Between Safe and Real

REAL 1

This may be a new journal, but nothing much ever changes. Mama's yelling at Daddy again—big freaking surprise. The moment she raised her voice, Bobby and Leesh took off, and I can’t say I blame them. If I weren’t grounded to my room, I’d have made myself scarce, too. Bobby’s under the back porch, probably trying to dig a hole to the center of the earth. I know because that’s his favorite spot to hide whenever Mama yells. Besides, I dare anyone to show me a six-year-old who doesn’t love the idea of digging a hole to the center of the earth.

I'm pretty sure Leesh is under the tree behind the house. Lately, she’s been spending a lot of time out there, lying on the grass and staring up at the leaves. I should probably ask her again if something’s bothering her, but the last time I asked, she told me to go away, huffed off to her room and slammed the door. I wonder if she’s about to get her first period. After all, I was twelve when I got mine, and she just turned thirteen. If that’s what’s going on with her, it makes sense she’s crabby.

Does it make me a bad person that I don't even want to know why Mama's screaming? All that matters to me is she’s not screaming at me. I know I’m ugly, but she makes it sound like I’m some kind of disgusting mutant. Sometimes, when I accidentally see myself in the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth or putting my hair in a ponytail, I think she’s right. My nose is crooked, and my eyes always have raccoon circles so dark you can’t even tell my eyes are brown. Not that it matters, since Mama says my eyes are the same color as Sammycat’s poop. She can be mean to all of us, but she only says crap like that to me. Until the day I die, I’ll never understand what I did to make her hate me so much.

Get out of my sight, Zoe. Looking at you makes me sick. No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend. What boy would ever be caught dead with you? I swear to Jesus on the cross, your hair’s the exact same color as old dishwater, and for the life of me I can’t understand why you don’t shave it all off. You’re so skinny, if you did shave it, everyone would think you had cancer. We could set up one of them online fundraisers and rake in the cash.

Honestly, I think Daddy's gone so much because he figures she'll yell at him the same as me if he's home. I get so mad at him for being gone all the time, but he has a family to support so I can't stay angry too long. I just wish he had a job where he came home every night like he used to instead of driving a semi and being gone for a week or more at a time. I wish I could disappear, too, but someone’s gotta take care of Leesh and Bobby. Besides, like Mama says, if wishes were fishes, the sea would be empty. I don't even know what that means, but it seems fitting, somehow.

Mama doesn't know I found out she's been reading my old journal. I took care to hide it some place I thought she'd never find it—way back on the top shelf of my closet, wrapped up in my favorite shirt from three years ago. When I came home from school one day last week, the diary wasn’t in the right place, and the shirt was jumbled around the diary instead of folded around it the way I do. It had to be Mama, because Leesh is too honest to snoop. She’s serious about her privacy and would never violate mine.

Bobby doesn’t even know about my diary, but if he somehow found out about it and got it in his head to look for it, he couldn’t reach the hiding spot. When I look back on how Mama acted between when I found the journal in the wrong spot and when I made my last entry, I realize she had been asking all sorts of nosy questions that fit with my entries. Do I have a crush on anyone—that kind of stuff.

She never asks me how school was or why I don't invite friends over. The only time she shows any interest in me at all is if she wants something or is screaming at me, so why in the world did she bother looking for my diary? What a stupid question, Zoe. Duh. She went looking for it to find proof I think she’s a shit mom, so she doesn’t have to feel guilty about the way she treats me. I'm glad I listened to my instincts that my diary wasn’t safe, and I never wrote about her in it. Thankfully, it was just full of stupid boring stuff, like what I had for lunch or that we had a substitute teacher in English.

There's no way she'll ever get her hands on this one. Every time I leave the house, it’ll come with me. I carry my backpack everywhere anyway, so she won't even notice I have another notebook in it. It’s a relief to finally have a place where I can be honest. I’m still gonna write in my old diary now and then, though. Now that she knows about the first diary, I know she’ll check it every chance she gets and if I stop writing in it, she’ll become suspicious I have a new one and will tear my room apart to find it.

I swear, I’m not being all dramatic with this kind of talk. It seems like at least once a month she gets mad and goes through my room, trashing it worse than a tornado ever could. With luck, she’ll get bored by all the pointless entries in my old diary and will stop snooping. Maybe then I can go back to hiding my journal in my room like a normal fifteen-year-old instead of having to sneak it out of the house under my shirt or in my backpack every time I leave.

If wishes were fishes...

SAFE 1

Dear Diary,

There’s this girl in History, Cheryl, who’s been trying to talk to me. I seriously can’t think of a single reason she’d want to be nice to me, because she’s the exact opposite of me in every way. Smart as hell, blond hair that bounces when she walks, unlike my nasty dishwater hair. She’s popular and nice, and I can see why everyone likes her, but what’s the point of making friends with the popular girl? Keeping to myself is lonely, but it makes all the moving easier. I mean, it seems like such a waste of time to make friends when we’ll probably move again before the end of the year.

Man, seeing it written out like that makes me sound so ungrateful, when that’s not how I feel at all. Yeah, moving a lot is really, really hard sometimes, but it’s also worth it. Kids like Cheryl have been stuck in the same small town their whole lives and, honestly, I feel sorry for them. Me and Bobby and Leesh have seen so many interesting things and have more experiences in one year than they have in their whole lives. I wish I could take credit for that point of view, but all the credit goes straight to Mama.

She’s the one who helped me learn to love being what she and Daddy call a nomad, which is someone who’s truly free. Nomads don’t feel bound to any one place but jump around from place to place whenever they want. Mama says sometimes she and Daddy get wild hairs up their butts and they just know they’ll die if they don’t pack us up and chase a new adventure. I can’t say I understand that feeling, but I don’t care where we live as long as we’re together. And I’m all about doing whatever makes Mama happy.

Now, I could never imagine any other kind of life. It’s not that I wouldn’t like a group of friends, or heck, even just one friend, to hang out with, but even if I knew we’d never move again, I know I’d never fit in with the kids here. They’re all swimming in money and have been in their friend groups since preschool. They could never understand going to ten schools in ten years like I have. I learned years ago to say yes when kids ask me if my dad’s in the military because it’s easier than explaining how some families just like the way the wind pushes their backs and encourages them to explore new places. Well, it’s not like we’re living on the streets, but we don’t have money to spare, either.

But if I’m being totally honest, I have to admit out of all the houses we’ve ever lived in, I adore this one best and can almost imagine staying here until I go away to college. For the first time in ages, Leesh, Bobby and I don’t have to share a room, but that’s not what I love so much about it. I love how different it is. It has to be at least a hundred years old, and it’s no McMansion like so many other houses around here. It’s old and drafty, and you can’t even roll over in bed without the whole house creaking. I like to pretend I’m living in a haunted old house in the mountains. Don’t get me wrong, diary, I’m not complaining at all.

Who cares if we don’t have a swimming pool, or the hot water only lasts long enough for one shower? This old house is pure perfection, drafts, and all. Plus, I could get used to having my own room, even if I do get a little scared all alone sometimes. I don’t believe in ghosts, but it’s fun imagining what kind of ghosts would haunt our house and I end up scaring myself. I read once that ghosts don’t like to be in the same room as cats. Even though I know there’s no such thing as ghosts, I’m still glad Sammy likes to sleep with me.

Anyway, when Cheryl from History tries to talk to me, it’s easy to let my imagination run wild, especially since I have my own room now. I like to think about how awesome it’d be to invite a group of girls over for a sleepover. I’d tell them all about the ghosts that wander the house at night, and we’d eat entire mountains of popcorn and scare ourselves silly. But that’s just a fantasy, not reality. The reality is, even if Cheryl really is a nice person trying to chat with the new girl, I don’t have time for frivolous things like sleepovers.

Like Mama says, I need to keep my head on the ground and my shoulders out of the clouds. I think she’s mixing up two sayings there: Keep your feet on the ground and head in the clouds. But even mixed up, it still makes sense. I need to focus on the things that are real, like making sure the kids finish their homework, and helping Mama with the chores, especially when she has one of her headaches. There will be plenty of time for the extras, like going to the mall or a horror-movie marathon when I’m older. Plus, who knows how long we’ll stay here? The wind has a way of changing directions and taking us with it. As interesting as it is to move around and experience new places, it makes it hard to have friends.

Okay, enough stalling. I have English to do. Luckily, that's all I have for tonight, so maybe I'll get a jump on stuff that's due later in the week.

SYNT (see ya next time!)

REAL 2

I'm exhausted. All I want is to close my eyes and float into sweet darkness, but every time I try, my brain replays what happened, over and over. I wish sleep could steal my memories. Or I could drift off and when I wake up, I’ll discover I've been living a nightmare for the last fifteen years. Dream on, Zoe. Dream on. Since I can’t sleep, I’ll write.

We were at Ikea, and Mama lost her damn mind. I don't even know what happened. Well, that's not totally true. I felt the tension building in her all day. She woke up with all this nervous energy, and she sort of buzzed around the house trying to do things, but not really focusing on anything. She plugged up the sink and ran the faucet to do the dishes, then got the vacuum from the hall closet.

When I walked into the kitchen, the mountain of fluffy, white bubbles covered the spout, and water flowed to the floor. I ran to turn off the water, rolled my sleeves up, and winced as I plunged my arm into the sink to pull the plug. She ran it on pure hot. When I finally yanked the plug, little wisps of steam rose from my arm like wildfire smoke. I grabbed a dirty towel from the hamper to sop up the mess on the floor. Sometimes I wish we had a laundry room, but today, I was glad the laundry room and the kitchen are in the same place.

The vacuum roared to life as I dropped the towel into the washer and topped off the load. After I started the washer, I noticed even though Mama turned the vacuum on, it wasn't making the usual back-and-forth sound it makes when it's moving. Instead, it had that high-pitched sound it makes when it's standing still. Mama hates that noise. She hates pretty much every sound except her own voice, but the vacuum standing still is one of her most hated.

If I leave the vacuum running without pushing it for even three seconds, she always says the same thing, Zoe Dawn Wilkes! If I have to endure the screeching of that vacuum, it damn well better be moving.

When I came into the hall, sure enough, the vacuum was on, but Mama was nowhere to be seen. A little ball of cold dread plunked down to my stomach. I turned off the machine and debated whether or not to go looking for trouble... I mean, Mama. In the end, I decided it’d be best to leave things alone. Whatever she was up to, I was damned sure I didn't want to be involved. I went back to the kitchen and rinsed the leftover bubbles down the sink.

Shit, she's awake for some reason. I'll write more when I can.

SAFE 2

Dear Diary,

Cheryl invited me to sit with her at lunch today, and guess what? I actually did! Instead of making up some stupid excuse and hiding in the library or bathroom, I took her up on her offer and sat with her. She waved at her group of friends as she led us away from her usual table to a less crowded one. I think I love her for that. It was hard enough to come up with things to say to one person, forget about a whole table full of her friends.

I know I don't fit in with her crowd—the McMansion kids. The beautiful, smart ones. The ones who run for Student Council President and actually win. Not like the time I ran for secretary and got a grand total of four votes. God, how humiliating. I’ve never been more relieved to move to a new school than I was that year.

I usually enjoy my quiet lunches. Nobody bothers me while I look at the world and people around me. Today was interesting, though, because sitting with Cheryl gave me a front row seat to the Hormonal Teenager Show. I've concluded that teenagers are weird. I know, I know. I am a teenager, but most of the time, I feel more like an alien scientist, beamed down and given the body of a fifteen-year-old girl so I can blend in with the local wildlife and study them without being observed. I once read an article that said when someone is being observed, they change their behavior, even if they don't realize they're changing it. That's why I'm incognito, in teen-girl form.

Now, before you go calling the ambulance and having me committed, obviously, I don't really believe I'm an alien scientist. I just think it’s a fun thing to imagine. Then again, maybe you should consider having me committed. After all, I'm talking to some imaginary you as if anyone will ever actually read this and worry about my mental health. I guess sometimes, it's easier to write like I'm telling a story to someone rather than relaying a bunch of boring facts about my day.

Speaking of which, I gotta run. Algebra won't do itself. SYNT!

REAL 3

I'm back. Not two minutes after I stopped writing, Mama came into my room. My light was off, and I pretended to be asleep, so she'd go away, but she didn't. She sat at the foot of my bed for a few minutes but didn't talk to me or touch me or even check to see if I was really sleeping. It was weird. No, not weird. Creepy. She just sat there, her head in her hands, for like five minutes. Then, she got up and left. I’m sort of freaking out about it.

How often does she come into my room at night? What the hell did she want? Of course, I can't ask her because then she'd know I was awake, and she'd yell at me for ignoring her. Mama hates to be ignored. When she says, jump, I'm not even allowed to ask, how high? She expects me to jump without question and all I can do is hope I'm jumping right. And do it immediately, or she assumes I’m ignoring her, and she goes bat shit.

Anyway, back to what went down at Ikea. After I turned off the vacuum, I left it where it was because I figured she'd probably come back for it and would get mad if I moved it. Maybe I should have vacuumed for her, but I didn't want to mess up her plan. It's like that a lot. Somehow, I magically need to know what she wants me to do, like I’m psychic. I went back to the kitchen to do the dishes, then curled up on the couch to catch up on my English reading. After a while, Mama came buzzing in with her nervous energy bubbling over like a pot of rice over too much heat.

She’d been getting cleaned up. Mascara clumped on her lashes and bright red lipstick screamed on her normally naked lips. Her from-a-bottle blond hair, which she hardly even remembers to brush most days, was styled and wavy. And I’d never even seen the tight jeans and black boots she had on. Her attempt to get all dressed up made her look like she was on her way to some hole-in-the-wall bar, and between you and me, it embarrassed me.

I'm bored! Let's go do something.

Oh, no. Going out with her when she has this kind of energy is always a bad idea.

Wow, Mama! You look so pretty! But it's so hot. If we drive somewhere, your hair will fall. I hoped she'd remember the van still doesn't have working AC, and how she hates to be sweaty. And more than that, how much she hates driving. No such luck. Storm clouds gathered to make her dark brown eyes almost black, and she stomped one foot on the floor like Bobby used to when he was a toddler.

You're ashamed of me, aren't you? She stepped toward me, and I jumped up from the couch.

Of course not! All the girls at school are jealous their moms aren't as pretty as you. I knew exactly the right lie to tell.

She smiled and twirled her brittle hair around her finger. Really?

Totally. There was no way to avoid it. If I didn't want her to go all Mt. Vesuvius on me, I had to go along with her plan and go out. Let me round up the kids.

And that's how we ended up at Ikea, even though I knew it was the worst idea ever.

Of course, traffic was bad. Traffic is always bad around Dallas. For the life of me, I’ll never understand why she sometimes gets it in her head to drive on the highways when even driving on surface streets makes her freak out. By the time we pulled into the ginormous parking lot, Mama's hair was a smooshed down mess from the humidity and the wind.

Mascara and eyeliner smeared around her eyes like the raccoon’s mask she always says I have. Her face shimmered with sweat, and her hands trembled as she pushed her damp hair off her forehead. She barely looked like the same person who stood in the living room an hour earlier. It’s a miracle she didn’t either cause an accident with her erratic driving or pull over and demand I drive the rest of the way, even though I don’t even have my learner’s permit yet.

I shivered and wished I’d thought to bring a sweater when we walked into the air-conditioned store. People swarmed around us, and I grabbed Bobby's hand to keep him from wandering off. Mama's eyes glazed over, and she sort of disappeared inside herself, right there in the entryway.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice light. Where to? I asked, hoping to pull her back from herself. She’s the one who wanted to come to Ikea in the first place, and when we get here, she shuts down. Typical. How about we get the kids something from the cafe?

Bobby smiled his missing-teeth smile at me. I'm hungry! Can we get a cinnamon roll, Zoe? How do you say no to a kid who pronounces cinnamon thinnamon?

Mama yanked Bobby's hand from mine. Why are you asking her? Is she your mother?

He stuck his thumb in his mouth and looked down at the floor.

Didn't Zoe feed you and your sister breakfast? No, of course Little Queenie didn't feed you. I have to do everything myself! Her voice bounced off the polished floors, but nobody looked at us. Or, if they did, they did a good job of pretending they weren't.

I ignored the bit about me not feeding the kids breakfast. Of course, I did, but it's best not to contradict her.

It's okay, Mama. Cinnamon rolls are only a dollar, and I found five dollars on the way to school yesterday. Finding five bucks felt like winning the lottery, but I’d gladly give up a million dollars to keep her from flipping out in public.

The hardness dropped from her face, and she smiled like a little girl looking at an expensive doll in a toy store.

You have money, Zoe? Maybe I could get a roll, too?

She's always acting like she's the kid and I'm the mom. It's weird, and it makes me feel gross in a way I don’t understand, but what could I do? If I told her I was trying to save every penny I find for an actual emergency, she'd throw a crybaby fit. I bought two cinnamon rolls. Leesh and Bobby shared one and Mama had the other.

Don’t you want any? Leesh asked.

No, my stomach’s a little wonky. Thanks though. A harmless enough lie to cover up the truth. I can’t stand sharing food with Mama. Once, when I was maybe seven, she brought me and Leesh cups of bright green Kool-Aid on a hot summer day, which was totally not like her. As I was about to take a drink of mine, I looked down and noticed a little island of white foam floating at the top of my cup. I snuck a look into Leesh’s cup and didn’t see the foam. My stomach did somersaults as it occurred to me Mama might have spit in my Kool-Aid to punish me for having the TV up too loud earlier that morning and I claimed it was an accident when I spilled it. From that day to this, I’ve never completely trusted anything she touched again.

Mama laughed and shoved