Friendship Over (The Top-Secret Diary of Celie Valentine) Read online

  Text copyright © 2014 by Julie Sternberg.

  Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Johanna Wright.

  All rights reserved.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, contact [email protected].

  Boyds Mills Press

  An Imprint of Highlights

  815 Church Street

  Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-59078-993-3 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-62979-284-2 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014939248

  First edition

  The text of this book is set in Zemke Hand ITC Std.

  The illustrations are done in pen and ink.

  Book Design by Robbin Gourley

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  For Mom and Dad, for everything

  —JS

  For my sisters

  —JW

  CONTENTS

  Journal

  This Diary Is the Private Property of Celie Valentine Altman

  Saturday, November 6

  Monday, November 8

  Tuesday, November 9

  November 9 again, but late at night

  Wednesday, November 10, just after school

  Thursday, November 11

  Friday, November 12

  Saturday, November 13

  Sunday, November 14

  Monday, November 15

  Tuesday, November 16

  Wednesday, November 17

  Thursday, November 18

  Friday, November 19

  Saturday, November 20

  Here’s a look at Celie’s next adventure, Secrets Out

  About the Author

  Journal

  STOP READING THIS RIGHT NOW.

  IT IS MY PERSONAL BUSINESS. NOT ANYBODY ELSE’S.

  That especially means you, Josephine Rosalie Altman. If you turn a single page, I will tell your whole grade that Dad’s nickname for you is Bubbles, because you get very gassy.

  I AM NOT KIDDING, JO.

  I AM DEFINITELY NOT.

  Dearest Celie,

  For my tenth birthday, my father gave me a punching bag and suggested that I slug it instead of slamming doors and hitting my brother. And that is how I became the world-famous boxer I am today.

  Okay. As you well know, I am not a world-famous boxer. I am instead a mild-mannered lawyer. However, it was fun having a punching bag, and it did cause at least a small decline in the number of times I hit my brother.

  And so today, for your tenth birthday, I present to you a sporty punching bag along with this journal. May you find each beneficial whenever you’re struggling to work through your feelings. And may you inflict significantly less violence on Jo. (There are far worse older sisters out there, I promise you.)

  All my love,

  Dad

  This Diary Is the Private Property of

  Celie Valentine Altman

  Saturday, November 6

  It’s me, Celie. I cried just now. On my birthday. I was in the kitchen, eating my birthday cake, and tears started dripping onto my plate. Part of my cake got soggy. All because of stinking, rotten Lula.

  I feel like calling her on the phone and saying something mean. Like, “I know I said I like that wheelie thing you use instead of a backpack. I lied. I hate it.”

  Then I’d hang up.

  The real truth is, I did like her wheelie thing. But now I can’t stand it.

  Lula, struggling

  Me, moving very freely

  Later, Still My Birthday

  Jo helped me with my sadness. Only, not at first. At first she annoyed me. Because she kept asking why Lula hadn’t come over to celebrate my birthday, the way she was supposed to.

  But I don’t know why! All I know is, Lula became a VICIOUS OGRE at the beginning of the week. For no reason! Then, yesterday, she dropped a mean note on my desk.

  I read that mean note, then ripped it up. But I can’t stop my brain from remembering it. It said, “I’m not coming tomorrow. I’m doing something else. Lula.”

  Why is she doing something else? WHAT MADE HER HATE ME?

  I am not talking to Jo about this. It was bad enough telling Mom. She kept saying, “I really think I should call Lula’s mom and discuss what’s happening.” I had to make her promise not to. Because that would be so embarrassing! I’m not a baby.

  Jo did help me feel better, though, I have to admit. When she saw how sad I was, and how much I did NOT want to talk about Lula, she left the room for a minute. Then she came back, carrying a long box of foil.

  “What are you doing?” I said. Because our foil does not tend to leave the kitchen.

  “Just trust me,” she said.

  Then she started gathering up the presents I’d opened this morning.

  “Those are mine!” I said.

  “I know that,” she said. “Obviously. I’m trying to do something that will keep you from sitting around feeling sad on your birthday. Will you please just trust me?”

  So I trusted her. (Except, not with this journal. She does not get to touch this journal.)

  She re-wrapped all of my presents in foil. Then she hid them around our apartment and wrote up complicated clues for me. So I could have a birthday treasure hunt.

  Searching for foil-wrapped presents was not exactly my dream birthday activity. Lula and I were supposed to rent two movies and watch them both and eat popcorn AND make ourselves sundaes with whipped cream and hot fudge and chocolate chip cookie crumbs and rainbow sprinkles. Just exactly like we did last year. THOSE were my dream birthday activities.

  Still, Jo’s treasure hunt was fun. And I do like my presents.

  Mom gave me a book of world records. One woman in that book didn’t cut her fingernails for 21 years! So now she has the world’s longest nails. They swoop and curl. It’s crazy!

  Mom also gave me a sweatshirt that says Narwhals Are Awesome. Because I love narwhals. I like the big horn that sticks out of their heads. It’s actually a tooth! It keeps growing and growing out of their mouths. Like that woman’s nails. Only the horn is straight.

  like this

  Dad gave me a punching bag, which he’s going to hang in my room. And this great journal. I’m not just going to write and draw in here. I’m going to tape in letters and notes and report cards—whatever I can think of. So I can tell the full story of my whole life.

  not like this

  Granny sent me a white tablecloth with pretty blue flowers. She says she got it as a birthday present too, from her mother. Years and years ago. Which is nice. Only, I don’t actually need a tablecloth. And she mailed it so early! The package was delivered three weeks ago. I was home with Mom when it came, so I saw it. I could tell it was my birthday present from Granny, because she’d written “Happy Birthday, Sensational Celie!” in her curly handwriting on the outside of the box.

  I wanted to open that package right up, but Mom wouldn’t let me. She put it in her closet and made me wait until today—my actual birthday.

  I don’t care about any of that, though. I still love my granny.

  Last but not least, Jo gave me a super-official spy notebook. I know exactly who I’m going to spy on first. But not until Monday.

  Even Later, Still My Birthday

  Our housekeeper, Delores, just dropped off homemade zucchini bread for me. And gave me a squishy, perfume-y hug.

  I thanked her very much for the bread. It was super nice of her to bring it.

  Only, I will not actually be eating it. Because zucchini does not belong in br
ead. Or anywhere near my stomach.

  Jo might eat it, though. She doesn’t mind disgusting things.

  Monday, November 8

  At school today I hid my spy notebook inside my Spanish dictionary. And I spied on Lula.

  We were supposed to be working on our dialogues in Spanish about our neighborhoods. We work on those dialogues a lot in Señora Santacruz’s class. Here is my spy report. I cut it so it would fit.

  From the

  Top Secret Spy Notebook of

  Celie Valentine Altman

  A spy must never reveal his or her true identity. How are you concealing yours?

  I’m not. Every single person in this room definitely knows who I am.

  A spy must do his or her best to see and not be seen. How are you trying to be invisible?

  I’m in Spanish. I can’t be invisible. I can’t just vanish from Spanish!

  What do you see?

  I see the back of Lula’s head. She’s sitting at the desk in front of me. Her hair is down. Which means she probably tried a ponytail this morning and didn’t like it, then tried a headband and didn’t like it, then just decided to wear her hair down. She does that a lot.

  Now she’s looking up something in her Spanish dictionary. Jack B. is leaning over to her and showing her something in his notebook. I can’t see what. I bet he wrote FART or PUKE in Spanish.

  Now Lula is laughing and laughing. Even though Jack B.’s fart jokes are never funny.

  And now Lula just said, way too loudly, “I have to show this to Violet!”

  Now she’s pulling on Jack B.’s notebook. He obviously doesn’t want to give it to her. She shouldn’t try to steal other people’s notebooks! And she has to stop being so loud!

  Shouldn’t Señora Santacruz make her be quiet? She is disturbing everyone!

  Spies must hone their powers of observation or risk missing vital clues. Pay closer attention! What else do you see?

  Lula pulled the notebook away from Jack B. and stood up with it and walked past me without even looking at me. Then she showed the notebook to Violet and laughed a lot with Violet and walked back to her seat without even looking at me. Then she sat back down.

  Bad teacher. Very bad.

  Señora Santacruz did nothing that whole time. She didn’t even notice. She should be fired.

  I was still cranky about Spanish when Mom picked me up. So she made me stop and draw a million pictures on our walk home. She says drawing helps me get my crank out. And she likes to watch me draw.

  Here’s my sketch of the snacks we got at the corner store. We both chose our favorites. The black-and-white cookie is mine. Very unfortunately, the icing pulled away from the cookie when I took off the wrapper. That happens sometimes. It is a tragedy. It is also hard to draw:

  Terribly tragic cookie

  Perfectly normal muffin

  Here’s a picture of the fire hydrant I almost bumped into, after we left the corner store. Because I was putting the final touches on my muffin-and-cookie drawing, and not paying attention to my walking.

  I almost stepped in dog poop, too. But I didn’t draw that. Yuck!

  Here’s a picture of our subway train, right as it was pulling into the station:

  And here’s a sad picture, about a block from our building:

  That’s the ledge that Lula and I pretend is a balance beam. We walk slowly across it with our arms out straight, like we’re gymnasts. We’ve done that ever since we were very little. I don’t know when we’ll ever do that again.

  Lula should be very sorry. She doesn’t get to walk on the ledge with me, and right now Mom is making Granny’s famous twice-baked potatoes for dinner. Lula loves those potatoes. I almost want to walk up to her at school tomorrow and tell her. And then say, “Too bad for you.” And then walk away. Only, I don’t actually want to talk to her.

  Mom is also making this chicken for dinner:

  I feel sorry for raw chicken. It’s so germy and funny-looking, and nobody gets close to it. Unless they’re about to stick it in a very hot oven.

  I liked doing my art walk with Mom. Jo would’ve had fun too. She would’ve used the camera on Mom’s phone instead of drawing, and she would’ve taken really interesting pictures. Dad says she has an excellent eye. But she had track after school with her new friend, Trina. Who I do not like at all.

  Here’s one last drawing. Maybe my most favorite one. I made a copy of it on our printer, to send to Granny.

  It’s a sketch of the painting Granny made me last summer. She was taking a painting class. The teacher told her to paint something small. So she painted a bottle of wart medication.

  I didn’t really want a painting of wart medication. But Dad said, “Look on the bright side. She could have painted you a wart.” Which is a good point. That would have been worse. Plus Jo got a painting of a green pea, which is just boring.

  Going to mail Granny’s picture to her now.

  Tuesday, November 9

  I AM SO MAD! I’ve been punching and punching my punching bag.

  The punching didn’t make me feel better, though. I actually feel worse, because now my hands hurt. Plus they’re all red.

  Why am I the only one Mom punished? Why wasn’t Jo sent to our room, too? Or any other room? What she did was so wrong! Mom treats Jo a billion times better than she treats me. I’m never talking to either one of them again.

  I just realized I’ve been sitting on one of Jo’s dirty socks! GROSS!! I’VE TOLD HER A MILLION TIMES TO KEEP HER BODY AND ALL HER THINGS OFF MY BED. And to keep her stuff on her side of the dresser! But she leaves it everywhere. Her earrings, and the friendship bracelets she never finishes making, and all those hairbands with broken strands of her hair. Delores makes everything so nice and neat, and then in two seconds Jo MESSES IT ALL UP.

  Wait.

  I hear noises.

  Jo just slid a folded note under the door, into the room. She wrote my name on the outside—it’s definitely her handwriting.

  I am not opening that note. She doesn’t deserve for me to read it. I don’t want to know what she has to say. I’m going to push all her stuff off the dresser now.

  Later, Same Day

  I’m back. I didn’t push Jo’s stuff onto the floor. I put it on her bed instead. Plus her dirty sock. Then I read her stupid note:

  Dear Celie,

  Mom says I’m not allowed to talk to you (I’m supposed to “give you your space”) until the end of your timeout, so I can’t just go in there and tell you this, which is what I really want to do.

  The thing is, I totally didn’t mean to read that letter from Mrs. McElhaney. I was just looking through your backpack for a pencil with an eraser that works, because I couldn’t find one anywhere else. You didn’t have any in the front pocket of your backpack, so I started digging through the main pocket and that’s when I saw it. The letter, I mean. Scrunched up in front of your homework folder.

  It looked like garbage all scrunched up like that, so I guess I figured it wouldn’t matter if I took it out and started reading. So that’s what I did. I hadn’t read very far at all before you grabbed it away and kicked me. OW! Did you have to kick so hard? I’m going to have one of those yellow and blue bruises that remind me of Granny’s bathroom counters, I can already tell.

  I’ll forgive you, though, if you slide a note back saying you forgive me, too.

  Love,

  Jo

  P.S. Do you want to talk to me about what happened? I’m guessing it has something to do with Lula, and I really do think I could be a big help. Not to brag or anything, but I’m excellent at friends stuff. xo

  What a stupid note! Every single part of it is stupid. I wish I hadn’t read it.

  She thinks she’s so smart, but she’s not! She’s a sixth grader, not a grown-up! Plus she’s not at all excellent at friends stuff. Look at her new best friend—Trina. Always rolling her eyes and smacking her gum and telling Jo secrets right in front of me. Even though everybody knows that secrets aren’t ni
ce.

  And also, Jo chews pencil erasers! That’s why she couldn’t find one that worked! She is disgusting.

  I don’t have to tell her everything about my life. She does not need to know what my teachers say about me. I don’t know what her teachers say about her.

  I am not answering her. That’s all I have to say.

  Later, Same Day

  I didn’t write Jo back, but she cannot take a hint. She just slid this under the door:

  Dear Celie,

  I can’t believe I forgot to say this in my other note! I still have part of the Mrs. McElhaney letter—which, by the way, never would’ve ripped in the first place if you’d just asked me for it nicely instead of grabbing it.

  Anyway, don’t worry, I can’t tell anything from the words I have on my piece. And I won’t try to put it back in your backpack because I know you, and I am positive you don’t want me going anywhere near your backpack right now, or probably ever. I’ll just paperclip the ripped-off piece of the letter to this note and slide the whole thing under the door.

  I’m going to knock, too, so you’ll know to look toward the door. My other note should also be there. I think you might’ve missed it.

  Lots of love,

  Jo

  P.S. Something weird’s going on with Mom. When I just walked into her office, she was reading her email, and she definitely said out loud, “What in the world?!” in a shocked voice. So I said, “What is it? What happened?” And she said, “Nothing,” really fast—which was so clearly not true. So I said, “No, really, tell me!” And she got all mad and said, “Can I have a little privacy, please? Please?” So I had to leave. Too bad you can’t come out here and spy on her and figure it all out.