someone you don't know!” she shot back. “And I'm
not
a queen bee.
You
are a drama queen!”

“Me?”

“You! What was my big crime anyway? Throwing a party? Because
yours
was jumping to conclusions and writing a malicious story.”

I stopped pacing and quickly looked up “malicious” on Dad's computer.

The dictionary said “intending to do harm.”

Whoa. Had I
intended
to do harm? I felt dizzy. My Queen Bee story was supposed to be about kindness, but was the story itself
unkind
? Was
I
? I was starting to feel like a rotten potato.

“Ava? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I said, and mumbled “I'm sorry” into the phone.

“Sorry you wrote what you wrote, or sorry I found out?”

“Both,” I replied before realizing that was
not
the best answer.

“Well, you
should
be! How would you feel if I wrote a story about a mean fifth-grader named Ava?”

“Bad.”

“Exactly. And for your information, when you write something down, it doesn't go away. It's not like talking on the phone.”

I nodded, but since we
were
talking on the phone, I forced myself to say, “Okay.”

“But don't you see? That's my point: it's
not
okay. From now on, whoever reads your story at school will think less of
me
or less of
you
.” I hadn't thought of it that way and slumped into Dad's chair. “For the record,” she continued, “I had to read your story three times just to be sure I wasn't being paranoid.”

I pictured Bea reading 400 x 3 = 1,200 of my words. If it had been a regular story, I would have felt incredibly proud. Instead I felt like a potato with mold all over it.

How many other copies of
Winning
Words
were out there for me to worry about. Forty? Fifty?

I went upstairs and into Pip's messy room, holding the phone to my ear. The sky-blue booklet was on her desk, and I picked it up.

“I finally asked Isabel about it,” Bea was saying, “and she explained everything. I just wish she'd said something then! Or that your sister had! I gave that party to make friends, not enemies.”

I carried
Winning
Words
into my room and stuck it in my dead diary graveyard where it could keep my underwear and my Loser Words company.

“Ava, are you even there?”

I said, “Yes,” but didn't know what else to say because I was starting to see things from Bea's side. I was about to mumble “Sorry” again when she said, “My aunt said I should call you, so I did. But that's it. We're done. I just wanted to give you a piece of my mind.”

I pictured myself holding a piece of Bea's mind, which was a pretty disgusting image, to tell you the truth.

Bea hung up and I did too. But I wished I'd apologized better.

I also wish I
weren't
alone in the house anymore, because right now I'm feeling alone in the world.

AVA, ALONE AND APOLOGETIC