Diary 24

Dear Diary,

5:00 A.M.—The sound of my alarm clock woke me to a dark room this

morning. The sun wasn’t out yet, so I decided not to get up. My clock saw

things differently and kept beeping.

So I thanked my clock by throwing it on the floor. The beeping

stopped. As I looked over to see where the clock had landed, I realized I,

too, was lying on the floor. Why? Because I don’t have a bed. I turned on

the lights so I could get started on my day. I walked past the closet mirror in

the room to get my clothes. The mirror showed my sleeping space—a thick

blanket and a pillow.

The mirror’s reflection also revealed that the room does not belong to

me. It made me feel sad. Almost at the point of crying. I grabbed my clothes

from the closet and walked down the long hallway to the bathroom. During

my shower, I cried. Tears mixed with the water streaming down my face. I

welcomed the pain that came with the tears. It’s the only way I can deal

with my current situation. The room, hallway, and bathroom don’t belong to

me. This is not my home. My mom is down the hall sleeping in a room, but

this is still not my home. I don’t have a home anymore.

5:30 A.M.—I’m out of the bathroom, done with my shower, and ready

to go. I have to remind myself that today is the first day of my tenth-grade

year at Wilson High School. I should be happy that I get a chance to see my

friends after not seeing them all summer. But, I wonder if my friends’

summer was as bad as mine. That summer was the worst in my short

fourteen years of life. It all started with a phone call chat I will never forget.

My mom was crying, begging, and pleading; asking for more time as if

she were gasping for a last breath of air. Though I never paid attention to

“adult matters,” this time I was all ears. I never wanted to see my mom cry.

As she hung up the phone, she turned around to see me standing there

confused and scared. I didn’t know what was wrong. She quickly held me

as tight as she could, hugged me, and said that she was sorry. She began to

cry again, this time more so than when I walked in. Her tears hit my shirt

like bullets. She told me that we were going to be evicted. She kept

apologizing to me, saying she failed me as a mother and provider. She was

a month behind on the rent. The landlord was already money hungry, so it

made the situation worse. I was only fourteen and too young to get a job.

The only job I could get in my neighborhood was selling drugs—so I

decided to pass.

While kids were having fun enjoying the summer, I was packing my

clothes and belongings into boxes and wondering where we were going to

end up. My mom didn’t know what to do or where to go. We had no family

to lean on. No money was coming in. Without a job, my mom didn’t have

enough money to get another place. What to do? No father to help out, just

a single mom and her son.

The night before the sheriff was supposed to pay us a unwelcome visit,

I prayed to God for a way out of this madness. Sad and depressed, I

attempted to get some sleep that night in the hope something would happen.

The morning of our eviction, a hard knock on the door woke me. The

sheriff was here to do his job. We were moving all our stuff out as fast as

we could. I started to look up to the sky, waiting for something to happen. I

looked at my mom to see if she was all right because she was silent moving

the stuff out.

Our pastor had a friend who had a nice, big house where he lived by

himself. The pastor’s friend, who was informed of our situation, welcomed

us with open arms. The arms of a stranger were a lot more comfortable than

the arms of the sheriff.

6:00 A.M.—I’m waiting for the bus. Flashbacks of this summer pass

through my mind like a song repeating itself over and over again. I try to

tell myself it could have been worse. Nothing like this has ever happened to

me. I started to think the situation was my fault because I always asked for

the top video games every Christmas and birthday. I should have asked for

something less expensive; something we could afford.

6:45 A.M.—I’ve ridden one bus to catch another bus that will now take

me directly to school. School…why bother going to school? What’s the use

of going if I don’t have a place to live? When friends ask how my summer

was, what am I going to say? I was evicted from my apartment? I don’t

think so. I’m not going to tell a soul what happened. I knew everyone would

be wearing new clothes, new shoes, and have new haircuts. Me? With

outfits from last year, some old shoes, and no new haircut. I feel like it’s

hopeless to try to feel good and make good grades. There’s no point to it.

7:l0 A.M.—The bus stops in front of the school. My stomach feels like

it’s tightening into a tiny little ball. I feel like throwing up. I keep thinking

that I’ll get laughed at the minute I step off the bus. Instead, I’m greeted by

a couple of my friends who were in my English class last year. At that

point, it hits me. Ms. Gruwell, my crazy English teacher from last year, is

really the only person that made me think of hope for my future. Talking

with my friends about our English class and the adventures we had the year

before, I began to feel better.

7:45 A.M.—I receive my class schedule and the first teacher on the list

is Ms. Gruwell in Room 203. I walk in the room and I feel as though all the

problems in my life are not important anymore. I am home.

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