Maggie: Diary Two (California Diaries Series #8)

by Ann M. Martin

Overview

From the author of The Baby-Sitters Club: With her life spiraling of control, Maggie is desperate to stay in control—of what she eats.
 
Maggie can’t do much about the demands her dad puts on her. Or her mother’s alcoholism. Or even her insecurity about being the lead singer of her band, Vanish. The only thing that she can control is what she eats. Or, more accurately, what she doesn’t eat. Losing weight makes her feel clean; it gives her the power she so desperately wants.
 
When Maggie’s friends begin to worry that she has an eating disorder, Maggie doesn’t care. It’s her body; it’s her life . . . which is what her mom says about her drinking problem. Could Maggie and her mom have more in common than she thinks?
 
This ebook features an illustrated personal history of Ann M. Martin, including rare images from the author’s collection.

Maggie: Diary Two is the 8th book in the California Diaries, which also includes Dawn: Diary Two and Amalia: Diary Two.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781453298152
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	03/25/2014
Series:	California Diaries Series , #8
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	160
Lexile:	510L (what's this?)
File size:	10 MB
Age Range:	12 - 14 Years

About the Author

Ann M. Martin grew up in Princeton, New Jersey. After attending Smith College, where she studied education and psychology, she became a teacher at a small elementary school in Connecticut. Martin also worked as an editor of children’s books before she began writing full time. Martin is best known for the Baby-Sitters Club series, which has sold over one hundred seventy million copies. Her novel A Corner of the Universe won a Newbery Honor in 2003. In 1990, she cofounded the Lisa Libraries, which donates new children’s books to organizations in underserved areas. Martin lives in upstate New York with her three cats.

Read an Excerpt

Maggie: Diary Two

California Diaries

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By Ann M. Martin

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 1998 Ann M. Martin
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9815-2

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CHAPTER 1

Monday 7/13

2:30 P.M.

Breakfast: Small bowl of cornflakes w/skim milk, black coffee (no sugar).

Lunch: ½ tuna sandwich (NO mayo), diet soda, 1 apple (small).

Goal: Don't eat between meals.

Weight: 103½ lbs.

Goal: 90 lbs.

STARTING TODAY I, Maggie Blume, vow to write down every bite that goes into my mouth.

I have to face facts. I am one of those people who gain weight if they eat five peanuts. I'll have to watch what I eat for the rest of my life. I might as well start now.

Everyone tells me I don't need to lose weight. Amalia says it. Ducky says it. Dawn says it. They say I have a great body. They are WRONG WRONG WRONG. They don't see me when I'm in my underwear. They don't see me when I'm on the scale. They think I'm thin, but I'm FAT. Thirteen pounds. That's all I need to lose.

I was really smart about lunch. I waited until two o'clock to eat. I'm noticing that when I eat slowly I enjoy my food more. The apple was so good. Clean and fresh. No fat.

Someone brought a dozen donuts into the office kitchen this morning. I was nauseous just looking at them. Grease, fat, calories! Croissants are just as bad. They're full of butter.

This afternoon I have to make 35 copies of the script for the next film Dad's producing. They finally settled on a title for it—Never.

During my first week of work Dad asked me to read the script for Never. "Write up a summary of the plot and tell me what you think of it," he said. "I value your opinion."

He doesn't really care what I think about the script. He just wants me to feel like I'm part of his team.

I read it.

I think Never is a perfect name for this movie. As in, "Never go see it." But I didn't write that in my "review." I told Dad what I knew he wanted to hear—"Exciting and suspenseful." It would just have caused tension between us if I told him what I really think.

It's so weird. Hundreds of people are working and spending zillions of dollars on a movie that is basically dumb. Car chases and violence. All that money wasted.

I know Dad isn't always proud of the kinds of films he makes. But he is proud of being a big success.

His movies make money.

He likes his money and all the things it can buy.

Including all the things that keep the Blume family going.

Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite when I think about Dad like this. I live in the big fancy house. Swim in the pool. Wear the nice clothes (though they don't look so nice on me). And have all kinds of advantages.

But working for my father is NOT one of them. At work he is Mr. Phony. Mr. Schmooze. Mr. I'll-kill-you-with-kindness-but-you-have-to- do-it-my-way.

We see that side of Dad at home sometimes. But at Blume Productions it's one hundred percent.

Dad secretly wishes he were a writer/director instead of a producer. That's probably why he suggested I use my free time in the office to try scriptwriting. I said I didn't have any ideas for a script. He said, "Write what you know. Look around. Listen in on conversations. Then write a little scene. I wish I'd done that when I was your age. It's a big advantage to start young. You're lucky."

Dad thinks he's doing me this big favor by giving me a job in his office when I'm only thirteen. He promised me that I'd be able to work in the music end of his new film. I was excited about working for Flanders Delmont. He's a composer whose work I really admire. Dad said I would be in Flanders' studio at least half the time. I'd meet other people in the music business. I'd see how Flanders composed and ran his business.

It sounded great until Flanders Delmont decided to run his business out of his home office in Australia.

So here I am, stuck in Schmoozeville with Dad and his new assistant, Duane Richards. Duane is quickly learning the fine art of schmoozing. Today it was, "Maggie, you look so-o-o very glamorous today."

What a liar.

I look terrible today. Fat, dull, and so-o-o very boring.

DARKNESS

Sunlight [beginstrikethrough]Summer sun[endstrikethrough] too bright for
the sad day within
Why do troubles haunt
and taunt?
Why do my inner darks [beginstrikethrough]cloud out[endstrikethrough] obscure the light?
Are the answers in the darkness?

© Maggie Blume

That is the first poem I've written in weeks. It used to make me feel better to express my feelings in poetry. But I don't feel any better for writing that poem. Maybe I should try scriptwriting.

NEVER ... TELL THE TRUTH

(Inspired by a conversation overheard between Producer and a scriptwriter)

A large office in Hollywood. Producer sits behind a big desk. A writer sits in a small chair facing him.

PRODUCER: We need another chase scene, Ralph. And put a school bus in the car chase scene. Our main character's kid should be on that bus.

WRITER: But Mr. Blume, our main character doesn't have a kid.

PRODUCER: Then we'll give him one. I know you, Ralph. You can work it in. You've done a great job. Let the bus be central in the chase. It can go off one of those cliffs in the Hollywood Hills.

WRITER: Do you want the kid injured or killed?

PRODUCER: Both.

WRITER: Both?

PRODUCER: We think he's dead, but he's only injured—seriously injured. We don't know if he'll make it. Put in a hospital scene. (He gets up, a signal that it's time for the writer to leave.) Why don't you come by the house for a drink, say around seven? There'll be some people there I'd love you to meet.

WRITER: (smiling) Great. Love to.

Dad is already looking for a new writer to rewrite the Never script. Everyone on the project knows it. But that night, when the writer came to the house, Dad and his business partners in the film acted like he was the hottest writer in Hollywood. I hate all that phoniness. Hate it.

Dad is back from one of his wheeler-dealer lunches. I better hit the photocopy machine.

4:05 P.M.

Amalia called. There's a Vanish rehearsal tonight. The band hasn't practiced much this summer. We all have summer jobs with different work schedules. Talking to Amalia made me wish we had more time to hang out together. She's such a neat person and a great band manager. Maybe we will hang out, now that Vanish is rehearsing again.

Amalia and Justin are picking me up. I haven't seen Justin in two weeks. I'm so nervous about seeing him again. I can't figure out if he likes me or not. Sometimes we really seem to click. And ten minutes later I think I imagined it.

Justin is going to try out for the band tonight. If he's in the band he'll be at every rehearsal. Then I know I'd see him at least once a week. That would be great. I think.

Amalia told me that Justin has been practicing guitar for hours every day. That he's doing it so he can be in the band. "He's doing it because of YOU," she said.

"He said that?" I asked.

"Not in so many words," Amalia admitted. "But he did say how much he liked EVERYONE who played in the band. Trust me, he likes you."

I wish I could believe her. Justin is everything I would want in a boyfriend—thoughtful, interesting, smart, cute, fun. And he acts like he's just Justin. No schmoozing. No phoniness.

But Justin isn't my boyfriend. I'm such a fool. Why would he like me?

I called Mom to tell her about the rehearsal. I could tell she was disappointed I wasn't going to be home for "a nice family dinner." I don't think of our family dinners as "nice." Zeke usually talks about some adventure game he plays on the Internet, as if it's real life. Dad complains about all the other sharks in the movie business or tells Zeke and me how we should live our lives. And we all try to pretend we're not noticing how much Mom is drinking.

My mother drinks too much.

When she drinks too much she has a faraway look in her eyes, like she isn't focusing on me or what I'm saying.

It's strange that I'm writing about this, because Mom has been much better lately.

I just hope she isn't reaching for a drink right now. And if she is, I hope it's not because I won't be home for dinner.

Maybe I should go home instead of to rehearsal?

That's crazy.

If I stopped seeing my friends so Mom wouldn't drink, I could never go out. Besides, it wouldn't stop her.

11:13 P.M.

Dinner: Tossed salad (NO dressing), diet Coke, 3 french fries.

At six o'clock I went into Dad's office and told him about the Vanish rehearsal. I could tell he was disappointed that Vanish hadn't vanished.

He asked me who was taking James's place.

I told him that another guy, Justin, was going to try out. I hope I didn't blush when I said Justin's name. The last thing I need from Dad is an interrogation about Justin.

I hate how Dad wants to produce my life.

After work, I waited outside for Justin and Amalia to pick me up. Amalia was sitting in front with Justin, so I hopped in the back.

I hadn't seen Justin in a couple of weeks. He looked as good to me as ever. Wrong. He looked BETTER.

Justin made eye contact with me in the rearview mirror. His brown eyes were smiling—dancing, really. I love his eyes.

"It'll be great to hear you sing again, Maggie," he said. "You've given Vanish a new life."

I don't happen to agree with him. But I'm still glad he sort-of-said that he likes my singing.

When we walked into Rico's garage, Patti did a little drumroll to mark our entrance. Bruce strummed something very low on his bass. It felt great to be back.

Justin is now officially in the band. He definitely knows enough guitar to play behind Rico. But my singing was horrid. My voice was weak and raspy. I was embarrassed when I sang "Hey, Down There." Sometimes lyrics are too personal.

When I finished, Amalia clapped. "I love that song," she said. I know she was just trying to make me feel better.

But Rico told the truth. "Hey, Maggie," he called to me. "How about writing us a new song?"

"Good idea," agreed Justin.

I knew it. They hated my old song. I'd made a fool of myself. And I looked terrible. If I could lose five pounds maybe I'd look more like a lead singer and less like Ms. Plain Jane.

I couldn't look at Justin for the rest of the rehearsal.

We all went out to a burger joint afterward. I hate those places. They smell greasy and everyone makes a pig of themselves.

I ordered the house salad with dressing on the side. Everyone else ordered the quarter-pounder burger special. I wasn't even tempted. It's disgusting.

"Maggie, I don't believe you're not having a burger," Amalia exclaimed. "You really need to eat something."

Everybody, including the waitress, looked at me.

I reminded Amalia I don't eat red meat.

"Then try their garden burger," suggested Justin. "I've had them. They're good."

I said thanks, but no thanks.

It would be easier to diet if everyone would stop trying to feed me. Why can't they see how fat I am? They say that I'm not, but I AM.

By next week's rehearsal I am going to lose five pounds. That's the equivalent of 20 quarter-pound burgers. I imagine 20 burgers plastered to my thighs and stomach. Boy, will I be glad to be rid of that fat.

DAISY PETALS

[beginstrikethrough]He loves me[endstrikethrough]
He loves me not
Our eyes meet but
In the rearview mirror.
He holds the gaze.
He loves me.
An hour passes.
Our eyes meet again.
He quickly looks away.
He loves me not.
A dream
A fantasy
No oasis in the desert.
Dry petals in the wind.

© Maggie Blume

That poem will NEVER be a song. No way, no ...

Midnight

Zeke came into my room looking very glum. He walked over to my desk and stood beside me. I closed my laptop and my poetry journal and asked him what was up.

"You can make Dad do anything you want," he said. "Tell him I shouldn't be forced to go to tennis camp."

First, I reminded Zeke that I can't make Dad do what I want. No more than he can. Then I asked him why he's so dead set against going to tennis camp.

"I hate tennis," he said. "I do not want to go to tennis camp. Do NOT. Not. Please. Please. Puh-lease tell them not to send me."

He threw a glossy pamphlet on my laptop. "This came with the list of stuff I have to bring," he moaned. "They have dances. And dance classes. I have to bring a sport jacket. "

I opened the brochure. One photo was of four perfectly groomed kids in tennis whites, playing doubles. Another was of a victorious Manor Court Tennis Team holding up a gold trophy. Then I saw the photo that upset Zeke. A smiling boy and girl, arm in arm, gliding across a dance floor.

The idea of Zeke asking some girl to dance is too funny. I had to hold back a smile.

I told him I'd talk to Dad on the way to work tomorrow. But right now, I don't hold out much hope.

I know how Zeke feels. I'm always doing things because Dad thinks they're "good for me."

One of Dad's favorite lines is, "Trust me on this one, Maggie." Another one is, "You'll thank me for this someday."

Like my piano lessons. There are times when I don't want to practice. There was even a period when I wanted to quit. Sometimes the only reason I practice is because I don't want to disappoint Dad.

Now I'm glad that I have a strong musical background. Which means Dad was right.

Why does that bug me so much?

I have to write a new song for Vanish. I don't have any idea what to write. This time I am not going to write about myself.

Tuesday 7/14

11:20 A.M.

Breakfast: ¾ cup cereal with skim milk, banana.

My New Motto: Eat to live. Don't live to eat.

MOM CAME BY the office to tell Dad and me that she's been chosen to be the chairperson of a fund-raiser for Hollywood Cares for Animals (HCA). Raising money for an animal shelter is a good cause. But putting on a fund-raiser is a big responsibility. It might be good for Mom. As long as it's a big success.

Last May, Mom was in charge of a ten-mile run to raise money for an international food relief fund. It NEVER rains in Los Angeles in May, but that day it poured. It was like throwing a big party and having no one come. (She sure drank that day. And the day after. And the day after that.)

I walked with Mom to the elevator. She said she hoped I'd help her with the benefit since it's a charity I'm interested in. Which is true. I'm amazed at how many stray animals end up in our neighborhood. I don't understand how anyone could abandon an animal.

It's turning into a busy summer. I have my job, Vanish rehearsals, and Mom's benefit for HCA.

Good.

I won't have time to think about food.

Or Justin.

Does he think about me?

I doubt it.

Why should he?

8:35 P.M.

Lunch: 1 container low-fat yogurt, 1 apple (small), 1 chocolate chip cookie (I have NO SELF-CONTROL).

Dinner (at home): Salad (no dressing), baked potato (no butter or sour cream), ½ portion of baked fish, 3 bites of fruit pie.

Eating at home drives me crazy.

"Don't you want sour cream for your potato?" asks Dad.

"Darling, you have to finish your dessert," says Mom.

"Are you on a diet, Fatty?" asks Zeke.

"She is not fat—she's too thin!" groans Dad. (Yeah, right.)

I said I was full and gave the rest of my pie to Zeke.

I like Pilar. And I like her cooking. Which probably is the reason I'm such a tub-a-lub. Pilar is always making cookies for Zeke and me, homemade breads to go with dinner, and the most fattening main courses imaginable.

This is not the best situation for someone with very little self-control who is trying to lose weight.

When Zeke heard about the benefit for HCA he said he'd pass on going to camp so he could help. Zeke hates benefits, which should have proven to our parents how much he doesn't want to go to this camp.

Mom told him how much fun she had at summer camp when she was eleven years old.

Dad said, "Now, son, let's not go on about the camp thing. You're going. You'll thank me someday."

Poor Zeke.

Mom seemed okay at dinner—only one glass of wine. She's practicing more self-control than I am. But I can tell she's already nervous about the HCA benefit. The person who was in charge had to quit because of a family problem, so things that should have been done by now were neglected. The dinner and auction are only two weeks away and Mom found out that the invitations just went out a week or so ago. They also need more items to auction off. Mom has loads of ideas, like dinner for four, prepared by some famous chef at your house, or a week at some celebrity's great beach house. But Mom has to convince a famous chef to make the dinner for free and a famous person to let strangers stay in his or her great beach house for a week. She needs at least fifteen more items like that for the auction.

I promised to help Mom on Saturday.

I'm glad I have my own phone line. Mom is going to be on the house line nonstop until the benefit.

But really—why did I say that about the phone?

What difference does it make?

No one is trying to call me.

Certainly not Justin.

Wednesday 7/15

2:04 P.M.

Breakfast: ½ grapefruit, piece of toast with jam (no butter).

Lunch: 1 scoop tuna (no mayo), 4 celery sticks, 4 potato chips (4 too many).

I CAN'T BELIEVE it. Justin called me. He was so sweet. First he apologized for calling me at work. I said it wasn't a problem. He said there's a rehearsal tomorrow night if I can come. I said yes and he said great.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Maggie: Diary Two by Ann M. Martin. Copyright © 1998 Ann M. Martin. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Monday 7/13,
Tuesday 7/14,
Wednesday 7/15,
Thursday 7/16,
Saturday 7/18,
Sunday 7/19,
Monday 7/20,
Tuesday 7/21,
Wednesday 7/22,
Thursday 7/23,
Friday 7/24,
Saturday 7/25,
Sunday 7/26,
Monday 7/27,
Tuesday 7/28,
Wednesday 7/29,
Thursday 7/30,
Friday 7/31,
Saturday 8/1,
Sunday 8/2,
Preview: Amalia: Diary Two,
A Personal History by Ann M. Martin,