“your” to use instead? It probably meant that they
could take their old-timey leotards off as well.
15
I’m going to show the list of books to my
parents and let them make a suggestion. I’m
sure they know all the classic books on the list,
since they’re both really “classic” themselves.
They’re always doing something classic, like
when my mom grunts when she stands up. My dad
is so classic that he has hair growing out of his
classic ears.
16
Wednesday 04
Dear Dumb Diary,
HOORAY! ! In art class today, Miss
Anderson (who is pretty enough to be a hairstylist
but settled for teacher instead) announced the
SCHOOL ART SHOW.
The Art Show is a big deal at Mackerel Middle
School —if your work is chosen, it gets framed and
hung up, and they put up an official card with your
name underneath it, and then they have a party
with refreshments. They even put an ad in the paper
to let people know about the show. The parents all
come and look at the stuff on the walls and lie to
you that yours is the best. Except my parents, who
don’t lie when they tell me mine is the best.
17
As you know, Dumb Diary, I love to draw, and
one of my artworks has won an award at the Art
Show every year since I first entered way back in
second grade.
For some reason, back then I was obsessed
with drawing naked Barbies. The teachers didn’t
feel that those were appropriate for a kids’ art
show, so they used the only artwork I did all year
without a naked Barbie in it, which was this picture
of a cow in front of a barn. It really wasn’t a very
good drawing, but I thought it was cool because I
made it out of cut -up construction paper and the
doors of the barn could open.
At the Art Show, I discovered that they had
neglected to open the doors on my little barn, so
I opened them myself, which revealed the dozen
little naked Barbies within. I won a prize right then
and there, because they felt they needed to use the
third- place ribbon to quickly seal the doors
closed, probably for eternity.
18
This year’s big Art Show isn’t for a month,
but I’m planning on starting early. A masterpiece
could take days to complete, and I really want
my new friend Angeline to be terribly, terribly
proud of how excellent her friend Jamie is at art,
in spite of the fact that
Angeline couldn’t draw flies
even if she was covered in manure.
WAIT. That was not a friendly thing to say. Let
me try again, as a friend: I would really and truly
encourage Angeline not to give up, and motivate her
to keep working at it, and eventually I’m sure
she could draw those flies.
19
Thursday 05
Dear Dumb Diary,
Thursday is Meat Loaf Day. Did you ever
wonder how they make meat loaf, Dumb Diary? It’s
really fascinating. Here’s what they do:
1. Start out with a big lump of meat,
probably from some kind of an animal.
2. Run it though a grinder.
3. Bake it back into a big lump of meat.
Miss Bruntford, the cafeteria monitor, used
to hassle us all the time to finish the meat loaf
because she hated us so much. But now she’s
friends with Aunt Carol, so she hassles us to finish
it because she cares about us so much. Either
way, it winds up with me trying to squeeze down a
plate full of horse meat once a week.
20
In between today’s lunchtime gag reflexes,
Isabella showed me a poster she had torn down
announcing the School Talent Show. Isabella
thought it would be cool to enter, and when I asked
her what she thought we could do, she got this
weird look on her face.
My psychic powers told me that she was
“WE” ? Plus, my ear powers were telling me the
exact same thing at the exact same moment,
because that’s what she actually said.
21
See, Isabella actually does have a talent all
her own. She does magic. I was right there when she
discovered her love of it for the very first time. We
were at my house watching TV, and this magician
came on and sawed a lady in half. Isabella got
hysterically happy and said, “Do you think they’d
let him do that to anybody? Could he do that to
his brothers?”
The fact that the magician restored the lady
at the end made no impression on Isabella. “He
didn’t have to put her back together,” she said.
22
As time went on, Isabella learned that the
whole cutting-a-person-in-half thing
was just a trick, but she has a natural fondness
for deceiving people , and she’s not even bothered
by the nerd factor that comes with doing magic.
And the fact that magic will probably never be
her job doesn’t bother her, either. For Isabella,
the mere joy of making people look like idiots is
reward enough.
23
“You’re thinking about doing a magic act,
right?” I said.
And Isabella just said, “Maybe.”
“Well, maybe I could help you,” I said.
And Isabella just said, “Maybe.”
“Magicians need beautiful assistants,” I said,
“and I could do that.”
Isabella said, “You know, an assistant could
be a good idea.”
And then, right in the middle of a private
conversation,
Angeline (who was probably bred by
scientists with the exact physical requirements to
be a Professional Magician’s Assistant)
flopped down in a chair, distracting me and Isabella
and everybody at the table— which is the EXACT
THING a magician’s assistant is supposed to do
to the audience — and said, “Have you guys heard
about the Talent Show?”
24
“Have you ever seen a magic act?” Isabella
asked her right away. “You know how they have
assistants? Like, blond assistants?”
The conversation didn’t go any further,
partly because the bell rang, but mostly because I
grabbed Isabella’s backpack and she had to chase
me down to get it. I shouldn’t have done it, but
I just don’t want Isabella to do the Talent Show
without me, even though I know it would be perfect
for her and
Angeline to go and do the Talent Show
together.
I mean it would be
totally
perfect Just
PERFECTLY PERFECT. So terribly, terribly,
terribly perfect. It really shouldn’t bother me if I’m
left out of that, right? It’s no big deal, right?
So what if I’m not in the Talent Show with
my BFF and w
e don’t have our morning locker time
to be mean to people anymore? I can live with
that, right?
It’s not like I should tear blond handfuls
of somebody’s blond hair out of their blond
skull, right?
25
Friday 06
Dear Dumb Diary,
Aunt Carol called to invite me to a movie
tonight, because she is the awesomest aunt In
The History of Ever, and she knew that I really ,
really wanted to see this movie about a werewolf
that falls in love with this girl and then a tragic
thing happens or something. I don’t know, I only
saw the commercial. But Aunt Carol knew I wanted
to go, and to show that her awesomeness is even
awesomer than awesome, she also invited Isabella
to go with us.
26
on my sock, but it must have shrunk because it was
really hard to get on, and so I was hopping around
on one foot when Aunt Carol pulled up. Out my
bedroom window, I saw Aunt Carol and Isabella get
out of the car . . . followed by
Angeline, who my Aunt
Carol must have invited since we’re automatically
friends now. Isn’t. That. Great.
I was still bouncing around trying to pull
my sock on, when the PURE JOY at seeing that
Angeline was going to the movies with us made
me slip and fall. Fortunately, I fell on my soft,
cushy bed.
27
Unfortunately, my bed is exactly where
Stinkette had recently been furiously slobbering
all over Grossnasty. As I fell, my mouth open in
scream-position, a large portion of the Heinous
Object ENTERED MY MOUTH DEEP ENOUGH
FOR ME TO EAT IT.
28
Through my horror, I could hear Aunt Carol
and my mom yelling for me to hurry up or we’re
going to miss the movie, and then Angeline yelled
up an apology for getting the movie time wrong.
So that’s why I had to hurry like crazy and not stop
to give my mouth the three -hour toothbrushing
it required. Don’t worry— I didn’t actually eat
Grossnasty, but it was fully, almost completely
in my mouth and that was bad enough.
I didn’t have any gum or mints and I was in
a big hurry, and so all I could do was grab a tube
of toothpaste and stick it in my pocket. I figured I
could just get some of it in my mouth secretly.
I kept gagging a little all the way to the
theater, on account of having a mouthful of
dog- saliva flavor, but I smiled prettily through it all
because of my intense acting abilities.
29
When we got to the theater there was no time
to stop at the concession stand. The movie was
packed, so I had to sit right next to a little girl who
was at least two full years younger than me, and
therefore MUCH TOO YOUNG to see a movie
with werewolves in it. MUCH, MUCH, MUCH
TOO YOUNG.
I just can’t emphasize enough that the little
girl’s mom should have known that a werewolf
movie could be TOO FRIGHTENING to take a
little girl to.
30
The movie might have been great, I don’t
really know. I was focused on the horrible taste
in my mouth. Every time I tried to secretly get the
toothpaste up to my mouth, the little girl next to
me would notice that I was doing something, and
she would look over and smile at me. So, being a
super-friendly person, I smiled back.
Finally, the movie came to a really scary
part — so scary that when I tried again to get the
toothpaste to my mouth, the little girl, horrified by
the werewolf on screen, didn’t look over at me, and
I finally delivered a big gush of toothpaste to my
yucky mouth.
Maybe TOO big of a gush.
31
So then I had a huge mouthful of toothpaste.
I swear, toothpaste really seems to get bigger in
your mouth, and you can’t swallow it, so it just sits
in there getting foamier and foamier.
This time, when the little girl looked over, it
wasn’t because she saw me doing something. It was
because she was petrified. And me, being friendly,
did what I had been doing all night: I smiled
at her.
32
Okay. Let me just say, for the record, that
I look nothing like a werewolf. Nobody could ever
mistake me for one.
Except maybe if they were really young,
and it was really dark, and they were watching a
scary werewolf movie and I smiled at them with
a mouthful of dripping, frothy slobber.
33
Aunt Carol calmed down by the time we got
home. As many times as I told her that I hadn’t
tried to scare that little girl on purpose, I don’t
think she ever really believed me. I didn’t want to
admit that I had mouthed Grossnasty, so having the
toothpaste with me was impossible to explain.
It was the first time Aunt Carol had ever been
that mad at me, and the first time any of us had
been asked to leave a movie theater. Except for
Isabella, of course, who has been asked to leave
most places.
Not that I can blame this on anybody. I mean,
I guess if
Angeline hadn’t shown up in the car and
startled me I wouldn’t have mouthed Grossnasty,
and if she hadn’t read the movie time wrong I would
have had time to brush my teeth at home, and if her
dog hadn’t married Stinker then Stinkette wouldn’t
be around to leave Grossnasty on my bed in the first
place, but you can hardly blame my terribly good
Automatic Sisterfriend for any of that, right?
34
Saturday 07
Dear Dumb Diary,
I tried having some talent today.
I’m just not going to let this go. I have to
come up with something that Isabella and I can do
together in the Talent Show. Otherwise, I’m going to
be sitting unhappily in the audience watching the
Isabella and Angeline Show. Which would be perfect
for them, but every now and then I also have to
think of myself.
I’m a really good dancer. I mean, everybody
knows that. It’s been said that my moves are
funktastic —and not by just anybody, but by
those who know their funky. But Isabella can’t
dance. Or won’t. I’ve never figured out which. It’s
one of Isabella’s Great Mysteries.
35
I’m really good at acting and drama
stuff, too. In fact, I’m so good I pronounce it
“duh-rama” because it sounds more dramatic
that way. Isabella has spent her whole life
perfecting only fake- crying in order to get her mean
older brothers in trouble, so if a role were to call
for anything else, like Delicate Sweetness
(a specialty of mine), duh-rama would become
impossible for her.
36
I tried singing, and I thought I sounded pretty
good until Stinker bit me a little for it. I had to
admit that if somebody bites you for singing, you’re
doing it wrong. (It’s really one of the main ways
to know.)
Ventriloquism seems sort of like evil ghostly
possession to me, which I oppose, and I don’t
want to juggle or twirl a baton. I’m not even sure
baton twirling is a talent, exactly. You’re really
just playing a showy game of catch with yourself in
an adorable sparkly outfit, and I think that makes
it less of a talent and more of a sport that guys
won’t play.
37
I ran out of talent ideas, so I went downstairs
and flipped on the TV because TV doesn’t really
demand that you have any ideas. But right there
on the TV, I saw this show with this band and it was
made up entirely of girls.
Not only that, but they also solved mysteries,
and went shopping for guitars and stuff, and
looked really fashionable doing it. It was like a
miracle. TV was actually telling me something
useful.
TV was telling me that for the Talent Show, I
needed to Form a Band. Thanks, TV!
Then it told me that our kitchen floor looked
dingy and that I had to try this new gum. TV is
smart, but it has a hard time staying on topic,
kind of like that one kid at school who screams if
anybody touches his locker.
38
Sunday 08
Dear Dumb Diary,
I showed my dad the list of classic books we
had to pick from for school. He made me think of
the list because he was taking a nap in the middle