Seven Wonders Journals by Peter Lerangis

PRIVATE JOURNAL
A LIYAH B ARTEVYAN
    (Osman, if you are even breathing within three feet of this, I will personally bash your head and rip up every Beatles poster you own!!!!!)
    Tuesday, 11:00 P.M.
    D IARY , I’ M HAVING a bad night. My head is full of the Most-Girls thoughts. As in, Most Girls my age don’t live in a dirt hole like mine. Most Girls don’t live in shacks with stolen electricity via a rat-eaten wire from a neighbor. Most Girls go to school, buy nice clothes, read good books, help their mother with housework, take care of a pet.
    I, Diary, as you know, am not Most Girls.
    My school is the Khalid Bartevyan School of Crazy. I have no regular bedtime. My clothes and books comefrom other people’s trash. The clothes I hate, the books I like. Right now I am reading American History from 1776 to Now , but every page is missing after about 1910. With Mother gone, housework is optional, and the last pet I had was MoopaSoopa, that fat, snuggly rat who followed Father home from an exploration and met an untimely death by chewing through a live electrical wire.
    Well, I have a pet now. Sort of. Her name is Safi, she’s a ferret my father borrowed for his latest scheme, and she’s about as snuggly as a drawer full of needles. But she has . . . Magical Properties! She will sniff out Treasures Untold from Hidden Places! She is a Millionaire Maker!
    Do you believe that, Diary? I don’t. But Father does, of course. Safi is the latest scheme that is going to make us Rich, Rich, Rich!
    Ughhh . . .
    Do you know how Father described himself today? As a “Chief Officer of Bartevyan Antiquities Incorporated, Salvage Specialists.” Can you believe that? Bartevyan Antiquities? Some officer—he’s more of a Chief Babysitter to those four or five slovenly, useless men he works with. They come to our house, and when they leave, Father’s bottles are mostly empty.
    Ah well, I don’t suppose he can say “Chief Tomb Robber of a Group of Jobless Drunks.” It doesn’t have the same ring.
    But back to Safi. I do not like her. Or her owner, a wealthy one-eyed man named Feyyaz the Cyclops—who, by the way, is not snuggly either. They say his missing eye was taken in a rare playful moment by Safi. What Feyyaz lacks in looks, he makes up for in money—and nastiness. No one ever calls him Cyclops to his face, of course. It is said he once chopped off a man’s fingers for shaking his hand without bowing first.
    Father will not tell us how Feyyaz got his wealth. Or how he got his charming personality or unique odor. Or why on earth he lent Safi to us.
    Does Feyyaz really believe we will find a hidden ancient treasure? I worry he expects us to fail—and then he’ll blackmail us with something or other. Given Father’s track record, what else could he be thinking????
    I know, Diary, if you were not a book, you would slap me—for being so disrespectful. And I would deserve it. But I can’t help but think there is something foul afoot.
    I can’t really complain to Osman. Whenever I try, he looks at me as if I’ve grown donkey ears. He thinks our life is perfect. Sometimes I can’t believe he and I are twins. He seems so much younger than me. In fact, he believes in this Safi nonsense! Argghhh! (Well, he also believes that the TV sitcom I Dream of Jeannie is a documentary and that Father is a serious archaeologist.)
    Both of the men in my life confuse reality and fantasy.
    I’m Mother’s daughter, Diary—strong, practical, loyal, smart, modest, AND IF ANYONE EVER STEALS THIS DIARY AND REPEATS THAT CONCEITED-SOUNDING STATEMENT, I WILL PERSONALLY VANQUISH YOU, AND THAT ESPECIALLY INCLUDES MY SNEAK OF A BROTHER KNOWN AS OSMAN!
    Sorry, had to include that disclaimer.
    Mother always said Father’s stories would get us in trouble. “Just find a job, Khalid,” she would tell him. “Ordinary people don’t chase after treasure.