Dear Diary,
(Before we continue, I should mention that she spelled 'diary' wrong. This is so disappointing to me. Even more disappointing than on page 27 where she refers to me as 'that ogre who gave birth to me.' Let's continue.)
Today was a great day. Ralph Tickler made out with me in homeroom.
(Are there no longer teachers in schools anymore? How did something like this happen? And is Tickler really a last name? No wonder he's a sexual deviant. His last name is Tickler. His ancestors were probably medieval pedophiles.)
Ralph is so amazing. He's a genius. He knows how to speak Portuguese and he went to California last year for no reason--just to go.
(Apparently intelligence is now measured by language skills and random vacations that have no purpose.)
He told me my breath tastes like strawberries.
(I'm not surprised. She chews strawberry gum even when she's sleeping. I had to pick four hardened pieces off her pillowcase when I was doing the laundry last week.)
He told me my hair smelled good.
(He lied. She hasn't washed her hair in days. Her hair looks like a badger's nest. So he lied. Either he's a good liar or she's just very naive. Probably a combination of the two.)
He told me my breasts make him question his atheism.
(Well now THAT is a pick-up line.)
He says we're going to run away together someday and live on a farm where we can live off the land and not worry about electricity or smog.
(We live in Denver. Where is there smog? Does she even know what smog is? Does he? And since when did living on a farm become appealing to her? My daughter once went camping and came back two days early because she couldn't find a place to plug in her hair dryer.)
Ralph told me that all school teaches us to be is limited.
(He probably overheard that down at the mall from that crazy man who was shouting things in front of JC Penny and trying to sell his own urine.)
He says I make him feel good, and that he hates having to go home, because--
(Because what?)
He showed me the bruises today.
(......)
They're really bad. I told him that I want to tell my mom about them because she's a court stenographer so she works with the law and she can get his Dad in trouble, but he just says 'No' because it'll make things worse.
I told him my mom can be really lame--
(Thank you, darling)
--But she's a really good Mom. I told him she'd help. Because she's got a savior complex.
(She spelled both 'savior' and 'complex' wrong.)
Ralph wants to disappear and I don't blame him. He doesn't want to leave his mom though because then who else will his dad--
It sucks. I don't want him to run away but I do want him to run away. I don't understand.
(I'm sure you don't, sweetie.)
When he showed me the bruises, I wanted to kiss them. I know it's weird, but I wanted to kiss them because I felt like I could make them go away if I did. But instead I just cried and then he held me and I felt stupid because he was trying to cheer me up and he was the one who was hurt.
I love him so much.
(Of course she's in love. She's fifteen. All I ever was when I was young was in love. I was in love with boys in tv commercials. I loved everybody. When you love everybody, it's not love. It's overpowering optimism.)
I wish I could do something. I wish I could help.
(Apparently, the savior complex doesn't fall far from the tree.)
I told myself if it happens again, I'm telling Mom.
(That's my girl.)
Mom, it happened again.
(......)
I didn't know how to tell you, so this is me telling you. This time it was worse. There were burn marks and bruises and this time Ralph cried and I held him.
(Jesus...)
Please don't make me stop seeing him. But if it's a choice between not seeing him and helping him, then I'll stop, but please say I don't have to choose.
I'm not mad that you read this--I know you do. Why do you think I leave it underneath my bed, like that's a real hiding spot.
(You little sneak.)
I keep the real diary with all the dirty stuff in it underneath the floorboards in one of the rooms upstairs.
(I should have known. I had seven diaries when I was her age. One for each boy.)
I don't want to talk about any of this. I just want you to fix it. Can you do that, Mom? Can you fix all this?
Say Yes.
Love,
Em
(Dear Em,
First, some business.
1) You're grounded for making out in homeroom.
2) Your handwriting is atrocious.
3) You're going to wash your hair.
4) I'm buying you a dictionary.
5) I don't know if I can fix this, but I'll give it my best shot.
And no, you don't have to stop seeing Ralph, but if he thinks your breasts can make him believe in God then he should know that my eyes will show him which side God's on.
I'm going to go make a few phone calls and call in a few favors. If you change your mind about talking to me, I'll be upstairs ripping up floorboards.
Love,
Mom)
She's in love
God help me.
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