Dear Diary
“I already spoke to the guidance counselor, Mom. He said…”
A bush outside taps rhythmically at my window. I open it. The alarm blares in the front hall.
“Sorry,” I call out, hurrying through the house to the alarm panel. I enter the code without thinking: 1, 1, 8, 3. Beeeeep. Silence reigns. Mom and Leah gape at me through the kitchen door.
“You’re not supposed to know that code,” Mom says.
“Your wedding anniversary? Seriously? It’s not the Enigma Cipher.”
Mom looks from me to the alarm panel, back to me, then laughs.
Back in my room, I look through the satchel. The paperweight feels cool in my hand. I open Grandma Rose’s diary to the first page.
January 4, 1967
Rain. Richie zoomed around the apartment—jumping jacks, cartwheels, handstands. “Who cares about a little wat
