NOTES FROM GIRL X
CAUTIONIII WEBSITE UNDER CONSTRUCTIONIII
Day 6, 8:36 p.m.
The magic counter on the Girl X website still stands at 000001. If you are reading this now,you are 000002 or above. If you care enough to e-mail me, I can explain anything you’re about to read that doesn’t make sense, such as:
a. why I went to Paulette Litzger-Gold’s funeral;
b. why I wrote down what happened afterwards; and
c. why you should care.
One more thing. My name is Nicole.
The bus ride home from Paulette’s funeral took forever. I found my mom in the kitchen unpacking groceries while she talked business on her cell phone. All I cared about was finding my little sister. I found her standing in front of my mirror, modeling my favorite sweater and my new earrings.
“I was only borrowing them,” she said quickly. “You don’t even take care of your stuff, anyway.”
I sat on my bed. “You want‘em?”
She was beyond stunned. “What?”
On second thought, I really loved that sweater. “You can keep the earrings.” I held out my hands for the sweater, and she gave it to me.
“You’re actually giving me your new earrings? Why would you do that? You hate me:”
“I don’t hate you.”
Little Bit folded her arms. “There has to be a catch:”
“There is.”
I knew it.”
“Little Bit, tell me one thing you want from me more than anything else in the world. I’ll do it and throw the earrings in for free, if you do one thing for me.”
“What?”
“Come somewhere with me for a couple of hours.”
Little Bit looked skeptical. “That’s it? That’s all?”
“That’s all. Name the one thing you most want from me.”
Little Bit bit her lip. “You can’t laugh. Promise.”
“I promise.”
“What I want is for you to call me Elizabeth.”
How could I not have realized it meant so much to her? “Elizabeth,” I said. “All right, Elizabeth. Let’s go.”
A half-hour later, Elizabeth stared out the window as our bus stopped at a light. “How much farther, Nicole?”
“A little ways.”
“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?”
Instead of answering, I said, “ ‘I never utter my real feelings about anything.’ ”
Elizabeth looked confused. “You don’t?”
“ ‘My lighter, superficial side will always be too quick for the deeper side of me, and that’s why it always wins.’ ”
Elizabeth made a face. “You are acting very weird and I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I didn’t say it. A friend did. I was quoting her.”
“Quoting who?”
“ ‘That’s the difficulty in these times: Ideals, dreams, and cherished hopes rise within us, only to meet the horrible truth and be shattered,’” I quoted again.
“Your friend said that?” Elizabeth looked thoughtful.
“There’s more. Actually, she didn’t say it, she wrote it. It’s from her diary.” I pulled Elizabeth’s book report on Anne Frank’s diary out of my pocket.
She looked embarrassed. “I didn’t really read the whole thing,” she admitted. “Are you mad I used your computer?”
“No. But I’m mad about what you wrote in this book report, when you didn’t know what you were talking about.”
“But that expert guy on the Internet said—”
“Anyone can call themselves an expert, Elizabeth. He’s a liar. Anne Frank wrote every word of her diary. When we get back home, I’ll show you the real proof.”
“Okay.”
I put my arm around her, Burb Girl in Training, currently hurtling down the highway toward Heatherville or Chrissyland or someplace I did not want her to end up. But maybe she could go a different way, end up someplace else entirely, if only I cared enough to try to show her how.
Ideals, dreams, and cherished hopes rise within us, only to meet the horrible truth and be shattered.
Maybe not shattered. I turned to my sister. “This is important, Elizabeth. We could have been in the Holocaust. You and me. Anne Frank could have been a friend of ours. Do you understand that?”
She looked up at me, her face more solemn than I had ever seen it before. And she nodded.
I nodded back. “Before we get to the exhibit, I’ll tell you a little about Anne, okay? How she became a famous writer, and broke a million hearts.”