FRIDAY, 12/8/1989

EVENING

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing at all. I close my diary and stuff it under my mattress and I ask myself why I even bother. It seems so selfish, writing.

Look at me, look at me. I’m interesting! Stop what you’re doing and look at me, for I have tales to regale you with! Hark, hark! Look at me!

I avoid writing until I can’t avoid it anymore. Until writing comes knocking at my door like a friend I’ve neglected.

Oh, Stella, you again? You’re so damn needy.

Alas, I have returned because I had to share Kyle Dwyer’s “statement.” I found it in Dad’s briefcase yesterday. I know I wasn’t supposed to see it, but the briefcase was next to the couch and Mom and Dad and Alistair were in the kitchen and …

Okay. I’m lying again. Why do I lie to you, Stella? Because you’re judgy, Stella. You judge.

The truth: Late last night, I was curious about what was going on with Alistair, so I got up, went into Dad’s desk, found the statement, and copied it down. It’s a transcription of what Kyle told the police a few days after he woke up. Ms. Kern must have made a copy for my parents. It’s called a statement, but I guess it’s also sort of a confession, though I don’t know what crime Kyle is confessing to. Being a suicidal dope?

Okay, that’s not cool. I shouldn’t joke about that. I’m sorry. Just because I write something doesn’t mean that I mean it.

Seriously, though, owning an illegal gun is probably the crime. There might be some other technical stuff that Kyle is guilty of. Endangering the welfare of a … little brother? I don’t know. The point is, Alistair is off the hook and Kyle is on it. And Kyle is the one with the hole in his belly, the one who may never walk again.

Man oh man.

So things have calmed down. A little. Alistair has been relatively quiet. Or he hasn’t been saying outlandish things, for what that’s worth. Of course, I haven’t told him that I’ve listened to his tape. I’m not sure what good that would do. If things are going better for him, then I should make sure they keep going better. No reason to derail any progress. Maybe the tape was some sort of inside joke. Maybe it was …

It was weird, and I prefer not to think about it.

There’s still no Fiona. Still no Charlie. I see the missing posters for Fiona at the post office and on utility poles outside the Skylark, and they’re already faded and brown from the weather. You know how you can make a piece of paper look old by dipping it in coffee and leaving it out in the sun? That’s how the posters look, and they’re not even a month old. The snow has been especially heavy, and we’re hardly into December.

Glen and I have been “dating” for over a week now, and it’s actually pretty cool. We’ve had lunch together every day. We know each other’s locker combinations, so we can slip each other secret notes and gifts between classes. Glen has already given me chocolates in a heart-shaped box. I know that’s a bit of a cliché—but come on, chocolate.

We interrupt this program to acknowledge the glory that is chocolate.

Another sweet thing: Glen has been walking me home after school because Alistair isn’t back in classes yet and it’s not necessarily safe for me to walk alone. Glen lives in one of those nice houses on Clutter Hill, so he takes the bus, but he’ll walk with me anyway, turn around and jog back to school, and hop on the late bus that comes at four thirty. It’s very thoughtful, and my parents appreciate it.

“She’s in good hands,” Glen said to my dad the first time he walked me home last week. There are all sorts of ways Dad could have responded. For instance:

1. Just see that you keep those good hands to yourself.

2. And whose hands would those be? (with exaggerated glances over both shoulders)

3. She will be soon enough. Now hand her over, hotshot.

He didn’t say any of those things, though. He grabbed Glen’s shoulder, gave him a little shake, and said, “Good man.”

Good man? He’s fourteen. So am I. If he’s a man, then I guess that makes me a woman. Do I feel like a woman? Ummm …

I am woman, hear me roar!

That’s supposedly something strong women say, and though I’m inclined to roar a lot lately, I’m not sure mine is a womanly roar. I guess if these were the good ol’ days, Glen and I might be considered adults. We might even be married already. At the very least, we’d be working in a factory with all the other kids. If these were olden tymes—the y makes the times especially olden, much more olden than the good ol’ days, at least—we’d be Romeo and Juliet, all cleavage and pantaloons, poisoning ourselves in a graveyard because that’s what kids were into back then. But alas, these are modern times, and we’re in eighth grade, and that means sitting next to each other at lunch and walking home together and holding hands.

Maybe it’s because he’s not as nervous now, but Glen has calmed down with saying a lot of the stupid stuff he used to say. I appreciate that, but I also don’t mind the stupid stuff that much anymore. When the stupid stuff is said for my sake, then I guess it’s not so stupid.

“You’re like the jelly to my peanut butter,” he told me today at lunch as he bit into a PB&J.

“Why am I the jelly?” I asked.

“Jelly is sweet.”

“Jelly is sticky.”

“Jelly comes in lots of flavors. Like you. You’re a complicated girl. Peanut butter is just peanut butter.”

“Not true. It can be chunky or smooth,” I said.

“Which am I?” he asked as he peeled back the bread and peered at his sandwich.

I paused. Was I supposed to be the doting girlfriend, who always says the nicest things to her beau? Or was I supposed to be Keri Cleary, world-renowned wiseass? I decided to stay true to myself, because I don’t know if I have it in me to be someone I’m not. “Chunky,” I told him. “You’re as chunky as they come.”

He scowled for a second, like he was really hurt, and I was worried that maybe he was. We haven’t been together long. I know him, but I don’t know him. I almost apologized, but slowly the scowl transformed into a smirk and he pushed me playfully on the shoulder.

“Exactamundo,” he said as he stood from the table. “Call me your big chunk of hunk.” Hands up and balled up, he flexed his tiny muscles. Not that I could see his muscles through his sweatshirt, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize they had to be tiny.

“Heads up, Hulkamania,” Trevor Weeks said as he slipped into a seat next to us. He was tossing a Granny Smith to himself like it was a baseball.

“Young Mr. Weeks,” I replied, “to what do we owe this honor?”

Trevor caught and then bit the apple in a fluid motion, and with a full mouth, he said, “My woodshop class is crashing the early lunch with all you eighth graders because we’re field trippin’ it to the mill this afternoon. Thought I’d stop by and ask how he’s doing.”

Trevor didn’t have to elaborate on the he.

“He’s fine,” I said.

Glen was still standing there, muscles flexed. Crouching down, he whispered into Trevor’s ear, though loud enough that I could hear. “She doesn’t want to talk about him.”

True. But Trevor was Alistair’s friend, and friends deserve occasional updates. “It’s okay,” I said to Glen, and, “He’s fine,” I said to Trevor again.

“Good, good,” Trevor answered. “I never thought he did it, by the way. Even though we fought that one time, I know he’s always been, like, a pacifist.”

“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t know what fight he was talking about, but it was a relief to finally have someone say something nice about Alistair. Not that people were saying mean things, but most questions were of the so what the hell happened? variety.

“Tell him hey for me, and that I hope to see him back here soon,” Trevor said.

“I will,” I said. “He’ll probably be back after Christmas break. Which is pretty soon.”

Glen finally sat back down, though his glare was still fixed on Trevor. “Bye-bye now,” Glen said.

After another bite of apple, Trevor stood and said, “Later taters.” Before leaving, though, he paused, squinted at Glen, and asked, “Wait, are you two, like, boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Glen is rarely stunned into silence, but his response was to scrunch up his face in anger and not say a thing, so I put my arm around him and pulled him close and said, “We sure are.”

Trevor nodded. “Cool.”

Cool. It’s basically what Mandy has been saying too. And basically what my parents are like.

You’ve got a boyfriend? Cool.

It’s Glen Maple? Double cool.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Not anger, really. Maybe … something more. Talk. Debate. Something other than a nod and a “cool.”

Forget it. Cool is good. Cool is cool.

Alistair hasn’t said anything about it yet. Ever since Kyle woke up, my brother has kept to himself, at least when I’m around. Not mute like in those first few days. But lost in thought, like he’s considering all the angles. Even more than everyone else, he seems to be trying to figure things out.