"Marcie, before you get carried away, you have to consider a few things."

"Uh-oh," I said. Already I felt the money slipping away.

---

Maisie Beale's Diary, First Entry:

Dear Diary,

Nothing personal, but I hate you. My therapist told me to keep this diary so I can explore my feelings. But I don't want to explore my feelings. I don't *need* to explore my feelings. There isn't any point. It won't change anything and it won't help anything.

She asked me to write down whatever bothers me, whatever thoughts I have, so we'll have something to discuss.

As I already said, there isn't any point: I don't need to discuss anything, but I figure that sooner or later my parents will find this book, so I am writing it for them. I want them to see how badly they screwed up my life. Or maybe they'll see how badly they screwed up their *own* lives, but I doubt it. That may be too much to ask for.

I never asked to be born. That's the first thing that bothers me. My parents are the ones to blame for that. Maybe we could discuss that in my next session. Maybe Ms. Goldenflower will have some alternatives we can explore. NOT! It's too late for alternatives. I'm already here.

What's the next thing that bothers me? Oh, right. I want to know who made my parents get married in the first place? From the stuff they yell at each other, it sounds like a classic case of hate at first sight, and it's only gotten deeper over the years. Mom says Dad's been a stuffy, self-absorbed child the whole time she's known him. Dad says Mom is a vindictive, anorexic witch, and always has been.

Why don't we discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower? Why don't you explain why two people who hate each other all the way down to the ground — why do those people marry each other? They don't even pretend they were ever in love. I've never heard them talk about "how it used to be" or "back when things were good" — as far as I can tell, things were never good.

When I heard my parents were getting divorced, at first I was relieved and glad. I thought that divorce would be good for them — that they could finally stop hurting, walk away, and be happy for the first time. Instead, they use it as a new, no-holds-barred battleground. Sometimes they both want me. Sometimes neither wants me. Sometimes I'm their weapon, and sometimes I'm their target.

People say that Truth is the first casualty in war, but it isn't. Truth is the second casualty at best. Children are always the first casualty.

Aren't I profound?

Isn't it all a big huge waste?

Now tell me, Ms. Goldenflower: how is discussing this — any of this — going to make it better?

Do you think I need to understand it? Come to terms with it?

I have news for you: I've already come to terms with it. I get it. I've got the whole picture, in living color and full-shout stereo.

Oh, there is one more thing, and this one I actually would like to discuss: My parents are going to split up, and live at opposite ends of the country. Couldn't I live by myself someplace in the middle? Chicago, maybe? Can we discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower? (I honestly *would* like to discuss that!)

Yours truly, with lots of fake hugs and kisses,

Maisie Beale

---

 
My name is Marcie Donner, and until last summer I was a boy. Now I'm pretty much a girl, or almost a girl. More than halfway girl, maybe. My parents have been really nice about accepting the change, so I'm trying to be nice about accepting the move from California to New Jersey.

I've made a serious resolution: I'm not going to complain about the climate, or where we live, or the fact that my parents are sending me to a Catholic girls school. I'm going to make the best of everything and be a good, obedient daughter.

It shouldn't be hard. How could it be hard?

At this exact moment, Mom and I are on a plane flying from Sacramento, California to Newark, New Jersey. We took off a half-hour ago, and Mom just gave up on trying to read a small-print document about our new house.

I don't understand all the details, but I do know that we haven't "closed" yet, which means we can't move in. Until the closing, Mom, Dad, and I will squeeze into a itty-bitty studio apartment, where Dad's been camping out alone.

After Mom put the paperwork away, she took off her glasses, eased off her shoes, rubbed her eyes, and said, out of the blue, "You know, Marcie, we've never discussed your room."

"My room? What room?" What in the world was she talking about?

Usually when she mentions my room, it means I have to go clean it. And right now I don't have a room. My old room, the room in our old house, is gone — the house was sold. The room in Aunt Jane's house, where I lived the past three months, has gone back to being a guest room. Was there a room just for me in Dad's little apartment?

"I mean your bedroom in the new house, silly. I didn't tell you this, but we made a fair amount of money when we sold our old place, and we got an incredible deal on the new place. Which means that we have money left over. The new house doesn't need any work, really, so we can put that money into furniture and this and that..."

I understood about the money, but not about the furniture. Our old house was full of furniture. Nice furniture, too. I couldn't imagine having space for any more.

"Mom, how could we possibly need new furniture?" (To say nothing of the "this and that".)

"Your old bedroom furniture is kind of small for your new room–"

"Small?"

She nodded. "It's a big house, honey. Bigger than our old one. I think you'll be very surprised. And your room is, well, it's more than good sized. There's space for a vanity, a desk, maybe some chairs. And, like the rest of the house, it has a high ceiling. So, if you want a canopy bed..."

I had a flashback to Nina Auburn's room. "Mom, I'm not nine years old."

"I know, honey," she said with a smile.

"I don't want a pink room, with lace and teddy bears and hearts."

"I know," she repeated with the same smile, "but your old furniture is so boyish, and so — well, old. Wouldn't it be great to pick out new colors and new furniture together? We could create a whole new room for the whole new you!"

"Hmm." I had to think about that. It sure didn't sound "great." Plus, I know how Mom is: she'll make me pore over paint samples, and after I've finally picked something I like, she'll set my choice aside. Then she'll choose five identical colors and ask me which one is my favorite. And THEN she'll ask me why it's my favorite. The furniture story could only be worse.

Deep down inside I heaved a deep, secret sigh. Then I remembered: Be a good daughter. You owe them. At that thought, I quit resisting. Why not let her have her fun? How hard could it be?

"Okay, that does sounds like fun," I lied, smiling.

"Great!" she enthused, and squeezed my arm so tightly that my mouth opened and my eyes popped. "A little mother-daughter bonding!" Then she reached down and hauled a big, fat notebook out of her bag. It was chock-full of pictures clipped from magazines. And how many pages was it? Two hundred? Three hundred? Four?

"Oh," I said, feeling as if I'd wandered into a mine field and didn't know the safe way out, "I didn't think we'd be starting so soon."

She smiled at me as she put her reading glasses back on. "Honey, what did you think we were going to do on this long, long flight?"

"Watch a movie?" I offered, but as her smile began to fall, I quickly said, "Just kidding! Let's see what you've got!"

We spent what seemed like hours talking about colors and styles, and despite my best efforts, it was putting me to sleep. Everything looked the same! She'd turn a page, and I'd swear it was identical to the page before. I looked at my watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed! This was going to be a long, long flight. Maybe the longest flight in history.

"Oh, Mom," I said. "I need to go the toilet. Urgently."

"Okay," she said, not looking up from her book.

I got up, hoping and praying there'd be a line. A long line of old ladies... and with that thought, a song I heard once came to mind — though I could only remember the chorus:

Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Seven old ladies got locked in the lavat'ry;
They were there from Sunday till Saturday,
Nobody knew they were there.

Unfortunately, there were no old ladies, stuck or waiting. There was no line at all. Both toilets were free, so I leaned against the back wall and chewed my fingernail.

A stewardess was back there, organizing the drink cart. "Stretching your legs?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Really I'm escaping... my mother wants to talk..."

"Ah," she said sympathetically.

"... about how to decorate my room."

"I see," she said. "You want something modern and cool, and she wants something frilly and old-fashioned."

Well, not really, but I went with it. "Pretty much."

The stewardess shrugged and said, "Try to compromise. Find something you both like."

"Thanks," I said, "I can try."

She busied herself with the cart, and I went back to my seat. No help back there!

"There you are!" Mom smiled. "I thought maybe you'd jumped off the plane."

"No," I joked, "they locked the door and I couldn't find a parachute."

As I wiggled into my seat, just as I was about to close my seat belt, I suddenly realized that now I really *did* need to use the bathroom.

"I thought you just went!" Mom exclaimed.

"I forgot," I said, "I was talking to the waitress. I mean, the stewardess."

"Oh, Marcie," she sighed.

When I came back from the tiny room, I saw the stewardess, whose name turned out to be Liz, bent over my seat, talking to my mother. When I got closer, Liz straightened up and smiled at me. "Marcie, your mother has some great ideas!" In a whisper she hissed, "You don't know how good you've got it, girl! I'd kill for a room like that!"

Sighing, I slid back into my seat.

"Ready?" Mom asked. "Need to go the bathroom again?"

"No," I said, "I got it all out of my system. Let's have a look."

In spite of the combined enthusiasm of Liz and my mother, the decorating ideas did not excite me. Everything my mother showed me was beautiful, but I couldn't choose. I didn't have opinions. All of it was just fine with me, and it was so hard to think of something to say!

I wondered how many bathroom trips I could take before Mom would get suspicious. Maybe if I was lucky the film would be too good to miss, and Mom would shut the book.

No such luck. It was a boring legal "thriller" — even more deadly dull than the decorating.

I realized that I needed to find something interesting to me in the midst of all this, and something started to come to me. Often Mom would point and say, "I had one of these when I was a girl..." or "Your Grandma Toni bought this for me when I was your age..." so I rubbed my eyes and scratched my nose and asked her, "Mom, why don't you tell me about *your* room? I mean, what your room was like when you were my age?"

That was the right thing to say! Her eyes lit up, and she described everything. The colors, the furniture, the fabrics... I forced myself to pay attention, to try desperately to remember it all, because this was what she would try to recreate for me. (I think.) Unless I understood where she was coming from, I wouldn't have a chance of getting what I wanted in there as well.

Unfortunately, all those details just turned into mashed potatoes once they entered my head. Or cotton, big wads of cotton. Not a single detail stuck. I kept spacing out. Whenever she looked away, I shook my head hard or pinched myself to try to stay awake.

Her words kept fading out and fading in. I realized she was describing her old desk, and suddenly thought, Maybe if I talk, it will help, so I said, "I bet a new white Apple laptop would look great on a desk like that."

That stopped her dead. Her smile faded and after a short pause she said, "You know, Marcie, sometimes you're just like your father."

"What?" I asked. "What did I say that was wrong?"

She didn't answer.

"Oh, come on, Mom! I didn't mean anything!"

"It's all right," she said quietly. "I can see that you're not interested. You've been yawning and looking at your watch ever since I opened this book."

"Oh, Mom, I'm sorry! I *want* to do this with you, I really do! Maybe I'm no good at decorating, but I can learn! You can teach me..." I trailed off. She'd shut the book, and was now bent over, putting it away. I was relieved and sorry at the same time.

But then, as all the decorating cotton-and-mashed-potatoes was clearing out of my head, something struck me. There *was* something I wanted to know. Mom had mentioned money. Could there be money for a computer? For fun things for me?

I asked, "Mom, how much of a budget are we talking about, here? Can you tell me?"

At that, she straightened in her seat, and her eyes lit up. She grabbed my arm, and started talking in an excited, low voice, so no one else could hear. "Oh, Marcie! I forgot to tell you! The call came just as I was running out the door, and what with the house and the trip... I completely forgot!"

"Forgot what?" I asked. She was *incredibly* animated. Whatever it was, it was big!

"They wanted to have a presentation ceremony, and put you on TV. Somebody's probably going to come and interview you anyway, but it turns out that one of those kidnappers that you helped catch was a wanted criminal."

"Yeah?" I didn't see the point. They were kidnappers; of course they were criminals.

"No," she said, her voice dropping to an even lower whisper. I had to strain to hear over the whine of the plane's engine. "There was a reward for catching one of them, and they're sending you the money."

My jaw dropped. "How much?"

Almost inaudibly she told me: "Ten thousand dollars."

"TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!" I shouted. Everyone on the plane turned and looked. Several people had been dozing, and the glares and stares made me want to shrink away.

"Eek! Sorry everyone!"

It took a while before they all finally turned away. When they did, I said in a soft voice, "Oh my God, Mom! Ten thousand dollars!"

The wheels in my head started turning. I was so shocked I didn't even know what I wanted to do with the money... what did I want? I was too young for a car...

"Now, before you get carried away, you have to consider a few things."

"Uh-oh," I said. Already I felt the money slipping away.

"First, there's college." I nodded. "Then, there's an operation that you need to get."

"Oh, yeah," I said, getting the point.

"Yes," Mom continued, "It would be nice if you helped out with that."

"Okay," I said, in a chastened voice.

"You can use some of the money for fun," she said, "Maybe a nice pair of boots, or a coat, or some jewelry."

"I guess," I said. I felt like a balloon with the air let out.

"Don't feel bad, honey," she said. "You'll be glad later on."

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way