Don’t read this entry, Mrs. Dunphrey.
Aren’t you proud of me? This isn’t due for two days, and I’m doing my last entry already. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone, of course, but this journal stuff isn’t too bad. It’s better than any of the other homework you teachers make us do. As long as you’re not reading this, I can just put down whatever I’m thinking.
I’m feeling bad because I had a fight with Matt this morning. Well, not really a fight, but—a problem. I always help him get ready for school, because Mom’s working nights now, at Haggarty’s SuperValu. Cash register. She doesn’t get home until after we’re at school, but I’m not sure if that’s when she gets off or just when she finally gets around to getting in. Anyhow, this morning, Matt was taking a long time eating his Cheerios. It’s like he had to eat each one individually. I told him to hurry up. I didn’t mean to be mean, but it came out sounding nasty. Like maybe something my dad would say. Matt started gulping down his cereal, and then he picked up his bowl and was going to drink all the leftover milk. Only, he was going too fast, and half the milk spilled down his front.
“Now look what you’ve done,” I said, and this time I really did sound mean. And I didn’t care, because I knew that meant he was going to have to change his shirt, and I wasn’t sure if he had any clean ones left. There was no way we were going to be able to leave on time.
It would have been okay if Matt had yelled back at me—maybe told me it was my fault for making him hurry. But he just sat there and bent his head down, and I could see his lip trembling. And then these little tears started rolling down his cheeks. His yellow hair was sticking out all over the place, and he had a milk moustache, and he looked totally, totally defenseless. I felt like I’d done something awful like drowning a kitten. Matt’s like that—like some little kitten. Or like Bambi. It’s like hurting him would be the worst thing in the world.
So I cleaned him up, and found the least dirty shirt in the laundry basket for him to put on. And because I felt so bad, I was really rough with him, and I couldn’t get him to stop crying. He was still crying when I walked him to school. And of course we were late—I’ve got detention for the rest of the week for being tardy. That means I’m not going to be able to pick Matt up after school today, tomorrow, or Friday. So I can’t stop worrying. He is seven, of course, which should be old enough to walk home by himself—I was walking home by myself at seven—but, you know, somehow he doesn’t even seem as old as I was at five.
I hope he’s not still crying. The other kids make fun of him, I know they do. Maybe I’ll stop at Sackbury’s after detention tonight and buy him a bag of Snickers. They’re his favorite. At least then he’ll know I’m not mad at him anymore.
I tried to tell Sandy about all of this with Matt, and she looked at me weird and said, “Hey, he’s just your brother, not your son. Can’t you let your mom take care of him for once?” She’s still kind of mad at me because I insisted we take Matt to the mall with us on Sunday, and I wouldn’t let her shoplift with him around. And there was this great hot pink miniskirt she really, really wanted, but didn’t have enough money for.
I don’t know why she was so upset. It was no skin off her nose. She just went back and got the skirt on Monday.
Tish,
I appreciate the amount of writing you’re doing in here. But do you think that every once in a while you might write an entry that you would allow me to read? I don’t expect you to reveal anything you don’t want to reveal, but I would like to know how this journal-keeping is going for you.