Daddy taught me chess over the summer. His grandfather taught Daddy when he was young. Said it would keep him out of trouble. I don’t know if it did or not. Daddy doesn’t talk about when he was growing up very much. Neither does Grandma. I know, though, that Daddy had a brother named Dwayne. He died before I was born. Daddy won’t say what happened. Grandma has a picture of Daddy and Dwayne in her house, but when I ask about him, Grandma shakes her head and changes the subject to quilting or raisin-filled cookies or something dumb like that.
There are so many secrets, I’m realizing. There’s so much stuff Daddy doesn’t like to talk about.
For wanting me to be social and interact, Daddy is sort of clammy about a lot of his own life. Sure, he’s chatty and can hold a conversation with anyone we come across. He doesn’t shy away from people out in public like I do. He isn’t afraid to talk and laugh and chat about all sorts of things—but not everything. The past parts of him and the real parts of him—those things stay secret. But that’s okay. I get it. Everyone thinks you have to talk, talk, talk. You should tell everyone everything you are thinking and feeling all the time. I hate talking. Sometimes thinking is better. That’s why I like chess.
But chess club is after school and it throws our schedule off by a whole hour. I almost quit because of that. I was getting antsy. I was doing that thing with my hands, almost how Daddy’s hands shake when he’s getting angry inside. I couldn’t stop scratching my neck, so much so that it was bleeding. I was getting upset a lot and just feeling frustrated.
“Ruby,” Daddy finally said to me. “You’re getting older. You need to be flexible. The world isn’t perfectly black and white all the time. It doesn’t fit with your schedule. You’re going to have to figure that out.”
Daddy says he wants me to be successful when I go to the junior high school next year. He says he wants me to start blossoming and finding my way. Whatever that means.
I just want to keep writing, keep spending time with Daddy, and survive school. I wish I could just quit and be home schooled like Victoria Alders. She was a girl in my class last year who stopped coming because she had anxiety and actually had a meltdown in school. Worse than the ones I’ve had. I felt bad for her because I understand why she did that—but I also am jealous because now she is homeschooled and doesn’t have to come anymore. Daddy says he wouldn’t feel good about teaching me everything. He says we need to let it to the experts. Plus, Daddy has to work. I thought about trying to have a meltdown to beat Victoria, but I couldn’t do that to Daddy. He would be so upset, and what would he do? I’d probably get stuck with Grandma teaching me all day. That would lead to a real, true meltdown. Even going to school is better than being with her.
Mrs. Vickers, my teacher this year, is old, old, old. Her craggy face is always shrivelled. I do like, though, that she sticks to the rules. She yells meanly when the kids get too loud. She likes quiet. And even though Mrs. Vickers doesn’t really seem to like me, I like her. She likes peace and calm, so she’s okay in my book.
We finished the book we’re reading in English class, The Giver. A lot of the kids were angry about it, about how they kill people in the eerie little society. They kill babies if they’re twins. They kill you when you get too old. One girl in class cried. It made me nervous. I know I cry a lot when I’m frustrated, but I just don’t know how to handle it when someone else is crying. It makes me really uncomfortable and aggravated, like I want to run out of the room. Sometimes I do.
I wanted to raise my hand and say that killing isn’t always bad when we were discussing the book. Sometimes it’s the best option. Sometimes it can be okay. I thought of the garage and Daddy and how expertly he executed it. I wondered what he would think of the book.
“Daddy, have you read The Giver?” I asked him at dinner tonight. Chicken nuggets and fries, my favorite.
“Yeah, I think so. A long time ago.”
“What did you think? Of the killing?”
He looked up from his plate. “I don’t know, Ruby. That’s a tough question. I think that world in the book was very different than ours, and maybe we’d have to think of it on their terms. I don’t think there’s a single right answer.”
“Because not everything’s black and white?”
He smirked. “That’s right.”
But I noticed his hands were a little unsteady as he forked the steak he cooked for himself into his mouth. I wish we could talk more. He’s the one person I want to talk more to. I want to know so many things, but he clams up.
Sometimes I wonder if I really know Daddy at all, and that hurts.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
September 23, 2013
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Today at school, Daddy had to come in. We had a special meeting. It’s basically a meeting because the school thinks I need special help because of some of my differences. Daddy says it’s all a money game, that I don’t need help. That I do just fine. But he wants me to have the best chance, so he swallows his pride and goes along with it. Just in case it might help me. Personally, I think I do fine and get along and don’t cause too much trouble most of the time. Not like some of the kids. I don’t know why they focus on me when kids like Randy and Josh and Margaret are always throwing true tantrums and being super mean. And of course, Clarissa is always being nasty and telling lies. Those are the kids who need meetings, not the quiet ones.
Daddy tries his best, though, to be nice at the school even though I get the sense he didn’t like it when he went. He listens to their ideas and tries to be openminded, as he tells me. But he isn’t openminded to everything. He makes sure to put the principal and the other people at the meeting in their place if they say something he doesn’t like. Watching him at the meeting, it makes me realize what he must have been like when he was my age.
Strong. Powerful.
I wonder if I could be that way if I needed to be.
While they talked about transition plans and behaviour modification plans, I sunk into myself like I often do. I thought about yesterday, how Chloe and Sarah and Clarissa have been lurking again. They’re in different classes than me, but they still find ways to get to me. To harass me at recess. To have the kids chant things around me on the playground.
I don’t know why they picked me, but it makes me angry.
They call me stupid and dunce and all sorts of synonyms. The thing is, their vocabulary is weak. I want to shout out dozens of better words they could use—I like synonyms. I don’t shout them out, though, even when I want to. I just let them think they’re so smart.
I notice now that when they bother me, I wring my hands. Over and over. Sometimes, I imagine what it would feel like to have their tiny, twiggy necks between my fingers, to crunch and squeeze until they were gasping, until they couldn’t talk. Until they’re quiet.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
October 8, 2013
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary.
He came home empty-handed last night. And he caught me awake, like that one time when I was younger. I know now that I can never, ever tell him I know what happens in there.
Maybe what Daddy is doing is wrong—because why is he so mad about it?
I’ll start from the beginning. I jolted awake when I heard his truck leave. I couldn’t believe it. It’s been so long. So, so long. I, of course, got myself out of bed. I knew that I had plenty of time, that there was no rush. It was 10:57 p.m. I knew I had at least an hour until I had to be positioned to watch. I was in the mood for a good cleaning, after all. I could almost see the blood swirling with the bleach, the puddles disappearing. So satisfying.