The Naked Mole-Rat Letters by Mary Amato Read Free Book Online Page A

going on?” he finally asked.
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œOf course you don’t have to be in the play if you don’t want to be. But I don’t understand why you don’t want to be. Let’s talk about it.” He waited for a response. After a minute he said, “Well, I’m going to tuck Nutter in, and then I’ll be downstairs if you want to talk about it.”
    His footsteps thudded down the hall.
    I picked up the copy of
The Miracle Worker
from the library and threw it at the door. Then I picked it up again, and I watchedmyself tear out page after page after page. I’m not really doing this, I thought, but I really was. Why did Ms. Young have to call? I hate her and Mr. Haxer and Dad and Melinda and Denise and everybody. Even Beth.
9:15 P.M .
    I have to write again. Here’s what just happened. After I desicrated (desecrated? decimated? deseminated?) the stupid book and poured my heart out in these pages (crying all the while), I heard a little scratch at the door. Right away I knew it wasn’t Dad.
    â€œFrankie!” It was Nutter’s whisper. Then a piece of paper slipped under the door.

    â€œIt’s a magic word,” Nutter whispered. “You have to open up.”
    I opened the door a crack. Nutter slipped in, his eyes drawn to the crime scene on the floor. “This is bad,” he whispered.
    I sat on my bed. “I know.”
    He climbed up beside me and just sat there, next to me. I felt like I was going to cry again if I looked at him or talked to him, so I stared at the back cover of
The Miracle Worker
. Then something brushed my shoulders, and I turned to see that he was trying to put his koala’s furry arms around my back. Nutter’s face was so close to mine, all I could see was his big chocolate eyes through my tears.
    He whispered, “You can sleep with him tonight.”
    My throat closed up and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
    â€œThat’s okay, Nutter,” I managed to say. “You sleep with him. Come on; it’s way past your bedtime. I’ll tuck you in.”
    I opened the door and Skip tumbled in, his camera and night-vision binoculars flashing.
    â€œHey,” Nutter yelped. “You were spying on us!”
    â€œGot ya!” Skip yelled, and ran. Nutter chased him, and I chased them both.
    How can something make you feel better and make you cry harder at the same time? Nutter’s little face up close to mine made me feel better, but it also made me miss Mom more somehow. She died so long ago, I bet Nutter doesn’t even remember her. That just isn’t right. And it isn’t right that Nutter and Skip and I have to cheer each other up. She should be the one cheering us up. If she were here, she would have asked me right away how the audition was. Why can’t she just come back?
10:30 P.M .
    I’m going to bed now. Dad just knocked on the door again. He made me unlock it because he said it wasn’t safe to sleep with a locked door in case of fire. I unlocked it, but I wouldn’t open it. I can’t talk to him about anything.
Tuesday, October 21, 2:15 P.M .
    Dear Diary:
    I’m in the nurse’s office with a debilitating headache. Even my eyes hurt. Annie Sullivan’s eyes hurt often. I can’t remember why. Maybe it was stress. It is yet another reason why I should have gotten the part; I can
relate
. I bet Melinda Bixby’s eyes have never hurt.
    Even though I am in pain, I will write down the story of my day. Another horrible day, of course. How many horrible days can a person endure? This one started at dawn.
    When I woke, what lovely sight greeted me? The rosy glow of the sun? A merry robin chirping outside my window? No. The gruesome murder of an innocent book. The evidence was glaring at me: one hundred twenty-two poor pages. Ripped. Separated. Dead. And I am the murderer. Why did I do it? Why can’t I control myself?
    I hid the pages in an empty tissue box