Ms. Zephyr's Notebook (4 page)

November 7

Logan K.

After lunch, which didn't resemble anything I'd call food
.

Hey, Abbie, I can't believe you wouldn't accept my incredible vehicle list instead of writing this stupid journal today. That stinks. Just so you know, I plan to own every one of those cars one day. And I will, dude, since my dad is making a fortune working in Denver right now. He drives a pretty cool car himself. 2007 Hummer. Silver, too. All silver.

So, can you believe that new chick? A bit full of herself, in my opinion, though obviously not full of much else. I don't think I've ever seen such a pale, skinny thing in my life. She makes that Olsen twin look like a porker. She even makes me look fat!

Seems weird that they'd keep her here like that for just a broken arm, though. I heard one of the nurses say that she passed out at the top of the stairs at her school — just tipped over like a drunken monkey. I remember that staircase from when I went to Ev-Mid a couple of years ago. All cement and hard edges. No wonder her face is scraped up like that. She's lucky she didn't lose any teeth. My buddy Joe took a header off his board one day when he was cruising down a sweet pair of handrails just outside the office of the school. Unfortunately, he didn't know they'd recently put up anti-skate knobs all
down the rails. Left his teeth all over the cement steps. So the skinny chick should consider herself lucky.

Maybe they're keeping her here because she got some internal injury.

Who cares? I can hardly stand to hear her talk. She's totally stuck up and wants to put everyone down by using words normal people have never heard of. Besides, she said she's probably out of here tomorrow. Sayonara, sweetheart. Can't say it's been nice knowing you.

Logan

November 7

Logan K.

9 p.m. Primetime. Just what are you thinking, Abbie?

Geez, Abster. I'm missing all the good shows. You've never made me do homework this late. And you know what? This caf stinks at night. All I can smell is the grease from the cooking, if that's what you call what they do down here. French fry grease and Lysol. It reeks, dude.

Okay, I know I was a little hard on the chick. So I'm sorry already. You can appreciate that I don't really know her — I was just commenting on what I could see, right? But I want to get back to the TV, so here goes. And by the way, you can say goodbye to the remote. I'm hiding it tomorrow.

Okay, the chick with the scraped face and the broken arm is probably a good person because… ah… because…

Abbie, this is so stupid. I can't think of anything to say. I don't even know her, for crissakes. She's just some stupid, skinny chick.

Okay, I just thought of something. She didn't give me that better-be-nice-to-the-kid-maybe-he's-dying look. So there you go. I like her better already.

One other thing. Did you know you're named after a very cool car? I just pulled it off the internet this morning to add to the list of vehicles I plan to have in my garage some day. Here's a sketch of what it looks like:

November 8

Logan K.

After some kind of disgusting liquid breakfast
.

Okay, Abbie, I'm gonna make this quick today. My face has gone all puffy and gross, obviously from the toxic cocktail these creeps are pouring into my veins through Useless here. And I did extra math for you, remember? That's gotta count for something. Sorry… it has got to count for something. Is that better? Because I know you're trying to improve my grammar by giving me this freakin' journal to write, but lady — it ain't gonna happen. (Ha — just a joke, of course. You always have such a great sense of humour, Abbie. And nice hair, too. Did I mention the nice hair?)

Anyway, I just looked it up and the dictionary says a paragraph can contain a minimum of three sentences. I do believe the above paragraph qualifies, and therefore, in the words of Carl Sagan, I am outta here!

L.K.

“Wow,” said Logan. “I'm such an idiot.”

“What's wrong?”

Logan stared at the notebook. “If I'd paid more attention to some of the stuff in this book, I would have clued in to some things a lot sooner.”

Kip looked at him quizzically. “What kind of things? I never read any of the other stuff in there, Logan. It's just a place to put my work for Abbie.”

Logan turned back to the notebook, avoiding Kip's eyes.

“Just things,” he muttered, and turned to the next page.

November 8

Logan K.

Back in the stinking cafeteria after all the cows have gone home
.

Okay, so I was wrong. No sense of humour whatsoever. Still like your hair, though.

And I was not trying to get out of doing my work. I did my work — I wrote a paragraph, just like you said. It's just that I've been here for over a week now. And there you are every day, bugging me to get my schoolwork
done. I feel lousy, all right? Are you happy to hear me admit it? Last week when I got here, I thought it might just be for overnight. And don't tell me that makes me have something in common with the little weirdie down the hall, because it doesn't.

When Tom tossed the ball at me in practice, he didn't even throw it that hard, but when I caught it and everybody piled on me in the scrum, I suddenly felt like a bomb had gone off in my gut. I just managed to pull myself out of the pile and run like a madman off the field and straight into the changing room. I'm still falling on my knees every night to thank God I made it to the can. There was blood everywhere and it was obvious something inside me was seriously messed up. But Abbie, I thought it was just because I fell on the rugby ball. Off to the hospital. Stitch me up, fix whatever made me bleed like that, send me home. Was I ever wrong.

Anyway, I don't want to write about it anymore. These drugs seem to finally be kicking in and my gut doesn't hurt quite as bad. We've got a big meeting happening tomorrow — the doc, the nutritionist, my parents. (Actually, it turns out my dad's really busy and can't make it in from Denver, but everybody else will be there.) So, much as I like your hair, Teach, I'll be happy to bid you and the little weirdie down the hall AND this stupid journal goodbye.

L.K.