Loving Reflections, Page 3

  Chapter 1

  Dear Diary – it was a dark and stormy … toilet bowl. Yep, Mom fixed her nasty old bean burritos for dinner last night. Man, those things blow through me. Ha! That ought to get Aunt Tess hollering (Hi, Auntie!).

  I absolutely hate diaries. The only reason I'm writing in you is because my Aunt Tess gave you to me as a Hanukkah gift, and she's coming for a visit in two weeks. So, Mom has me writing three entries per day to impress her sister. Apparently, we Kleinmans lead very boring lives if a highlight of Aunt Tess' visit will be a review of my diary. I think I'll stir things up and sett you on fire in front of her.

  Here's something to think about. If vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat? Isn't that a riot! My best friend, Antonio O'Rilley, is hilarious! He freaked out the cafeteria lady with this one. I laughed so hard, milk squirted out my nose, which made Tina Martin vomit. Trifecta!

  Got another one for you: What's the last thing that passes through a bug's mind when it smashes into your windshield? It's butthole! Hilarious, eh?

  You know what? I have like 153 more entries to write before Aunt Tess gets here in two weeks. Why fight reality? There's no way I'm gonna fill you up with a ton of stupid things – my life just isn't that interesting.

  Humph, Mom's bellowing again. It's that time of the month – not for me, for Mom. She can't get out of the house much, so I walk to the pharmacy to buy Mom's monthly stock of feminine stuff. How fun is that for a thirteen-year-old guy? Never fun and always embarrassing. Needless to say, I never ask anyone to tag along. I usually hide in bushes and take back streets to avoid being made fun of on my way home from these stupid shopping trips.

  For example, last month, I was walking across the pharmacy's parking lot when the wind yanked the sack out of my hands. Boxes of Mom's pads and douches, packs of wipes, tubes of gels and sprays flew everywhere. Naturally, it happened right in front of a van full of my classmates. This kind of thing happens to me so often that I expected it. While the bunch of jocks and babes laughed and pointed at me, I waved and tried coolly to scoop up some of Mom's junk. Most of it made it into the bag, while what didn't, like one box of pads, was annihilated when I kicked it to pieces and stomped what was left into dust. But, at no time was I frustrated or mad, even though I wasted thirty minutes rounding up all of Mom's essentials, as she calls them.

  Anyway, as I flailed around in the parking lot, the van pulled up alongside me. A cheerleader rolled down the window. Seeing her smile, I thought she was going to help me find a missing tube of rash ointment, but no.

  "Smile!" she yelled, a moment before snapping a picture.

  "Front page again?" I deadpanned, knowing my story and photo would appear in the school's newspaper. I hated Tuesdays for that very reason. The only way most kids and teachers knew me was from the number of times I appeared in the newspaper. I wasn't popular, not a jock, and not a good-enough student to make the honor roll. Nope, I was the class idiot—not clown—idiot.

  It could have been worse—I wasn't born with the first name of Richard and last names such as Urtz, Head, or Tator. I know a guy named Kim, but he's not Korean, and no one makes fun of him. Kim is on the wrestling team. He probably got a bunch of muscles so he could kick the rears of anyone who made fun of his name. I wish I could do that.

  I wasn't taught by my parents to fight. I was told to avoid confrontation, so I get picked on a lot. Whenever I tried to use a martial-arts move, it always lead to my butt getting kicked harder than if I had just dropped into a ball on the ground.

  It was this fetal position that first made the school's newspaper. "EEK, the Geek," roared the headline. Billy McGuire, the bully, called me that as he stood out of frame when the photo was taken. He graciously took a break from shoving his boot tip up my rear to give the school photographer time to snap the picture.

  Since that day, the weekly paper runs a column entitled "EEK the Geek," which details my latest humiliation. The popularity could be nice, but only when I fantasize that it is. Can you imagine how difficult it is for me to walk down a hallway every Tuesday? Not just students, but teachers also point and laugh as they seem to share details about my latest failing. I shuffle past, pretending it doesn't hurt.

  "EEK, get over here," demanded the raspy breaking falsetto of Billy McGuire.

  I ignored him, knowing he wouldn't try anything in the middle of the school's lobby, or so I thought.

  Up my buttcrack went my underwear. Thankfully, Billy's grating voice disappeared, replaced by more giggles and the sound of snapping cameras.

  "Perfect," I muttered, "more filler for next week's paper."

  While digging out my underwear, I was mumbling and shuffling to class when a sweet voice sang out, "Why do they call you EEK?"

  Without lifting my stare off the ground ahead of me, I replied, "The letters EEK are my initials. Eugene Elliott Kleinman …"

  "See you around, Eugene," interrupted the angelic whisper, just as the abrasive tardy bell clanged.

  I looked up and all over, but couldn't see who spoke to me. "Probably one of the voices in my head," I mused, shrugging my shoulders before returning to my shuffle.

  I stomped and ground my feet as I walked across a copy of one of last month's newspapers. Pulverized under my shoe was the photo of me in the pharmacy parking lot, crouched over a box of douches.

  I often wondered why Mom never sent my sister, Hagatha, after the feminine things. True, the toad was less than feminine, but I'm guessing Mom sent me as a remote way of punishing Dad for his lousy performance as our father. What did she expect? The guy works day and night at the yam-packing plant. Although he says he puts in the long hours to keep us out of the poor house, Mom believes he works so much to stay away from her, Agatha, and me.

  I can't believe I'm blathering my guts into a stupid diary, but who else listens? Maybe Mom wants me to do this to relieve stress – that Aunt Tess' visit is merely an excuse. Maybe I don't hate diaries after all.

  On second thought, yes, I do. There goes Mom again, yelling for me to go to the pharmacy. Well, all for now. Not sure if I'll write more later. If I do, no doubt it'll be about something miserable that happened at the pharmacy.

  * * * * *