Sharon Creech - Absolutely Normal Chaos

Dear Mr. Birkway,

Here it is: my summer journal. As you can see, I got a little carried away.

The problem is this, though. I don’t want you to read it.

I really mean it. I just wanted you to know I did it. I didn’t want you to think I was one of those kids who says, “Oh yeah, I did it, but I lost it/my dog ate it/my little brother dropped it in the toilet.”

But please PLEEEASSSE DON’T READ IT! How was I to know all this stuff was going to happen this summer? How was I to know Carl Ray would come to town and turn everything into an odyssey? And how was I to know about Alex…? Sigh.

PLEASE DON’T READ IT. I mean it.

I wish someone would tell me exactly what a journal is . When I asked my mother, she said, “Well, it’s like a diary only different.” That helps. She was going to explain more, but Mrs. Furtz (the lady who just moved in across the street) called to say that my brother Dennis was throwing eggs at her house, and my mother went berserk so she didn’t finish telling me. How am I supposed to write a journal if I don’t even know what one is?

I wouldn’t be doing this anyway, except that Mrs. Zollar asked me to. She’s an English teacher. She asked us to keep a journal this summer and bring it in (in September) to our new English teacher.

So, new English teacher, I guess I better say who I am. My name is Mary Lou Finney. I live at 4059 Buxton Road in Easton, Ohio. I have a normally strange family. Here’s our cast of characters, so to speak:

Sam Finney (whose age I am not allowed to tell you) is the father. He is a pretty regular father. Sometimes he likes us and sometimes we drive him crazy. When we are driving him crazy, he usually goes out in the garden and pulls some weeds. When he is at work, he is a geologist and spends his days drawing maps.

Sally Finney (whose age I am also not allowed to tell you or anyone else) is the mother. She also is a pretty regular mother. Sometimes she drools all over us and sometimes she asks my father if there isn’t something he can do about us. When we are driving her crazy, she usually cries a little. When she is at work, she is an oral historian and spends her days tape-recording stories that elderly people tell her. I think that by the time she gets home to us, she is a little tired of hearing people talk.

Maggie Finney (seventeen years old) is the oldest daughter. She’s my sister. She is your basic boy-crazy, fingernail-painting, mopey ole sister with whom I have the misfortune of sharing a room. She does not like me to touch her things.

Mary Lou Finney (thirteen years old) is the next oldest. That’s me. I don’t know what I am. I am waiting to find out.

Dennis Finney (twelve years old) is the kind of brother who will climb a tree with you one minute and tell on you the next. He gets into a fair amount of trouble (such as getting caught throwing eggs at Mrs. Furtz’s house, breaking windows with apples, etc.), but he is okay other than that.

Doug Finney (better known as Dougie) (eight years old) gets lost in the middle of everyone else. He’s skinny as anything and follows everybody else around. He’s quiet and more serious than the rest of us, so nobody minds him tagging along, but he calls himself the “poor little slob.”

Tommy Finney (four years old) is the spoiled-baby type kid. We think he’s cute as anything, and so he gets away with murder. He’s the messiest eater you’ve ever seen.

This journal is not as hard as I thought. I just hope I am doing it right. It would be terrible to do it all summer and then take it in and have someone look at it and say, “Oh, but this isn’t a journal, dear.”

I tried to ask Mrs. Zollar a million questions about the journal when she gave it to us, but Alex Cheevey said, “Geez. We don’t want to know too much about it. Then we’ll have to do it right . Can’t you ever keep quiet?”

And now I will reflect on that. I used to think Alex Cheevey was cute, because his skin is always a little pink, like he’s just been running a race, and his hair is always clean and shiny, and once we had to do an oral report together and even though I did most of the work, he patted me on the back when we were done, as if he realized what a good job I did, and he is certainly the best player on the basketball team and so graceful when he runs and dribbles the ball. But now, as I reflect on it, I see he is really a jerk.

I’ve been sitting here thinking about last Friday, the last day of school, when I heard Christy and Megan talking about Christy’s party. I wasn’t invited. They are always having these parties, but they only invited me once, and that was because I took Megan some books when she was sick and spent three hours explaining the homework and even doing some of it for her, and so for about a week she was my friend.

But the party was the stupidest (I know there is no such word as stupidest) thing I have ever seen, with the girls all giggling in the middle of the room, and the boys all leaning against the walls, and then they put on the records and started dancing, just the girls with the girls, until finally a slow song came on and some of the boys danced slow with some of the girls just to hang all over their necks, but no one asked me to dance, so I had to stand by the food and pretend to be hungry as anything.

I keep forgetting to reflect on things. I will reflect on these parties. If I was a boy, I would wish they would plan something interesting, like maybe a game of basketball.

After our last exam, Christy came slinking up to Alex and said, “Welllll, Alex, see you tonight.” (I am going to try some dialogue here.)

Alex looked down at his shoes and said, “Unnnh.”

Christy wiggled her shoulders and said in this thin little voice, “Well, you are coming, aren’t you?”

Alex put the toes of his shoes together like he was pigeon-toed and said, “Unnnh.”

Christy pushed her face right up next to his and said, “It’s at eight o’clock. Don’t forget!” Then she patted her hand on his shoulder a few times and turned around and wiggled away. Lord.

I walked home from school with Beth Ann. Beth Ann Bartels is my best friend, I guess. We’re very different, but we have been friends, with no fights, since the fourth grade. I tell her just about everything, and she tells me everything , even things I do not want to know, like what she ate for breakfast and what her father wears to bed and how much her new sweater cost. Sometimes things like that are not interesting.

But, anyway, on the way home, as Beth Ann and I were passing the Tast-ee Freeze, it suddenly occurred to me that school was over and it was summer and I was going to have to start having fun the very next day and I wouldn’t see most of the people at school for three months. Beth Ann and I live on the farthest edge of the school district, at least two miles from school. Everyone else seems to live on the other side of the school. Well, it was a little sad to realize that school was over. Then I thought, boy, isn’t that just typical? You wait and wait and wait for something, and then when it happens, you feel sad.

I always stop at Beth Ann’s house before I go on home. We have this little routine. We go in and the house is quiet, not at all like my house, which is a complete zoo at any hour of the day or night. Her house is always immaculately clean, as if someone had just raced through with a duster and a vacuum cleaner or as if no one really lived there. Our house always has people’s clothes lying all over: socks on the stereo, jackets on the kitchen table, everyone’s papers and books clumped in piles on chairs and counters. So I like to stop at Beth Ann’s house before I go home.