The Naked Mole-Rat Letters (2 page)

Dear Ayanna:


I'm afraid that it's too late for me to call, so I thought I'd send a quick note.


I'm happy that my conference was scheduled in the hotel near the zoo.


And I'm glad that I decided to pop over to the zoo on Monday to pick up souvenirs for my kids.


And I'm delighted that it rained, which sent me running into the small mammal house for cover, so that I could literally knock you off your feet. (Sorry about that!)


And I'm thrilled that you agreed to meet me for dinner that first night.


And I'm overjoyed that we were able to spend so much time together during the rest of my stay. (I'm sure I didn't miss much by ditching the meetings on Wednesday. Hope you didn't get into trouble for calling in sick!) I can't tell you how much fun it was.


Yours truly,


Robert


P.S. Thanks for helping to pick out the gifts for my kids. They loved them. At bedtime Nutter wouldn't take his backpack off, so believe it or not, he's sleeping with a koala on his back.


 

Dear Diary:

I can't believe it. While I was writing in here, Dad was sending Ratlady an e-mail! I found it in the sent box. And it's disgusting. They spent time together, whatever that means. He didn't even go to his meetings. He doesn't sound like himself at all. He sounds like someone who swallowed a soap opera.

I thought my heart was going to stop beating when I read it, so I came back to my room to lie down. Obviously drastic measures are required. Should I act now or wait for her next move?

What I really should do is go to bed. I need my sleep. Tomorrow after school is the
audition for the school play. The play is
The Miracle Worker
, and I am dying to play the part of Annie Sullivan. She is the miracle worker of the play because she saves Helen Keller (who can't see, can't hear, and hasn't yet learned to speak) from the depths of darkness and despair by teaching her sign language. She did this by pressing the signs for letters into Helen's hand. She taught Helen to
feel
words. It's a true story. Annie is the most dramatic role in the history of theater, and I just know I'm going to get the part. With my long, red hair and my mature nose, I look exactly like an Annie Sullivan. Well if I don't get Annie, then I'll definitely get Helen, which is the other leading role. I like Annie better because she has the most lines. Helen doesn't really have any because she doesn't know how to talk.

But if I don't do something about Ratlady now, then I'll probably toss and turn in a fretful state of worry all night.

I'm going to act now. As Ms. Young always said, “She who hesitates is lost.”

 

Dear Ratlady:


When my father sent his e-mail, he forgot to mention that he is taking special drugs for allergies that make people say ridiculous things. He is allergic to many things, which makes him annoying to live with because his nose is always full of snot.


Sincerely,


Frankie Wallop


P.S. My brothers and I did not like the gifts from the zoo that you helped pick out. They were silly, or shall I say lucrative? You must not know children at all. Please do not e-mail my father anymore.


 

 

Dear Frankie:


My, you're up late. It's almost midnight in Indiana. The east is one hour ahead of you, so I'm up even later.


I'm sorry that you thought your gifts were ludicrous, but you have to admit it was nice of your father to think of you. You may be right. I might not know children well; I have none of my own. But my friends say that I act like a child! (I take it as a compliment.)


I do know small mammals—particularly naked mole-rats—very well. I am the naked mole-rat keeper at the National Zoo, hence my e-mail nickname: “ratlady.”


Naked mole-rats are wrinkly, nearly hairless creatures that burrow in tunnels underground. Most people think they're ugly. I'm quite fond of them. Sometimes even ugly creatures prove to be worth
loving once you get to know them. Perhaps you feel that way about your brothers?


Sleepily yours,


Ayanna


 

Dear Ratlady:


Indeed I should be in bed, for I have a big audition tomorrow. But the seriousness of this whole episode has caused me much anxiety.


I just want you to know that I am the e-mailer in the family, and I will be checking ALL the messages. My dad won't let me get my own address yet. “One address is fine for the whole family,” he says. He hates e-mailing for many reasons and only writes to be polite.


Also, you should know that he is allergic to small mammals. He probably didn't mention this because he was trying to be polite. My brothers,
by the way, are not only ugly, but also they're very cruel to others. There is nothing you can do to change them. They're genetically mogrified to be cruel. They especially do not like adult females.


Sincerely,


Frankie Wallop


P.S. This is it. So good-bye for good.


 

Dear Diary:

I should be running laps around the field right now, but I told my P.E. teacher that I am suffering from agonizing stomach cramps due to the leftover tuna salad I had for lunch. This is a lie. I was afraid that if I told her the truth, she wouldn't believe me. The truth is that I'm suffering from severe stress, and I've had a total of five heart attacks today.

I must have done an excellent job of acting the part of a girl racked with stomach cramps because she sent me to the nurse's office, where I am now.

I confess that I expected more from a junior high nurse's office. This is a room with a cot. There isn't even a nurse in here! Mrs. Willa, the secretary, looked me over and said, “You might as well lie down and do your homework, if you got any. Kill two birds with one stone.”

I do have homework, but I'd rather use my time to chronical (chronicul? chronicle?) the horrible and fateful day that I've had thus far. In case you have forgotten, dear Diary, I have the audition of a lifetime in exactly sixty minutes, and my nerves are like sticks of dynamite. If I write about what has happened, then perhaps I can clear my brain before I explode. I will start at the beginning so that I don't leave anything out.

Early this morning, I was fast asleep in the dark, cozy nest of my bed when I heard a familiar, nuttery voice yell, “CANNON-BALL!”

Before the word had a chance to sink deeply into my brain, a flying object otherwise known as Nutter landed on me.

Heart attack number one.

“Ouch!” I yelled.

Nutter screamed and jumped off me like I was a mummy rising from a grave. “I thought you were in the bathroom!” he said. “I thought the bed was empty and the covers were just bumpy. And what are those pink worms in your hair?”

“They're not worms.” I got out of bed. “They're hair curlers.”

“Don't ever scare me like that again.” He held out his little hands to show me they were shaking.

“Well, why were you jumping on my bed anyway?”

“I like to.”

“Jump on your own bed.”

“Your bed's better. Your blanket is ‘swimming pool blue.' And what are those curler things for anyway?”

“You roll your hair up in them and sleep on them, and in the morning you have curly hair. Mrs. Whitehead let me borrow them.”

I looked at the clock and had the second heart attack of the day. 7:30! How could it be
7:30? My alarm clock was set for 6:45. Did I turn it off and go back to sleep?

I had wanted to wake up early so that I would have plenty of time to check the e-mail situation and to fix my hair and get especially dressed up for the audition. Now I would barely have time to get out the door.

Skip walked in. “Dad said I'm supposed to wake you up. Your head looks weird.”

“Thanks a lot! Why didn't he think of that an hour ago?”

Nutter grinned at Skip. “I woked her up when I landed on her butt.”

I shoved Skip and Nutter out the door.

Nutter glued his hands and feet to my doorway. “Skip and me want to practice diving on your bed.”

“Go dive on your head!” I peeled him off and slammed the door.

The third heart attack came when I tried to take the curlers out of my hair. Mrs. Whitehead showed me how to do it, but I must have done it wrong. My hair was all twisted and tangled, and I couldn't get the curlers out.

I was not prepared for what I'd find in the
kitchen. Dad should have been making Skip's and Nutter's lunches and listening to serious news on the radio. Instead he had the rock-and-roll station on and was singing. Skip and Nutter were sliding around in their stocking feet, playing air guitars.

“Come on, Frankie, join in.” Dad handed me a box of foil like it was a microphone. Then he squinted at my hair. “Are those curlers in there?”

“Yes! And I can't get them out.”

The three of them started laughing.

I glared at Dad. “This is not funny. You have to get them out.”

Dad tore out half my hair getting the curlers out, and when I looked in the mirror . . . well, that was the fourth heart attack. My hair looked exactly like a nest made by a blind squirrel on drugs.

I had no choice but to stick my head under the faucet.

At school I couldn't concentrate. In first period math I had to solve a problem on the board; and while I was doing it, everybody was laughing. At first I thought it was because
I was doing the math problem wrong. Then I heard Jerry Parks whisper to Johnny Nye, “What are those?” I felt the back of my head, and my heart absolutely stopped. Two curlers sticking out like Frankenstein bolts.

I tried to pull them out. No such luck. So I calmly put the chalk down and walked over to Mr. Peter's desk. “May I please go to the bathroom?”

Last year, Ms. Young would have let me go right away. Ms. Young was the most wonderful sixth-grade teacher in the world. She should have asked to teach seventh grade so that I could have her again this year.

I should have known that Mr. Peter wouldn't let me go to the bathroom. Mr. Peter is not a living, breathing human being with a heart that has attacks. Mr. Peter is a battery-operated calculator in the shape of a human being. And his batteries aren't showing any signs of wearing out. “You can go after the lesson,” he said, and wrote me a pass.

For the remainder of the lesson, everyone stared at me while I sat at my desk and fumigated (fumed? emitted fumes?). Beth tried to
catch my eye, but for her own good I wouldn't look up. If I had looked at her, my angry gaze would have burned her eyeballs out. How could my best friend, who sits right next to me, have missed two curlers sticking out the back of my head?
Are you blind, Beth?

For that matter, how could Dad have missed them? Maybe if he hadn't been dancing around and singing to the radio he would have done a better job. And why was he in such a good mood this morning anyway?

With horror I realized that he was acting like someone in love. Was he in a good mood because he assumed Ratlady was going to e-mail him back?

Would Ratlady ignore my message and e-mail him anyway? Maybe she already did and he read it before I woke up. Maybe that's why he was in such a good mood.

The bell rang and Mr. Peters stopped droning and dismissed class. Now I wasn't going to have enough time to get the curlers out and get to my next class on time.

There was only one thing to do: ditch. I'd never committed a school-related crime before.
I had to do it—for my hair and my family. I went to my locker, put on my coat, and started walking to the front door. I realized that my heart must have started up again because it was beating like crazy. No teachers in sight. Five more steps and I'd be at the door. Five, four, three, two—

The Troll stepped in front of the door. Her name is Ms. Trolly, and she's the new guidance counselor. She pronounces her name like “troll” with a “y,” and she looks like one, too, which is why everybody calls her The Troll.