Ava and Pip Read Free Page B

to tell him that I lost his— my —prize pen.
    Until now, I hadn’t even told you , my diary. I just stopped writing for a week. But not writing did not make me feel better.
    Well, here I am, back again. I’m using a plain pen with the name of a boring bank on it. And I’m worried that I’ll never be able to write anything good again—let alone anything prize-worthy.
    AVA, AVERAGE

9/29
    ALMOST DINNERTIME
    DEAR DIARY,
    I barged into Pip’s room and said, “I know two transportation palindromes.”
    Pip said, “You have to learn to knock!”
    I went back out and knocked, and Pip said, “Who’s there?” so I said, “Ava,” and then barged in and said, “I know two transportation palindromes.”
    She looked up and said, “K-A-Y-A-K and R-A-C-E-C-A-R. Duh.”
    I sighed and sat on her bed. “What are you doing?” I asked. The answer was pretty obvious because there were pants and tops everywhere.
    â€œTrying on clothes.”
    â€œAren’t you going to tell me your secret?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œPleeeease.” She didn’t answer, so I said, “Just answer me this: is the ‘person’ a boy?” Pip blushed a little, so I said, “I knew it!”
    She got pinker and said, “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œNot a word!” she said.
    â€œNot a P-E-E-P!” I agreed. “But, Pip, if you have a crush, you have to tell me who it is.”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” she said. “That stays secret.”
    AVA AGAIN

10/01 (1-0-0-1)
    BEDTIME
    DEAR DIARY,
    What if I’m stuck? What if I have writer’s block? I have no pen, no voice, no words, no no thing! And my story is due in eleven days.
    Dad says I’m too young to have writer’s block. He got it once after a theater critic wrote a bad review of one of his plays. Dad had worked hard, and the actors had worked hard, and the director and stage manager and costume and set and lighting designers had all worked hard, and then a reporter sat down and didn’t like the show and said so. People stopped coming, and the show closed early, and it was sad for Dad.
    For a while, he started moping instead of writing.
    That was no fun for him—or for us, either!
    It helped a little when Dad’s brother, Uncle Patrick, sent a note that said,
    â€œThe play was a great success but the audience was a disaster.”
    Oscar Wilde
    Dad taped it on the wall by his desk, and it’s still there.
    I wish someone would write me an encouraging note.
    Today, Mom and Pip started planning Pip’s birthday. She invited six seventh-graders to a slumber party. I think Mom’s hoping the party will fix Pip’s “social issues.”
    Here’s what I love about slumber parties:
    1. Staying up late
    2. Raiding the refrigerator
    3. Sleeping in sleeping bags
    4. Doing Mad Libs
    This will be Pip’s first real slumber party ever! She usually tries hard to stay off everyone’s radar (R-A-D-A-R). I mean, if someone next to her sneezes, I bet she doesn’t even say, “Bless you.”
    It’s as if Pip thinks people will bite—like the mean dogs Dr. Gross sometimes has to take care of. The ones that when they’re hungry, the assistants open the cage door just a crack, put in the food really fast, and shut the door again before they snarl or nip or worse.
    For Pip’s party, Mom offered to bring party pets, including a one-eyed owl from the wildlife refuge center.
    Pip said, “Mom, I’m not in second grade!”
    I think Mom forgets how old Pip is because Pip doesn’t act her age and I’m two and a half inches taller. (We just got checkups.)
    Unlike me, Pip never keeps a diary. She’s not a writer; she’s a drawer.
    Wait, that makes her sound like a piece of furniture! I mean, she’s an artist—she likes to draw and sketch.
    Questions:
    Do artists