DIARY 1:

16/5/1975

Good grief, good heavens, good riddance. Derek’s soooo bad at flirting. He went in for the kill while we were gearing up to a trip to Mrs. Dartmouth. Sauntered up to us with this dorky, brittle smile. Struck up a conversation that went everywhere and nowhere at once. Heck, Hannah thought she was having an aneurysm, but nope! He really was asking her out by talking this and that and the weather and is your mom doing better and aah nice and are you in the next class? Of course she is, you stuttering mess! You’d think hanging out so much with Brad’d have allowed him to pick up some confidence. But speaking of our lantern-jawed wunderkid: He did as he is, and stepped in to set the conversation back on tracks. Tracks which it kind of never had.

Result? A date for Derek. Red as a beet, he was. But hey, it worked! So we all cool? We all cool. I don’t know where Hannah finds the patience to deal with him, but really. There’s no accounting for taste. Such a scrawny guy, barely fitting that varsity jacket. No wonder he broke his wrist. Still, I’m happy he’s doing better. Here’s hoping they get to enjoy Sheila Levine Whatever.

Thoughts: Summer. First summer we’re not doing anything as a family. Fun. Oughta be a good learning experience. If I manage to get through those last weeks with my wits intact.

Looking on the bright side: At least Timmy’s going to camp, so I won’t have to babysit. Mom’s gonna be spending more time home as well, even though I think she may be plotting something with Aunt Francis. Her loss. That, however, oughta leave me free to make programs.

But the bad news are, Janet’s family is bound for Miami. She’s even going to house-sit for an aunt of her for two whole weeks, all alone! I’d love to pal out with her, but no way she’d let me. Hannah’s visiting some aunts in New Mexico as well, though that’s only two weeks, two weeks and a half. Brad’s doing corvee stuff with the Rangers, Derek following suit. Never thought I’d say the day I’d have to plan for a lack of people around me.

17/5/1975

Another week, another Monday ending in mom crawling back to us at 7 PM. Not looking worse for the wear than last time, but jeez. When was the last time we had dinner all togetger? Sure, dad’s doing better, picking up the slack, but mom needs to be there as well. Doesn’t feel right otherwise. Can read it on Timmy’s face.

Plus maybe, just maybe, it’s going to quash this whole gossiping thing. People’ve been bumping their gums louder and louder at school. Way louder. Think it’s Tara’s fault. So much for not projecting, eh? What a nasty piece of work. Even got Hannah to join her! Hannah, my sweet little angel, my companera, my home fry. My apparently very gullible hen. Tara probably pulled the ol’ “My dad says'' trick. Don’t know how desperate you have to be to wield your father’s authority like that. Or to think people would fall for it. He’s better than that. Tara? Tara, not so much.

Note for Dr. DeSantis: I am trying to spend more time with mom, I really am. But it’s hard to talk to a woman that’s dead tired. Dad’s getting back some of his cooking skills, but it’ll be a long way off before we can have our regular dinner talks.

I think she’s still smarting from Brad dumping her faster than a sack of potatoes. She landed as gracefully as one, even! Pretty sure I heard her sobbing in the bathroom last week. It was this atonal hiccuping that made me question how a pastor so dedicated and a mother with such a sweet voice could produce someone whose grief sounds like a goose drowning.

Note to Self: Buy better hairspray. One that doesn’t smell like clams when mixed with hair straightener. The heck’s this stuff made out of anyway? Sometimes I wish I had hair as straight as Janet’s.

Speaking of geese, though: The CL&M boozers who were working on the pond somehow managed to break a sewage pipe, and half of the ducks suddenly evacuated the park overnight. Now there’s paddle-footprints of feces all over the grass, and if I have to hear the uptenth crass joke dad makes about CL&M breaking his pipes… Come on, dad. It’s not funny.

18/5/1975

Okay, now I feel bad for trash-talking Tara. Turns out her dog died. Poor thing. The dog, not Tara. Apparently some wild animal mauled it. Crazy. When I told dad he gave me this look like I’d been bumping my gums. “Was it a wolf?” he asked, and Tim did this little howl in the kitchen. Real fun, Timothy.

So that kind of turned into a mindbug. I asked Brad, and he told me it’d been gruesome. Real gruesome. A wild dog, they think. Caught the poor poochie through the fence, he said. Tara and her parents didn’t hear anything, but when they got out to grab the dog for the night they found the mess left behind. He didn’t seem comfortable with sharing most details, so I went ahead and asked Carl as well, but he didn’t answer the phone. Oh well. So I ringed up Derek and asked him if he knew anyone who’d seen the thing. No dice.

Note to Self: Check if Timmy is doing his terminal homework right. Call Carl when he’s available again to doublecheck.

Meanwhile, mom came home at 8 PM today. Something about the company bus breaking down. She tried to phone, but apparently there was a barge overhead, so something distortions. Dad wasn’t happy, and asked her about exposure levels. Now wasn’t THAT a mood sourer. Tim all but hightailed out of the kitchen when they took that low, worried tone.

Wasn’t a happy camper myself. They didn’t blow up, but I wish they did. Sometimes the silence is much, much worse, especially when she trudges upstairs after he’s fallen asleep.

Her steps make me feel old. Can’t even begin to imagine what’s buzzing around in that head of hers. I mean, I could ask, but I am not sure when and where and how. Not like I can just invite her over to the arcade for a game of Pong and a round of Cosmonauts Vs. Aliens. Pretty damn sure she’s sick of programming and computing work, considering the side-glances she’s been giving Timmy’s terminal.

19/5/1975

I caught Tara and Hannah gossiping in the hallway today. It took way more willpower than I’d imagined to not point out that if my mother was doing the stuff they thought she was, what about Hannah’s dad coming home at 10 PM after “A night’s out with the boys?” And that in the only two days he was at home. Seesh. Some people. Feel kind of bad about even thinking about it, but come on.

Tara still looked mopey. Sure it wasn’t Brad this time. Nah, it was the dog. I heard Brad say Tara’s dad was going to put on one of these electrified fences CL&M uses, and that he had filed a complaint with the police for a possibly-dangerous wild animal running amok. Even took the pooch- Or what’s left of it- To the vet. Says he was worried it was rabies.

Well, guess it’s time to pay a visit to Carl.

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He let me see it. Through the window of the pod, but he let me see it.

That was a Schauzner Shcnaz Schnauzer once. Once. Tara must’ve a stomach of steel! God, it was so messy. Complete ribcage collapse, spine shear, completely! Like a little ittle bittle steak ripped apart by a woodchipper. Poor thing mustn’t have suffered Like, at all. Good ol’ Carl let it slip most of the post-mortem damage was done by the “attacker” trying to pull the poochie through the fence. What jaws it must’ve had! I asked him if it really was a wolf, or if he thought it was a puma, or even a bear.

He told me to stuff it and hushed me out of the cryonics section. God, I can’t believe Tara’s family will splurge out for an actual dog-freezing but she can’t afford a damn eyeliner worth a bit.

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So. Mom was really upset about me going to see Tara’s dog. Or well, what remained of it. Not crying but she had this stormy look, lips parsed, brow furrowed. She didn’t mince words, said that I should’ve not gone poking around. “It’s Tara’s loss. Don’t make it a voyeuristic affair, Laury.” Her tone was scolding. Not piqued, but I do feel there was more tiredness than actual irk. So, go me. Dang. Just dang.

On one hand, I sort of understand why she’d be upset. On the other, going to the vet to see a dead animal is certainly a lot less dangerous and inconspicuous than, say, trespassing in a quarry that’s still in use, or bringing home an adult snapping turtle. I am looking at you, Brad. And you too, Timothy Francis.

Still, I ended up telling her that it was a one-and-done thing. No one had seen me go out- Timmy doesn’t count- And no one’d seen me pester Carl. She frowned harder still, but I could tell something had chipped. What was she thinking? Who was she aiming to reassure?

Carl, who I plan to be the understudy of? My friends, who know me well? Aunt Francis, whose opinion of me is already set in stone? Tara’s parents, who’d spent three hundred bucks on a cryogenic pod lease? Mom looked at me when I said this, and the concern just sort of melted into confusion. Into an expression I am not sure I want to think about. She muttered something about the problem being the principle of the thing. “What would you do if-”

Stopped there and then. I admit I was torn between actually egging her on and just, nodding, making some agreement noises topped a contrite expression, then trotting upstairs. So I settled up for a stare matching hers in terms of confusion. I did realize she was probably going to say something about Willow. But instead, she stopped.

I am still mildly miffed as I write this. And worried. Real worried. The heck’s going down, mom? Did you really get too much exposure under all of those CL&M machines?

20/5/1975

Turns out we had bigger family embarrassments to worry about. They rhymed with Shmaunt Shmancie shamlling down the shmaills and shlanding on her face. Which, sure, prevented her from commenting on me sneaking out to see carcasses. But on the other hand, now that is the talk of Tara’s little gossip circle. Mixed blessings, I guess. Trying to not be too thankful for this. Or at least showing the right amount of contrition and sadness.

It’d be a lot easier to peg a good balance of worry and weariness if mom didn’t facepalm when she learned the news. And if Aunt Francis hadn’t chosen to tell us by phoning in at 7 AM. . But hey, auntie insists on chugging down wine like it’s sparkling water, so you really can’t say this wasn’t a foregone conclusion as well, mom

I do kind of continue feeling bad for Tara, ‘cause it has become plain as day that she has taken up gossiping because Brad isn’t there to plug her mouth up. Speaking of him, he’s talked to me about Tim today, during recess. He thinks he’s been going beyond the woods. Again. As little Timmy’s de-facto keeper, I felt a bit ashamed in having to reassure him that no, my younger brother isn’t going out to molest squirrels. Again. And that his father had no reason to worry he’d have to go out on a Sunday evening and fetch the little man as he waddled along the creek. Again.

I need to talk about this to DeSantis.

Buuut not today! Today we’re going to party, and it is going to be great.

Note to Self: Buy Pepsi, not coke. Hannah hates it, apparently? Clever girl. Buy chips. Maybe stop at McDonalds for the fries? Either way, do not forget some popcorn for Tim when we go back. And Old Biter’s veggies as well. And maybe a padlock for the backyard. Think Timmy managed to undo this one as well. Clever boy. Far too clever.

TIM’S DIARY 1:

Today Terry told me he wants to be a pilot like his dad, and today I told him aunt Francis thinks colored can’t be pilots, and today we both agreed that she was a bit of a tit. I heard mum say she’s been getting worse since her husband, instead of putting a baby in her, put a divorce. Or something. This is why I hang out with Terry and Mr. Dreyfuss. There’s no way we end up divorced! Also, we joked that maybe Terry’s dad was the one my mum was seeing, so we could be brothers, even. I’d love it.

Also Terry asked me why his name is Mr. Dreyfuss and not Dr. Colgrave, and I told him it’s from a book grandpa had about a French guy or something. Mr. Dreyfuss didn’t seem to mind. He was his usual snappy self, but I think the backyard pond is still too small for him. A pity that Lauren put up the new lock thing. He’d have loved it in the creek.

Terry thinks carrying him all the way there is dumb, and dangerous, but I am getting muscles on my arms, so who is dumb now Terrry? Hah. Plus, it’s silent there. Aside from the river, though. Carl thinks it’s where the puma came from? Or bear. I don’t think it’s either, and Lauren has said it’s Mr. Dreyfuss.

I know she said it to be mean to me, but I just told her that his beak is too big, and that the biggest thing he ate was a duck, back when he was the big guy in the park pond. P.S: She still doesn’t believe me he came and went from the park to the woods. It’s just, what? Sister, you do that road every day to go to school, why wouldn’t be Mr. Dreyfuss be able to do it? He’s pretty fast. Faster than any old mean bear.

Dad joked it was Smokey the Bear taking his revenge on Tara’s dad. Or grandad? He was slurred from the muscle thingy, so I couldn’t hear well. Either way, someone is going to pay for all that burnt forest. I wonder if Mr Dreyfuss is old enough to remember it. Ooh, maybe he didn’t do it, but he commissioned the bear to do it! Turtle mafia!