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This diary entry is written by Yehyita. ( View all entries )
Previous entry: Diary 3 June 2009 in category (general)

the UPS truck Chapter OneCategory: (general)
Friday, 10 July 2009
04:48:45 PM (GMT)

For the last fourteen years of my life, I’ve been running. Running with Mom,
running from Mom, and sometimes just running. Those were the times when I didn’t
know what I was running from, or who.
  Mom always had us running. Since I was three months when Dad just disappeared.
That’s it. He was gone. With a note that said run. So that’s what we did. Mom had
us running every time I mentioned a car following us, or a car that circled the block
three or four times where we were staying. 
 She became an alcoholic. She was abusive. A little. A few mental put-downs, a few
physical. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Plus, she was all I ever had, all I ever knew.
What else would I do but put up with it?
  Then, two years ago they found Dad. He was dead. Mom cleaned up her act. Went to a
recovering place. Now, she’s trying to get back into the dating pool. Lucky me,
she’s found someone. 

Chapter One—good-byes 

“So, Paul, he drives a freakin’ UPS truck. Doesn’t that mean anything to
you?” I ask.
  “I’m the psychologist, Darcy. What does it mean to you?” he asks, tapping his
pencil against his desk.
  “Paul, look, I just wanna make sure I’m not crazy or anything. Answer me first.
Paul, who are they? Are they your wife and kids?” I ask, suddenly distracted by the
picture of the blonde women and her golden-haired children.
  “You might not have problems, you just might be ADD or ADHD,” he says, seeming
deep in thought.
  I shake my head. “No, I’m not ADD! My attention is—Paul, are those desk
pieces come from the same tree? I just noticed they have different patterns.”
  He shakes his head. “You might seriously be crazy.”
  “I am not crazy, Paul! And if I was, that’s your job isn’t it? To help me so
I’m not? Didn’t you get your license for this?”
  He shakes his head. “What license?”
  “Wait, huh? Paul, are you freakin’ kiddin’ me? You don’t have a freakin’
license?” I shout in astonishment.
  He laughs. “I’m just humoring you, honey.”
  I tap my red boots at him in anger. 
  “Don’t tap your last-season Gucci knock-offs at me, Darcy,” he says in
  “Oh! Paul, you’re so gay!” I say, giggling. “That’s your sister and your
nieces, huh?”
  “That’s not important, Darcy. Anyway—“
  “Answer me something, Paul.”
  He sighs. “What, Darcy?”
  “Why are you so tired?”
  “Just broke up with my ex.”
  “Your boyfriend?”
  “My ex, Darcy. We’re here for you, not me,” he says.
  “What’s his name?”
  “Chuck,” Paul answers, smiling.
  “You are gay!”
  He shakes his head. “Back to you Darcy—“
  “Paul, you are gay! No straight man knows designer shoes. He definitely doesn’t
know if they’re last seasons or knock-offs,” I say stubbornly, crossing my arms.
  He nods. “If it makes you happy, Darcy, you’re right.”
  I smile. “Good. Now, Paul, whaddya think about that UPS guy?”
  “That he delivers me? That’s all I get from him, Dee.”
  “But, doncha think he can be hidin’ dead bodies in there or somethin’? I just
don’t know, Paul, I feel odd around him. I don’t like him.”
  “So, he drives a UPS truck. He’s dating your mother who is the only person
you’ve got.  And, you don’t like him. Am I correct?”
  I nod eagerly. “Paul, you’re so good at—“
  “Darcy, you’re jealous. There’s nothing wrong with driving a UPS truck.
You’re being paranoid.”
  “Being sucky,” I finish, sulking. “Thanks, Paul. You helped so much. You’re
supposed to be on my side, Paul. Not Benny-Bumble-Bee-Body-hider-UPS truck
  He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Darcy, but there’s nothing wrong
with that scenario.”
  The bell rings. I huff out, blowing my bang up. “Bye, Paul.”
  I move out into the rush of children. People nudge me and try to trip me, making
rude comments towards me. I ignore them. This is so usual. No one likes me here. See,
you’re either a Rich Kid or a Scholarship Kid. I’m a Scholarship Kid. But
that’s not why they don’t like me. It’s because I see a psychologist. They
don’t like too different. So, basically, they call me crazy.
   I open my locker and shove my books through. I grab my math book and notebook and
turn around. One of the most populars, Jag, stares at me. I stare back, not bothering
to break his glance. I’m stubborn.
   Suddenly, my mind goes into over-drive.
   He could be a narc, trying to bust crime and somehow he thinks I’m in it! Or,
worse, he could be the FBI finally catching up to us and then he’s going to tell me
we’ve been doing illegal things for the past fourteen years! Or—
   I shake my head and giggle at myself. I can hear Paul’s voice in my head, Darcy,
honey, you have to relax.
  The crowd of children stomp through us, trying to get to classes. I have a free
period after this, so I have nothing better to do. After the children pass, I look up
to Jag staring back at me still. I hold his look till the late bell rings. Then, I
turn and go.
  Jag is just a normal boy. He’s of Mexican and African American descent. He’s
really cute with dark honey-brown skin and wide brown eyes. He has eyelashes to die
for. His hair is shoulder-length, wavy, and dark brown almost black. He is taller
than me by about four inches and somewhat muscled. Not overly buff, but a definite
six-pack and small biceps. His attitude sucks, though. He’s arrogant, thinks
everyone likes him, and brutally honest. Yuck. His really name is Jesse Angel
Gonzalez. Henceforth, Jag. 
  I hear Paul’s voice by the door.
  “I don’t think she’s crazy. Well, not that much. But normally I can put a
person in a group. Like the people who say nothing about themselves and are nervous
and anxious. Then, there’s the people who don’t even admit they have a problem,
but prefer to talk about shoes and other crap. And you have your group who only talks
about themselves and how misunderstood they are.”
  “Where does Darcy fit in?” another male voice asks, gently. My math teacher,
Mr. Pauper.
 “That’s the problem. I have no idea. She’ll come in, talk about herself, then
ask me questions, demanding me to answer it. Then, she will go to something else
completely and won’t stop pestering me until she gets the answer.”
  “So, she’s stubborn?”
  “Worse than that. Way worse. Most people would give up and try again the next
day, but she has this quality to her. I don’t know what it is, but you can tell
when she gets it. This glint to her eyes. And that’s it until she gets the
  “And then?”
  “And then she just goes back to the previous question.”
  “Do you think she’s crazy?”
  “Yes. Somewhat. She’s tough to handle, that’s for sure. Listen to this
story.” He tells him about the UPS truck. “Can I say she’s paranoid? She had a
reason for her other problem when she thought the man they found couldn’t be her
dad. He had to be a twin of her dad.”
  “What was the reason?”
  “She hadn’t seen her dad since she was three months. Couldn’t remember him.
So, it’s kind of hard to believe the man you haven’t seen for thirteen years is
dead.” He sighs. “I think either she’s paranoid or jealous about the UPS truck.
Paranoid because she’s always been running all her life. Or, she could be jealous.
Her mom is the only person she has.”
  “Well, give her another psychologist.”
  “I can’t. Her mom abused her, her dad was never home. The other psychologists
said she was too messed up. I am actually her third psychologist. The other deemed
her crazy. I know some people can’t actually relate to children or teens well, so I
took her in. Now, I see what they mean. But I can’t get rid of her.”
 “She reminds me of her father. I used to be best friends with him. Actually, I’m
her godfather, but she doesn’t know. Anyway, he just up and disappeared and then
they found him dead. The police, FBI, whoever. I don’t care. My best friend died.
Her dad. She has his eyes and his hair.”
  “So, you can’t get rid of her?”
 “No. Not really. She’s a character, though. Very intelligent. If she can stop
being so paranoid, she could do so much better socially.”
 “Well, if you need to talk again, I’m here,” Mr. Pauper says. Am I the only
one who catches the double meaning in that.
   I whirl around. Into Jag. I stare at him open-mouthed. He puts a finger on my lip
and guides me towards the way I came. I’m so angry at Paul. Shrinks were suppose to
keep everything confident. I’m angry at Mr. Pauper for even being there to listen.
And I’m angry at Jag for spying on me. How much did he hear? All of it?
  He pulls me outside and to the court-yard. “Hey,” he says.
  I narrow my eyes and glare at him. “What were you doin’ behind me? Spyin’?”

  He shrugs. “Didn’t mean to. I was just followin’ you, crazy-girl Darcy. I
wanted to know where you went for free period.”
  My glare intensifies. “Don’t play that crap with me, Jag,” I growl. “Why
were you followin’ me?”
  “I told you,” he says angrily, “to see where you went for free period.”
   My instincts tell me he’s telling the truth. “Why do you want to know so bad?
To go back and tell all your friends so they can have something else to talk
about?” I make my voice softer.
  He still looks angry, though. “Because, you have no friends, you go see
psychologist, you leave, no one sees where you go, and you come back so happy. Why? I
just wanted to know what can make a friendless person that happy.”
  His voice cuts to the bone. Friendless, I am. And I try not to dwell on it too
much. But now, my lower lip trembles, my eyes fill with tears, and I duck my head in
shame. Thanks, Jag. Hurt my feelings more why doncha. 
  Jag seems shocked. “C’mon, crazy-girl Darcy. Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” he
says, patting my back awkwardly. “Okay, I hate tears. I’m out of here.”
  He leaves. I cradle my head in my arms, trying to sort through my thoughts. My
paranoid, obviously crazy thoughts. Am I really crazy? I have a good reason to know
I’m paranoid. I don’t know why. I’m just, ugh. 
  Okay, so Paul’s not my confident anymore? I can’t tell him anything. I give him
my life and he gives me that? Tells everything about me. Just because the guy he’s
telling is very hot? And, he’s my dad’s best friend. He knows my dad. He didn’t
even tell me. I would’ve liked to have known my dad for a second! God.
  And, he’s apparently my godfather. Ah, I hope that’s a lie. He shouldn’t do
this to me. I shouldn’t have found out this way.
  I place my hands on the side of my head. Where do I go for free period? Outside. In
the tree. Nobody notices me. Friendless nerds and geeks don’t get attention. It’s
like a rule over here. 
  I just sit and think like I would in my tree. If somebody hadn’t been sneaking
behind me. And thinking…frees me.

Paul looks up at me through his golden-blonde hair. “Hey, Darcy-doo-dah,” he
says. He calls me that because I’m normally a happy person.
  I glare at him. “Paul,” I say icily. 
  He frowns. “What’s wrong? What did the children do t you today?”
  “Nothin’. They didn’t do a (censor) thing,” I growl.
  His frown intensifies. “What’s wrong, then, Darcy?”
  “Darcy, I am your psychologist! I can’t help you if you don’t tell me
what’s wrong!” he shouts.
  He has never raised his voice at me. Never. I stare at him for a moment and laugh
angrily. “Whateva. It won’t matter if I tell you or not, you’ll just go
blabbin’ to the world anyway.”
  “What are you talking about, Darcy?” He seems shocked. 
  “Do I have to spell it out for you? I might as well tell everything, you’re
going to anyway,” I say.
 I narrow my eyes at him. He looks sincerely shocked.  “Darcy, what are you talking
  “Let me give you a hint then, Paul. You’re my godfather!” I scream the last
word at him. “You knew my dad! The dad I’ve been tellin’ you how much I want to
know that dad! My dead dad! You told Mr. Pauper my mother abused me! Why did you tell
me it would be in confidence if you told?”
  I start sobbing. I’m aware of how eerily silent it is outside when everyone’s
supposed to be in the halls for a meeting. I glare at Paul through my tears. “You
lied to me,” I say.
  To me, lying is the worst thing anyone can do to me. And Paul knows it. His voice
softens. “Darcy,” he whispers. “You don’t understand.”
  “Paul, no, you don’t understand,” I say. “I understand perfectly. You’re
a liar.”
  I walk out. People see me and laugh. Some make sympathetic faces, but mostly they
laugh. I keep my chin up, and I force my tears away. I won’t cry. There’s no
  “Leave her alone,” Jag says. And because he’s Jag, people listen. He steps up
to me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Talk to me, Crazy-girl Darcy.”
  “I’m not crazy,” I say, shaking my head at him. Who am I convincing?
  He sighs. “Well, no duh you’re not. But, you need a nickname. One that fits.
Jag fits me and Crazy-girl Darcy fits you.”
  I shake my head. “But I’m not crazy.”
  “Aren’t you? Look, Darcy, you might not be crazy-crazy, but we’re all crazy.
We all have our annoying little habits that make us crazy. So, basically, we all are
 I grin at him. “And what are your annoyin’ lil’ habits that make you
 He sighs. “I have none.”
 I giggle. “Sure, Jag.”
 He sighs. “Fine, I’m brutally honest, okay?”
 “Really?” I ask sarcastically. “Are you sure? Jag has an annoying bit?”
 He raises his fist playfully. “Yeah, wanna make somethin’ of it?”
 I smile again. “No thank you. Good bye now.”
 He follows me, though. “Where ya goin’?”
 “Home,” I say. “To my mother. And then, I’m comin’ back tomorrow.”
 He nods. “Okay. Bye, Darcy.”
  I don’t answer him. I don’t like good-byes.
Last edited: 10 July 2009

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