Edward's Diary

Because When You Are Five

Dear Diary,

March 16th, 1917

I tried my hand at my grandmother’s recipe for chocolate
cupcakes today. She was right: There was no secret ingredient.
God, I remember the way I used to pester her for that one thing
that she somehow always managed to slip in before the
cupcakes were served.
As it turns out, my mind was clearly deceiving me. The
cupcakes always seemed that much more delicious because of
my belief of the presence of a secret ingredient in them. Today,
when I tasted them, they seemed the same as every other time I
had baked them.
Speaking of deceit, that is what I should use to describe my
offspring. I swear, Edward’s antics are increasing in notoriety
by the day. I remember him from when he was six, and he
had broken my deceased mother’s antique mirror. When the
remains of the poor artifact were discovered, he had very
smoothly tried to put the blame on our dog.
What my darling son had clearly forgotten was that our dog
could not possibly have moved a cupboard that heavy, let
alone climbed upon it to chase a cat.
Also, when the mirror had been found, it had very discreetly
been put together so as to deceive the eye. I still remember his
sheepish expression when we had asked him how the it had
managed to fly above and perch itself on the top of the
cupboard once again. What had been even more incredible
was his answer:
“The dog did it?”
Anyway, that was the past. I had expected him to grow out of
his ‘phase’. Oh, how disappointed am I now! How foolish in
thinking that my son, for once, would show traits opposite to
that of his father. No, Anthony and Edward are the same to
the core, even when it comes to mischief.
To think that poor Rebecca had to be his latest victim!
I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t particularly like the girl.
Her father dotes on her excessively, and her mother has
spoiled her to the point of incorrigibility. She seems to think
that beauty and money are the only things worth having in
the world. Truly, I feel legitimately sad for such children.
Apparently, Edward does too. He is just, shall we say, a little
more vocal about it.
It so happened that Rebecca and her group of friends (needless
to say, girls like her) had decided to defy their mothers and go
bathing in the nearby lake . . . in the . . . exposed state, to put
it mildly.
I swear that to this date I do know how my son sneaks out of
the house without me and Anthony knowing, but he does.
I think everyone would know what is about to happen in the
story hereon after. Edward Anthony Masen Jr. tiptoed out of
the house on a spring night, and along with his friends, stole
the girls’ clothes and hung them up on the highest tree. (I am
suspecting the climber in this case had been Joshua Parley.)
Poor girls were almost frozen and catatonic by the time they
were found, because my son and his friends had, by then,
vanished from the lakeside after creating disaster.
I rebuked Edward, of course, but I am suspecting that it might
not have had much effect. I saw the father and son sniggering
together after my hour long lecture on how whatever Edward
had done had not been gentlemanly behavior.
I swear Anthony has a big hand in spoiling our son, even
though he won’t admit it.
Well, my son is, as of last week, grounded. And that, using his
words, is ‘utter hell’, since it levies a ban on morning strolls,
baseball, and excursions with friends. He has been sulking the
entire day, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he will try to
sneak out again tonight. No worries, though. I have told him
in no ambiguous terms that I will have his door guarded
tonight . . .

I shook my head as I read what my mother had written about me in her diary.
This particular fiasco had already slipped my mind, but much of it had been recalled by what
my mother had painted through her words. If I remember correctly, I had tried to sneak out
that night. But Elvis, our butler, had very gladly acquiesced to stay back and guard my door. My
punishment had been extended by three weeks after that.
In my defense, I did not believe that my mother could go to such drastic measures. She had
always been very cautious, very mindful of her image in society, and very careful about the
matters of her household. God forbid if Elizabeth Masen ever stepped out looking less than
perfect, or if her house had even a speck of dust at any point in the day.
Imagine the irony when her son had been the devil incarnate.
Even as a child, I had been a handful. I was stubborn, compulsive and a bit of anti-neat freak.
Everywhere I went I created a mess. There had been times in my childhood when my mother
had almost had a mental breakdown. Maybe that was why my parents had never had other
children. They could not have, under any circumstances, handled two Satans under one roof.
Compared to me, my daughter was an angel.