10 April 1995
“Do you want to pop?” Teresa said, and I must have nodded. “Okay!” She whisked the blankets away. I lay there. “Pop, my Princess!” She took hold of my feet and swung them around to the side of the bed. I sat up. She took a pair of sweats and stuck my feet into them, and I pulled them up. Then she took a sweatshirt, and I stuck my arms out, and she put it over my head. Then I was dressed and lay back on the bed. “Come on!” She led me out into the living room, and when I tried to steer toward the couch, she blocked my way. She led me to my computer, lifted up my hands and plopped them limply on the keyboard. “Now do your work that you do.” So here I am.
Did I write that my mother wants to give my diary to one of her library patrons? She mentioned it the other day, and I thought, “No way.” Then today she called and talked more about the person who she thinks will like my diary, and it turns out it’s Teresa’s adorable teacher at City College, Pamela who, as a matter of fact, is in my diary. Well, well, well. At least my mother loves me.
I can’t stop thinking about how everyone at Mills hates my diary. When I was talking to Teresa about it, she said, “Max likes it. He’s the one you respect.”
“I know.” (Not cheered.)
“What if those people you don’t respect liked it?”
“Then I’d start to respect them.”